Cause I Feel Like It

I've decided to merge my two blogs into one new & improved site - Mom, Interrupted at http://denisegmalloy.blogspot.com/.  I thought it might be easier if I just used my real name.

How considerate of me.

Please check in my new blog for my latest posts. Thanks for checking in.

Speaking in Tongues - Part I

Post deleted 9-12-09. While it was extremely cathartic to write, it was very, very naughty. If you happened to read it, you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am indeed a real mother.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Maybe it was just me, but today the sky was just a little more blue. Sounds were a little more clear. And I think that Mr. Bluebird landed on my shoulder if only for a moment. But what was the reason for this Zippity-Do-Dah kind of day?

The most wonderful time of the year for Stay-At-Home-Moms, the first day of school, of course.

I'm sure a collective sigh from SAHMs went up across the valley at 8:31 a.m.

Teachers, we love you.

The Piano Man

Older Boy announced he wanted to go to Europe with the language class during spring break, a plan that I fully support. But there was only one major question: how to pay for this little adventure.

I love travel. I believe in travel. I wish someone would pay me to travel. But I also know that if you don't work for something, you don't have the same level of appreciation for it. So we decided that Older Boy had to earn half the money to take the trip.

When trying to figure out what to do for fundraising, I asked a friend who'd been through the drill years ago for some advice. "What are his talents?" she asked. "He's pretty good at the piano," I told her. "So have him play," she said. So we did.

While he did the requisite lawn mowing, pet sitting and flower watering this summer, the bulk of his fundraising time was spent twice a week on Main Street. Armed with my electronic keyboard, a homemade sign and a donation jar, he played everything from Maple Leaf Rag to Misty. And he rocked.

Not only did he make some cash, he ended up with some great stories too. Like the day he met the French tourists, young cute women, who stood and watched him, put money in his jar and before leaving, kissed his cheek. Or the jazz society patrons stopped at a red light who jumped out of the car with a fist full of ones for him. Or the day he found a fifty dollar bill in the jar. People wished him luck, took his picture and video taped him.

He also ended up with some fans. One afternoon at a burger joint a young guy came up to him and said, "You're the kid that plays piano on Main Street - you're awesome, dude." Another day, I was sitting on the park bench across the street when two young men were going into the bookstore. "Did you hear that kid playing the piano across the street?" one guy said to his friend. "Yeah, he really rocks," was the reply.

I think he learned a lot - about people and about himself. And in the process, he earned almost $1200 this summer. No small feat for a kid. And I have to admit, I'm pretty proud of his efforts.

But he'll take to Europe more than the cash that he earned himself. He'll take with him the knowledge of the effort it takes to earn a buck. And if you know how much work it takes to earn it, you are certainly more careful about how you spend it.

I think it's pretty cool that he wants to continue playing on Saturdays in the fall. And I think it's a pretty safe bet that he's going to make half his money as we agreed.

I also know that if I ever need a quick buck, I'm going to dust off my piano skills and hit the street. But I'll never make as much as he did. I'm just not as cute. Or as talented.

The World According to the 13-year-old

Older Boy is 13. Dare I say, very 13. (My mother is quick to remind me that I was very 13 once myself.) And he isn't afraid to call it as he sees it. His observations lack that one, often crucial ingredient - tact.

So it was no great surprise while we were in the truck the other day, he started laughing in the backseat. "Mom, you should see your arm, like where your tricep should be. It's an arm goiter!" he announces breaking into another spasm of laughter. Of course, Younger Boy joins right in.

Then Older Boy reaches up to give the arm goiter a poke with his finger. "Look! It's like a tether ball game. Let's see how many times we can make it go around."

Charming.

Then one night I'm standing in the kitchen after a long day of yard work. I'd just showered and put on one of The Husband's really big, old gray t-shirts. Older Boy walks in, looks me up and down says, "Mom, you're kind of letting yourself go here. You're one step away from a trailer park in that. All you need is a baby bump and a cigarette." And then he gives me that final look of "don't ever show up in public to pick me up looking like that."

I couldn't agree more.

Da Plane! Da Plane!

While I wasn't wearing a crisp white suit, a la Fantasy Island's Tattoo, I was standing outside staring at the sky watching for Air Force One. And here is the reward for waiting!

I would have loved to have been there but this is a pretty cool consolation prize.

Destructo Dog Strikes Again

It looks like the hot tub offended the Lord of the Manor. It appears that cookbooks of the low-calorie persuasion piss him off too.

I won't complain, though. At least he's still here. But I still can't bring myself to write about that traumatic experience. Not yet anyway.

A Better Way to Mow

Our forward thinking HOA Board of Directors decided to hire these guys to do the annual yard maintenance of mowing and weeding this year. It was pretty cool to have them out back in the common area, even if it was only for a day. I cast my vote to keep them full time.

There were several nursing moms and babies in the flock? gaggle? (not sure what a group of goats are called). Watching the babies ram their moms before they would latch on to nurse made me think that if human babies did that, many of us would have reconsidered the whole nursing thang.

A Wedding March to Remember

This Minnesota couple's wedding march posted on You Tube is the most clever wedding march (and I use the term loosely) that I have ever had the pleasure to see. You have to check it out. If they had this much fun entering the church to get married, I can only imagine what a happy future they'll have together. Thank you two for not taking yourselves so seriously and making your ceremony completely your own.

Back to the Real World

For some, thinking about Europe this month brings to mind the Tour de France. But for me this month in Europe represented the Tour de Biergartens.Because I was going to Germany and Austria.

Now admittedly, I was even more nervous flying this time since the Air France Airbus vanished midflight in June. I knew this flight would involve white knuckles, hyperventilation and most assuredly the use of prescription pharmaceuticals. Of course, I never contemplated cancelling the trip, even I am logical enough to realize the stupidity of that thought. But I did contemplate horse tranquillizers.

But on my arrival in Munich, I knew I'd found the land of my people. A place where beer for breakfast is not entirely out of the question. A place where you can find a biergarten on almost every corner. And I did my very best to hit every one in Munich and Salzburg not to mention all points in between. Not to pat myself on the back but I must say, job well done.

But now sadly it is back home to the real world, real life and real big loads of laundry. For now anyway. But I will return to the land of my grandfathers to refill my giant beer mug and sit in the shade of the chestnut trees. I am smitten. And how can you not love a country that sells beer, right alongside the Snickers, in the vending machine at the airport hotel?

It's a Kid's Life - Part 2

At exactly what point do we lose the ability to spend an entire afternoon doing this?

I, for one, am going to follow his lead.

Life's too short to be too serious.

And just for the record, I did NOT require that he suit up like this to soak in the hot tub. Although it wouldn't be a huge stretch since I am a Sikorsky when it comes to helicopter parenting.

Who Would Have Imagined?

Today marks our anniversary - over 20 years now. We were standing in front of a judge in a small town in Colorado right about now.

That is particularly difficult for me to fathom. Especially given the fact that I would never stay in the same apartment after my one year lease expired.

So here's to the next 20. Let the adventure, and the laughs, continue.

I'm pretty damn lucky. Honey, you rock.

It's a Kid's Life

These somewhat disturbing images from several years ago show what kids do when they are really, really bored (read: you have put the kibosh on all things with screens and helpfully suggest that they play outside) and they have to actually find ways to amuse themselves. Turns out, they usually end up having a good time in spite of not having to use their thumbs.

Lord of the Manor

And I thought I was in charge here.

Happy Pappy's Day

The thing that makes pappy happy. . .

I don't think he's all that interested in lawn beautification. I think it's just because it's the only time that he doesn't have to talk to anyone.

Never Too Old To Rock and Roll

Last night, we watched the documentary, Young at Heart about a singing group of 80 somethings. This group sang everything from the Ramones to Bruce Springsteen to Coldplay.

And they rocked.

If you are not inspired and completely moved by this outstanding group of seniors, something is seriously wrong with you. We should all aspire to be rockin' like this in our golden years.

Check out this documentary and the Young at Heart Website. Prepare to rock out! You will be amazed.

http://www.youngatheartchorus.com/

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-3uOOhm8Fj8

Hugs Anyone?

I've been reading Patti Digh's book, Life is a Verb. Today I got to the section called, Give Free Hugs, where she talked about Juan Mann's Free Hug project and video. Figuring it had to be on You Tube, I looked it up.It's a great illustration that one person really can make a difference - yes, I am an idealistic fool at heart. But it made me think, wouldn't this world be so much better if we were all a little more connected instead of strangers to one another?

Watching this video might be about as nice as a hug. So what the heck, pass it on. Go hug somebody. Right now. Go on. I double dog dare you.

XOXOXO

http://freehugscampaign.org/

A Smile On A Dog

A long time ago, my youngest asked me "Why can't dogs laugh?"

I can't answer that one, but looking at these pictures, I'm pretty sure they can smile.

Religion, is a smile on a dog. - from the song What I Am by Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians 1988

End of an Era - A Comedy in One Act

Yesterday was my baby's last day of elementary school. Hard to believe that after eight years of walking those halls that smelled of crayons, tablet paper and library books, I never have a reason to go there again. Although I've never been a Dwell in the Past Person, it made me just a little wistful. So what's a mom to do?

Embarrass the hell out of him, of course.

Each year, the school holds a ceremony for the departing fifth graders. Even though I didn't attend the planning meeting, the committee asked me to write a song (hello, I'm a column writer thankyouverymuch). "Just a little something funny, you do funny, right?" Well, I sure try.

After thinking about it, I decided I could write a funny song - a rap. Because, of course, what would be funnier than a bunch of middle-aged moms trying to act like Snoop Dog and friends. Thus begins my career as a Rapper Mom, or Ms. D as one of the moms renamed me. And the kids didn't have a clue.

A go-to group of moms was completely game for this little project. Not only were they game, they were frighteningly into it. In fact, for maximum embarrassment, I recruited all of the fifth grade moms (only had about twelve takers though) to join us on stage.

The teacher set it up for us as a serious "presentation" and then I introduced it, not yet in costume. And as I'm sure always happens with just such stage events, there were glitches. Like the HUGE screen that blocked the stage not going up (we'd practiced bustin our moves like we'd have the whole stage and the other moms behind us). And in a fit of complete anxiety, not only did I manage to turn off the keyboard with my preprogrammed rhythms but turned it back on with the WRONG beat entirely - but close enough where it didn't matter. But thankfully no one experienced a wardrobe malfunction like Janet Jackson in our little production. Talk about scarred for life.

So, yo yo fifth grade moms, this is a shout out to all of you real mothers out there whose kids will go into middle school with the knowledge that their mother can, and will, embarrass them if necessary.

(edited 6-12-09 to add photo of Kris-co)

Enough Already

You never know what's enough until you know what's more than enough - William Blake.

William Blake may have said it first but this story, author unknown, really sums it up for me. Maybe if we'd all slow down, read Your Money or Your Life by Joe Dominguez and Vicki Robin, we'd all have a better appreciation of what life is really all about. In a way, that has been one positive that has come out of this crappy economy- we have had to pull focus and realign our priorities. It's not about "she who has the most toys wins." I was sick of that mentality. That's why sometimes I think the Europeans "get it" better than we do.

Here's the story - as I said author is unknown. I only wish I'd written it.

The American investment banker was at the pier of a small coastal Mexican village when a small boat with just one fisherman docked. Inside the small boat were several large yellow fin tuna. The American complimented the Mexican on the quality of his fish and asked how long it took to catch them.

The fisherman replied, only a little while.

The American then asked why didn't he stay out longer and catch more fish?

The Mexican said he had enough to support his family's immediate needs.

The American then asked, "but what do you do with the rest of your time?"

The Mexican fisherman said, "I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, take siesta with my wife, Maria, stroll into the village each evening where I sip wine and play guitar with my amigos, I have a full and busy life."

The American scoffed, "I am a Harvard MBA and could help you. You should spend more time fishing and with the proceeds, buy a bigger boat with the proceeds from the bigger boat you could buy several boats, eventually you would have a fleet of fishing boats. Instead of selling your catch to a middleman you would sell directly to the processor, eventually opening your own cannery. You would control the product, processing and distribution. You would need to leave this small coastal fishing village and move to Mexico City, then LA and eventually NYC where you will run your expanding enterprise."

The Mexican fisherman asked, "But, how long will this all take?"

To which the American replied, "15-20 years."

The fisherman asked, “Then what?”

The American laughed and said that's the best part. "When the time is right you would announce an IPO and sell your company stock to the public and become very rich, you would make millions."

"Millions.. Then what?"

The American said, "Then you would retire. Move to a small coastal fishing village where you would sleep late, fish a little, play with your kids, take siesta with your wife, stroll to the village in the evenings where you could sip wine and play your guitar with your amigos."

A Late Salute to Mother's Day

I found this video on You Tube, too late for Mother's Day but it felt like looking into the future at my house. Come to think of it, it feels a little like that now.

Open Season

It's that time of year where Gus transforms into Caddyshack's groundskeeper, Carl Spackler. He wanders the yard mumbling incoherently. And the only thing that will make him happy is greasy, grimy gopher guts.

When we got home last night, the gophers looked like they were having a beach party. I fully expected to see tiny beach umbrellas, coolers and a little gopher volleyball game there were so many of them. This threw Gus into a complete tizz and he and the boys raided the garage for the gopher smoke bombs.

The neighbor, who was also out battling gophers, offered them his pellet gun. Being a city dweller, and a female, I just don't get it. (this reminds me of the guy at the hunter safety class who said his gun would turn the gophers into a "red mist") Watching them (the boys, that is) you would think they were on the trail of an 8 point buck, not a rodent that weighs mere ounces.

Watch out Carl, Gus is going to give you a run for your money. If I hear the strains of Kenny Loggins' "I'm Alright" and see a dancing gopher, I'm outta here.

Mayo Clinic Couple Rocks

If this doesn't make you smile, nothing will.

A Slight Problem

After beginning to put the house back together, I realize I have a slight problem - an overabundance of books. I'm running out of places to put them all as evidenced by the stash I found sporting a quilt-like layer of dust under the bed. I think I need Readers Anonymous.

It's Getting Better All the Time

This is a dramatic improvement. . .

My New Best Friend

I never thought I'd be smitten with a piece of HVAC equipment, but I predict we'll be inseparable. As I have discovered recently, women of a certain age (that would be me) should not have to sweat anymore.

Dave Lennox, I love you.

Still Improving

When in doubt, tear up the whole house at once. I realized that the bedroom carpet was coming but hadn't painted (even though I had over a month's notice) - can you say procrastinate? So we emptied the bedroom, furiously painted while the old, crapastic carpet was still there (installed on Election Day 2000 - I remember having a fairly heated political discussion with the installer). When this is finished, I know I will love it - it's just getting there that sucks.

Out with the Old

As you will notice, I have not been writing - this is why. That's right it's home improvement time. I started with the downstairs bathroom, which looked like it had been finished with whatever was on sale. Functional but an ugly melange of flooring and counter tops. Not that I'm all that into aesthetics.

So since the toilets were 20 years old, rusted and leaky we decided to go for it. Visitors were not allowed to use the bathroom without detailed instructions - "First, you turn the water on for the toilet, use the rusty handle. Here's the toilet brush and the plunger. When you flush, pray. Then get ready to run." Needless to say we don't have many friends anymore.

So here I am disconnecting the sink and unhooking the vanity from the wall. I am just glad there's no soundtrack with this photo, because I'd have to include a parental advisory here. Now looking at the picture I realize it looks like either I was severely injured in the process of doing so or a homicide has taken place in the cabinet. I will spare you the disgusting task of pulling the toilet. It was just as foul as one would imagine.

As a total fan of HGTV, I was disappointed to discover that this project was not magically finished in the 30 minutes it takes for me to watch a show. They so lie.

Everybody Needs Red Shoes

Apparently even sprinters. Maybe I could use some too. This is Crazy Legs after coming in 2nd in the 100m. He didn't get it from me. I'm built for comfort, not for speed.

Begging for Mercy

No Mercy? No kidding.

A Shout Out for All Real Mothers on Mother's Day

It's Mother's Day and I can hear the wrecking crew busily doing something in the kitchen. I have been banished to the basement. . .

In honor of all real mothers out there, here is my column from yesterday's Chronicle.

>“Hey Mom, where’s my ski helmet?” “Hey Mom, have you seen my homework?”

I know why my mother is losing her hearing: she wants to. After raising this chatterbox, she’s used up her allotment of hearing for this lifetime. She doesn’t want to listen to anyone anymore about anything. And I can see the very same thing happening to me.

“

"Hey Mom, do I have to practice piano today? Hey Mom, how long till Christmas?”

I haven’t had a complete thought over fourteen years. It started when I was pregnant. During pregnancy, your brain starts to short circuit in preparation for your child’s vocabulary development. Much like your body prepares for labor and delivery; hormones now help your brain vaporize all coherent thoughts upon formation.

“Hey Mom, what’s a prism? Hey Mom, where’s the milk?”

It begins as we coo over our adorable little bundles of joy. Operating under the delusion that our child is a Genius Baby, we mentally transform what in reality is a belch into their first complete sentence at 8 weeks of age. Before long, when the authoritative parenting books tell us they should know nine words, we’re quite certain that our intellectually superior tyke is actually saying sixty. Before long they really do know 300 words and use them all - before you’ve sucked down your first cup of morning coffee.

"Hey Mom, how do you find the area of a parallelogram? Hey Mom, how many days till school’s out?"

When they are babies, the interruptions signal basic needs – feed me, change me, hold me. me. When they are toddlers, the disruptions are physical in your role as Goalie Parent: moving fast enough to keep them out of harm’s way. But once they start talking you enter new and uncharted territory. You cross the threshold into the Stream of Consciousness Parenting Zone where every thought that enters your child’s mind is verbalized the instant it forms. While the inner monologue will eventually develop, don’t count on it anytime soon. Because you are now Mom, Interrupted.

“Hey Mom, why can’t dogs laugh? Hey Mom, how long till I can drive?”

Some women think they can outsmart the immutable laws of language acquisition. But it’s simply not possible. Once you’ve read the same paragraph twenty-three times, wave the white flag. It’s over. You might manage to read a caption in Time Magazine when they’re seven. But save yourself the frustration. You can read after they go to college.

“Hey Mom, where’s Oman? Hey Mom, have you seen my iPod?”

Pretty soon, lobes of your brain actually begin to shut down from the oral assault. The remaining functional lobes now operate more like a strobe light. Your auditory nerve begins to shrivel and go limp like a long forgotten piece of celery in the back of the fridge. You fear your ears might actually bleed if they tell you about that scene from Star Wars. Again.

>“Hey Mom, was there electricity when you were in school? Hey Mom, can we get a pet llama?”

But there will come a day when the interruptions will push you to the breaking point. The resonating sounds of the constant chatter threaten to reduce your ear canal’s hammer, anvil and stirrup into a tiny pile of dust. At some point, years of verbal tap dancing on the acoustic nerve will shrink your patience to zero and you will snap. And just when you think you can’t take it anymore, that’s when. . .

“Hey Mom. . .”

“WHAT??!!”

“I love you.”

Denise Malloy doubts she will get peace and quiet for Mother’s Day. But she remains hopeful.

Bad dog, no biscuit

Who would imagine my cute, generally well-behaved 9 month old puppy would be capable of this?

After being banished back to jail for a few weeks for chewing up my sandals (thankfully they were very old) I figured I could spring him for a few hours.

Bad idea.

When I returned home, Destructo Dog apparently had a little party with whatever he could find chewing up a few books (The Husband's, not mine), festive wrapping paper and the underside of the box spring. But notice the title of the one book that didn't get decimated in his little ramapage.

Maybe he can read. . .

My Old Kentucky Home

I hope the sun is shining bright on my Old Kentucky Home today - it's Derby Day! Best time of the year to be in Lou-a-vull. Two weeks of non-stop partying and festivals in celebration of the fastest two minutes in sports.

In honor of the Run for the Roses and my Southern heritage, I'm posting my column from the Bozeman Daily Chronicle on April 25.

Strange things happened on my roundabout journey to Montana – I lost a lot of stuff. Not the things that went missing between Indiana and Wyoming. Not the possessions that I left on the side of the road in New York because they wouldn’t fit in my Montana-bound U-Haul. What I lost is something that I miss most – my y’all.

I hail from the land of fried chicken, grits and sweet tea. I was born and raised in the Bluegrass State where the thoroughbreds will Run for the Roses next Saturday in the Kentucky Derby. While there’s no way to convey my Southern accent in writing, if you ever overhear me ordering pie, it’s a dead giveaway. If I get talking fast enough, my accent becomes so thick it threatens to strangle every word.

Try as I might, I’ve never been able to shake my twang. But after moving around the country so often, I took great pains to remove all Southernisms from my vernacular. I’ve told people I’m from Louie-ville, not Lou-uh-vull as the good Lord intended it be pronounced. But I quickly learned if I said it correctly, people would look at me with their head cocked to one side like the Victrola dog.

Not surprisingly, some people equate a Southern accent with being a dim bulb. I’m guessing these are the same folks who have witnessed a mullet-headed male, usually clad in a tank top, utter -“Watch this, y’all” – signaling their imminent Jackass inspired demise.

But we really do sit a spell and chew the fat. We say Ma’am. On Sunday afternoon we go over to Mom and Thems (pronounced correctly as one word and rhymes with homonyms). We fry everything from okra to Twinkies. We always have enough fixins on hand to whip up a casserole or Jell-o mold in case of a bereavement emergency.

A Southern woman’s daily conversation is sprinkled with colorful phrases particularly when sniping about other women. Hushed whispers occur when a woman has let herself go to pot. This is especially true when said woman has developed a front fanny at which point you can’t tell whether she’s comin’ or goin’. (We also drop the ‘g’ at the end of all words). Under no circumstances should a woman ever look like she’s been rode hard and put up wet or throw a hissy fit in public. The worst offense is for an uppity gal to get above her raisin’. And as all Southern women know, uttering “bless her heart” after any derogatory comment negates the meanness – well, most of it anyway.

Our unusual terminology can even be found in the legal system. In a murder trial a witness can succinctly sum up the character of the deceased for the jury with “Your honor, he needed killin’.”

Most of this was easy to eliminate from my daily jargon. But the idiom that has caused the most consternation for me was a staple of my speech – the word y’all. But after being stared at blankly when I’d say it anywhere outside the Mason-Dixon Line, I simply gave up. By the time I was living in New York, not only had I lost my y’all – I had substituted “you guys” in an effort to promote cross-cultural understanding. (I’m sure Grandmammy Kate was spinning in her pine box at this juncture.)

But now I aim to give my Southern dialect its due. I vow to embrace the verbal eccentricities of my heritage ‘cause that would just butter my biscuit. I reckon y’all won’t mind. And I’d sure be much obliged.

Denise Malloy misses hush puppies almost as much as her y’all.

Funny Times Says so

The May 2009 Funny Times is out! How cool to find my name and essay in between those by Garrison Keillor and Dave Barry. The piece, Moms Gone Wild, is about the original real mother - my mom. http://www.funnytimes.com/

Let's Talk About You And Your MotherBy Garrison Keillor

Moms Gone WildBy Denise Glaser Malloy

Bye AmericanBy Will Durst

The Borowitz ReportBy Andy Borowitz

Kicking And HuggingBy Dave Barry

As New York Eats, So Might YouBy Lenore Skenazy

Techinical Difficulties

I am having more than a little trouble with the formatting on this blog and for that I apologize. The way the posts appear looks like I write in one big, stream of consciousness barf on the page. Although that is fairly close to the truth in reality, I do edit. I swear. It just doesn't look like it when I post. So I will try to figure it out.

Mother Nature is Apparently a Real Mother Too

This is the scene we woke up to this morning. What was supposed to be 3 inches of snow turned out to be just a little bit more. I want to be a weather forecaster - the only job, perhaps besides being a columnist, that you never have to be right. I have to admit, I like the absurdity of the school bus stop picture this morning. One in snow pants, one in shorts. Before you alert child protective services because he is in shorts in the snow, this is nothing new. He's worn them all winter. But I do draw the line for summer apparel at 20 degrees. Otherwise, I'll pick my battles. He's a teenager, what can I say? Just when you thought spring had sprung. . . Mother Nature just laughs at us. She's a real mother too.

Sign of the Times

This was my column as it appeared in the Bozeman Daily Chronicle today.

In my 47 years, I have never, ever had any incident in a public restroom that prompted me to think that is SO weird; it must be captured on film. But on a recent trip, that’s exactly what happened.

I think it’s safe to say that upon entering the stall, a woman’s first and foremost concern is to check for the availability of paper. When it was my turn, I was no exception to this rule. I also caught a glimpse of a sign above the toilet but didn’t pay much attention since it’s usually the “What Not To Flush” admonition. But when I turned to give the handle a flush with my foot, I examined the posted placard more carefully and couldn’t quite believe what I was reading was real. In fact, I checked other stalls thinking that it might be a joke. But it was clear this official posting was not done in jest. It was so bizarre that I couldn’t stop myself from whipping out my Nikon to record perhaps The World’s Strangest Sign. Ever. The sign read: RECLAIMED WATER IN TOILET! DO NOT DRINK!

No one would argue that people get thirsty while traveling, sometimes at inopportune moments. Many of us habitually tote a water bottle like an extra appendage. But I can never fathom the occasion that ANYONE in a public restroom would think I’m mighty thirsty and would you just look at all that water served up in a cute little porcelain bowl before dropping to all fours to stick their head in to quench an inconvenient thirst. If I hear slurping noises coming from the adjacent commode, when I look over, the feet I’d better be seeing are four furry ones and a wagging tail. If I see a woman dressed in sporty capris and leather mules on her hands and knees, she’d better be making a refund, not a purchase. Otherwise you are so busted.

And just when I thought the signage on this trip couldn’t get any stranger, I encountered bizarre sign number two which again required the use of my camera. Sitting in the hotel Jacuzzi, I started reading the gigantic blue notice advising me of all the things that could go wrong as I sat shoulder-to- shoulder with my fellow vacationers. So when I got to the line “the Jacuzzi shall be immediately closed for cleaning in the event of an accidental fecal or vomitus discharge,” I started to panic. Perhaps I’m a stickler for semantics but this implies that there is a different rule if these actions are intentional. But it only got worse. The sign continued “all bathers shall be ordered to leave until such substances are removed.” This wording contemplates that someone might actually be inclined to stay there with a Baby Ruth bobbing nearby unless someone with authority tells them it’s time to vacate what is now a heated toilet bowl. I can only imagine one of the guests remaining in the hot tub while telling the hotel staff, “Oh I’m not leaving, that was just Edna. She does that all the time at home.” I don’t know about you but if I see anything remotely resembling a Twix bar hovering near the surface, I will move faster than Marion Jones while stepping on your head to get out of there. And I will then promptly shower in betadyne, torch my swimsuit and check out of the establishment.

So on future trips, I’ll always be sure to keep a full water bottle handy. You can also bet that I’ll avoid all hot tubs that offer access to the public. Guess you could call it a sign of the times.

A Woman's Work is Never Done

This rather sums it up, don't you think? I made this quilt for the juried exhibition called "Quilts That Tell a Story" at the Museum of the Rockies. It sometimes feels like if you take your eye off the ball in this juggling act called being a mom, wife and working woman - it will all hit the ground. No wonder I'm tired.

Now I'm losin' it

There she was on the cover of People Magazine - Valerie Bertinelli. In a bikini. At age 48. You're making all of us late 40-somethings look bad. Really, really bad. I'd wear a muumuu to the beach if I could. But any garment with an -ini at the end? Or God forbid, a -ong? No way. People would be blinding themselves with sharp objects if I showed up in either of those. Wasn't hitting 132 lbs enough? Now you had to drop another 9 lbs to weigh in at a svelte 123. Are you trying to look like ex-hubby Eddie Van Halen? On behalf of 40-something women everywhere, I beg you, please, please stop. Or maybe I'm just jealous. . .

From the desk of a real mother

Some women say that every moment of motherhood, from the moment of conception onward, is sheer bliss. Clearly they are hormonally delusional. When I was pregnant, I'll admit, I thought I was one of those women. Now I know better. I live it every day. In my house it's two kids, two dogs and one guy which equals too crazy on most days. And I'm a real mother who isn't afraid to tell whole truth and nothing but the truth. Most of the time anyway.