Lysdexia

DH and I have been discussing getting a new bed. He has a long history of back problems and introduced me to futons 20 years ago. I was skeptical, but quickly came to appreciate a futon, and that's what we've used as a mattress ever since. I can't even sleep on a conventional mattress anymore, and after too many hospital nights on a mock tempurpedic, have rejected memory foam as well. We have an antique bed frame but, because it was only a full size and we needed a queen, I came up with a bizarre design whereby we could build a platform out of our old futon frame and rig it so that it would lie flat instead of folding. He and his dad nailed it together, mounted it on the frame, and voila! We tossed a queen futon on top and it was golden. But that was more than 12 years ago.

So elder kid heard me talking about the frustration of going out mattress shopping. And suddenly he made an astounding confession about something he'd been harboring for about 13 years. He said, "Mom, did you say 'futon'?" And I said, "Yes, we're going to replace our saggy lumpy one." Then he said, "You know what? When I was really little, and you said the word 'futon,' I always got it mixed up with 'tofu.' And in my mind, I thought they were the same thing, and that somehow your bed was made out of, I don't know, dried up tofu. But it never occurred to me that that wasn't okay. I mean, maybe they could recycle tofu as a futon. It's soft and foamy. And the bed was comfortable. So I was good with it." Well. I guess my jaw dropped for a minute.

This is the same kid who thought (at age two) that TOFU was "toe food," and he would eat it and watch his feet to see if they grew. He's simply tofu-challenged; that's all there is to it.

Yeah, buddy. tofu/futon. Almost an anagram! And to think I never knew this was rolling around in his head. But, as usual, I don't think I want to know much about what else is rolling around in there.

Silly Snippets, More Dumb Ads

1) Just saw an unintentionally funny quick clip news ad on our local NBC tv. The marketers' INTENTION was to get viewers to capture news on video and send it in to them as front-liners so that then the station can chase the story.

But the graphics text and voice-over on the ad was, "See it! Shoot it! Send it!" They have NO idea what they just said . . . too funny.

Well, maybe they should be careful what they ask for!

You ought to do that with the next snake or rabid coon you kill. I had more deer on my property eating lilies and groundcover today. Had I had time and the deer not been so quick, I'd have dragged my archery kit out of the attic and taken aim at what I saw, then sent it to them all wrapped up in a big box with a nice ribbon. As for the news station, won't they be surprised what people send to them? They'll have a whole new set of stories to tell!

2) Elder kid, who will return to school Monday after having barely finished his summer AP homework by the skin of his teeth (and not very deeply), has spent much of the week with girlfriend at her beach cottage. He's been in the sun and in boats, in water and sand. He is, effectively, braindead. We had a complicated family weekend and Dad and Tyke were going to a separate beach gathering in the next town over from where elder kid was staying. But girlfriend's family were not scheduled to come back this week because girlfriend goes to a different school and doesn't start as early as Monday. So we had to set up logistics for Dad and Tyke to swing by and pick up elder on their way back.

That was a long preamble to what I'm planning to say: I had to have several phone conversations with elder. But he was so touched by the sun and salt or perhaps chemicals in Long Island Sound that he could not speak a single coherent sentence. Every time we talked, he hung up without saying goodbye, and just left me hanging on a logical cliff. Each time I was stranded, thinking, "Did we communicate anything there?" It was exactly like the Saturday Night Live "revolutionary" character on the Weekend Update segment who wears a jacket from the Army/Navy surplus and tries to argue against newspaper headlines, but never has anything to say. Elder's typical side of the "conversation" was:

Elder kid: They. Like. You know. So they're not. I mean. (five minute pause, during which I'm waiting for more information, or should I say any information at all)(sentence starts up again after I've forgotten what he already DIDN'T say in the first half . . . ) So, coming back, no, uh. Like. I think. So. Can you. I mean. [people are talking animatedly in the background, and he's listening to them, not me] I start to say something, and he immediately starts talking right over me.

Me: Elder, will you stop talking over me and listen to what I have to say, please???!!

Elder: Uh, oh. Yeah. But.

Me: Go away and think. Call me back when you can express what you think you need in a complete sentence! [click]

3) Tyke, having just finished a grueling week of USAA swim clinics, seems to have been affected by the chlorine (this is not the first time). He's lounging around on the comfy chair. We were watching some show on tv whereon the actress Calista Flockhart was a guest. I said, "Tyke. Do you know who that woman in the turquoise dress is?" He said, "No." Then I went on to explain that she is a long-time partner of Harrison Ford.

Tyke looked at me, and then his expression turned to pain and consternation. He said, "Wait! That's impossible! He's like, way DEAD, isn't he?"

At first, I thought to myself, "Oh, because he's so young, he just thinks Harrison Ford is dead because relatively speaking, he's an old guy."

Then Tyke said, "But, Mom, the guy invented the automobile assembly line a bazillion years ago! How could he still be alive?"

Of course I cracked up. I said, "Tyke! I didn't say HENRY Ford! Don't you know who Harrison Ford is?"

He said, "Uhhhh . . . no."

"The guy in Star Wars, Indiana Jones, Presumed Innocent, and Witness."

Then he started laughing and said, "Oh, yeah! But, he is kinda old, though."

4) There's a new dumb ad. Not sure how new it is, actually; I generally tune these things out. I don't buy or use many "beauty" products except my same old shampoo, conditioner, MAC foundation, eyeliner, the fabulous Revlon Colorstay Overtime, and a single coat of Orly nail lacquer (I've used the same stuff for years, though I do toss out and refresh it from time to time).

ANYHOO, this ad is for some company (couldn't determine what it is, and wouldn't hawk it anyway) for an "EYE ROLLER." Its purpose is to tighten up the wrinkly skin around your eyes. PREPOSTEROUS! I am perfectly capable of rolling my eyes without an implement, thank you!

5) Then, finally, this, which has nothing to do with anything else I said, but which fills me with absolute wonder and admiration and happiness nevertheless--SWING it, Temptations! I haven't learned how to embed a video, haven't had time or inclination to learn it until now. Sorry.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S4GniJYzGa8

Random Mother's Day Musings

I've kind of run out of stupid things the Tyke says (which is quite unusual). So I have nothing to report there, although I'm sure he'll replenish the supply soon. Actually, that's not true; I do have one! Baseball season has gone into "full swing" as it were, and he is quite an accomplished and obsessed player. He's in a major league that has three ages and he is one of the "elders" this year so the coaches depend on him as a mentor. I'm not proud of the Tyke's smugness about his "elder" status. One of the newest, littlest kids on his team said this weekend, "I played center bench for four innings!" And the snarky Tyke shot back, "Oh, did you play LEFT OUT, too?" That was mean, and certainly does not belong in "a gentlemen's game."

In other news, I had one of my worst Mother's Days ever. Boo-hoo, I am having a little pity party! I myself do not have a mother anymore, so I could not fob off my disappointment on another generation. First off, the boys forgot until at least half way through the day (Tyke) and the big one demonstrated complete oblivion. In fact, the big one decided (without consulting anyone else in the household) that he was going to invite a bunch of boys over to have a band practice. This is a jazz kid. He majors in jazz piano and vocal at his arts academy. He decided to have a ROCK band practice. On my Mother's Day, which I had cleverly envisioned and deeply wished to be a day of specifically designated peace and quiet during which I would blissfully READ while receiving occasional hugs and whisperings of adoration from my offspring. Hah. Dream on.

On the other hand, my DH made me a lovely breakfast. Which is not his job because I am not his mother, but he did it anyway. That was the bright spot . . . it then went downhill . . . First of all, whoever decided that Mother's Day should be Summer Travel Baseball Tryout Day? DUH. Even the madrigal choir director figured out practice should be canceled.

So in troop the boys, who I must admit are a clean, courteous and personable (not to mention genuinely talented) lot. But LOUD. And since they were my guests I was obligated to provide snacks and beverages, which flies directly in the face of my Mother's Day credo: Do Not Lift A Finger for Anyone Else Today. This also one reason I hate previously unannounced invitees. I have no way of being prepared to be a courteous hostess. On a Sunday, I am likely to have few things left in Mother Hubbard's Cupboard, and they are certain not to go together. Such as, say, canned mushrooms and evaporated milk, or niblets corn, chicken broth and popsicles. You would think the popsicles would be okay, but not when one kid is madly drumming, another is pounding piano, and two others are banging away at guitar. The hands are heavily engaged.

Luckily I found a can of frozen lemonade and loads of popcorn.

This is one of my perennial gripes about 1) Mother's Day and 2) my birthday. They will not do anything to help. They will pile up dishes and mess and dirty laundry, etc. but not wash or clean up, because their theory (while misguided and disrespectful, not completely illogical) is that the "special" day only lasts ONE DAY and eventually, if they wait it out, it will not be Mother's Day or my birthday anymore, and then they will be off the hook and I will have to go back to doing it myself just as on regular days. BOO!!!

So the kitchen looks pretty much as though a bomb hit. The empty popcorn bowls and dutch oven full of little burnt kernels and water jug and lemonade pitcher are waiting for me right now, along with the breakfast, lunch and dinner dishes. I am disenchanted and unmotivated and mad and not a little vengeful.

Then what happened? The Tyke and dad escaped all the noise of the band (baseball tryouts), and got back after 5:00. The elder kid SAID his band would only go two hours, but they stayed until 6:00. Then the elder kid suddenly (and I thought suspiciously) asked if he could go to the reservoir. We live in a wooded area where there's a series of reservoirs that are treated as parks and recreation areas. I couldn't really understand this so I told him not to go inside the reservoir, just take the walk up and back. I associate the reservoir with places where people get into trouble or go for walks with friends to scheme or tell secrets. On the other hand, families go there for running, picnics, dog walking. You don't hear about crimes there--but I just don't like it.

This was the Insane Clown Mom Posse coming out of me. I am completely traumatized by the reservoir unless we all go there as a family and are roped or chained together. It has been many years, but in 6th grade big kid "left for school," but actually ran away to the reservoir on a rainy day (scheduled to snow) without adequate outerwear. He stole stuff out of his father's mountaineering pack, including a large knife. He took a book about Daniel Boone, thinking it would tell him everything he needed to know about living in the rough. He took a large amount of cash he had saved from pet-sitting. (Idiot.) He had bought into a local urban legend that a "hermit" lived on the island in the reservoir and he was going to go live a while with the hermit and kill deer to survive. This was, not coincidentally perhaps, the year he was in the musical "Tom Sawyer."

Since then I have refused to let him go to the reservoir alone. He wasn't the frantic mom who had to call school and 911 announcing a missing child, invite a policeman into the house and give a photo and other descriptions, and sit and worry sick. Three hours later the policeman drove him back to the house, with little to say to him other than, "Did you know I'm a certified diver with [local water district]? Why do you think our town needs certified divers at the reservoir?" And kid thought for a split second and said, "Uh . . . because people might get killed or drown at the reservoir?"

And that was that. To his surprise, when he came to the door I was not weeping with gratitude. I was MAD. I wasted no time, gave him a sandwich and took him straight back to school. I said, "You might not have started out your day at school, but there's no reason you can't finish it there." His teaching team thought my "tough love" strategy was brilliant. He didn't try it again.

But that spectre of horror has never left me. So last night I got very upset after he was gone about half an hour, then went hysterical. The Insane Clown came out and begged DH to please, please, drive up and search. The very very minute the car was in front of the house, kid came home. Everyone thought I was absolutely crazy, kid came in, and all was well. Almost.

Finally people started noticing that I had not set foot near the kitchen, so DH asked what I wanted for dinner. (This never changes year to year--it is always Asian or Indian takeout.) I said I was not in the mood for Indian. I had conveniently set out a menu from our new Japanese place, but it went unnoticed. UNFORTUNATELY our favorite Chinese restaurant, which was right around the corner, got very bad over the past couple of years--so bad we could not tolerate it anymore and quit ordering. Recently it opened up with a new name and new management. We had never bothered to venture in, for obvious reasons. UNFORTUNATELY it was a fast, easy choice, so DH went there (without asking).

Worst "Chinese food" I have EVER eaten. One dish was a seafood thing. I always like shrimp, but this had scallops in it (which I cannot eat, an DH knows this!) and purported to have lobster. I tried the [one tiny piece of] lobster and it was like shoe leather. I found only two shrimp, but this is a family of four. All the rest was icky sauce and scallops. I think there was one pea pod. So I tried the "chicken." One "chicken" dish was upposed to be sesame. It was not. I looked on the receipt and there was an "orange chicken." DH said he did not order orange chicken--that he had ordered General Tso's and sesame. Anyway, whatever it was, it was all nasty. All the chicken sauces tasted like ketchup thinned down with water and rethickened with cornstarch. I could not find any chicken in the chicken. It was all deep-fried batter that was tough and actually unchewable. Hardly any vegetables to be found anywhere, except a few pieces of broccoli. Then there was the eggroll--like dry brown kraft paper. Looked old and perhaps pre-frozen. I had a couple of bites of rice (hard to screw up), and left the table, throwing away what was on my plate.

I really hate to waste food and I know that even though it was bad, it was not cheap. I'm sure I set a bad example for the boys by leaving the table after voicing my disgust, but, honestly, YUCK.

Now it's not Mother's Day anymore. Hark, the dishes await.

Thought Salad

This post won't taste good, even if you put your favorite dressing on it. I just have a bunch of completely disparate things to toss together. And, just now, EEEK! There's a big ant walking across my keyboard, but that's irrelevant.

Spring is here, or rather, the seasons seem to have skipped straight from winter to summer with barely a visible warning from trees and flowers. Right now it's 84, and reportedly it's planning to be 90 tomorrow. Help me. While the trees still look positively lacy, the weekend was hot enough to make us switch from storm doors and windows to screens, open the windows, run the attic fan, and even break out a small turbo space fan. It was the hottest weekend in recorded history for this region. I hate it. I have no problem with cold. I can always go around the house wearing sweaters and blankets to get warm when the house is 52, but I can't get cool without wearing garments that I consider inappropriate and/or embarrassing, and I sweat like a pig. It is completely out of character for the weather to be hot in April. In fact, it is not unheard of for a surprise little flurry to occur.

Where did this stupid ant come from? Go away, ant. I'm going to have to capture him and put him out. He is putting footprints between the pages of a document I was given by its author, archivist and historian at Old Sturbridge Village, "Mail in 1830s New England." But I digress.

The main evidence of "spring" is that the road termites are out prowling around, weaving madly, cutting everyone else off, and making outrageous left turns starting half a mile from the intersection, thus requiring them to ride up the wrong side of the road into oncoming traffic. This includes mentally unstable college girls and huge landscaping trucks with their trailers. Normally, any other time of year, this would simply be an obvious indicator that the license plates read Mass., but now it's just that people are buckwild crazya$ coming out of hibernation.

New word/title coinage: Tyke asks for eggs for breakfast on weekend. Dad is a master at eggs. Dad makes magnificent omelet containing all of Tyke's favorite flavors. Tyke howls for a full 30 minutes, "I don't want an omelet, I want scrambled." He sits at the table and picks. About then, Dad asks if I want some eggs. I say, "Sure, I'd like scrambled!" Dad goes berserk. "You're not helping me out here!" Hint, hint. "Actually, I'd like an OMELET." Then the big kid, G., says, "Who do you think you are, Dad, The Omelettier?"

Insomnia: I finally got two nights of sorta-sleep after four nights of wide-open eyelids. The primary reason was probably my anxiety over G's "final" surgery to remove his cardiac catheter, which took place Wednesday. The insomnia started Tuesday night. Then, Wednesday night, in case he needed help, water, food or meds I slept on the sofa and, for the comfort of the affected part, he stayed in one position on the huge comfy chair/ottoman.

I did get a few short-lived naps. But the cruelest thing is the meta-dreams. What the heck do I mean by "meta-dreams"? This is just evil, and my own head made it up to foist upon me. Here's an example. Wednesday night, as G snored lightly, I finally fell asleep and stayed asleep long enough to start dreaming. In the dream, G has come home from an evening at his girlfriend's house. Her dad has brought them back to our home in the van. As is often the case, I am talking to the congenial dad, and I tell him, "Gosh the last few nights have been murder; I can hardly sleep at all. All I get is a nap and then it's all over." He says, "Really?" Upon which admission I am rendered bolt-upright awake. Now Porky Pig stutters, not actually but metaphorically, "That's all, folks!" I hear every house and tree creak, mouse skitter, bird twitter and vehicle move in a ten-mile radius, see every lightwave and shadow, feel every little pain, my sinuses go berserk and I get a raging case of gas and heartburn that must be properly addressed. I am completely up until I'm supposed to be up, at which point I can hardly get up because I'm so tired.

Here's another one. In Thursday's dream I am in a whole other state of the union (who knows which one it's supposed to be) with a bunch of total strangers and none of my family. It's all adults and no kids. I start out in a gas station but the venue morphs into a very casual tiny Greek diner-type restaurant that has all outdoor tables on a flat lawn in back. People in the restaurant are raving and recommending a particular dish. It is described by them as huge wide noodles wrappped up with something like herbed rice inside (reminiscent of dolmades) with a thick, olive-laden sauce on top. I order it, and it is delivered to the white linen-covered picnic table where I wait. But---aaaaarrgggghh! It doesn't look anything like the item described. It looks like a pile of tiny dry burritos with a drizzle of what should have been green salsa, but which looks more like thick, golden motor oil. There aren't even any utensils or napkins. The sight of it in the dream made me need to throw up. It just shocked me in the dream because it was so unlike the dish described. Too unexpected. Once again, BING! Wide awake with the whole night/morning ahead of me.

We have conifers and Rotarians in our water supply: For the past almost week, our town has been one of ten locally that were identified as receiving "copepods and rotifers" in the water. No live critters have been found, according to the metropolitan water district. Furthermore, these particular strains of organisms are not known to cause illness and are present in almost all fresh water. YET we have been admonished to boil our drinking water "for at least one minute." Why? To beat a dead rotifer? Every day I look for a lift of the "boil order," and every day it's not there. The affected towns are now down to six, but ours is among them. I don't care if I DO boil my water; I don't want to ingest cooked rotifers and copepods, either. Fortunately, before this event I didn't think about the microorganisms in our water. Now I'll never be able to forget them, even if they're dead and known not to be pathogenic.

Friends were cleaning out their attic and found a lot of old books. Since I am a logophile, they gave me one called More Press Boners. It's a book-length list of funny grammar, typographical, spelling and punctuation mistakes made in the publishing media, primarily newspapers. For instance, "Read our new booklet, 'How To Increase Your Word Power, Think Better, Spell Perrectly,'" and "Mother can disassemble the boys at the end of play time and pack the little containers away neatly." (Don't I wish.) What's funniest to me, even more than the gaffes themselves, is the archaic nature of many of the topics and concepts in the book. If my boys were to read it (which they won't because they're lazy), they would find much of it baffling, because they wouldn't understand the context or some of the vocabulary. For example, there's a listing from a television guide: "9:00 p.m. Geo. Gobel show. 9:15 p.m. Geo. Gobel shot." They would never in a million years know who George Gobel was.

This is the other part of the book: The title cracks the boys up. They have another idea about the definition of the word "boner."

And now a note about customer service: I can't remember if I wrote about this months ago (or moths ago as might have been reported in Boners). We rarely dry clean our clothes. We try to buy exclusively washable garments, but there are the seasonal coats and heavy down comforter, and some of my summer linen items. Anyway, I went online to arrange an at-home dry cleaning pickup from the cleaners we usually use, only to discover that the company I had been using had been bought out and replaced by another company. I blithely signed up on their website. Within a few days, the van showed up and the guy collected my bag of cleaning.

Well, darn it, that's when the trouble started.

A couple of days later I got a call from a distressed woman who works for the dry cleaning company (which I will not name because I refuse to give them press). At first I thought something had gone wrong or gotten lost or the order was screwed up or something and this was a courtesy call to straighten it out. But no! This woman explained that she was the representative for a territory and my address was in her territory and that I should not have let blah-blah guy pick up my cleaning. In fact, I should call every time I need cleaning and ask for HER exclusively. Though she did not say as much, I'm guessing they work on commission and the guy who picked up after being alerted via web is her direct competition in this area. She had a whiskey voice and a mafioso manner. She practically made me sign on the dotted line that I would ALWAYS only use her as my pickup and delivery person. I felt summarily harassed. I hung up the phone feeling as if I'd been beaten up by a bully in elementary school.

Then I went to the internet and considered signing up for another company, called Edricks. When I was ready with a new bag I saw the Edricks van coming up the street and waited by the mailbox and waved. The Edricks guy stopped in the middle of the street, took my info and cleaning, was friendly as could be, got my info into their system and had the clothes (much more nicely presented than the other company) back at my door in a couple of days. Even before the items were returned, I got two courtesy calls from the company surveying about the service and confirming my order.

Okay. So, customer-service tip: don't bully customers if you want to keep them. Gees.

Boys will be boys: This is how it is when you have more than one boy-child. Big kid G is returning to school after being out almost all year for cancer treatment. So he's getting up Thursday to have me drive him to his big half-day start-off. He appears on the stairs in boxers, hospital sox (he loves them), and a face covered with shaving cream. He says, quietly, "Mom. Mom." My face is a question mark. He says, "Tyke took my disposable razor and used it to clean the gum off his favorite basketball shorts. So I went in your bathroom looking for the razors and couldn't find one. Would you give me one?" Said shorts are a pet peeve of mine. I've been trying to get rid of them for a year, but Tyke keeps retrieving them. I didn't know about the Heloise "put item in freezer and pick off the gum" trick. It wasn't a big wad of gum at all, but still, gross! I got the new razor for G. Then when Tyke came home I inquired. He admitted shaving the pants. I said, "But did you make a hole in them?" And he said, "Yeah, but they're reversible so they have a liner so it doesn't matter."