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:

Yes, I realize that I am too old, too motherly, and too Mormon to title my blog with such a coarse expression, but please read on before you judge.  As with everything else I do wrong, it's really not my fault.

Yesterday I was dressing Ethan in my favorite shirt of his, which, of course, means he hates it.  Yet I insist on him wearing it at least twice a month so that I feel better about having bought it.  I got both arms in his sleeves when he looked down and noticed what I was putting on him. 

"I don't like this shirt!  I don't wanna wear this shirt!"  The standard howls and shrieks ensued.  

"But why not?  You look so handsome in it."  My voice automatically kicked into soothing mother gear, calm and gentle enough to annoy even myself. 

"I don't wanna be handsome!"

"Come on, honey..."

"No!  I don't wanna be handsome!  I wanna be AWESOME!!"

Good grief.

"I WANT MY SPIDERMAN SHIRT!!" (I know all caps is annoying, but Ethan's entire personality is all caps, and there's just no way around it.)

From this statement, I can only assume he was requesting the ketchup-red atrocity that has been lurking in a quiet drawer where I attempt to hide a regrettable pile of hand-me downs (thank you, Julie) that I keep around only for painting and playing in the mud.  This shirt has an enormous blue, crackly, off-centered iron-on of Spidey that hits Ethan about three inches above his belly button, because the shirt itself is short enough on him to qualify as a crop top (there's a term I haven't used since '89.)  Furthermore, I have never been able to successfully determine whether this sad and wilted occurrence is an actual shirt or, in fact, a pajama top.  It fails either way.

Which brings me to the story of another young man who obstinately refused the title of Handsome when it was generously offered him.  When Derrick and I were engaged, several people in our glittering social circle came out of the woodwork and started telling me how "handsome" my fiancée was.  Not "cute" or "attractive" or "good-looking," but always, "handsome."  I started hearing things like, "Got yourself a handsome fellow there," or "That fiancée of yours is a handsome man, very handsome."  I would have accepted these compliments with the pleasure of a young girl in love were it not for one curious fact: they all came from gray-haired men in their mid-sixties.  My bishop, some old family friends, and my creepy Uncle Louis.  Never heard a peep about my husband's studliness from a single woman, only men. Still not sure what that was all about.  But I digress.

Upon relating this well-deserved praise to my espoused, his reaction was less flattered than I would have expected. (I mean, give me a second-hand compliment about my looks and I'm yours for life.)  He simply frowned and said, "Handsome sucks."

"What?"

"Handsome sucks."

"What do you mean, handsome sucks?  Everybody wants to be handsome.  Clark Gable's handsome.  Brad Pitt's handsome.  Tom Cruise is handsome."

"No, those guys aren't handsome.  Handsome sucks."

" Well, what do you want to be?"

"Hot."

Good grief.  Did they make spiderman crop tops in mens' sizes back in '95?  Derrick could have used one, although the over-sixty set may have found it a bit puzzling on their new young darling.  As the years have gone by, however, we've both decided that Derrick's geriatric fan base was, in fact, alot younger, cooler, and more observant than we once gave them credit for.  In fact, if anyone knows who's handsome and who's not, it's retired grandpas.  Just ask my handsome husband. 

Easter Weekend Lovelies:

• Introducing Ethan to Thai food on Friday night while Grandma whisked the girls off to Hannah Montana:  The Movie (and yes, I did want to see that flick myself)
  
• Watching my girls imitate Miley's dance moves--quite impressively, I might add--all weekend long
  
• Running a 5k with my husband on Saturday morning
  
• Beating my husband in 5k on Saturday morning
  
• Not letting my husband forget it since Saturday morning
• Coloring eggs with the kids; making treats with the kids; eating too much candy with the kids
  
• Watching kids perform creative skits about the New Testament on Saturday night; Ethan playing a mean "Martha" who is too busy making "My Tomato Sauce!" (as he called it) to sit down and listen next to Megan's angelic portrayal of "Mary"
  
• Beautiful music in church on Sunday morning
  
• First Sunday back in Primary as new 2nd counselor; loving being back in there with my own little lovelies
• Hedonistic Easter feast after church, during which we reversed any benefits gained during 5k run
  
• My parents coming over to celebrate Easter and their 41st wedding anniversary.  Dad giving Mom floor tickets to Billy Joel/Elton John in Seattle.  Them acting as giddy as newlyweds.  Me loving living by my parents. 
  

Easter Weekend Not-So-Lovelies:

• My niece announcing that she was "suspicious" of the Easter Bunny on the car ride over to our house
• She and the rest of the kids sneaking back to our room to google up and learning that the likeliest candidate for the E.B. was, in fact, their parents
• Us adults enjoying ripe strawberries and lemon chiffon cake out front, blissfully unaware that our childrens' innocence was being shattered just two rooms away

Guess you can't win them all.
But it was still a great weekend.

How was yours?

The only thing more fun than watching a good movie with your friends is watching a bad one. So it happened this blustery March weekend when our good friends, the Shorts, came for a visit. Before I launch into my critical tirade, I must convey the level of fun we always have with the Short family. They are fun, funny, intelligent, witty, easygoing, gracious, generous...and that only sums up their personalities. Of course they are gorgeous and glamorous as well (they're friends of ours, for Pete's sake.)

We wanted to break down some of the misconceptions our West coast friends may have had about Kennewick being a small, crusty town, so we decided to show them some of the classier hot spots: the bowling alley, the Rollerena and, of course, Costco.






Believe it or not, we had a blast at all three places, and Rachel scored a cute pair of jeans at Costco, which she claimed was the first article of clothing she'd ever purchased there. (Was she kidding? My closet is full of Costco and Target staples. Am I the only woman who buys her clothes at the same stores she can get produce and toilet paper? I thought this was normal.) But I digress.
After appeasing our children with the aforementioned activities, we did manage a little adult fun. We hired two sitters, hooked them up with pizza, and then made our way to Anthony's for dinner (on the river; pretty; yum). Jason wowed us all by entering the famed "Oyster Slurp" contest which was being held in the foyer of the restaurant. Yes, four grown men stood around a table that was graced with large platters of raw oysters, and at the signal, slurped them up as fast as they could. We were expecting great things from Jason, who was the only true northwesterner at the table, in addition to being at least 25 years younger than all of the other contenders.


Alas, it was not to be: our poor Jason came in dead last, finishing only half his platter of oysters as the victor slurped his own up at an unbelievable rate. Oh, the agony of defeat.

After a scrumptious dinner at Anthony's, we were perfectly positioned for a bit of candy and a great movie. Unfortunately, there was nothing great playing, so we settled on Taken, a Liam Neeson action movie (yes, we ladies were being generous.) This movie was well done and fast paced, BUT....because of the subject matter, I do not recommend it for mothers, fathers, women, or men with any kind of regard for the sanctity of life or the dignity of the human soul. In other words, Derrick and Jason loved it.

After the flick, it was only 9 pm and we had a couple more hours before we needed to get home. The usual Kennewick nightlife--i.e., concerts, gallery openings, jazz clubs--seemed hard to find on this particular Friday night. So what to do? See another movie, of course! And due to some lofty (but highly classified) theater connections, we were able to get into the next one free. So we decided that This One's For the Girls (a big shout out to Martina), and dragged our hubbys to He's Just Not That Into You, hoping for a fun, feel good show that would end the evening on a high note. But as with Jason's ill-fated slurpoff, it was not meant to be.

This movie was not original, funny, or clever. It was: unoriginal, boring, crass, and forgettable. Think of every irritating cliche you've ever seen in a romantic comedy, times it by two hours, and you've got He's Just Not That Into You. I'm surprised the critics were as easy on it as they were.

Besides the predictably lazy morals, the worst thing about this movie is its illustration of men and women. Men are made out to be self-centered, immature jerks who seemingly can't stand women, don't want to marry women, don't want to be married to women, and don't want to be bothered with women, period.(Maybe that's why half of the characters are gay.) The women fare no better. They are silly, whiny, and naive, with the emotional maturity of fourteen-year old girls. The women who are older and more mature are played as uptight, boring, and lifeless. These female characters put up with or follow around men who, apparently, just don't like them much at all. I sat there wondering, "Do men really hate women this much?" I was surprised that so many "empowered" female actresses would consent to play roles that made women look so victimized, so ignorant, and so stupid.

(I used a whole lot of adjectives in that last paragraph. Fifteen, to be exact.)

And there you have it. Alot of smart, funny people I know liked this movie, so I may make some enemies from this post, but I dare not consent by my silence.

Having said all that, I can now admit that I'm glad we saw this movie because it spawned a fun game on the car ride home. We will call it something original, like: What's the Worst Movie You've Ever Seen?

Derrick: He's Just Not That Into You
Jen: The Object of My Affection
Rachel: Circle of Friends
Jason: The Ultimate Gift

So now what I want to know is: What's the worst movie you've ever seen? I can hardly wait to find out. Whatever your answer may be, I hope you at least got to enjoy it with some good friends and Original Reese's Peanut Butter Cups (not their ugly stepchild, Reese's Pieces. Really, Jason, what were you thinking??)