Where have all the cowboys gone?

6

Posted on : 10:08 PM | By : Jennifer






Does anyone remember this touching duo circa 1984? We watched this movie with the kids on tv the other night, and I gotta say...it's fantastic. No, really. Funny, touching, relevant (well, except for the whole karate theme...) and very family-friendly. The kids enjoyed it about one-tenth as much as Derrick and I did. It's a valentine to the eighties, and I'm tellin' ya, those were the days. Derrick still has the hots for Elizabeth Shue, and I tried, unsuccessfully, to convince him that I had her exact hairdo in highschool, except mine was twice as big. (I grew up in a small town, okay? Spiral perms were the rage.)

As so often happens in life, this seemingly unimportant piece of fiction took on a profound meaning in the days to follow. As my three faithful readers know, I've spent the last six months training for the St. George Marathon coming up in October. I've trained hard, stayed injury free (you may recall my unfortunate foot incident from last year) and have gotten incredibly excited about this fateful day which is now less than three weeks away. We've booked plane tickets and hotel rooms and I've had my jitters and the whole nine yards. So, the other night I'm out running, feeling great, and out of nowhere--whoosh!--a sharp, searing pain shoots up my left knee. I try to run on it--nope. I stop and walk for a while then try again. Nope. I walk the rest of the way home, ice it for awhile, it feels better, and I go to bed, not daring to think I may be truly injured.

Woke up the next day--sore. Ouch. Didn't run, iced it, ibuprofined-up. Have stayed off it for two days. Am not even considering the possibility that it won't heal immediately. But what I am wondering lately is this: Where is my Mr. Miyagi? If you want to know how I feel, what I need, just take a look at this:



Daniel-san's pleading to be healed, and oh, how he's healed. Mr. Miyagi simply claps his hands together high in the air, rubs them for awhile (remember the cymbals?) and magically heals Daniel-san's poor, victimized knee. Daniel-san then stands up and strides out to become the champion of the All-Valley Karate tournament, besting his enemies, winning his true love, and proving himself to the world.

I don't ask much. And I've quite a bit in common with Daniel-san: I dress five years behind, am kinda broke, and rely way too much on my mother. So, again, I'm asking the reader and the fates alike: Where is my Mr. Miyagi? What gives? I need his warm guidance, quiet strength, and pearls of wisdom. But mostly, I need that cymbal-crashing, hand-rubbing, far-eastern magic to fix me up real nice for this marathon. I need it bad.

In the unlikely event that Pat Morita* does not read this and show up on my doorstep, does anyone have any other ideas? I'm a hurtin'.



*and I just read that Pat Morita has died. which kinda ruins the story. sorry. to Pat's family. and about the story.

And WHOOP, there it is

6

Posted on : 6:13 PM | By : Jennifer


What could have inspired my husband to make such an outlandish, uncharacteristic "whoop whoop" gesture in the above photo?  Well, last weekend, Derrick and I enjoyed one of the most scenic, exhilirating and exciting weekend getaways of our married life. Where could we have gone, you might ask? What did we do? Well, I'll start by telling you what this exotic vacation did not include:
  • First class airfare (or any airfare)
  • Tropical destination
  • Luxury hotel (or any hotel)
  • Luxury rental car (or any rental car)
  • Showers. As in, we did not shower. At all.
  • Running water.
  • Flushable toilets.
  • Sleeping in late. Or any sleeping. As in, we did not sleep. At all.
  • Attractive (clean) clothing.
  • Attractive (clean) hair and makeup.
  • Fresh Breath
  • Basic Personal Hygiene
  • Time alone together (which was probably a good thing, considering the above three items that were not included in this romantic getaway.)
Our exciting weekend did include the following:
  • Cramming into two borrowed, oversized vans with eleven other sweaty passengers.
  • Multiple trips to outhouses, cleverly euphemised by the race sponsors as "Honey Pots."
  • Multiple shots of hand sanitizer instead of soap and water after Honey Pot use. These were usually followed with the handling and consumption of finger foods, like power bars, bagels or crackers. (I'm still trying not to think about it.)
  • Driving and getting lost for 24 straight hours (did I mention, with no sleep?) through enough windy roads to require additional visits to the Honey Pots
  • Running three legs of 3-7 miles each: uphill, downhill, in the dark, on the freeway as semis zoomed past, and through scary downtown Portland alone at midnight (where was the security, for the love?)
  • Talking, laughing, crying (one of our valiant runners had an unfortunate encounter with a pothole in the dead of night), yelling, cheering and praying (to finish with some sort of dignity.)
  • The curious, aforementioned "whoop-whoop" gesture, which Derrick is still at a loss to explain. (Please don't judge.)
  • Wondering what lifestyle changes we should make when this really is one of the best weekends we've ever spent together. (Please don't judge.)

Yes, it was Oregon's very own Hood-to-Coast, also known as the "Mother of all Relays." This race begins at beautiful Mt. Hood and ends on the equally beautiful beach of Seaside, Oregon. 1500 teams of twelve runners each take turns running for a total of 179 miles. Here's a few highlights:
Despite minimal training and a knee injury, Derrick runs really well and brings our team across the finish line at the beach. (Classic Derrick, procrasting and then pulling it off at the last minute to hoards of cheers and applause. I'm not bitter about my own training for months ahead of time, really.)

Sporting my wickedhot neon vest just before a midnight run on the freeway. I was terrified, in this order, of a)the long uphill route, b) getting hit by a speeding semi, and c)getting attacked from a psycho in the neighboring woods. I survived all and actually had a fantastic run. (And by the way, I think my upper arm should be alot thinner and more toned for all of the freaking running I've been doing. But that's another post.)

What Derrick will be wearing next year.

How can a weekend involving all the glamour listed above and Captain Underpants not be romantic? Forget Hawaii and the Bahamas...we've found our Happy Place.
And all kidding aside, this race was inspiring in every way. 18,000 runners cheering each other on, beautiful scenery and most of all, a truly great team to do it with. Great job Chi, Paul, Dan, James, Derrick, Jason, Jenny, Meg, Amber, Michelle and Rachel! I've never had so much miserable fun in my life. Let's do it again next year!

Pulled, Mold 'n Cold

6

Posted on : 6:43 PM | By : Jennifer

My three loyal readers may have noticed that I haven't posted anything for awhile. This is because:
a) It's summertime; b) we've been gone a lot, which means I have alot to blog, which means I don't want to blog because it's too much work; and c) my Adult ADD (a "friend" diagnosed me) inspired an eight-week long indifference to blogging. The cycle has completed itself, however, and I now hope to make a Travolta-esque comeback.

I am fully planning to do a long, painfully boring "catch-up" post with pictures of my cute kids and family reunions. In the meantime, however, I felt it only right that I share with you the three real highlights of my summer. These will be listed from the least to the most important, although they're all huge:

1. My first ever successfully-grown head of lettuce.
I've planted gardens before (with very little success), and was always told it was too hot to grow lettuce here. What do those Master Gardeners know? My garden is actually kickin' this year, and I'm so excited! I snipped this lettuce for a tasty Sunday salad. Harvesting and eating out of my backyard? Totally blogworthy for me.

2. My first ever Jell-o Mold


I reluctantly made this for Megan's baptism/4th of July barbeque. I have always had strong views on Jell-0, like the abolitionists had strong views on slavery. My husband, on the other hand, loves it. For 10 years I've protected my children from this particular bit of Mormon kitsch. Derrick, however, thinks I'm cruelly depriving them of a colorful (read: slimy) piece of Americana. This year, as my daughter's religious rite of passage transpired within the Season of Jell-0, I decided to offer my family their own edible rite of passage with a patriotic, layered ring. I gagged down a small bite (yep, it's still nasty), but the rest of my family inhaled it with gusto. It made a real big dent in our otherwise highbrow culinary habits.

And don't think just because this is a white trash dessert that it was easy to make. It was a major pain in my white trash backside, what with the multiple layers and all. (And please forgive my messy, white trash fridge. We had tons of company. It's usually spotless, really.)

3. My first ever Slurpee

I took my first sip of this icy, chemical concoction a few months ago when treating my kids one hot spring day. Would you believe I'd never, ever bought one before? It was love at first slurp, especially since they have Crystal Light flavors now. No calories, no carbonation, no caffeine...that pretty much qualifies it as a health food, right?

And here's the real bragging right: Our 7-11, on Clearwater Avenue here in Kennewick, Washington...yes, my humble hometown...is the SLURPEE CAPITOL OF THE WORLD. You think I'm kidding right now. I am not kidding. They sell more Slurpees than any other 7-11 in America (hence, the world), and consequently have the largest Slurpee flavor selection anywhere. I think it's around twenty-five flavors. (Still not kidding.) They have a banner out front and, more recently, a ten-foot trophy (still not kidding) inside with a massive metal cup on the top. I dare you to go in and ask one of the proud cashiers about their store's status as International Slurpee champions. If you can get out of there in less than twenty minutes, I'll buy you an AppleMango 42-ouncer myself.

My one complaint? The term slurpee. Couldn't we call it an iced-fruit beverage or even a slushed punch? There's gotta be a way for a grown woman to drink up in a more dignified (un-white trash) manner.

Letting Go

3

Posted on : 1:09 PM | By : Jennifer

These are the kind of weekends I love. A little fun, a little work, a little relaxation. Alot of sun, alot of friends, alot of family. Not alot of errands.

I have but one minor complaint about this weekend, and it 's about some serious attachment issues concerning the following:


For the past four years, this shirt has covered my back during housework, late night videos, reading in bed and cooking things with red sauce. It also covered my belly during post-baby bodydom and 'round the clock nursing.  I bought it at Old Navy for approximately five dollars right after I had Ethan. It was loose, cool, comfy, and, as you can see, terribly flattering. It has been my trusted friend and companion these long years of Ethantoddlerhood, and it is not without a lump in my throat that I bid it farewell tonight.

I discovered several rather large holes in its front panel today, and I wondered: how long had they been there? Weeks, months, years? I wouldn't know; I generally avoided mirors when wearing this shirt. I decided that stumbling upon these holes tonight may have been the Universe telling me that it was, in fact, time to let go. (Vanity certainly wasn't going to do it.) And so with trembling fingers I pack  Good 'Ole Purple into my Goodwill bag and send it soaring into the great beyond. May it grace another mother's menial tasks (read: life) the way it has graced mine.

A FINE howdy-do.

7

Posted on : 6:48 AM | By : Jennifer


A few years ago, Megan traveled through the age-old rite of passage that is obtaining her very own, very first library card.  She had been begging me for one for months, but the prerequisite for this shiny, steel-gray gem was the child's ability to write her first and last name without help.  Megan was but a wee preschooler at the time, and despite her parent's conviction that she was surely a genius (our child?  could she be anything but?), the little darling could not yet patch "Megan" and "Smith" together without a bit of prodding by mom.  When the blessed day arrived that she could finally do so, she marched up to the desk, signed the form, and emerged triumphant with her first (of what I fear will be many) credit-card-of-sorts.  She felt grownup and proud, and I thought the whole episode was so cute.  Until today.

Meg had an unusually voracious appetite for books at the 'ole Mid-Columbia Library today, and she wanted to check them out on "her" card.  (Out of convenience, we usually use mine for the whole family.)  I agreed, and she whipped that baby out of her embroidered back pocket with the flair of Poncho Villa.  She slapped it down on the desk, shiny as new, and waited for some service.  A pale blond woman, whose white face disappeared into whiter hair, sat behind the desk.  She scanned the card, then peered down her bifocals at the young patron with a smile/frown.

"You can't use this today."

"Why not?"  Meg's eyebrows would have furrowed, had there been
hair there to furrow.  (Her face is still completely smooth and hairless, with spider veins on her temples, like a newborn's.  I love it.)

"You have a fine of ten dollars."

I felt Megan's hand stiffen in mine, and saw her flinch behind a calm face.  Ten dollars!  Ten dollars!  Such a sum of money!

"Yes.  Ten dollars," said the librarian, as if she could read our silent thoughts.  (I am not kidding with these italics.  She actually repeated the amount emphatically, in a sort of stage whisper.)

I stood quietly, unsure whether to lecture or reassure my daughter.  Before I could speak, she looked up at me with her toffee-drop eyes and said, "Mom, I think I have enough allowance to pay for that."  I wanted to hug her.  She didn't even consider asking me to pay for it, though I had already begun wondering how I could justify doing so.  Her sweet offer, however, gave me a perfect launch into Teaching Responsibility.

"Yes, honey, ten dollars is alot of money, and you'll need to pay it.  We'll come back and pay it next time when you can bring your allowance." 

Her upper lip visibly stiffened as she braced herself to part with such a dear sum of money.  How I wanted to pay it for her, and relieve her suffering!  But I dared not, for then what would become of this child?  She may go through life without an understanding of care, responsibility, even the value of a hard-earned dollar.  No, I must be strict, much as it tore at my pulsing mother-heart.  For the good of my children, I would set an example of careful accountability.  After all, they would someday take after their mother.  Passing on my discipline and frugality was the least I could do.

I then pulled out my own library card so I could check out the entire family's materials.  I decided to use the self-checkout machine this time (I'd had enough of Pasty-Face Drama Queen behind Customer Service.)  I went to scan my first book, but was promptly halted by a large indicator on the screen:

UNABLE TO PROCEED WITH CHECKOUT
PATRON OWES $12.40
PLEASE PAY PROMPTLY

So.

Anyway.

You know...I've decided that the only industry weathering the storm of this horrific economy is the wretched Public Library System, and they do so off the backs of harmless little borrowers like me.  If the Civil Engineering industry was clearing half the profit that Public Libraries were, I'd be buying all my books in brand-new hardcover, folding the corners and staining the pages all I liked, and then shipping them to you, my less fortunate friends, in a gracious and condescending gesture.  And I wouldn't give that shabby MCL the view of my upturned nose.  (Oh, the twisted fantasies I keep.)

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