Weekly Jules

Location, Location, Location...

2011-05-23T13:27:00.000-05:00

Find all weekly stories by clicking Julie's photo (top of the right sidebar), and find even more by visiting Julie's current site, JulieDunlap.blogspot.com.

And Happy Summer!

Like me, really, really Like me!

2011-02-24T15:03:00.000-06:00

I like you, you like me,
Facebook "like" me if you please...

Thank you to all Weekly Jules Likers, for liking me even though I was anonymous to just over half of you. I am trying now to build http://JulieDunlap.blogspot.com up to the same level WJ is/was so when potential clients view the JD page they will see how many dozens of people find me to be so freaking witty that I will not have to explain "well, I was really liked at WJ, much more than JD" like some sort of foreign sports star.

So please check out my Facebook author page when you get the chance (since I know most of you are sitting online waiting for winter to pass like I am) and "like" what you see. It's free and won't hurt or itch.

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Julie-Dunlap/166165643405561

In return, I promise you will never receive a status update regarding things like what I had for lunch.

(Protein shake)

xo

She's Baaaaaaack!

2010-11-12T10:35:00.000-06:00

Back and on the move!

I hope you all had a great summer. And then a nice fall. And that your Thanksgiving dreams are all on the brink of coming true.

The extended vaycay was a fantastic period of personal introspection, relaxation, and Facebooking. But I am regrouped and recharged and relocating...

Check out my new site, including new contact material, my Lawrence Journal-World column, and a few fun links. WeeklyJules.com will redirect to the new site as soon as I figure out how to do that. In the meantime, click on:

JulieDunlap.blogspot.com

Hope to see you there!

-Jules

Vay-Cay

2010-05-19T09:28:00.000-05:00

Weekly Jules is going to spend some time under re-construction. Botox? Implants? No, nothing that exciting. Just re-evaluating the direction for the blog while a few irons heat up in the fire.

In the meantime, I want to wish my blogger friends a very happy summer (school's out in 90 minutes, my party-of-one clock is ticking) and promise to check in as much as I can...

Chris at Knucklehead: With every post, you prove The Onion should be begging you to drop out of school and work for them.
Cora and Scope: Best Wishes for happiness always and forever! (Check them out, they met RIGHT HERE in blog world and are getting MARRIED this summer!)
Mrs. Eye Can See: I hope to be back before baby boy bounces out, which I hope is quick and painless. He will re-define "worth the squeeze!"
Skylar's Dad: You embody two of my favorite things. Parenting special-needs and a twisted loved of tattoos.
Ron: Everyone needs a friend like you to entertain, inform and give us the Hollywood down-low. Always remember and never forget, you can go as fast as you want!
And check out newbie blogger, Eddie C, for insight and humor as he navigates his way around our ever-changing world and prepares for marriage this fall!

And be sure to check out the Lawrence Journal-World (search Julie Dunlap) for River City Jules, appearing every Monday.

Have a great summer, see you again soon!
-Jules

She's Only 12-and-a-half...

2010-05-05T15:21:00.002-05:00

I have this "friend" who happens to have a daughter in 7th grade, just like me. Her daughter is going out with a boy (and, by "going out," we mean they only text each other and have an understanding of only dancing with each other at the few school dances each year.)

All year long my "friend" has wondered if her daughter and this boy would ever move from exclusive texting to first base. Not hoping, just wondering.

Any plan for it to happen at the Valentine dance was squashed when the boyfriend came down ill the week before. Not wanting to see her daughter home from school sick like the boyfriend was, my "friend" suggested to her daughter that she keep a healthy distance from the boy.

No moves were made at the next dance, thanks to some very close chaperoning by my "friend's" friends.

So it came down the final dance of the year. The daughter looked fresh, innocent and so happy to bop about the dance floor to the Black Eyed Peas. The boy seemed to be a bit pale. Their friends hoped this would be their night to move into new territory, making lip-to-lip contact for the very first time.

The daughter was nervous. The boy was irritated. Neither of them knew exactly how to handle the pressure as their friends continued to push the two into lip-locking. And then the boy spoke up:

"Knock it off, guys," he told the posse, "We're only in 7th grade, we're not going to do that!"

Upon hearing of this, my "friend" was most relieved.

And hopeful that next year they all remember they are only in 8th...

Fetch

2010-04-28T09:32:00.005-05:00

   "Fetch" is about as simple as a game could be.
   I throw the ball into the backyard. Dog runs to the ball. Dog picks it up with his mouth and returns the ball to me. Repeat.
   Dog gets all hot and panting, I do not.
   Dog wags his tail, scampering about in nature, I sit under the shade of our pergola and maintain a resting heart rate.
   Easy, right?
   Not yesterday...
   I throw the ball into the backyard. Dog runs to the ball. Dog picks it up with his mouth and puts it back down. Dog pees on it. Dog runs away.
   And I abandon my resting heart rate in favor of wagging my tail, scampering about the neighborhood looking for Dog, who appears on our driveway only after I resort to driving a two-mile loop at a child-predator pace in search of him.
   At this rate he will never learn to play chess.

Unexpected Love Story

2010-04-21T09:02:00.000-05:00

Christmas finally arrived for our two oldest daughters when we took them to the Taylor Swift concert last weekend.

My husband (a metalhead) and I (anything but country) knew Taylor was a talented singer and songwriter with fabulous hair and a tremendous following.

But we did not know that at 20 years old, Taylor Swift can not only take command of a stage, but of an entire arena. And not just the pre-teen to sorority girl demographic. She had their parents too, many of whom I recognized from the Bon Jovi concert three weeks earlier.

The show opened with the curtain rising to reveal a multi-leveled set constructed entirely of LCD screen that spanned the stage, depicting a high school hallway with bright blue lockers with the cheer captain and her squad practicing their routine in front.

Taylor rose from a platform on the highest set piece dressed as a drum majorette, her mane tucked up high in her hat while singing “You Belong with Me,” standing perfectly still, to balance her massive hat full of hair, I imagine. She whipped off the hat after the first verse, revealing her signature golden locks, and made her way down from alone in the bleachers to the cheerleaders.

Not to be outdone by the girls in short skirts, Taylor ripped off the marching band uniform and finished the number in a glittery mini-dress.

At this point, my Metallica-loving husband, who is pushing 40 years old, was ready to hop in a time machine and take this country girl to prom.

I watched the rest of the show trying to decide if I would rather *be* her or *adopt* her.

She sang, strutted and swung her hair for over two hours, rotating through sets and costumes like a Broadway show, from a school library to a Renaissance castle to a Bellagio-style waterfall. One song, featuring Taylor playing a baby grand, ended with a backbend over her piano bench.

(I offered my fifth-grader $100 to end her recital piece the same way. We’ll see if she takes me up on it.)

But while she inspired young girls to dream big - and me to grow out my hair - her most-illustrated lesson of the night was the liberating effect of singing about old flames. We would probably all be better balanced if we could record songs about the Drews and Stephens in our lives too.

With every number, she more than redeemed herself after her shaky Grammy performance, proving beyond doubt that Kanye West had behaved like an absolute donkey at the VMA’s.

And by the end of the show I realized Taylor Swift set the bar so high, she had effectively ruined every concert my daughters (and their love-story-stricken dad) will ever attend for a very long time.

Or, as Taylor would put it, the night “was a fairytale.” And I have no idea how to top that when Christmas rolls around again.

FriendsDay

2010-04-14T20:22:00.003-05:00

I got nothing.

Children have behaved appropriately, husband has not planted any Japanese maples of note, and I have gone an entire week or so without embarrassing myself.

But I've got friends... funny ones.

So please enjoy riding out the rest of the week with a visit to a few of my favorite places to drop in for a chuckle. Tell them Weekly Jules sent you.

And come back next week for some fresh, new fun...

Chris at KnuckleheadHumor (featuring a Q&A with yours truly)

Kim at Yellow Trash Diaries (I always feel more culturally enriched after a visit)

Chrissy at I Should a Been a Stripper (love the blog renovation)

Ron at Be. Differently. (#1 stop for all things pop culture)

(I tried and tried to create an award featuring sangrias, but alas, I am not smart enough to post it. I will continue my work on it!)

How to Handle a Telemarketer

2010-04-08T10:08:00.002-05:00

Our friend, Stan, was enjoying a family dinner with his wife and two children when the phone rang.

"Hello, sir," the voice on the other line began, "I'm calling to talk to you about an exciting opportunity for term life insurance."

"Oh yeah?" Stan said, stealthily moving out of earshot of his wife and kids. "Well I want to talk about pu$$y."

Clearly this was not in the telemarketer's script.

"Um, I'm sorry?" she stammered.

"You heard me," Stan continued with gusto, "I want to talk about pu$$y!"

"Let me get my manager," she said, probably right before bursting into tears and resigning.

Stan, who could have simply hung up and resumed eating meatloaf with his family at this point, decided to wait for the manager and see this to the end.

"Sir, is there a problem here?" the manager asked over the phone.

"Nope," Stan assured him, "no problem here, I just want to talk about pu$$y."

"Sir!" the manager exclaimed, "You cannot talk like that to us!"

"Listen, you called me," Stan replied calmly. "If you don't want to talk about pu$$y, then don't call!"

And Stan enjoyed the rest of his meal, and every meal thereafter, without interruption.

Paging Dr. Luke

2010-03-25T11:10:00.005-05:00

Unlike his father, my 8-year-old son, Luke, has never expressed interest in the medical profession. He actually hopes to be a pilot in the Air Force someday.

But over spring break, Luke performed his first operation, leading me to wonder what, exactly, the future holds for my boy.

"Mom," he told me Monday morning, "I'm going to do an operation today."

"Wow," I said as I helped him make his bed, "What kind?"

He held up his recently-acquired blue duck. While at his end-of-the-season basketball party at the local pizza joint, Luke won (and I use that word loosely) a stuffed animal from the claw-grabber game in the arcade. A blue duck:

Obviously winning a toy meant for a 3-year-old girl in front of a flock third grade boys does not do much for an ego. And Luke aimed to remedy the situation as easily as possible while still maintaining his prize.

"I'm turning the duck into a boy," Luke declared.

My boy was about to perform our home's first sex-change operation using nothing but a pair of fingernail scissors.

"I'm going to name him Todd when I'm done," he added.

Not wanting to break his confidence, I offered to assist. He took me up on it, and within minutes Todd was a new man - er - duck:

This little procedure beat out trekking to Oklahoma in a the snow to watch the Jayhawks go down in the 2nd round of the NCAA Tourney as the most unexpected thing to occur over spring break. And certainly far less painful.

(Patient is recovering well and is fully-integrated as a male duck with Luke's menagerie of animals that occupy space on his closet floor.]

A Poop in the Night

2010-03-17T16:50:00.001-05:00

The following was first published in the Lawrence paper and ended up being the #1 emailed article from the paper for the week. (We are a disgusting group of people.) Somehow, that still did not make up for the incident....

Like the minutemen of old, parents are conditioned to react to noise in the night. Whether stirred by a hungry newborn’s midnight cry or a child standing over our pillows uttering the words, “my tummy hurts” (nothing propels me out of bed faster than the threat of being spontaneously covered in rotavirus), we are always ready to respond when we hear a call for help.

Rarely, however, is it the sense of smell that stirs us to action, which was one of the many thoughts that crossed my mind when an unpleasant aroma filled my nasal passage, waking me in the dark of night.

At first I assumed the odor had escaped from my dear, though often flatulent, husband, though I quickly realized as I came to consciousness the smell was not human, but animal.

Assuming our dog had let a gas bomb fly in the night, I waved the bedspread up and down to air out the room.

Like a tsunami, the stench rolled mercilessly from its unknown source directly to me, swallowing my head, flooding my nose and throat, and rendering me unable to breathe.

This was no ordinary dog fart.

Just like days of late-night potty runs with our toddlers, this animal had business to tend to, and it was going to be up to me to escort him.

I slowly removed the covers and tumbled stealthily out of bed, so as not to wake my husband, who, by the way, was the only one out of the two of us in favor of owning a dog in the first place.

Quietly, carefully, and completely barefoot, I crossed our dark bedroom to take the dog (I had not wanted) outside (in the cold) to finish the job he had started (at 4:30 in the morning).

I had just rounded the corner of our bed when I my right foot settled deep into what felt like a heaping serving of warm mashed potatoes, yet smelled like canine colon.

“CRAP!” I yelled, paralyzed in the mother of all fecal landmines.

In one seamless movement, my husband shot up in bed, turning on his bedside light, something I wished he had done about three minutes earlier.

“What happened?!?” he cried before choking on the stench.

I surveyed the floor in the light. Piles-o-poo were strewn about the carpet like a toxic constellation. Our furriest child was ill, and I was ankle-deep in it.

Two 32-ounce cups, one heavy-duty trash bag and forty-five minutes of scrubbing later, the carpet and I were clean, but the scars remain. For there are things that cannot be unseen and, apparently, things that cannot be un-smelled, and this one, I am afraid, has been forever burned in my memory no matter what we do to erase it.

Although if you happen to run into my man or his best friend, please let them know a night at a nice (no-pets-allowed) hotel (with room service and a whirlpool) would be worth a try.

My Name is Jules, and I am a Cookie-holic

2010-03-10T10:03:00.002-06:00

I should have listened to Boomer Girl.

Remember back in November when she warned us the Girl Scouts were making their way around town, suckering people into purchasing what she called “legal heroin” with their cute, semi-toothless smiles?

Rather than heed her warning and avoid eye contact with the brown-sashed cookie pushers, I ordered four boxes from one. And four more from my niece.

What can I say? I got hooked on them long ago, when a neighborhood girl came by selling cookies. And, boy, did she hit the jackpot, I was eight months pregnant and ripe for the sale. Six weeks later the girl showed up with a truckload of Thin Mints that I, in my pregnant state, had apparently ordered. I looked at them in horror as I stood in the doorway holding my new baby girl in my arms – and about 20 extra pounds around my middle.

No longer sporting the metabolism of a breastfeeding twentysomething, I placed my order this time around with the belief that eight boxes (and a pair of Spanx) would hold me until next winter. Unfortunately I failed to consider the autonomy of my four cookie-hungry children, and all eight boxes vanished before I could sink my teeth into any of them.

Feeling empty inside, I shared this sad tale with my bunko group. The hostess announced that she, being the Cookie Keeper for her daughter’s troop, had in her possession a stash of leftover cookies for sale, and I returned home six boxes happier.

They lasted through the weekend, and not one of them landed on my lips. My kids had become cookie Ninjas.

Just when I had resigned myself to a long and cookieless winter, I overheard a mom at school discussing her troop’s plans to sell cookies at the grocery store that afternoon.

I casually sidled up next to her and muttered, “Caramel deLites?” under my breath like a junkie.

“Two cases,” she replied, “Should I hold them?”

Scanning the room, I whispered, “Three boxes, I’ll be there at 4:00.”

I arrived at 4:15 (so as not to appear desperate) and secured ten assorted boxes of cookies. The girls manning the table watched in awe as I walked out with 5% of their inventory, which I should have taken straight to my closet for personal emergency use. But that is something only an addict would do. Instead, I left them out in the open, unprotected.

Big mistake.

Five days later, I pulled the plastic tray out of the last box of Caramel deLites to find it empty, leaving me $84 down (don’t tell my husband) and destitute.

Alone and weeping over a barren purple box in the kitchen, I realized my cookie obsession had spiraled out of control.

And now, after some serious soul-searching, I am ready to admit I am powerless. However, I am not sure if I am powerless over the cookies themselves, or my family, who will not let me have one.

Dancing with Myself

2010-02-26T18:10:00.001-06:00

A number flashed on my scale after a holiday season (apparently) heavy on edible cheer, a number not seen since my postpartum days.

Fearing the looming 4-0 was already wreaking havoc on my metabolism, I called my friend, Paula, for support.

“You should try Jazzercise,” she said.

I laughed. “My last dance class was when I was four,” I told her, “and my coordination has not improved much since then.” (True story, I once fell down a flight of stairs. On a date.)

But Paula had faith in me. So, powered by her confidence and my six-week holiday eating binge, I ventured into the studio to dance away the pounds that had landed on my backside.

Several other women were already there when I entered, ranging from grandmothers to a pair of snack-sized sorority girls.

“I like to stand away from the mirror,” another mom offered as I stared at the young coeds, secretly wishing breach births upon each of them someday.

Heeding her advice, I grabbed a spot away from my reflection as the instructor took the stage.

“Let’s warm up!” the instructor cheered as the music started, “Look right; now left; now right… “

The room started swaying. I searched for a focal point, determined to not pass out three minutes in.

“Are you ready to move?” she asked.

Before I could answer, the music pumped faster, “… step-ball-change and now chasse… ” My two left feet tried to stay out of each other’s way while my heart rate blew right past its target.

“How’s everyone doing?” she smiled, looking right at me.

I did not know. I could not see the mirror. I had, however, decided that “Hip Hop” music would more accurately be called “Hip POP,” as that is what mine seemed to do with every swing to the beat. But I could not tell her this. I could not tell her anything. I could only pant.

I glanced back at the coeds, who had yet to break a sweat, and the grandmas, who were kicking it high and having a ball. I was being schooled.

Song after hip-popping song played on, and I had not performed a single combination correctly since the neck warm-ups. But then the familiar sound of Billy Idol, from my own (pre-hip-pop) era, filled my ears, and I knew I had this one in the bag…

However, the instructor’s moves were nothing like those from the ‘80’s, not a single Robot in the whole routine. Just like in high school, I was dancing with myself.

Triceps on fire, I was ready to throw in the towel - had I been able to lift it - when, as if from heaven, the cool-down began. Two songs later I was heading home to a warm bath, savoring the taste of victory in my first hour of battle against the holiday bulge.

Not surprisingly, that victory tasted a lot like sweat.

All They Were Missing Was Danica

2010-02-17T22:24:00.003-06:00

Until a couple of weeks ago, the Cub Scout Pinewood Derby had remained a suburban legend to me. Sure, I had heard tales of thrilling victory and agonizing defeat, but none of them measured up to experiencing the derby firsthand.

Never in one room had I seen such a competitive, anxious – and TIRED – group of dads. “I finished a car two nights ago,” one dad lamented, “but then I tried to tweak the wheels and broke it. We bought another kit yesterday. I was up past midnight balancing the thing.”

Some took it all in stride. “I don’t know why my son chose to decorate his car like a banana,” another dad commented, scratching his head. “I questioned his choice from an aerodynamic standpoint, though admit it has a certain appeal.”

And it turned out I wasn’t the only rookie there. “I didn’t realize we had to actually make it ourselves,” yet another dad said. “I couldn’t believe it when I opened the box and a block of wood fell out.”

But not every dad had fashioned his own (son’s) car.

“My grandpa cut mine since my dad couldn’t find the saw,” my son told his friends. This is because I hid the saw after the ceiling debacle of ’02, never to be wielded by my husband again.

Luckily my dad had fashioned many a winning derby car for my brothers back in the day and was happy to emerge from retirement for another go at a title.

Over 90 cars raced down four parallel tracks, rotating through each track and timed with Olympic precision to the nearest one-thousandth of a second. Round after round, countless hours of sawing, sanding and sweat were put to the test.

There were tears, there were cheers and there were boys who did not notice the race going on around them. But it was the dads who saw their reputations speed along the track with each run.

A shaky start on the first run held my son’s car back from placing within his den, but the next three runs were just fast enough to qualify him for the pack finals. My son was relieved. His grandfather was mortified.

“He didn’t win the den?” he muttered to himself as he shook his head. “My cars always win their dens.”

Unable to re-graphite the wheels, the two were forced to sit by and watch as their car raced against the other 30 finalists. Tanks, rockets, and even the banana flew down the ramp, until the checkered flag waved and the results were announced.

“Papa, I got sixth place!” my son beamed, holding his sixth place trophy.

“That’s… great!” his grandfather said, forcing a smile while mulling over design changes for next year. Then he turned to me and whispered, “You aren’t going to tell anyone I came in sixth, are you?”

“Oh, Dad,” I grinned, patting him on the back, “no one would believe it, even if I did.”

On the Roof

2010-02-10T11:50:00.004-06:00

Last week's story about our ailing hermit crab included the phrase "on the roof." Because several friends have asked for clarification, I am going to take this week to explain where the phrase originated for me and my husband...

There once was a man who went on vacation, leaving his cat under the care of a neighbor. When the man returned from vacation he went to his neighbor and asked, "How's my cat?"

The neighbor, lacking in social graces, replied, "The cat's dead."

The man was distraught. Not only did he lose his cat, but the news was dropped on him like a bomb.

"You can't just tell me my cat's dead!" he cried. "You have to ease me into it! Say, 'Your cat was on the roof,' and then, 'Your cat fell off,' and then 'Your cat was badly hurt,' and then 'The doctors tried everything they could,' and THEN, 'Your cat passed away.'"

"Gosh, I'm really sorry," the neighbor replied.

"That's alright," the man said, regaining his composure. "How was my mom while I was gone?"

The neighbor's face became very stoic. He drew a deep breath before starting, "Your mom was on the roof..."

Have a fabulous week, and stay off the roof!!

RIP Kermit

2010-02-04T23:32:00.005-06:00

(an updated version from the Lawrence Journal-World's River City Jules)

Our family grew by two over the winter break.

We planned to give our two older daughters Taylor Swift concert tickets for Christmas and wanted to get our youngest daughter, Caroline, something equally exciting that would not involve taking a six-year-old to a concert.

Or owning a puppy.

So what does one give a miniature diva that is equally as awesome as a ticket to Taylor Swift?

And is not a puppy?

Hermit crabs, of course.

Our plan worked perfectly Christmas morning as Caroline squealed with delight at the tank while her sisters danced around her, waving their tickets and singing “Love Story.”

(Luke sat oblivious to them all as he dug into his new magic kit.)

She named them Hermit (the yellow one) and Kermit (the green one, duh) and immediately began playing them on the living room floor. Meanwhile, I studied the crab care book and learned that we needed to create a Florida-Keys-like environment in order to keep the crabs alive.

This is not easy to do in the middle of a Kansas winter. The challenge of feeding, warming and watering these seemingly h-i-g-h maintenance sand-dwellers with whom Caroline had so deeply bonded quickly took over my life, and I began to crack under the pressure.

My days soon revolved entirely around keeping these creatures from dying on my watch. My husband grew concerned about this relentless quest for humidity and warmth, concern he finally expresses one evening after work.

“Why is the tank in front of the fireplace?” he asked.

“The crabs were cold,” I replied.

“So why is the fireplace off?” he asked, reaching for the switch to turn it back on.

“DON’T TOUCH IT!” I screamed. “The tank hit 90, I almost baked the poor guys.” I ran over and poked them to make sure they were still alive, a habit reminiscent of the early days of fretting minute-by-minute over the wellbeing of our firstborn. Post-crab-purchase depression was only one more sleepless night away.

“Julie, they’re crabs. They live on beaches,” he said, shaking his head, “without anyone regulating the temperature for them.”

“I know, it’s a miracle,” I said. “Do you think the vet would take them when we go on vacation? And neuter and vaccinate them too?”

“They’re crabs, Julie, not dogs,” he said, leaving the room.

Alone with the crabs, I began to wonder if my husband was right. Was I taking this whole crustaceous pet ownership thing a bit too seriously? I looked down at Kermit again, wishing we had sucked it up and taken Caroline to the concert instead.

Just then Caroline joined me, skipping over to the tank and giggling with delight as she pulled her two buddies out for a little playtime, and I realized these hermit crabs are a far better love story for her than Taylor Swift.

And a lot easier than a puppy.

Or so I thought...

Fast forward one month later, when I received the following text from my husband:

"Kermit is on the roof" (code for nearly dead)

After some text debate over whether or not I should call our family priest, I called my beloved to find out the scoop.

"He's dead," he said with about as much fanfare as you might imagine.

"How do you know?" I asked, having never seen a dead crab before, save for those in the seafood case at the grocery store.

"I'm a doctor," he said (family practice for humans, btw), "I know what dead looks like. I saw him in the corner staring out into space, so I tried scaring him. He didn't retract like usual. I tried to pull him out of the tank, but he slipped out of his shell, limp and lifeless."

"Caroline is going to freak," we agreed.

I will spare you the details of her reaction and simply say that I hope when my time comes she is even half as sad as she was about the crab.

Great Information, How Does It Apply To Me?

2010-01-29T08:44:00.001-06:00

Sitting in the junior high auditorium at parent information night listening to school officials outline the expectations for my soon-to-be eighth grader was a piece of cake. I was calm and relaxed, and, unlike at last year’s parent information night for incoming seventh graders, I never once hyperventilated.

Unfortunately, my peaceful state was short-lived as the focus shifted from eighth grade course descriptions to a frightening presentation regarding ninth grade.

“When choosing classes with your future ninth-grader, be sure to read each course description carefully,” I heard the advisors caution, “as failure to select the correct courses will undoubtedly ruin all hope your child has of living up to his or her fullest potential.”

At this, I looked up from the eighth grade course catalogue.

“Depending on which course you choose, you could either set your child on a track that will guarantee a post-doctorate research grant midway through his or her junior year of high school, OR you could set your child on a track that will guarantee he or she will live at home with you for the rest of your life…”

My pulse quickened.

“… so choose carefully or you will end up spending your golden years doing LAUNDRY for a nest full of 30-somethings...”

My breathing grew shallow.

“… because high school, college and the REST OF YOUR LIFE are right around the corner.”

I began to sweat. I had no idea how much pressure was involved with pursuing a junior high education.

While one parent asked a question about the Fulbright Scholarship, my mind wandered back home to my firstborn, content in seventh grade and far away from frat boys and finals. My dear daughter, who, thanks to unlimited texting, can type 40 wpm using just her thumbs but is nowhere near ready for a dissertation. My little girl, who looks forward to using her new algebra skills someday (in fashion school) but, at that moment, was most likely in her room humming a song by a band I have never heard of before.

All this talk about college as it related to my daughter seemed a bit premature, given the fact that she still hasn’t grown in all of her permanent teeth yet.

Then I remembered how quickly the time passed from seventh grade to the day my parents moved me into the dorm at KU. I went from navigating my way through puberty to navigating my way through campus in the blink of an eye. And through it all my parents never knew the names of my favorite bands either. In fact, they still don’t get that Bono sings with The Edge and not Cher.

On the other hand, they do NOT still do my laundry.

Which gives me hope. I may not know who sings “Fireflies,” but I’m sure when ninth grade enrollment comes along next year my daughter will be ready. Even if I am not.

The First One was HUGE!

2010-01-20T14:18:00.001-06:00

“Hey, Mrs. Dunwap!” yelled little Patrick (not his real name, for reasons that will soon be obvious) from across the grocery store checkout line.

Patrick is my friend’s son, a beautiful, wide-eyed little three-year-old with a fantastic speech impediment I hope he never outgrows.

“Hey, Patrick,” I said as I swiped my credit card. “How was Christmas? Did you get lots of presents?”

His face lit up, “It was gweat! Santa didn’t bwing me a puppy, but I got a wemote contwol twuck. And you know what?” He continued without letting me answer, “I got to go to Wichita fo Chwistmas and wide in my Gwampa’s WHEE-YO-CHAY-YO!”

“Wow! A ride in your Grandpa’s wheelchair!” I replied in an effort to both match his enthusiasm and confirm what he had just told me.

Patrick was on a roll. He was so excited he could hardly contain himself. My groceries were bagged and in the cart, so I drove my cart closer to Patrick, who had attracted a small audience by this point.

“Yeah! And it’s a AUTOMATIC one!” he yelled with glee, clapping his hands and laughing.

“An automatic one?” I smiled back at him, “How cool!”

“Yeah!” He bounced around in the seat of his cart delighted to share his good news. His mother, however, seemed nervous.

“You wanna know why I got to wide in the AUTOMATIC whee-yo-chay-yo?” he asked, about to burst.

“Oh, no, here it comes,” she mumbled as she smiled at me, grabbing the cart handle and speeding us along to the exit.

Unfortunately we were not out the door when Patrick shared this next part.

“I POOPED IN THE POTTY FO-AH TIMES!” he shouted with pride for all to hear.

Unfazed by the personal nature of his announcement, and knowing how much my friend had hoped this accomplishment would one day be reached, I joined in Patrick’s celebration.

“FOUR TIMES?” I said, dropping my jaw for emphasis.

“FO-AH TIMES!” he squealed. “The fohst one was HUGE!” he exclaimed, holding his hands apart for visual effect.

My friend smiled at me and explained, “It had been almost a week; he had a lot to unload.”

But Patrick wasn’t through. “The next one was---“

“And now Patrick isn’t afraid of the potty anymore!” she cheerfully interrupted through a tight grin, jumping directly ahead to the end of his play-by-play.

It took all I had to stifle the laughter, but as I walked to the car my New Year’s resolution came to me: to celebrate every achievement in 2010, no matter how HUGE or insignificant, with the same enthusiasm Patrick had, though perhaps not always in public.

Best Care in the Air? (continued)

2010-01-13T10:20:00.004-06:00

I wrote to Midwest Airline's Customer Service Department. (It was a [mostly] nice and non-flippant letter. Swear it.) That was over a week ago.

I even tried writing to Oprah.

Unfortunately no one has responded. Not a word. Not even an automated "we got your email" one.

And, while I did not want to do this, I see no other options. So if anyone out there knows how I can reach Chairman, President and CEO of Republic Airways, Bryan Bedford, please send me the contact information so I can forward the following revisions to his letter in the MyMidwest in-air magazine on behalf of myself, my husband, the other 98 people on the plane, the 25 people who were not allowed to fly, and the flight attendants who gave these revisions their blessing (click on photo to enlarge):

What I was Doing New Year's Eve...

2010-01-07T12:01:00.015-06:00

The following is true. I could not make it up if I tried...

This New Year’s Eve, and Dave and I, along with our friend Michelle, visited our college friend, Ron in Palm Springs for New Year’s weekend.

“Be sure to wear something nice,” Ron told us before we got dressed for the evening. Dave and I had not been out on New Year’s Eve in many, many years, so I was really looking forward to getting dressed up and counting down with people other than Ryan Seacrest and Dick Clark, hours past my actual bedtime to celebrate the new year.

With people my own age.

And no kids in sight.

Dave wore black pants and a nice shirt. I wore a short patterned dress with black boots. I even did my hair. Michelle looked stunning in a one-shouldered black dress. Ron wore a plaid vest and matching jacket. And his murse.

Unable to get tickets to the Rolling Stones cover band at Agua Caliente Casino, we opted for a party at a nearby resort that featured a DJ, followed by a classic rock cover band.

Our first clue should have been that this venue did not charge a cover.

Our second clue should have been the elderly woman exiting the very upscale resort entrance wearing polka-dot Capri pants and an oxygen tank.

Still, Dave, Michelle and I made our way through the exterior entrance while Ron parked the car, excited about ringing in the new year with dear friends and maybe making some new ones on the dance floor.

We could hear loud music coming from the lobby behind the resort’s front doors.

With one last primp of the hair and straightening of the dress, we flung open the heavy doors to find…

A bunch of families on vacation filling the lobby floor, surrounded by elderly couples in velvet, sequins and lame` watching everyone cut loose to "Celebration" on the dance floor.

"It looks like a wedding,” Dave said, as a flock of pre-pubescent boys wearing flannel shirts and sideways baseball caps came tearing through us, sliding on their knees to the dance floor.

Michelle and I couldn’t speak. As dressed up as we were, we looked like 30-something hookers next to the clean-cut all-American families cutting a rug to, at this point, “Hey, Mickey!”

We laughed so hard I not only lost all of my mascara, I nearly lost all of my bladder control too. I made a quick dash to the restroom where I overheard two elderly women in sequins remarking to each other, “This is just the happening place to be!”

Thinking the party for grownups who did not have their kids or their AARP cards with them must be in another part of the resort, we explored the ballrooms (empty) and the back patio (where the 13-17 year olds apparently escaped their parents to go make out while a band covered Beatles songs in Spanish). We looked around for Ashton Kutcher, thinking we surely were being punk’d, but he was nowhere in sight.

Just then, Ron finally showed and rescued us from the Griswold Family Reunion and took us to the casino with an hour to go before midnight, where things were bound to be better...

Fast-forward to 11:55 pm:

Dave sat in the poker room trying to take pension money from old people (apparently they are mass-produced in Palm Springs) and unable to receive any texts, while Michelle, Ron and I sat at the one bar on the property open to the public, wondering where the poker room was.

This bar faced the main entrance. It was dimly lit with light blue tones. Beyond the bar was a restaurant resembling a Denny’s. There were a couple of drunk businessmen to our left and a couple of gigantic hooters trying to escape some poor girl’s push-up bra to our right, with a throng of young men around her, ready to come to their rescue.

Sipping our drinks out of disposable cups – and looking radiant doing so – the three of us counted down the end of 2009 with our bartender who, we discovered, had not only never heard of the Regal Beagle, but, three minutes into the new year, would shout, “Last call!”

We finished our drinks and set out to find Dave…

Dave, meanwhile, sat in the poker room beefing up the pensions of the old people who, at the stroke of midnight, looked out into the rest of the casino and grumbled, “Why are they being so loud?... When are they going to quiet down?... What’s with all the noise out there?”

After checking in with Dave, Michelle and Ron decided to hit the Blackjack table. I tagged along for moral support and to protect Michelle from the Russian man who seemed to be following her.

But as we made our way to the tables, we found ourselves behind a very elderly woman in a wheelchair, scooting along the packed casino by moving her chair a few inches at a time with her foot.

Ron, being the kind-hearted and concerned gentleman that he is, leaned down to her and asked her if she needed any help.

“WHY, YES I DO, YOUNG MAN!” she shouted in a voice that could best be described as a cross between Marge Simpson and Dick Cheney.

“Are you headed back to your room?” Ron asked (because it was after 1:00 in the morning, not because he planned to join her there).

"NO!” she shouted, “PAI GOW! WE'RE GOING TO PAI GOW!” And she nodded to the Pai Gow table 40 feet to her left.

Then, thrusting her arm in that direction she barked at Ron one last time, “AND YOU CAN GO AS FAST AS YOU WANT!”

Without delay, Ron wheeled his new BFF to the Pai Gow table, where she joined a friend.

Needless to say, she stayed at the casino much longer than we did. I just hope she came out better with Pai Gow than Dave did at the poker table.

And so I leave you all with the first lesson I learned in this new year...

PAI GOW! May 2010 bring you everything you need, as fast as you want.

Auld Lang Syne (What IS That?)

2009-12-30T07:30:00.002-06:00

It just occurred to me that we are not simply toasting away another year and welcoming a new one this weekend, but we are about to say goodbye to the very first decade of this millennium.

I know this is probably not news to most of you. Perhaps I am late to the party. If that is the case, I hope you will consider me fashionably so and join me in looking back not just on 2009, but all ten of the years that comprised the… um… Do we have a clever name for this decade yet?

The New Millennium’s First Decade (too wordy?) was ushered in around the world with fireworks, fanfare and zero repercussions from the dreaded Y2K bug.

Fearing every computer on the face of the earth would crash, forcing us to live like pioneers, many greeted the new millennium prepared for disaster. I must confess I had a case of water and new blanket on hand, which I realize in hindsight, would have sustained us for five, maybe six hours.

Fortunately those fears were unwarranted, and as the ball dropped in Times Square it seemed the Oh’s (too vague?) were going to be just fine.

And for a while they were. Jennifer and Brad were happily married, Britney was voted Best New Artist and Tom and Nicole celebrated their tenth wedding anniversary.

Of course that was one Angelina, one K-Fed and one too many jumps on Oprah’s couch ago, back when Sopranos sang in choirs, Billy Ray was the only Cyrus and Paris was simply a city in France.

Yep, much changed during the Aughts (too retro?), and I’m not just talking about a certain Tiger and his stripes.

Decade 0.0 (too tech-y?) gave birth to texting and tweeting, Survivors and Losers, low-carb diets and High School Musicals. Madonna went British, Demi went cougar and everyone went green.

Thanks to DVRs, YouTube, and TMZ, we witnessed more events first-hand during this decade than any other. We cheered on Lance to jersey after jersey, watched Susan Boyle melt Simon’s cold heart, and elected eight Idols without ever leaving home.

We learned about wardrobe malfunctions, we knew who at any given point had or had not put a ring on what, and, OMG, we spoke in acronyms. (Sorry, BFF’s, TMI?)

But the decade-we-have-yet-to-name wasn’t all Phelps and games. There were disasters ranging from merely Gosselin to downright gruesome in nature.

Someday we will share with our children’s children those deeply etched memories of the decade’s darker hours. Where we were on September 11^th. Or the time a storm named Katrina tried to swallow New Orleans. Or the day the Moonwalk died.

Not this week, though.

This week is not to be spent worrying about the past. This week is to be spent curled up under our Snuggies with our iPods and Red Bull, looking forward to a new (though likely also nameless) decade, dreaming of all it might hold.

Or, at least, that’s what she said.

A Christmas Carol ('09)

2009-12-23T07:45:00.002-06:00

Jolly Old St. Nicholas, lean you ear this way... 

I've been busting my tail to be ready Christmas Day. 

Fighting crowds at Target, hanging lights upon the tree,

Even baking cookies (what has gotten into me?)  

Narrowing the wish list of my diva, Caroline,

Down to just a few things from six-hundred-forty-nine,

Hunting down the presents that my son hopes to receive,

Wishing that my daughter in fifth grade could still believe.

Trying to decide just what to get for my pre-teen

Teenage girls are tough, dear Santa, you know what I mean.

Switching cash and credit to throw Husband off my trail,

Trying to get Christmas cards all stamped and in the mail.

Eating all the cookies and the candy neighbors make,

Knowing I'll regret each bite that I can't help but take,

Braving freezing wind chills to light up my new fake deer,

Hopefully the head will work this time (unlike last year!)  

Decking all the halls with boughs of something red & green,

Finding Baby Jesus, kidnapped from the manger scene.

Muppets and John Denver fill the air the whole month long,

("Noel: Christmas Eve 1913"'s my favorite song)

Setting up the TiVo to record the season's shows

Watching Chevy Chase light up his house until it glows,

Rooting for the Grinch and hearing Polar bells' sweet rings,

Every time a leg lamp's lit an angel gets his wings.

Going in for flu shots that we haven't gotten yet

(Don't you worry, Santa, our deductible's been met.)

One last task to finish now, before it gets too late:

Find a New Year's sitter who won't charge a hooker's rate.

Just a few days left now before you come flying by

(Would you rather have leftover cookies or some pie?)

I'd just like to tell you, Santa, while I have your ear,

Have a Merry Christmas and a very Happy Year!

Fun with Holiday Cards

2009-12-16T08:42:00.003-06:00

(Scroll down a few inches for this week's story)

Can't get enough of holiday card fun? Neither can I. And neither can my buddy, Sassy Britches, who lays out some valuable rules in her blog.

CLICK HERE for her brilliant analysis!

Say Cheese!

2009-12-16T08:28:00.003-06:00

It is the most important picture any mother will take of her children all year, the photo that is viewed more than any other, the photo that defines the family:

The Holiday Card Photo

I vividly remember my dear mom dragging our family to the mall in August of 1982, all six of us decked out in turtlenecks and matching reindeer sweaters, to take advantage of the summer portrait package. Mom thought ahead in every way, taking the picture, saving money, and getting it done early. Every way except the fact that, by the time we trudged across the 115-degree parking lot in full-on winter attire, our summer tans had melted away to a clammy shade of pale.

The photo still sits in her house today.

While experience wasn’t pleasant, I did learn two valuable lessons. The first, to never wear neck-to-toe polyester in the summer, and the second, to always plan ahead for the holiday card.

And so year after year, with every new experience and celebration, I shoot away in hopes of taking what will become THE holiday card shot. This year we posed in the snow, at the park, at the Hutchinson Salt Mines, at the beach, and on our front porch, all to no avail.

It was while tailgating before the KU-OU football game, all of us dressed in crimson and blue and glowing in the beauty of autumn in Lawrence, Kansas, that I decided this would be the setting for the Dunlap Family’s 2009 holiday card photo.

I scouted the hill until I found the perfect spot with Memorial Stadium as our backdrop and Kansas-blue skies above. After carefully arranging my husband and four kids for the photo, I found a young guy who seemed capable of working a camera and asked him to help us.

“No pressure,” I told him, “but this one is for the holiday card, so make it good!”

I jumped in with my crew and smiled for the camera, but the photographer wasn’t satisfied. “Let’s try another,” he smiled. He took another picture. And another. And another, laughing more and more after each one. Apparently he had never seen such a cheerful and photogenic family.

Or so I thought.

It was not until we got home that I saw what he had seen.

While the rest of us were looking straight ahead, facing the camera with gleaming smiles,Caroline, our six-year-old who is known to march to her own drummer, had her head cocked to the side, her eyes crossed, and her tongue sticking out. Every. Single. Shot.

Not a single photo of our crimson and blue family without Caroline hijacking it in the whole series.

After a split second of fury I burst out laughing, as I realized I was about to send out our best holiday card ever...

Some (pre-)Assembly Required

2009-12-09T08:53:00.004-06:00

‘Twas the night before Christmas…

And while the children were nestled all snug in their beds, Dave and I stealthily pulled out the toys Santa had carefully hidden, unaware of how under qualified we were for the job ahead.

We cruised along, setting up ponies and pet shops and girl toys galore, but the showstopper of the spread was the “some assembly required” Spiderman Tower of Fun for our son, complete with an air-powered zip line and superhero launch pad. We could not wait to see the look on his face the next morning.

By 12:30 a.m. we had freed the last Polly Pocket from her packaging and were ready to tackle the Tower of Fun. Dave searched the house for screwdrivers while I pried open the box. Parts spilled out onto the floor, each securely wrapped and clearly marked --- with a Japanese character.

Hmmm, I thought, I wonder why these are marked in Japanese?

My question was answered as I unfolded the poster-sized paper with step-by-step instructions and photos of a person (who, I might add, did not look happy) assembling the Tower of Fun. They were detailed and in order --- and written entirely in Japanese.

I flipped the poster over, expecting to find English, or even Spanish, hoping those three semesters in college where I learned how to find the library, announce my plans to visit a beach with friends, and order a beer would also enable me to assemble a Tower of Fun.

But the only English words on the poster read, “WARNING: Failure to properly assemble could result in serious – VERY SERIOUS – injury. Follow ALL directions, EXACTLY as written, or your child will surely lose an appendage. DON’T MESS THIS ONE UP!”

Dave returned with two screwdrivers to find his pale wife under the tree staring at a pile of miscellaneous parts.

“It looks like the blue thing goes on the red thing first,” I said, looking at the picture.

“How can you tell?” Dave said, “The picture is in black-and-white.”

By 1:35 a.m. the tower was nearly halfway complete. We still did not know how to attach the power tube to the launch pad, but we did notice all of our neighbors had shut off their lights.

By 2:00 a.m. we had considered and ruled out the option of burning the Tower of Fun and wrapping up one of Luke’s toys from the year before instead.

By 2:40 a.m. we had run out of things to say and had stopped speaking to each other.

By 3:19 a.m. the (expletive) Tower of Fun was upright and mostly functional in spite of the handful of leftover parts. We were the last elves standing, bags like stockings hanging under our eyes, and resolved to never repeat the Tower of ’05…

For I heard Dave exclaim, as we both hit the hay, “We won’t do this next year, no how and no way!”

Dedicated to my parents and parents everywhere; and the “some assembly required” Millennium Falcon of ’84.

Basketball is a FAMILY Show!

2009-12-02T14:52:00.008-06:00

Dear Allen Fieldhouse "Kiss Cam" Operator,

I understand the second half, under-eight TV timeout leaves you feeling obligated to entertain the 16,300 college basketball fans in attendance who would otherwise be left twiddling their thumbs while waiting for the Kansas Jayhawks to take the court again.

And I, like my fellow basketball enthusiasts, certainly enjoy it when you fill that time by zooming in on happy couples and watching their reactions to seeing themselves on the big screen above the scoreboard and then kissing. On the very big screen. In front of everyone.

And I do think that was very sweet of you to take notice of my daughter pointing at my husband and me, begging you to put us on the "Kiss Cam" just after the elderly couple who did not seem to know they were being filmed.

Believe me, my daughter has never been made to feel more special.

However...

After Dave and I obliged you with a very cute (albeit somewhat flustered) smooch, you proceeded to linger. We looked up on the screen, expecting to watch your next victims - er - lovebirds, only to find we were still the target. On the very big screen. In front of everyone.

We had followed the protocol perfectly. We pointed, we laughed, we kissed, just like the "Kiss Cam" unwritten rules state. Yet you did not leave us alone.

Thinking this was just a video delay, I smiled at the screen. But things quickly got uncomfortable, and I began to wonder what, exactly, you wanted us to do.

And why on earth you thought we were going to do that live onscreen at Allen Fieldhouse?

Sheesh.

So, for future reference, please remember that we are happy to provide you with a free peek at first base, but you are not welcome to stick around in hopes of catching a glimpse of second.

No matter how much air time you are willing to give us.

Rock Chalk Jayhawk,

Jules

Gratitude. And Gravy.

2009-11-25T08:46:00.002-06:00

Do we still get to have Thanksgiving this Thursday?

It seems one of my Top Three Favorite Meals-Slash-Holidays (Mother’s Day and My Birthday rank numbers two and one, respectively) (because I don’t have to cook) has been squeezed out by Halloween and Christmas.

Now, I understand the obsession every October with bite-sized Snickers, two-bar Kit Kats, and Reese’s Peanut Butter Pumpkins. In fact, I understand the obsession so well I already have a four-pound jump-start on my holiday weight gain.

And I love the Christmas season with all of my heart, in particular the Reese’s Peanut Butter Trees. And any holiday party that involves fondue, fudge, and peppermintinis. And any Christmas song that doesn’t mention Grandpa and a reindeer.

But in between making Halloween costumes and loading up Santa’s sleigh in a way that is both fiscally responsible and pleasing to all recipients, it has been a tradition since 1621 to draw our loved ones near and take time to reflect upon our blessings great and small with gratitude. And gravy.

I will go first.

For me, family tops the list. After more than 12 years of being the primary cereal-pourer, all four kids now know how to make their own breakfast; and while my husband still doesn’t know how to boil pasta, he does know the words to “Ice, Ice Baby.” For all of that, I am most grateful.

Extended family too. Especially my brother-in-law, whose Thanksgiving dinner would send Paula Deen into orbit; the kind of meal you train for, slowly expanding your stomach days before in anticipation, doing jumping jacks during the Macy’s Parade in a preemptive strike against the damage sure to ensue from his homemade stuffing and bourbon-laced pecan pie.

Yeah, this time of year Chris is pretty much my favorite (way to go, sis!), followed closely by their 21-month-old son, my only nephew, who makes me smile every time he waddles his pudgy little thighs my direction to give me a big, slobbery kiss. He also reminds me to be grateful that the toddler phase of my life is over, and I am allowed to have nice things on my coffee table again.

And I am beyond grateful for my friends who are loads of fun and quick to assure me that I do not look old. No matter what that college kid at the Wheel said about welcoming me to Beta Moms’ Weekend.

Additional props go to the makers of TiVo, under-eye concealer, slice-and-bake cookies, Spanx, and the water bra.

Really the only thing that could fill me with any more gratitude would be if Reese’s would please start producing the peanut butter turkey I have been begging them to make for years now.

And, of course, if major retailers would just back off of us for the week and let us have Thanksgiving.

Enjoy your Thanksgiving weekend, and to my readers outside of America, my heartfelt condolences on missing out on gravy this weekend, it rocks!

There's Nothing to See Here

2009-11-18T08:50:00.002-06:00

“Julie?” Dave said when I answered my cell phone while out to lunch with a friend, “is Luke having Andy over today?”

Oops.

“Um, yeah,” I stammered, “didn’t I tell you that?” (I knew I had not). In my excitement to escape the house, I had completely forgotten to tell everyone Andy was coming over to play.

Luckily Andy and Luke got busy right away building Legos, playing Rock Band, and shooting hoops in the rain all afternoon.

Other than one little incident with the boys involving a wet shirt, a hairdryer, and the words, “WHOA! Were those SPARKS???” (at which point I abandoned my work in the kitchen and ran up to my bathroom just in time to deliver the “If It’s Not Yours Don’t Touch It” speech to Luke, who, to be fair, was only trying to get his buddy’s rain-soaked shirt dry before his dad came to pick him up), things went quite smoothly.

Until Andy’s dad arrived.

“Oh, good,” he smiled when I answered the door, “I’m glad you’re home!”

I laughed, unsure of what he meant. Everyone else had been home all day.

Sensing my confusion, he explained. “I came to the door with Andy, and your daughter [she is 10] answered the door. I asked if you were home, and she said no. I asked if Dave was here, she said he was in the shower. So I just looked at Andy, wished him good luck, and left him here.”

Andy’s dad is very forgiving.

“I’m so sorry, I forgot to tell them you were coming before I left,” I told him. The boys ran off to find Andy’s shoes while I continued my confession, detailing the hair dryer incident.

“So, did sparks really fly?” he asked.

“I don’t know, but I got there before any damage could be done,” I said reassuringly. I left out the part about my bathroom smelling like smoke.

Just then the boys returned with Andy’s shoes. And a steak knife.

“Mom?” Luke said, holding the knife up to me with his eight-year-old grin, “Can we cut a hole in a shoebox for my homework?”

Luke had been itching to start his creative book report project all weekend and was now holding a knife up to a man who may or may not ever bring his child over to play again.

“Honey, let me have the knife,” I said through a tight grin, “and you get the shoebox ready.”

I turned back to Andy’s dad and thanked him again for bringing Andy over while Andy put his shoes on when I heard a familiar name.

“Mom?” Luke said again as I turned around to see him holding both a torch lighter and a book of matches, “Can I light a candle in the kitchen?”

Andy’s dad broke the silence. “Are you sure you were actually watching them today?” he said with a nervous laugh and a smile that (I hope) meant he was just kidding around.

Watching them pull out of the driveway I immediately started formulating my foolproof plan for an exit strategy should Child Protective Services come a-calling. So if future blogs come from a woman named Elsie in hiding in Newmarket, Ontario with her husband, Felix, you’ll know what happened.

(No need to get the guest room ready right now, Erin, they haven’t shown up yet…)

My Coming Out Party

2009-11-16T05:00:00.002-06:00

Every Monday for the past 15 months I have offered a story to help you add a little laughter to your week with a great deal of anonymity.

But things are changing, starting today.

My name is Julie, I live in Lawrence, Kansas (fyi, the best Midewestern College Town EVER!), and – as of today – I have somewhat of a day job as a weekly columnist for our local paper, the Lawrence Journal-World.

Starting today, I will write under the column name "River City Jules" here in Lawrence.

(Click on the happy face with jazz hands to find my debut column for November 16^th)

*** J ***

But Weekly Jules is far from over...

My weekly tales will still be here, but because the LJW is actually paying me (more than 11 cents per story, unlike Google AdSense), I am giving them my Mondays and moving Weekly Jules to Wednesdays.

Can’t wait until Monday?

I will update a link on the right sidebar every Monday, and you can read a new story hot off the press on the LJW website. Those who get the paper at home can even see a snazzy picture of me, if the photographer uses the one I liked.

(And then come back on Wednesday too for the regular Weekly Jules story!)

I have more fun planned for us here in blogworld too, so stay tuned!

In the meantime, please know that this is a dream job for me that could not have happened without people like you who love to laugh and who remind me every week that joy is fullest when it is shared.

Plus, you are the smartest, best-looking, most charming group of people ever to read a blog. Don’t you think?

So thank you for sharing in some fun, I look forward to the next leg of the blogging journey!

Are You There, God? It's Me, Jules.

2009-11-09T09:03:00.006-06:00

Before there were Amos and Otis and their college athletic scholarships; and before there was my sister (“The Hot One”) and her athletic prowess that earned her a spot on the Junior Varsity soccer team the first year she ever hit a soccer ball; but sometime after my father, the college football player, came to be, there was Jules.

Flat-footed, near-sighted, and unable to leave the house during ragweed season little Jules.

But what I lacked in gross motor skills I made up for in spelling skills, an early love of soap operas, and a knack for winning cakes at the annual grade school carnival. And so my mother insisted they keep me.

By eighth grade, however, I decided to expand my horizons beyond my inhaler and Judy Blume collection, and try out for my school’s volleyball team.

I remember running warm-up laps around the gym, feeling plenty warm halfway around the first lap but being told there was no quit in warm-up, or something like that. I remember the sting of the ball on my forearms and wondering if there were any positions that wouldn’t involve direct contact with the ball. But more than anything, I remember that I made the B squad for our Catholic school’s CYO team.

I was thrilled.

I was an idiot.

I was out of my league.

But, like the saints and martyrs we were taught to emulate at Queen of All that is Good and Holy School, I persevered. The torturous season lasted six weeks (three jammed fingers, one pair of broken glasses, and two menstrual cycles).

Fortunately, I do not remember most of the games. In fact, I had blocked out nearly every play that ever involved me.

Until last week, when my darling middle child, Amelia unwittingly dragged me into reliving one of my most horrific moments of Junior High, as her own CYO volleyball team hosted a Parents vs. Fifth-Graders scrimmage in celebration of their last practice.

(Before I continue I must add that I voluntarily hosted an ice cream party to celebrate the last week, but I must have pissed off karma at some point in a way chocolate delight and Redi-whip could not reconcile.)

Standing opposite the server, a beautiful 10-year-old girl who can already overhand serve like an Olympian, I found myself fighting the urge to curl up fetal as I immediately reverted back to the Great Disaster of ’85…

As usual, Coach had me start the game on the bench. After the other two girls had rotated in, Coach reluctantly called for me to take my place in the center of the back row. We were up 5-2 at the time.

St. Someone School’s player returned our serve with a spike to the empty spot in our side of the court, giving them the ball, which they served directly into the net.

We moved up, 6-3, rotated and served but lost the point, though it was not my fault.

And so it came to pass that I stood opposite the server, a girl who would go on to play college volleyball, but would first find herself with ample opportunity to refine her overhand serve.

Up 6-4, I put myself in the ready position (wringing my hands and praying) as she prepared to serve.

WHAM!

The ball came straight to me. I stared at it all the way to my upper arms, where it ricocheted into the crowd of horrified parents.

6-5.

WHAP!

The ball raced toward me at a speed never before seen. (This was before the age of sports psychology, private trainers, and steroids, mind you.) I couldn’t imagine that ball was going to stay in bounds, so I let it fly by, thanking God for getting me out of that situation with grace and dignity.

Unfortunately the ball was in by three feet.

6-6.

SNAP!

The ball whizzed by my head. Surely this one is out, I remember thinking as it, again, landed three feet in bounds.

6-7, St. Someone. And the pummeling continued.

BOOM!

Off my thumbs.

BOOM!

Bulldozed the six of ten fingers going for the set.

POW!

I one-handed it into the net.

Serve after painful serve flew directly to me. I gave it my all, which consisted of creating and then silently chanting a mantra to boost my self-esteem and hoping Coach would pull me out. It did not, however, consist of returning one single serve within the boundaries of the volleyball court.

Twenty-one points by one server. In a row. A new CYO record had been set, technically by both of us, though she was the only one honored for it.

And so 24 years later (ouch), as I faced off against my 10-year-old opponent at the parent-child scrimmage last week, I began the mantra that eventually got me through the Great Disaster of ’85:

“It’s okay, Jules, just remember. You would kick her butt in a spelling bee.”

My Little Queen of Hearts

2009-11-02T10:00:00.005-06:00

(WARNING: This one is a bit PG-13, and I question my own judgment for posting it)

I am a tremendous fan of the homemade Halloween costume.

Nothing tugs at my heartstrings more than a hand-painted cardboard-box Sponge Bob atop a set of child’s legs standing at my door pleading with me to hand over one of my fun-sized Snickers bars.

And the 6-year-old home-grown hobo will always win the last Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup buried in the bottom of my emergency back-up bowl of candy with which I am usually reluctant to part.

So when my oldest daughter decided she wanted to create her own costume for the Junior High Halloween Dance, I was elated, though I don’t know why.

I remembered constructing some of my own costumes as a kid – a ladybug that ended up looking more like a polka-dotted hunchback, an M&M package constructed out of a garbage bag that simply resembled a garbage bag – and yet, for some reason, had complete faith that my child, my spawn, my own precious offspring would be capable of creating a beautiful (or, at least, recognizable) version of the Queen of Hearts, complete with a hand-designed Queen of Hearts t-shirt, a red tutu, and striped leggings.

Not only did I have faith, I left her home alone with a new white T-shirt and an arsenal of pink puff paint pens while I made a quick trip to the grocery store.

As I cruised through the produce aisle debating what to serve with the carrots and zucchini I had just thrown in my cart, my cell phone rang.

“MOM!” my dear daughter cried, “I MESSED UP MY SHIRT!”

I walked past a basket of French bread in the bakery and proceeded to the donut case so I could focus.

Zeroing in on a row of Long John’s, I tried to calm down my firstborn. “Honey,” I said, “it’s okay. I can help you fix whatever it is you messed up.”

Sob, heave. “No you can’t!” she wailed. “It’s really bad!”

I took a quick glance around the store and decided to move along so as not to draw attention to the drama unfolding.

“Sweetie,” I tried to reassure her, “I promise I can help you. Did you smear the hearts? We can even it out. I’m a pro with the puff paint.”

“You can’t fix it!” She continued to sob, “I really messed it up!”

“Did you mess up the ‘Queen’ part?”

More crying. “Yes, but it’s REALLY BAD!”

“Honey, we can fix – “

“BAD, Mom, it’s REALLY bad!”

“Babe, the shirts are $2.98 at Target,” I tried to reason. “I’ll treat you to a new one if I can’t fix it.”

Some silence. This was promising. “Okay,” she squeaked out.

Sniffle.

“BUT IT’S REALLY BAD!”

We hung up, and I found myself in front of the bratwurst, which was beginning to sound like a good choice. Especially considering I was potentially looking at a trip to Target and would likely need something quick and easy for dinner.

But I never got that far in my thought process. For as soon as I started weighing out the merits of turkey sausage, my phone buzzed again.

Three texts, all photos, all from my daughter.

The first was an ultra-close-up of a bit of smeared pink paint on white cotton.

No big deal, I laughed to myself, I’ve seen bigger messes on permanent tattoos.

The next shot was pulled back slightly, where one of the hearts was close to the smudge mark near the first “e” in “Queen.”

Hmmm, a little more challenging, but we’ll just throw a little red puff paint on it and no one will know any different.

But the final shot confirmed all of my daughter’s fears. Not only had she smeared some paint, but she had free-hand designed a shirt not fit for a girl to wear anywhere within eyeshot of a blossoming teenage boy --- much less to a dark cafeteria full of them.

Yep, messed up.

REALLY BAD.

And that is how I ended up at Target two days before the Halloween party, buying up all the white t-shirts they had in stock and a new tube of puff paint. I'll save this one for her bachelorette party someday. Until then, I'm going to oversee all DIY projects myself.

Is That a Banana on the Bus or Is It Just Happy to See Me?

2009-10-26T10:28:00.004-05:00

Ahh, Halloween, the holiday that conjures up visions of giddy young children frolicking about the neighborhood in search of the one house dishing out full-sized candy bars and average adults dressed up like dead celebrities.

Children high on Nerds and Tootsie Pops are darling and all, and I love an army of teenage mutant transforming X-men marching up and down my street as much as the next mom, almost as much as I cannot wait to see the thrilling throng of Michael Jacksons sure to moonwalk their way around town this year.

But it is revelers like my brother, Otis, who help make Halloween one of my favorite holidays.

Otis lives the happy life of a hot and happenin’ 30-ish-year-old in Chicago. He has a great job, lives a few blocks from Wrigley Field, and can play guitar as late as he wants every night of the week, for Otis has no wife, no fiancé, no live-in girlfriend. (He is a catch, ladies.)

Last year for Halloween, Otis decided (at the last minute, because when one is single one can do anything one chooses on a moment’s notice) (from what I recall) to attend a Halloween party downtown.

Wearing a banana suit, of course, because he lives alone, with no one around to talk him out of it.

Taking a cab from Wrigleyville in a banana suit on Halloween was not a problem. The cabbie did not question him. In fact, he hardly seemed to notice.

Attending a party dressed like a King-Kong-sized banana was not a problem either. Sure, he may have stood out among last year’s many Sarah Palins, but after a few goblets of witch’s brew I imagine he began to blend right in.

No, the problem came the next morning when Otis, still dressed as a banana, woke up at a (female) friend’s house, nowhere near his home. His friend did not pass judgment on Otis for staying overnight on her couch wrapped up in a yellow foam – and surprisingly realistic-looking – peel. That is a true friend. A truer friend would have discretely driven Otis back to his car, but this friend did not own transportation.

The best she could do was loan Otis $2.25 for the bus and send him on his way.

Otis contemplated his next move. While the $2.25 was most helpful, as Otis had left his wallet behind at one of the haunts from the night before, a change of clothes might have come in just as handy.

For some reason, however, the thought of changing into a girl’s clothes was out of the question. That would have completely stripped my brother of his dignity.

And so off to the bus stop Otis went, wearing black tights, a black t-shirt, and an overgrown banana peel.

He arrived at the stop just as the bus was pulling away, taunting him into running after it, waving his arms and yelling, unconcerned with the stares he was receiving on the streets of Chicago in the early hours of November 1^st.

Fortunately the bus slowed down, and Otis, the Man-Sized Banana, hopped on, breathing heavy from the short run and was greeted by a busload of awe-struck passengers and one crying toddler.

“They started yelling at me to slow down for the banana,” the bus driver said, pointing to the people behind him.

Otis chose a seat near the middle.

One passenger was sympathetic to his plight, though. A young guy who leaned across the aisle to Otis and simply patted him on the back saying, “It’s okay, man. Everyone’s done the banana walk of shame at some point.”

I like to think there is a special place in heaven for people like Sympathetic Bus Guy.

So remember this year, when November 1^st rolls around, to be kind to those still in costume from the night before. For you know not their struggles. But feel free to photograph, otherwise no one will believe your story. Which is why I have just one more detail to add before bidding you a happy, happy Halloween:

Does Not Compute

2009-10-19T09:55:00.003-05:00

“Welcome to Seventh Grade Algebra,” Mrs. Houston began. I had been looking forward to Parent Night at the junior high ever since putting Ellie on the bus earlier this fall.

Ellie had been kind enough to let me not only walk her to the bus stop the first day of school, but take her picture at the corner while waiting for the bus as well. Unfortunately the bus showed up a little earlier than scheduled, and I had to leap behind a bush – camera in hand – to avoid being spotted by a busload of seventh graders.

(Ducking behind the bush in the early morning hours wearing my jammies and holding a camera was not nearly as embarrassing as jumping back out after the bus had passed, startling and confusing my poor neighbor who happened to be jogging by that very spot at that very moment.)

Junior High got a lot easier after that first morning, with the exception of one class.

Seventh Grade Algebra.

“Your child has been recommended for this class because he or she excels at math,” she continued.

This statement might have had some element of truth, but just the night before, Ellie and I had both cried over her algebra homework. Neither of us knew what the textbook wanted out of us, and I ended up Googling the instructions for her calculator.

Until then, I had considered myself to be quite bright.

“You should be proud of your child for falling into this category,” she said. “These are the students who will likely go on to be engineers or physicists.”

Physicist? Ellie? I thought. She told me she wants to be a fashion designer...

“Many of these students are smarter than I am,” she explained.

Oh, crap.

“… work for NASA someday… “ umm, Mrs. Houston? We have a problem “… go on to promising careers as adults.”

FASHION DESIGNER!!!

Mrs. Houston seemed oblivious to my dropped jaw and furled brows. “This class puts them on track to be finished with college statistics before they ever even enroll in college.”

She isn’t going to need college statistics to design the skinny jeans of the future. She only needs to be able to convert inches to yards…

“… a lot like Doogie Howser… “

Maybe figure square footage…

“… keep them challenged… “

Like Tim Gunn or Heidi Klum?

“We will cover exponential expression, convergent sequence, and harmonic mean,” she said, as if they were Christmas presents I should look forward to opening. I quickly scanned the room and realized I was the only parent who had lost all coloring in her face.

“… compete in national mathematic… “

… but she’s a real blonde…

“… really, really, really smart… “

… and cute…

“… motivated… “

… and likes makeup…

“… genius level… “

WE HAD TO GOOGLE HOW TO WORK THE @#$% CALCULATOR!

Fortunately Mrs. Houston could not read my thoughts nearly as well as she seemed to be able to integrate and differentiate (I have no clue what that means).

And, as it stands right now, my real genius is pulling a B in the class by sheer willpower and has had exactly one boy ask her over to watch “Star Wars” and play with Legos, confirming that my daughter is in way over her head.

My Fall Line-Up

2009-10-12T08:44:00.003-05:00

"We need to talk," Dave began with a long sigh after putting the kids to bed last week.

I had suspected this would be coming for some time now. After avoiding the topic all summer, the time to address it had arrived. We had some very big decisions to make.

“You know as well as I do that we have to stop trying to take on more than we can handle,” he said. And he was right. For months we have been trying to juggle entirely too much as a couple.

“So, where do we start?” I asked. Conversations like this are never easy.

“You have to let go of ‘Glee,’” he said apologetically.

Reprogramming our TiVo. We take it very seriously.

“Dave, I really think we can do it,” I was already getting emotional. “’Prison Break’ ended months ago.”

“I can’t believe that show lasted three years,” he said. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was four.

“I broke free from ‘Desperate Housewives’ in 2008,” I reasoned.

“Really? Because you’re starting to sound a little desperate to me right now,” he replied.

“And ‘24’ won’t start up again until January. We have plenty of time for ‘Glee!’”

“One more season of ‘24’ and we will have officially spent a solid week of our lives watching Jack Bauer save the world,” he said, “and you are forgetting that we’ve also picked up ‘Dexter’ and ‘Chelsea Lately’ since then.”

“But Chelsea’s more of a filler,” I reminded him, “for re-run weeks, you know? That leaves us 26 weeks we could watch ‘Glee.’”

“Honey we’ve had the ‘Glee’ pilot saved since mid-September and are only 15 minutes into it.”

“That’s because you fell asleep,” I tried not to roll my eyes.

“So, why do you think I would stay awake next time?” He posed a good question.

DA-boop! went our TiVo, and gone was “Glee.”

“That’s fine, I said, but don’t take away ‘Modern Family,’” I pleaded. “I haven’t related to characters this much since Paul and Jamie Buchman back in the ‘90’s.”

“Plus,” I added, “I can’t let another season go by without adding a new show. We missed out on ‘Mad Men,’ ‘Weeds,’ and ‘Grey’s.’ I can’t let something so socially tragic as that happen again, and I'm not waiting for the midseason replacements to do it!”

“Fine, we add ‘Modern Family,’” he said with the push of a button.

Ba-DOOP! Yesss! “Modern Family” survives!

(Great show, if you haven’t caught it yet, btw.)

He continued to scroll through our list.

“’Oprah?’”

“Don’t you dare—“

“I’m just kidding!” he laughed as he continued scrolling down our “to-do” list. “We’re definitely keeping ’30 Rock,’ ‘SNL,’ and ‘The Office,’” he said, as if NBC were cutting a check each week to do so.

“Duh,” I replied. How does one become a Nielson Family, I wondered to myself? Talk about a job I was made for…

My thought was interrupted. “’Project Runway?!?’”

“It’s for the girls,” I lied. Not really, though. I’m a girl too…

“Wait a minute,” I said, pointing to the screen, “How many ESPN’s are there?”

“It’s for Fantasy Football,” he explained. As if that made it right. And I was just about to lecture him on the difference between fantasy and reality when he uncovered a secret little indulgence of my own.

“’My Antonio?’” he raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, I, uh, I have no idea how that got there,” I said, which actually was a complete lie this time. It got there because I put it there. On purpose. And I love it. Antonio Sabato, Jr.? Looking for love in Hawaii? If I didn’t have a husband, four kids, and a modicum of pride and self-worth, I would be all over the man once known as Jagger Cates. But since I do have said qualities, I’m totally pulling for Brooke.

Don’t judge me.

DA-boop!

(I must have said that last part out loud.)

(No worries, though. I’m adding it back as soon as he leaves for work today.)

(Antonio is down to his final three; I’ll keep you posted!)

Ringing my Cowbell

2009-10-05T05:00:00.005-05:00

Tuesday is my birthday.

It seems that the more of these I have, the simpler my wish list becomes. The list that used to be filled with Fashion Plates, roller skates, neon bracelets, and a Bruce Springsteen poster has been whittled down to just a few items: peace, quiet, and for someone to ring my bell.

The October I turned six, my parents treated me to a birthday party at Happy Joe’s Pizza Shoppe (with an “e”). Surrounded by friends and a pitcher or two of Pepsi, we ate, laughed, and burped and watched table after table of giggly birthday kids receive the royal treatment from the Happy Joe’s staff, who presented each birthday boy and girl with a cake, ice cream, and a song, accompanied by (most importantly) a cowbell.

Yes, even at that tender age, I understood the importance of the cowbell.

After eating all the pizza and opening all the presents, it was little Jules’ turn for the restaurant serenade.

The wait staff paraded out with a chocolate and whipped-cream coated masterpiece, ice cream, and candles. They sang, they clapped, they cheered.

But they did not ring the bell.

Let me repeat, no cowbell.

Suddenly the cake, the presents, the pizza, the ice cream, the candles, the decorations lost all meaning, and the happy little birthday girl was morphed into the birthday diva, throwing a fit that would make Whitney Houston shake in her platform boots.

Pre-Kabala Madonna could not have made as much of a scene.

Even Kanye West would not have dared steal the moment, as I refused to breathe on, much less blow out, the candles atop my whipped-cream-and-chocolate-covered-with-a-cherry-on-top cake until that poor wait staff marched their suspender-clad selves back out to our table and did it up right.

With. A. Bell.

For the rest of my life, no matter what I do, no matter who or how I serve my fellow mankind, I will never live that down --- at least, not as long as my parents, who bore the burden of their ungrateful, demanding firstborn crying out loud about this grave injustice to the patrons in the restaurant, are still alive.

And so, in my ongoing, life-long effort to redeem myself as an “others-centered” human being, I would like to ask you all to ring – not my bell – but that of my BFF, Wheels, this week for my birthday.

Wheels is running her fifth marathon in the past three years. “Why would anyone ever do that?” you may ask. Knowing that until 2006, when she had found herself separated (from her alcoholic ex-husband) (with three children) (ages 3 weeks to 3 ½ years at the time), she had never even run to catch a bus, I often ask the same thing.

Her answer every time? Her three beautiful boys, all of whom - ALL of whom - have been diagnosed with Autism.

Wheels is getting ready to run this fifth and final marathon to raise money and awareness for the Organization for Autism Research (OAR).

But Wheels not only runs, she laughs. She laughs fully and often and easily. (And she has great legs and an enviable rack too, but that’s not the point.) As she is quick to point out:

Autism may serve me a drink that’s half-empty, but my glass is always half full. For example:

Half-empty: My son can’t talk.

Half-full: My son can’t sass me.

Half-empty: My son will only wear purple shirts.

Half-full: I don’t stress about his school clothes everyday.

Half-empty: My son arranges his toys in rows.

Half-full: The playroom is very tidy.

Half-empty: My son isn’t mindful of his successes.

Half-full: My son isn’t mindful of his failures.

Half-empty: My son watches the same movie repeatedly.

Half-full: My son is very easy to please.

Half-empty: My sons attend 14 therapy sessions a week.

Half-full: I am never bored.

Half-empty: My son can’t use scissors.

Half-full: My son can’t cut his brother’s hair.

Half-empty: My son can’t read the newspaper.

Half-full: He thinks the world is wonderful.

Half-empty: There is no known cure for Autism.

Half-full: There will be.

So this year, all I ask for my 30-something-th birthday is that anyone who has ever gotten a lift or a chuckle from my weekly bell-ringing take the time to check out her page, read her story, and maybe even kick in a few dollars if you are so inclined.

(Click Here)

In exchange, I promise with all of my heart to never go all diva again.

"I Didn't Know I was Pregnant (With Twins)" - My Mother's Story

2009-09-28T10:10:00.001-05:00

Impossibly, my twin baby brothers are turning 31 this week.

I vividly remember the day they were born. A beautiful, clear-skied Midwestern City day; my younger sister and I spent the day with our cousins while Mom and Dad went to have the baby.

Yes, “baby,” singular. A girl, specifically.

Or so they thought…

After months of hard work that I prefer not to think about for too long or visualize ever, my parents were thrilled to be expecting baby #3. They had two (quite lovely) girls and, naturally, assumed another girl was on the way.

Incidentally so did the doctor, who, four years earlier, had been convinced my little sister was going to be twins. So convinced, in fact, that he had ordered both an x-ray and a sonogram, only to find one large baby girl in there. Having cried “twins!” once before, he was not about to do so again.

But I had a different theory.

“What do you hope your mommy will have?” everyone from close relatives to complete strangers would ask.

“Twin boys,” I would respond.

This usually garnered a chuckle and a pat on the head, but I truthfully meant it. At the age of nearly seven, I found it ridiculously unfair that my father would potentially suffer the remainder of his days overwhelmed by estrogen in his household.

“Poor thing,” they would whisper behind my back, “I hope she’s not disappointed when the baby is born.”

The morning of September 30^th, 1978 arrived. Mom was two days overdue and down to two maternity tops that still fit.

Her doctor – who still believed she was pregnant with only one baby – had agreed to induce her that morning.

But for hours, nothing happened.

At 1:00 her doctor hooked her up to some pitocin, and things got interesting.

Her contractions started fast and furious. The nurse placed an internal heart monitor on the baby’s scalp and wrapped an external heart monitor around Mom’s enormous belly, both to measure the baby’s heart rate. Unbeknownst to anyone, each monitor was on a different baby.

Over the course of the next 30 minutes, my dad (an engineer) began to notice that the internal and external monitors were beating at different rates. The nurse noticed that mom’s abdomen took on a strange shape when it contracted. And my mom became fully dilated.

“Has anyone ever talked to you about the possibility of having twins?” the nurse asked.

“Just a few of my friends,” Mom replied through rapid breaths, “and most strangers.” Before her next contraction she quickly added, “but not my doctor, and I need to push!”

They wheeled her into the delivery room, threw a gown and mask at my dad, and called for her doctor.

As she laid on the delivery table (without an epidural) waiting for her doctor to scrub up, she noticed that the nursing staff in the room doubled, and a second newborn warmer was being brought in.

Confused, writhing in pain, and trying hard to hold back what would turn out to be over 14 pounds of baby in spite of how desperately she wanted to push, Mom looked up at her doctor, who was putting on his gloves and getting in the “ready” position, and, speaking around her protruding belly asked, “Dr. Richards, am I having twins?”

Dr. Richards looked down at Mom and smiled before pulling up his mask. “Mary, I don’t know yet. But when I find out, you will be the first person I tell. Now, go ahead and push!”

Baby Boy A was born at 1:52. He weighed 7 pounds, 6 ounces.

“He looks small,” the nurse said. And, placing her hands on Mom’s belly, told the doctor, “There’s another one right here!”

Dad’s jaw hit the floor. Later the nurses would say that Dad had never put his mask on, but that it would not have covered his open mouth anyway.

Baby Boy B was born at 1:58. He weighed 6 pounds, 14 ounces.

The delivery room erupted with cheers of joy. Mom and Dad – once they were able to speak again – started calling their friends and family, starting with their mothers.

“Oh, Mary,” my grandmother so lovingly and confidently reassured her only daughter upon hearing the news, “What are we going to do with them?”

I, however, was not at all surprised. After all, Amos and Otis were exactly what I had ordered.

Where There's a Will, There's a Dead Person

2009-09-21T08:57:00.002-05:00

There are few things that can bring a person face-to-face with his or her own mortality with gripping reality.

A major illness… a near-fatal accident… a 30-year-old waiter who calls you “ma’am… ”

Or drafting your will.

Last week Dave and I finally got around to updating our wills. Since the last update over a decade ago, we have had two more children, lived in two more cities, and added one dog.

Mysteriously, however, my head remains free of gray hairs.

We sat with our fearless and patient attorney for nearly two hours adding up our assets (our mortgage, our minivan, and one unused waffle iron) and assigning our children to the care of my sister in the event of our deaths (bringing her total to seven kids and one dog) (sucka!).

I left Patient Attorney’s office feeling vulnerable and half-dead. But I did feel as though my affairs were in order, should Dave and I simultaneously and spontaneously succumb to Swine Flu.

Since that appointment, however, it has occurred to me that I may have a few more affairs to put in order before I take my one-way ticket to the endless chocolate fountain in the sky (at least, I hope there’s one).

In lieu of paying (another visit to) Patient Attorney for an addendum to my will, I have decided to leave my final, final wishes here on WeeklyJules.com, and am naming you all as co-executors of this addendum.

First, should I die before I get around to it, I would appreciate it if someone would be so kind as to dust off the exercise equipment in my house so my mourners will believe I had used it, right up to my dying day.

I would also ask that same person to fold the laundry I will have undoubtedly left in the dryer and pull all of the old condiments out of my fridge.

I will also need someone to pull out all the loose photos in the photo drawer(s) and put them into the scrapbooks you will find still wrapped in cellophane.

You will also need to remove memory cards from my camera and from the desk drawer and a few used up disposable cameras and a roll of film in the fridge, and get all those shots developed. I am counting on you to immediately and permanently discard those that make my butt look big, my hair look frizzy, and my face look pale.

And any photos that feature me sporting the Perm of ’86.

Also, I don’t have any plastic food storage containers with matching lids; I would ask you to toss them all and stock my cabinet with a fresh set from Williams Sonoma. Preferably before my mother gets there.

There are no less than 17 cookbooks in my kitchen, none of which have so much as a crease in the spine and will need someone to open, beat up, and sprinkle flour on them to make them look used.

On a related note, please destroy all take-out menus (located in on top of the cookbooks).

Actually, keep the one from the Thai place, they can cater the post-funeral meal. You will eat so well you will forget I am dead.

In my closet, I have a ball cap that belongs to a friend in Texas that I’ve been meaning to mail to her for 13 years; please return it to her.

And the “Gossip Girls” DVD back to Blockbuster.

And the 12-count mini-muffin tin back to my neighbor. From our last house.

I also have old pairs of giant cotton maternity underwear that I kept in case of a water shortage that would lead to a rationing of laundry. Please burn them.

And my bike tires need pumping, my shower needs re-caulking, my car needs vacuuming, my CD collection needs to be re-alphabetized, three blouses need buttons sewn back on, the dog needs a bath, and I have 11 bags of old clothes and shoes that are all ready to go to Goodwill.

My Facebook page, however, will most certainly be up-to-date.

Pre-Show Opening Act

2009-09-14T13:05:00.005-05:00

Like a Jennifer Aniston relationship, my weekend with Bono flew by in the blink of an eye.

My girlfriends and I arrived in Chicago late Thursday afternoon. We made it to our condo in Old Town (a VRBO.com find, much better than my last one), which Bono had so thoughtfully decorated with rose petals and shamrocks. A bottle of Bailey’s awaited with a note attached: “I read your blog and can’t wait to see you. Wear black.”

But the concert wasn’t for two more days, so my Chicago brother (Otis) suggested we have a little pre-show of our own in the Lincoln Square neighborhood to pass the time.

Lincoln Karaoke is located in a small building that could have been mistaken for a quickie income tax refund center from the outside.

The parking lot across the street and the ladies (of the night) in stilettos and Miss Breck led me to believe the cabbie had dropped us off at the wrong spot and was laughing his ass off at us as drove off.

We walked into the institutional-looking foyer and were led down a long white hallway, lit by florescent overhead lights and lined with oak doors, each numbered with stick-on numbers while muffled strains of Air Supply, Queen, and Barry Manilow (poorly sung) leaked out from behind. The building smelled like old beer-stained carpet. I was certain we were being punk’d.

The owner finally reached room #14. He opened the door to our own private karaoke room (rented by the hour) (and, unlike room #8, did NOT have a pole), filled with my brother, a few of his friends, and a few of mine. My three girlfriends and I were the last to join.

The room was dark, with tiny red, green, and blue dotted lights circling and floating around the walls, clockwise, from ceiling to floor. Large wall-mounted flatscreen TV’s hung on opposite walls with videos of Korean men and women acting out scenes from various music videos of the late 1980’s.

(I assume they were Korean, as the giant remote control had 11 buttons in English and 75 buttons in Korean; the music book had a huge section of Korean music selections in the back, but please do not hold it against me if the music video “actors” were actually a different nationality.)

My little brother and I broke the ice by singing a selection of songs from our youth, including John Denver and Simon & Garfunkel, just to get things going.

The night was a blast. Each of us had our moment of glory, entertaining our intimate little disco-slash-skating-rink room with Streisand, Bon Jovi, Backstreet Boys, and, of course, “Summer Nights.”

Lincoln Karaoke even had “D!ck in a Box.”

But that wasn’t the biggest surprise.

No, just as we were getting comfortable with the idea that we could rent a private room by the hour that would allow us to do whatever we wanted without interruption for as long as we wanted (which turned out to be over five hours) (I’m not saying I’m proud of it)…

The videos of men and women eating dinner, strolling the beach, and walking through the park that had filled the karaoke screens for the first couple of hours gave way, without warning, to scenes of topless women taking baths, modeling jean shorts, and making phone calls.

Right in the middle of my heart-warming rendition of “My Way.”

And it’s not that I’m bitter about those topless women stealing my thunder during one of my favorite anthems (which they totally did), it’s just that images of the many other activities that could very well have taken place in that room charged into the forefront of my brain at that very moment, rendering me unable to bring myself to sit down on – or even look at – the built-in furniture that lined the room for the rest of the evening.

Eewww.

But not even videos of soft-core fluffers could take away the fun of the night for this girl.

Nope.

Not with Bono (and friends) waiting for me (in my black shirt) and our night together (with 64,999 others who did not count) that lay ahead (from the 13^th row of section 153).

In the end though, I have to give Otis and our collective crew of friends all the credit for making our night at Lincoln Karaoke a pre-show I will never forget.

I’m not one to kiss and tell, but I couldn’t resist sharing this from one of my fellow back-up singers taken somewhere at Soldier Field. Where the Streets Have No Name

Encore

2009-09-13T09:24:00.001-05:00

Dear Bono,

Thank you.

In the name of love,

Jules

5 More Days to 360, a Letter to Bono

2009-09-07T10:51:00.006-05:00

Dear Bono,

Only five more days, my Irish lovely. Five more days until we meet again, with our 65,000 best friends, at Soldier Field.

Can you believe it has been 22 years since our first concert together? So much has changed.

Not you, of course. You’re still the same man I fell for all those years ago. It’s just that now your resume includes saving Africa and being BFF’s with Oprah.

But other things have changed.

For this concert, I ordered my tickets from my PC via the Internet. I did not own either of those things in 1987.

(But I did in 1997, yet you still made me stand in line at the ticket outlet for your Midwestern City Stadium show. Not very progressive in hindsight, now, was it?)

I then “texted” my girlfriends to tell them about it and “Googled” a place to stay. Those “verbs” didn’t exist back in the day of shoulder pads and Cosby sweaters.

Neither did my “husband” or “kids,” who, I might add, have promised not to stand in the way of our "love."

But, my leather-clad, wrap-around-sunglasses-wearing, poetic little leprechaun, the most striking change from 1987 to 2009 was the price of the ticket.

This time around, I am paying $135. Granted, I will be on the lower level. Yes, you have big video screens so I can see every bead of sweat roll down your beautiful face while you scan the crowd looking for me. (I’m in Section 153. I don’t know what I’m wearing yet.) And the visual effects and sound system are sure to be spectacular. And I know the cost of airfare from Dublin to the United States has got to be astronomical these days, considering how much excess luggage I imagine you and your three amigos must lug along with you.

Everything costs more now, I get that.

It’s just that... a mere 22 years ago... at Midwestern City’s Large Arena...

I watched you from a suite. It included food and drinks and a private bathroom. I stood, the entire time during your sold-out show, hanging over the glass partition that kept out the riffraff, drool streaming down my chin and onto the lady in front of me, just 50 feet from the stage.

You were wearing leather pants and had the set list taped to the floor of the stage right next to your microphone stand.

I’m pretty sure you looked up at me and made a little heart sign with your hands during “Bad,”

I know I did it to you.

But my point is not our unrequited love. My point is that we shared that magical night for just $17.50.

Seventeen dollars. Fifty cents. Including the service charge.

INCLUDING THE SERVICE CHARGE!

Needless to say, for the extra $117.50 you are getting out of me to fly to Chicago this time and share you with 64,999 other people who, I guarantee, cannot possibly have adored you as long and as deeply as I have (got that, Oprah?), I have some high expectations.

Namely, though, that you wear leather pants, make Section 153 your favorite section, and give me some sort of secret sign that our love is still alive. Like, run your right hand through your hair during the encore.

And meet me for a drink afterwards.

My treat.

So have a great trip to Chicago, I am looking forward to seeing you MAYBE almost as much as you are looking forward to seeing me.

All my love,

Jules

One Man's Trash... Is Probably Trash

2009-08-31T11:51:00.012-05:00

Up to my elbows in chipped coffee mugs at the church hall a few weeks ago, it occurred to me that the words “Rummage Sale Donations Needed” are actually perceived as code for “Bring Us All Your Crap” in the minds of so many.

I found myself digging through box after box and bag after bag of donated items trying to decide what would be sold and what would be landfill.

But after sorting through the 24th box that had clearly been extracted from someone’s moldy attic and, rather than just being hauled out to the curb for the trash pick-up as it should have, had been transported to the church for resale, only to have me make the judgement call that, even by Third World standards, these items were long overdue for a trip to the city dump, I realized not everyone knew the Rummage Sale Rules According to Jules.

In light of this revelation, I am dedicating this week’s space to laying out a few helpful guidelines for those trying to decide what items may (or may not) be appreciated at the next local rummage sale fundraiser.

Rule #1

Please do not donate items that carry an aroma reminiscent of any of the following: basement, litter-box, ashtray, bar floor, old people. This is not only to increase the likelihood of said items selling, but also to decrease the likelihood of vomiting by the poor person charged with opening the sealed, warm boxes and garbage bags filled with said items when such odors come pouring out.

Rule #2

Neither baby powder nor Old Spice are capable of removing the odors mentioned in Rule #1.

Rule #3

Used clothing is fine. Even your acid-washed jeans. Even your Peaches-N-Herb concert t-shirt. Even your box full of enough shoulder pads to send Alexis Carrington into a fit of jealously.

If you are going to donate underwear, however, please do not leave any evidence that the underwear has ever been worn. This same rule applies to jock straps, even monogrammed ones.

Rule #4

When attending a rummage sale of any kind, you should know that if you choose to try on the above-mentioned acid washed jeans in the church hall and strip down to your underwear to do so, we will all be able to see you.

Rule #5

Certainly, there could be a select market for people looking for just one beat-up shoe in a women’s size 5 Narrow, but that is not very probable.

Rule #6

Please be sure to thoroughly clean out the training potty chair before you donate it. Ideally, you would thoroughly clean it out after each use. But that could just be me and my high suburban standards. I dunno.

Rule #7

That is awesome of you to think of us when you are trying to decide what to do with the mattress you have obviously been using since well before the Summer of Love, but I would have even more appreciated it even more if you had taken the spring-loaded petrie dish to a biohazard drop-off facility before your lured me into touching it by leaving it at the donation drop site after-hours.

Rule #8

Clothing, sheets, towels, blankets, and curtains that are covered in what appears to be hair from any part of your body or your pet’s body will be classified as “Contaminated” and immediately discarded.

The person discarding the item will simultaneously gag and curse your name once you are out of earshot.

Rule #9

If the item has ever been inside any part of your body that is typically covered by undergarments, please do not donate it to be sold to someone else. I do not care how much luck that basal thermometer brought you in conceiving your six children over the years, allowing another woman to use it is just gross.

On the plus side... Rule #10

If you donate a purse with the Prada label still attached, I will absolutely buy it the night before the sale officially begins, carry it for the next six months, and not feel weird about it at all.

Open Up and Say "Aaahhh"

2009-08-24T09:49:00.004-05:00

While Congress battles over fixing the healthcare crisis (something I have every confidence can actually be fixed by a simple common-sense meeting of the 535 minds who create our laws - with absolutely no ties to corporate powers that might impede progress, or with agendas other than those that would create the best America possible - and then flawlessly executed, so well, in fact, that we citizens will find ourselves all but laughing, “Now why didn’t we just do it this earlier?”) I would like to offer my own solutions.

And I will do it in less than 1000 pages. Less than 1000 words, in fact.

So, Congress? Take note…

Some will tell you the problem is the greedy doctors who really don’t need much compensation for the 7-14 years of training they received after college just to be able to do stuff like diagnose and cure diseases, or perform your run-of-the-mill open-heart surgery.

Others might say it’s the greedy insurance companies who absolutely deserve every one of the billions of dollars in profit they make to (hopefully) pay for said surgery, assuming we weren’t pre-disposed for it and have met our deductible and have been paying the premium all along and the data entry clerk in charge of the case concurs with the surgeon that, yes, you did have blockage in your aorta and would have died without intervention and you (fortunately) chose a surgeon who was on the list of People Your Insurance Company Will Pay To Cut You Open And Fix You.

But, truthfully, it is we, the greedy citizens, hell-bent on having our cake, supersizing it, taking fries with that, and, of course, eating it too. In the drive-thru. On our way to WalMart. To pick up the new Madden game. And our cholesterol meds.

Now, before we go feeling bad about ourselves, just remember that it is not our fault.

I mean, who can resist a (box of) Twinkie(s)? And a big, sexy Chipotle burrito? And playing football via remote control instead of outside?

We’ve been played. Like an Xbox on a bright and sunny day. We may have spent over $100 billion on diet and fitness last year, but, much like getting healthcare advice from Rush Limbaugh or Michael Moore, $100 billion per year clearly is not going to cut it.

Madonna, on the other hand, just turned 51 and is in perfect shape, which is why I will appoint her to chair the Committee on How To Look Freaking Awesome As We Age. Tina Turner will be her deputy. Her first client will be Rosie O’Donnell.

But calorie restriction and Kabala alone won’t cure America. We need exercise too. So I have decided that the part of the Stimulus Plan that puts Americans back to work will fund our Captain of the Drill Team, Billy Blanks, who will provide Americans with much-needed cardio.

Old Richard Simmons videos may still be turned in for a sleek, new P90X DVD as part of the “Cash for Clunkers” program extension.

(Be sure to consult your doctor before beginning any new exercise program. I’m putting Dr. McDreamy in charge of that, fyi.)

With Americans leaner and meaner as a result of my plan, diabetes, high blood pressure, heart disease, strokes, acid reflux, sleep apnea, arthritic knees, hardened arteries, and depression (which, apparently, can be caused by single-handedly downing a bag of Lay’s and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s while watching “Project Runway” and “Bachelor” re-runs, a night I hope to never repeat) will no longer assault our well-being.

And, with all American women now rocking their hot bods and American men in prime shape too, erectile dysfunction drugs, which currently account for more than 60% of all prescription dollars (I’m totally making that up), will all but disappear.

But the new prescription plan will include guacamole, dark chocolate, and red wine.

This pretty much just leaves us with cancer and herpes, which I’m going to put Sarah Palin in charge of curing in her new-found free time.

A lofty agenda with some pretty high-profile names, I know. How will we fund it, you ask??

A “Sin Tax” that will encompass tobacco, Pop Tarts, pork rinds, those big cinnamon rolls you get at the mall, Yoo-hoo, mayonnaise, Crisco, Peeps, corn dogs, funnel cakes, drive-thru windows, Miley Cyrus, the cast of “The OC,” and running shoes (running causes pain and suffering we cannot afford to fix).

But not bacon. Bacon is exempt. So are nachos.

And Tiger Woods, Bill Gates, and Oprah will bankroll anything not covered by my plan.

Alternatively, we let Glenn Beck and Bill Maher continue to cage fight on cable TV while the people we actually elected try to find a solution.

But I like my plan better.

Getting to Know You, Getting to Know ALL About You

2009-08-17T07:24:00.010-05:00

I love my little brothers, identical twins who are now 30. I love them so much, that I will not use their real names in the following story, a story I was recently reminded of by fellow blogger, Tova Darling during her Totally Awkward Tuesdays last week.

As all awkward date stories begin, I was 17 years old…

It was the middle of a hot summer in Midwest Large City, and my boyfriend, Dean, and I had decided to take in a live production at a local theater in a park. “The King and I,” I think. But that is not important.

What is important, is that Dean was (and probably still is) about six feet, six inches tall and has very large hands and feet --- but this is not important for the reason some of you dirty-minded people may think it is.

Dean and I decided to take my darling twin brothers, whom I will call Amos and Otis (because that is what my dad considered naming them---until a nurse at the hospital begged him not to), to the show with us. They were 10 at the time, a great age to bring along on a date, really.

As the sun set behind the stage, Dean, Otis, Amos, and I settled into our lawn chairs for the show. Amos sat somewhere, I do not know where, but I know he kept his hands to himself. Dean sat to my right, his (very long) left arm stretched out around my shoulders, touching Otis’s chair, and Otis sat to my left, his (very mischievous) hands wrapped around a bucket of popcorn. I sat in the middle and watched the cold-hearted king fall for the charms of his British nanny, blissfully unaware of what transpired next to me while Anna was busy whistling her happy tune.

We all drove home in relative silence, which I thought was because Amos, Dean and Otis were as taken by the love story as I was.

Dean brought us home, Amos and Otis went to bed, and Dean surprised me with the following question:

“Did you know your brother stuck my finger up his nose during the play?”

“WHAT?!?!” I exclaimed. “Are you sure?”

Dean chuckled. “He held onto my finger and stuck it up his nose during the second act. I felt it. It was my finger.”

He washed his hands and went on home.

The next morning, as soon as Otis woke up, I confronted him.

“Did you like the show last night?” I buttered him up.

“Yeah,” he smiled.

“Did you have fun with Dean?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he smiled.

“Why did you stick his finger up your nose?” I sprang on him.

“That was DEAN’S finger? I thought it was yours!” he began to crumble.

“Otis!” I said, holding my hand up for him to examine. “Look at my fingers! Do any of these look like the one you grabbed last night?”

“I wondered why you didn’t flinch…” he was still puzzled.

“Dean can palm a basketball,” I went on, “I can hardly palm a grapefruit!”

“Was he mad?” Otis asked.

No, in fact, Dean was not mad. Being a younger brother himself, Dean thought it was hilarious, and we dated for many months after that.

But, I can assure you, that was the last time I ever went on a date with Otis.

(Update: Otis has grown into a bright, responsible, and handsome man, and, to the best of my knowledge, no longer sticks foreign objects up his nose. Amos, as far as I know, has never even tried.)

Eat. My. Shorts.

2009-08-10T08:09:00.001-05:00

My poor Ellie is starting her first year of Junior High this week, and, aside from trying to figure out how my firstborn could possibly be so old while I am not, I am concerned about her welfare as she leaps into pre-adulthood.

Not because she is starting out Junior High in braces and glasses like I did (big props to Drs. B & G, respectively, for helping her avoid that).

(Don’t worry Mom, I’m over it now.)

(Can’t you tell?)

No, the problem is much deeper than that. Ellie, and all of her friends, will go through their formative years without the benefit of John Hughes.

Everyone who came of age in the 1980’s knows exactly what I’m talking about.

I’m talking about the man who made weekend detention look as cool as taking a day off from school. The man who raised the bar for every girl’s 16th Birthday to include a Jake and a cake and inspired them to make their own pink prom dresses. (Mine was a strapless, tea-length pink lace number, but, I confess, was completely store-bought.)

The man who unmasked Eric Stoltz as not only a brilliant actor, but a hot one too. (Amanda was an IDIOT!)

What does the PG-13 group have now?

Zac Efron alone cannot sing and dance them all the way to college. I have seen “Camp Rock” more times than I care to admit, and I still can’t figure out which one is the “cute” Jonas Brother. And the stuff in theaters, like the stuff on the radio, is mostly the imagination of producers, leaving little up to that of the audience.

Maybe it’s just the times.

I mean, nowadays, Cameron’s parents would never own a Ferrari – and a teenager – without owning GPS. There’s no way Ferris could have taken it joy-riding in Downtown Chicago without getting caught. And today’s helicopter parents, along with the ACLU, have done away with weekend detention, putting it in the same class as waterboarding, only an even bigger pain-in-the-ass, thereby eliminating any hope of a Breakfast Club hook-up. And Anthony Michael-Hall and that other guy would never let a hottie like Kelly LeBrock shut down without pre-programming her to seal the deal in today’s world.

Everything seems to have changed since then. Kids conjugate “google” and “text” as if they were verbs. They don’t use “hairspray” anymore, they use “product.” And they have never looked anything up in an encyclopedia.

It would almost seem as if they don’t even need him. Maybe John Hughes and his genius that took an entire generation on vacation (both to Wally World and abroad, on planes, trains, AND automobiles) would only be wasted on the rising teens so clouded by political correctness that “No more wankie my yankie” would more likely stir a petition than a chuckle at Long Duk Dong’s expense.

It would seem that way, yes, but deep down I believe a few universal truths from the ‘80’s have not changed, which is why I would like to see a John Hughes film study added to the curriculum of every junior high and high school in America. (Mauger, can you take care of that, please?) Because…

Rest in peace, John Hughes. I have already forgiven you for “Home Alone 3.” And I can’t wait to see what you’ve got waiting for us on the other side.

Awards Season!

2009-08-09T07:00:00.003-05:00

(Click here or scroll down for this week's regularly scheduled Jule.)

Since I've already broken a number of rules this week by sleeping in a tent and posting on a Wednesday, I have decided to make today my own, personal Awards Show. I am calling it, "Share the Love Sunday." (Because I am tired and can think of nothing more clever at this time.)

First up, Chrissy from "I Shoula Been a Stripper," bestowed this Major Award upon me:

Beautiful, right? I have the perfect spot for it and cannot wait for the neighbors to drive by and see it!

I would like to pass this one along to three of my blogger friends I hope you will take the time to check out:

Chris at Maugeritaville (Outstanding Principal and Person We All Would Have Been BFF's With In High School)

Sassy Britches (Outstanding Ascender of High Ladders and Best Dressed)

Cathy C's Hall of Fame (Outstanding Mentor and Scribe)

Which brings me to...

This award is as labor-intensive to bestow as it was to earn. And I have Cathy C. Hall to thank! (Check her out, folks, especially all you writers out there!!)

Here are the rules:

1. Each Superior Scribbler, must in turn, pass the Award on to 5 most-deserving bloggy buds.

2. Each Superior Scribbler must link to the author and name of the blog from whom he/she has received the Award.

3. Each Superior Scribbler must display the Award on his/her blog and link to this post which explains the Award.

4. Each blogger who wins the Award must visit this post and add his or her name to the Mr. Linky List at the Scholastic-Scribe's blog. That way, we'll be able to keep up-to-date on everyone who wins this prestigious Award!

5. Each Superior Scribbler must post these rules on his/her blog.

Labor-intensive! (for a Sunday, anyway...)

And the winners (chosen from a pool of my faves, people I do not think have received this one yet) are:

Rachel at and if it's a hero that you want I can save you (funny, interesting, and giving away a FREE STARBUCKS CUP![which, I swear, I did not know until after I had nominated her in my mind])

Mrs. EyeCanSee at The juice is worth the squeeze... (I have a friend who is only 25! That's 3 - um, 8 - uh, 10 - er, 12 years younger than me!)

Candy at Candy's Daily Dandy (fun, Fun, FUN and I hope to be her 2nd blog meet, though I'm not sure how to lure her to Midwest College Town from MA.)

Skyler's Dad at Some Days It's Not Worth Chewing Through the Leather Straps (Bad Tat Tuesday is my personal favorite of his, though his videos are hilarious. A fantastic dad and a great scribe, to boot!)

kk at Will Work For Shoes (true stories, truly fun)

Best of luck to all my winners! I'm off to rest now. Whew!

This One Time? At Scout Camp? (Letters from the Edge)

2009-08-04T22:59:00.003-05:00

Dear Sassy Britches,

You were 100% right. A pStyle would have come in very handy.

Sisters in the Bonds,
Jules
***
Dear Miscellaneous Dad Next To Me In The Dinner Line,

I am sorry you never grew any hair on your legs, but I still haven’t figured out why you thought I needed to know that about you.

Sincerely,
Jules
***
Dear Isaac’s Mom,

I am guessing this was the first time you had been out in daylight. Clearly the first time you have been around other adults. How you managed to find someone with whom you could reproduce is beyond me. I’m just saying that if you were my mom, chasing me around the entire camp yelling “ISAAAAAAC!!!!!” at the top of your lungs every 15 minutes and NEVER ONCE praising me for anything I attempted all weekend, I would have smeared the play-do too. Only, it wouldn’t have been on the floor of the Medieval Castle.

Get Help,
Jules
***
Dear Albert,

What can I say? You taught the kids to make rope, you taught the adults to braid plastic, and you gave me an evening I will never forget. I only hope I was able to return the favor. And I hope you find your dentures.

Fondly,
Jules
***
And Finally…

Dear Man (or Woman) Who Snored Like A Lawnmower At Scout Camp:

You suck.

Really, until we shared our night together, Boy Scout Camp had not been nearly as torturous as I had imagined.

Oh, sure, it was hot and humid, and I smelled like a locker room floor by the time the sun set. And they only had 8 toilets for 258 campers (95% of whom could pee standing up).

But all in all, the first day of camp had gone much better than expected. I had avoided both touching poison ivy and putting on my swimsuit, and nature and I were getting along fabulously.

Until taps.

Per camp rules, I securely velcro’d the tent doors shut and turned off the flashlight. I curled up in the sleeping bag I borrowed from my daughter (that was about 6 inches too short). I laid my Tempur-Pedic pillow carefully upon the standard-issue cot that had almost as much give as concrete and closed my eyes for some well-earned sleep.

And then, about 15 minutes later, you must have done the same.

Your “kgn-kgn-kgn-kgn-kgn (pause) kgn-kgn-kgn-kgn-kgn (pause)” penetrated my securely fastened tent doors, shaking the wood floor below and causing every hair on my fetal-positioned body to stand on end.

I began to cry. Memories of childhood camping trips spent sleeping in our car flashed through my head, and I considered waking the camp leader to request a different tent. Preferably, the kind that rhymes with “SchMarriott.” But instead, I curled deeper into my sleeping bag.

Your “kgn-kgn-kgn-kgn-kgn (pause) kgn-kgn-kgn-kgn-kgn (pause)” continued to pierce my ears.

As I turned to my side to muffle the sound with my pinkies in my ears nearly touching each other in the middle of my skull, I crowned you “Most Irritating” in my own personal Boy Scout Camp Pageant going on in my head all weekend.

Your “kgn-kgn-kgn-kgn-kgn (pause) kgn-kgn-kgn-kgn-kgn (pause)” reached beyond my air-tight ear canal seal.

I fumbled through my duffle bag in the dark for the moldable silicone ear plugs Dave had sent with me and shoved them in as far as they would go, cursing his name for having the audacity to sleep soundly in our bed while I suffered in the woods.

Your “kgn-kgn-kgn-kgn-kgn (pause) kgn-kgn-kgn-kgn-kgn (pause)” blasted right through the ear plugs.

I reached back into the bag and pulled out the rest of the moldable silicone ear plugs in the package, wrapping and molding them around each ear both inside and out. I may not be an Eagle Scout, but I’ve had two semesters of college physics and I know how sound travels.

It was then, when I had completed forming my vibration-proof, sound-absorbing, Princess-Leia-like silicone earmuffs stuck to my head, that I forgave you for leaving your C-PAP at home.

The steady stream of chainsaw buzzing ceased. My eyes gently shut. My pulse slowed. My muscles relaxed. And I drifted off to sleep.

No thanks to you, of course.

And so, the next time you decide to grace a 35-tent campsite with your gnarly, ear-stinging presence, I would highly recommend, in the spirit of friendship, consulting with your ENT about getting your air passage roto-rootered before you come.

Because next time, I’m bringing more than silicone earmuffs to silence you.

Very Truly Yours,
Jules

Running with the Pack

2009-08-03T06:00:00.000-05:00

FRIDAY
4:30 IN THE AFTERNOON

“You see, Jane,” I said to the woman at the regional Boy Scouts office, “my husband and I have already made arrangements. I will take my son to Scout Camp and stay until my husband gets off work, at which point he will hustle his butt to camp and relieve me of all overnight duties.”

Jane wasn’t budging. “We really don’t give a crap. The parent that starts Scout Camp stays at Scout Camp,” she said.

“So I have to spend the night there?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“In a tent?” I continued.

“Unless you prefer to sleep outside, then yes.”

“But, I don’t camp. I like my mattress. I like my pillow. I like my climate-controlled home,” I pleaded.

“You can bring your pillow,” Jane said.

“But I have flat feet and glasses. And I’m terribly allergic to poison ivy.”

“It’s camp,” she said, “not the military.”

“But, I married my husband because he promised to never take me camping.”

Silence.

Sigh.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, ma’am?” Jane was relentless.

“Do the Boy Scouts have Wi-Fi?”

****

Friends, I am not fully available this week. Due to unforeseen circumstances - and the Boy Scouts’ strict emphasis on following rules – I will be camping with my 8-year-old son, acres of dads, and their mini-me’s.

Assuming I’m not covered in poison ivy from scalp to sole, I will return sooner than Monday with all sorts of fun.

In the meantime, please check out Chrissy at I Shoulda Been a Stripper, who bestowed this major award upon me, and to whom I am most grateful!

I ask all my fellow bloggers to please nominate your blog in the “comments” section and for all readers to feel free to check them out… I’ve got some VERY talented blogger friends.

Be Back Soon!

"I Didn't Know I was Pregnant!"

2009-07-27T08:59:00.001-05:00

Sadly, one of the harsh realities we faced during our recent family vacation to beautiful Wrightsville Beach was living without our TiVo.

It was during the down time, taking a break from the sun-n-surf, that we experienced life as we once knew it. Gone was our limitless supply of “Mythbusters” and “Seinfeld” reruns. Instead, we were forced to watch regularly scheduled programming -- at its regularly scheduled time. We watched the All-Star Game live, without fast-forwarding or back-8-ing anything. (At one point Amelia asked Dave who Albert “Poo-holes” was.) Did you know a baseball game can last FOUR HOURS?

However, there are other things that absolutely should NOT last four hours, according to the Cialis ads we were forced to watch between every inning.

We learned that people are tuning in with enough regularity to keep shows like “18 and Counting” (about a woman who, in my opinion, could stand to give her vagina a break for a while) on the air.

But it was the show “I Didn’t Know I was Pregnant” that really grabbed our attention.

In IDKIWP, women spend half an hour recounting the time they thought they had gas, only to fart out a 7-pound, 7-ounce surprise.

Having given birth four times myself, I could not imagine nine months of expanding waistline, swollen ankles, and an unquenchable craving for Mexican food without questioning the cause. And passing a baby is NOTHING like passing---

“I wonder if my patient will be on,” Dave casually tossed out from behind his iPhone in the living room of our condo-by-the-beach, breaking my train of thought.

Ah yes, that poor woman…

Within the last 15 years, in one of the four places he has trained and/or practiced medicine, a woman came into Dave’s office complaining of gas pain, weight gain, and constipation. She feared a tumor.

Obviously, he asked if she might be pregnant.

“No, absolutely not,” she told him. “I’ve taken three tests in the last couple of months, and they all came back negative. And my periods are pretty regular,” she added.

To be fair to her, she was a bit overweight and would not have noticed a protruding belly as much as Nicole Richie probably did. To be fair to Dave, she was a bit overweight and had just assured him she was not pregnant.

Dr. Dave asked her lie down for her exam. He listened to her abdomen through his stethoscope and heard some rather odd sounds. He pressed around her large intestine and did, indeed, feel a mass he felt should be x-rayed.

While she sat in the exam room waiting for the results of her x-ray, nervous about her potential tumor, Dave stood outside her door, looking at the x-ray film that clearly showed a growth, but not the kind he was expecting. This one looked to be about 6-7 pounds, something she had likely had for 8-8 ½ months, with legs and arms, and a head engaged in her pelvis.

Yep, the tumor was a baby.

“How did you tell her?” I recall asking Dave that night at dinner.

“I told her that the good news was she did not have a tumor,” he said, “and that the condition was temporary.”

He had explained to her that the x-ray showed she was pregnant, pretty far along, and that she was welcome to sit in the exam room to collect herself for as long as she needed.

“Is she still sitting there?” I had asked as we cleared the dinner table.

“No, we got her an appointment with an OB. She should deliver within a few weeks. Maybe two.”

And now this story, and countless others that cannot possibly vary a whole lot, are available for viewing on Discovery Health.

Which gives me hope that one day, someone will pick up my idea for a reality show involving regular women in a room with a hot pan of brownies, a selection of designer swimsuits, Megan Fox, and duct tape.

Boarding Pass Out

2009-07-20T08:03:00.003-05:00

“Are you okay with being seated in the emergency exit row?” the ticket attendant asks me as I board our plane home from our week-long family vacation.

Overcome with joy at the prospect of not only sitting four rows behind my travel-weary children and husband where I am free to finish my book and eat all the leftover peanut M&M’s in peace, but in a row with actual LEG ROOM, I consider French-kissing the man as a sign of gratitude.

But instead I just smile.

“Mm-hmm, I’ll be just fine.”

After helping Dave get the kids into their seats, I continue on my way to spacious row 14 aboard our two-hour leg back to Midwest College Town after a glorious, heavenly week at Wrightsville Beach, North Carolina, where I managed to keep from flashing the beach this time.

(Though I came close. And it would have been ugly. Bikini bottoms were not made for body-surfing. Fortunately I figured that out and corrected the malfunction before I stood up.)

I am in an aisle seat, with the window seat to my right unoccupied. Across the aisle to my left, I notice two college-aged guys wearing biceps, er, I mean, color-coordinating ball caps.

The flight attendant approaches.

“Hmph. Lot of kids on this plane. School must be out or something."

On a Saturday in July? Ya' think?

"Are ya’ll okay with the emergency row duties?”

We apparently stare at her blankly.

“All you really have to be able to do is be over 18 and understand English,” she smiles.

We nod. I can’t figure out how old she is. The legs say 30, but the face says 72.

“In the event of an emergency landing…” she begins.

Oooh, a scrunchie, I notice as she turns her head to point to the door. Stacy and Clinton would have fit if they saw this.

“… remove the door… “

Deceptively young? Thirty-nine, maybe?

“… and just throw that door right out of the plane… “

I look at the door, and I look at the guy across the aisle.

In the event of an emergency landing, I will beg him to take the door off its hinges and throw it right out of the plane for me.

She is easily 54.

“…easier to get the door off if you keep your seatbelt on… “

No, she’s only 42. Maybe 43. And in need of a makeover. And there’s no way I’m asking that guy to sit next to me throughout this flight so he can stay strapped in his seat and throw the airplane door for me. I might not be qualified for this row after all.

“… health problems, back problems, neurological disorders… “

But if I tell her I’m not sure I can remove the door and throw it out of the plane myself, she might make me change rows. I could lose everything. My alone time, leg room, free reign of both arm rests.

“… so let me know now if you don’t think you can… “

What if I’m placed between the Bicker Sisters (my lovely daughters) again? I haven’t moved my purple bracelet in three whole days, I can’t risk breaking that kind of streak by spending two more hours stuck on a plane with my own children! And what if the bald guy in front of me from the last flight --- who spent most of it reclined into my lap, leaving me to wonder if he expected a full facial and a shoulder massage (though I would really have rather played connect-the-dots with the freckles on his scalp, given a Sharpie and the opportunity to slip him an Ambien) --- is in the seat in front of my new one, waiting for that cucumber eye treatment we never quite got to? And what if, because of the switch, my dear and loving husband gets put in macho man row just because he can bench press an airplane door, leaving me to fend for myself in row 10??

And she has got to be pushing 65.

I feign confidence, smile, and decide to just bank on this plane landing on three wheels on a runway as planned.

Meme

2009-07-20T07:37:00.005-05:00

(Scroll down for July 13th's story, "My Attempt at a Complaint-Free World")

Thank you to Judi at Lines Composed... and JenJen at Jen's Voices for this Major Award!

I am supposed to list ten things about myself that no one knows and then tag ten bloggers with this award. But I think everyone I follow has already received this one! I have some great links to the right, however, to a few of my favorites and tag anyone reading to partake if desired.

As for the ten things about me that no one knows, that is impossible, as I am one of the least private people I know. So, instead, I will list for you some of my rules I live by:

Do not buy clothes that require ironing unless you think there's a chance you might wear it on "Oprah"
Do not buy any home decor you don't love enough to dust
Always keep emergency feminine supplies in your car (ladies and ultra-sensitive men only)
Ice cream belongs in the dairy food group
Video games make children highly uninteresting
Uninteresting children are at risk for becoming uninteresting adults
Halloween costumes are for grown-ups too
I should not be allowed to use glue guns without proper supervision
Technically, anyone can karaoke
Obviously, not everyone should

Have a great week!

My Attempt at a Complaint-Free World

2009-07-13T08:34:00.003-05:00

In an effort to be more like Jesus and/or Buddha, I decided to take part in a movement called “A Complaint-Free World.”

This experiment is the brainchild of Kansas City pastor, Will Bowen, who challenged his congregation to give up complaining for 21 straight days. Participants are asked to wear a purple rubber bracelet. Each time they complain about something, they are instructed to move the bracelet to the opposite wrist to help them become aware of their habits. Eventually they will stop complaining for an entire day. Supposedly they will even be able to keep it up for 21 whole days in a row.

Pastor Bowen has nearly 6 million bracelets in circulation world-wide.

I have kept a diary of my progress and, one day, hope to join the ranks of recovered complainers…

DAY ONE
Bracelet on, positive attitude intact, I take the kids to the pool. Whining ensues, I stand strong. Pre-teen kid belly-flops right in front of me, I give thanks for the cooling sprinkles of water that now run the words on my magazine. Snack bar’s smoothie machine breaks down.

Move the bracelet.

DAY TWO
Bracelet on, positive attitude intact, I drive to Target. Behind a 100-year-old woman. Ten below the speed limit. With her blinker on. And I simply say a silent prayer that no one in her path dies. Bracelet stays.

All of Target’s checkout lines are four people deep. I take the time to play “I Spy,” looking for a magazine that doesn’t feature Michael Jackson. (Martha Stewart Living, btw) Bracelet stays.

Get home from Target to find I left two gallons of milk in the bottom of the cart in the parking lot.

Move the bracelet.

DAY THREE
Bracelet on, positive attitude intact, I flip on the TV to watch Paula Deen turn a pound of butter into an edible orgasm, when all of a sudden, “We interrupt regular programming to bring you the memorial circus – er – service for the not-so-newly-departed Michael Jackson?”

Move the bracelet. Repeatedly.

(And I can’t help but wonder if, somewhere, Pastor Bowen is doing the same.)

DAY FOUR
Start my period.

Move the bracelet.

DAY FIVE
Bracelet on, positive attitude in pieces, I realize the past four days had more to do with PMS and decide to take on the challenge with a renewed state of mind.

Unfortunately, this is not the best day to try on cute new bikini for upcoming vacation.

Move the bracelet.

And go back to Target for an iced grande mocha latte with a side of brownie slab. And milk.

DAY SIX
Bracelet on, feeling balanced and rational again, I take the kids on a long hike in the woods where I ingest no fewer than seven spiderwebs and spot two live snakes. With all my might, I give thanks for the beauty of nature, and the bracelet stays.

We come home to eight loads of laundry I had yet to fold and a living room floor covered in Styrofoam peanuts I had yet to hide from the dog. I give thanks for the life in our home, and the bracelet stays.

I tuck our kids in that night and get ready for bed, landing on a toilet rim, as the seat has been left up. For the 254th time.

Move the bracelet. Which, in my opinion, is better than flushing it.

DAY SEVEN
Opt for a day of rest, just like Buddha. Leave the bracelet on my nightstand and enjoy a day free of complaints.

Obviously the bracelet must be the problem, as I hardly ever complained before it showed up.

A Tree Grows in College Town

2009-07-06T10:51:00.007-05:00

People, I have been patiently waiting EIGHT long weeks to share this one.

And before I go any further, I must begin by saying that my Dear and Loving Husband possesses many skills and great qualities. He is a fantastic husband and baby daddy. His dedication to learning to play guitar is inspiring. He can sew up bloody body parts without gagging. And he really is quite the gardener.

In spite of the following story.

We have a large window in the front of our house, between our garage and our front porch, with some shrubs and flowers and mulch, very suburban-esque and rather inviting.

But something was missing. It needed some height. Something to provide just a bit of privacy, but with style. Pizzazz. A little ornamental foliage to stand out among our otherwise khaki neighborhood.

Dave decided upon a Japanese maple. I agreed without hesitation as, so far, he had batted nearly a thousand with his lawn, garden, and landscaping choices.

(Except for the cottonwood he tried to plant in the front yard last fall. He dug it up from along a bike path early one morning and brought it home. It hung on to one dead leaf all winter long and, despite Dave’s pleading and begging, never turned green again.)

(But we don’t talk about that.)

As he began his search for the perfect Japanese maple, however, Dave found they could run hundreds of dollars more than he had hoped to spend on this tree that would greet visitors and passers-by alike, providing all who view our house with a first impression of its inhabitants. He had all but given up hope, when he came across a website selling trees – root, trunk, branches, and leaves – online for only forty bucks.

Did I mention online bargain-shopping is another one of his many, many strengths?

I was the only one home when the delivery was made. The FedEx guy came to the door sporting the same cross-eyed grin I got when he brought me my Miracle(-less) Suit last year and holding a box that appeared to contain a golf club.

“Good luck,” he chuckled.

Too afraid to open it, for fear my two brown thumbs would rub off on it, the boxed-up Japanese maple waited for Dave to free it and plant it later that evening.

The day rolled on like normal, picked kids up from school, broke up a few fights, made dinner, begged people to eat it, and cleaned up the kitchen while watching the “Idol” finale. (Adam was totally robbed)

It was during this time that Dave unpackaged and silently planted his tree.

“Well, they said to give it six weeks to really fill out,” he told me as I walked to the window to see it.

I stifled a laugh the best I could.

“How much did you pay for this?” I asked, looking at the supposed Japanese maple. I had never seen anything like this. Planted in the ground. By a grown up.

“Six weeks,” he replied, “not another word for six weeks, please.”

So I have kept this little gem to myself.

Until today.

Eight.

Whole.

Weeks.

Later.

This is what grows (I use “grows” loosely, mind you) in front of our house today.

Do not confuse the “tree” with the dowel rod holding it semi-upright.

Dave suggested we give it time.

My mom suggested we give it Viagra.

I Would Have Named Him "Farrah," Were He Not A Boy

2009-06-29T11:33:00.006-05:00

We decided to get a cat.

And by “we” I do not in any way mean “me,” I mean “he”(my dear and loving husband, Dave), who thought a cat would be good for the garden. Specifically, he thought a cat would motivate the rabbits to quit feasting upon it.

We were quite surprised by the lengthy application process at the Humane Society, including a waiting period and reference checks, in order to walk out with one of their many, many unwanted adult cats.

So for your enjoyment this week, I have listed a sampling of actual questions and the actual answers Dave would not let me submit to the Humane Society in order to obtain a cat:

Name, Address
Weekly Jules, College Town, USA

If you move, will you take this pet with you? Why or why not?
Definitely. If we remember. And can find it.

Will others be handling or caring for the pet?
There are a few regular joggers in the neighborhood that give me the creeps and would absolutely not be allowed to handle it. I would also keep it away from the kid who lights ladybugs on fire with a magnifying glass.

Do any members of your household have allergies?
Me – Penicillin (I get a rash)
Luke –whatever dye is in Fruit Loops (you don’t want to know)

List the pets you have now:
Mack. I am the poster child for the dangers of drinking chocolate martinis at a school auction.

Have you owned any pets in the last five years not listed above? If yes, please explain:
We didn’t technically “own” the cat that showed up at our door that we kept feeding a couple years ago, and we brought it you all as soon as we figured out the little tramp was pregnant and couldn’t tell us who the father was. And we killed a 75-gallon tank full of fish when my husband mixed up the fish food with his margarita. Looked like a freshwater war zone after a couple of hours.

Are you interested in a CAT? RABBIT? FERRET? OTHER?
CAT

What equipment is needed for this particular pet?
Do CATS need car seats?

How much time will your pet spend outdoors?
Why on earth would I let it inside?

Do you have a fence?
For a CAT? Seriously??

If not, how will you safely and humanely ensure your pet stays on your property?
I plan to dig a moat and bank on the cat not being much of a swimmer.

What time period will be needed to prepare for this pet?
I’m not as concerned about having enough time as I am medication. I honestly doubt there is a pharmacy in town well-enough stocked to prepare me for cat ownership. But, just like with human babies, once you hold one in your arms you fall in love instantly, right? That’s what I’m hoping for.

Who will be responsible for socialization and training needs?
I have purchased the “Dog Whisperer” DVD’s and plan to make the cat watch them regularly until he can behave like Caesar’s dogs do.

What grooming requirements do you feel are necessary for this particular pet?
Duh. Nail polish, a flatiron, and hair glitter.

Will this cat share a litter box?
No. Everyone else is potty-trained. Except the dog, who only goes outside. Under penalty of mom goes bat-crazy and threatens to give take him to the family that bid against us at that auction.

If there will be other cats in the household, will you be interested in discussing multi-cat issues with a staff member?
If I ever, and I mean EVER, come in here and ask for more than one cat, I beg you to take me in for a full mental evaluation, for I will obviously be operating outside of my norm.

(But, alas, I was not in charge of completing the application, and we are now the proud owners of an orange tabby.)

Queen Trish: Using Her Powers for Good

2009-06-22T07:54:00.005-05:00

Summer is here, and I’ll tell you the truth. I don’t miss getting four kids out the door to school by 8:00 every morning. I don’t miss worrying if the school uniforms are clean or if we have enough bread and peanut butter to scrape together a sandwich. I don’t miss the homework, the early bedtimes, or the onslaught of activity at 3:30 every afternoon after an otherwise peaceful day alone in my house.

But every summer, I do miss Trish.

(That is her real name, she told me I could use it.)

Trish is the most undersung hero at our kids’ school, holding the all-powerful role of school secretary.

Any parent who has ever forgotten a lunch, field trip forms, or bake sale money; any parent who has ever tried to pull a kid from school early the day before spring break; any parent who has ever wanted the rest of the story (including names) that only partially made it home from school knows what I’m talking about.

Trish is all that and a bag of chips (usually from Jimmy John’s). And one bad-ass mom.

When her older sons (1st and 2nd grade at the time) told her, during the ride home from school, about a classmate “doing it” with someone, she immediately asked, “Do either of you know what ‘doing it’ means?” Upon seeing their little heads shake side-to-side in the rearview mirror, she filled them in with details about “doing it.” Who, how, and with what. She had a captive audience in the back seat growing more and more nauseous, educating those boys like no nun ever had at their Catholic school and swearing them to secrecy within an inch of their lives.

As she pulled into the driveway she asked, “So, do you think your friend is really ‘doing it’ now?” They held back tears, squeaked out “no,” and ran to their rooms for the rest of the night. Voluntarily.

Years later, she had a similar conversation with her youngest boy, a 3rd-grader at the time, when he asked his mother on the way home from school if she had ever been hit in the balls at recess.

“I don’t have balls!” she laughed from the driver’s seat.

“You don’t have BALLS?” he said, wide-eyed with surprise and horror. “What do you HAVE then?”

This is the same son who, since he was five years old, had been trained by Trish to leave any lost teeth on the stairs leading up to his bedroom so the Tooth Fairy won’t have to wake him up at night (or forget to come up and make the swap before going to bed herself).

But my favorite Trish moment came while I was filling in for her at the secretary’s desk one morning.

A beautiful, sweet-looking young student walked into the office from recess, forcing tears out some very blue eyes. I noticed the little child’s face looked disappointed to see me, rather than Trish, sitting in the hot seat, but the kid stuck with the plan, saying, “I think I broke my elbow.”

I sat the child down and gently touched the allegedly afflicted appendage. My patient gave a B-movie performance (at best), with a delayed flinch and minor whimper.

Knowing this was a frequent flyer to the school office, I proceeded with caution. “Well, I can tell it hurts, but the good news is that it doesn’t look broken.”

Savvy to the inner-workings of Trish’s arsenal, the child pointed to the medical supply cabinet and said, “I think I need a cast. Can you look on the 3rd shelf down and get one for me?”

Having four kids of my own, I was not about to get played by this one. “You need a real doctor to put on a cast. Should we call your mom and have her take you to the emergency room?” I said with feigned concern, offering an ice pack instead.

This did not satisfy. We were at a deadlock.

Just then, the phone rang. Trish was on the line. I told her about her little fan and my failure to comply.

“Let me talk to the kid,” she said.

I handed the phone to the child who changed expressions to one of defeat.

This is what I heard on my end:

“Yes..... Yes…… Okay….. (looks up at me) Thank you Miss Jules (back to the phone)….. okay.”

And then they hung up.

“Miss Trish says I have to go back to my class now,” the child said, handing me the unused ice pack.

I stood there, dumbfounded, ice pack in hand, and watched the kid head out the door without another word.

(sigh)

When I grow up? I want to be just. like. her.

Dedicated to Miss Trish