that third cup...

Civic duty. n -the responsibilities of a citizen.

Duty. Obligation. Responsibility. The social force that binds you to the courses of action demanded by that force; "every right implies a responsibility; every opportunity, an obligation; every possession, a duty"- John D. Rockefeller Jr.

I received a letter in the mail a few weeks ago. Stamped 'SUMMONS' from the City of Lakewood. I felt a bit of anxiety in opening the damn thing. What does the clerk of courts want with me? Anytime I get paperwork like that unexpectedly, I can feel my abdomen tighten with trepidation.

Jury Duty.

I’ve been called to serve on a jury and I must report at 9:00 am to the court house. My first thought it Oooh! Fun! It’ll be like on Law & Order! But I’ve never watched Law & Order, so immediately you can see my brain in out of skew.

The instructions listed were to call the day before after 4:00pm to make sure the jury is going forward. I’m to understand that many times cases get settled before they actually make it to jury selection. 4:01pm I place my call.

“Hi. I received a letter instructing me to call?” I ask the woman who answers the phone.

“Your juror number please?”

“Juror number 10.” I politely respond.

“Thank you, Nancy” I’m slightly taken aback that she know my name. Caller ID? No. She’s obviously looking at a list. “I appreciate your calling. The jury is not going forward this week.”

“Aw. That’s too bad. I was kind of looking forward to it! I’ve never been called for jury duty before.”

As these words are coming out I’m instinctively reaching for my shoe so I can insert it into the hole that serves as my mouth. Shut up Nancy, my mind is screaming.

“Really?” the lady chuckles. “Would you like to serve on next weeks jury? We rarely get anyone that wants to do this, they normally call with excuses to get out of doing it. Some of them are just priceless.”

It was too late. I could have said ‘No’, but I didn’t. She scheduled me for the following weeks jury. Juror number 19 this time.

Wednesday morning as I was getting ready to leave, I started putting on the usual daily uniform. Jeans, tee, cardigan, flip flops. I looked in the mirror and thought, Duh. Show some respect to the court. You can’t wear jeans. What were you thinking? I quickly, as I’m running a little behind, change into some trousers and pumps. The rest is fine.

At the courthouse I’m guided to the appropriate window to sign in. “Good morning. Please sign your name here and print your address below, please.” I do so and respond with good wishes for their day as well. The sun is shining, the air fresh. It’s perhaps one of the nicest days we’ve had in weeks…and I’m headed into a courthouse. By my own doing from opening my pie hole a little too wide.

“Oh! Nancy McDonnell!” she exclaims. “We had a judge Nancy McDonnell.”

This I know because a.) I’ve met her before. b.) I get many official invitations to political rallies and dinners addressed to her. c.) I get offers that people would like to work on my campaigns and d.) this is the one that frightens me sometimes; I get phone calls late at night from the police station wanting me to sign emergency warrants.

No one likes to wake at 2am by a phone call that the caller ID identifies as the police station.

I was arrested once (yeah , I know. Little ol' me…I’ll tell you all about it sometime) and had the jail in a tissy because word spread that Nancy McDonnell had been arrested and was presently incarcerated. The police were very nice, I don’t think they knew whether I was the Nancy McDonnell or another…so they were on their best behavior just in case. They didn’t even put me in a cell, they let me sit at the desk until someone came to pick me up. Even brought me coffee. I guess it helps sometimes to share a name.

I smile and say, “Yes, I know. I’ve met her. But I’m not her, trust me.”

By the time I’ve been escorted to the chambers where the jury is housed before going to the courtroom I’ve gone through this schpiel several times. Finding a chair I look around. My fellow potential jurors obviously didn’t think the same thing I did about respecting the court.

Yes, there are a few that are dressed obviously for work hoping to get out of here soon. A young man with a tie; an older gentleman with trousers and tennis shoes; the lady in the suit that is busy pecking away on her Blackberry even though there is a large sign that says ‘No Cell phones’. That obviously must not apply to her.

There’s a young girl in skinny jeans, pink streeked hair and Converse high tops that looks like she works at Starbucks (which ironically during questioning later we find that she does work at Starbucks); an overweight younger man in his mid 30's with a huge black t-shirt emblazoned with Led Zeppelin over long hip-hop shorts. He looks like he still lives at home and is missing out on serious PS3 zombie killing time. His hair is longer but has that ubiquitous balding spot. He never meets anyone’s eyes. He hangs his head, fiddles with his hands and just looks angry and miserable; and a gal missing many teeth that is shoveling the donut holes the court provided into her mouth at an alarming rate. She informs us that she never is up this early. (9:15) Wow. Really? That’s so unbelievable…ha.

It’s an interesting crowd to say the least. Thirty random people in Lakewood all gathered here for their chance to serve their civic duty to their city. A few know each other and are talking about their kids soccer games or PTA meetings. Lakewood is a small town. But I don’t recognize any of these people. There is one gal that I think works at the party store, or is it the grocery? I’m not sure. I’ve seen her face but don’t know who she is.

As we are waiting in this conference room I wonder what kind of case it will be? Not much happens here in Lakewood. If this venue had been in Cleveland proper, it could be anything. But in Lakewood? I’m sure they won’t turn this into a TV show.

The baliff appears at the door. He calls our names and line us up to walk single file into the courtroom. As juror 19, I’m in the second row. They call the first eight jurors up into the stand and start their questioning. Married? Employed? Where do you work? Ever been assaulted? Ever been the victim of a crime? How do you feel the police handled the situation? Do you know any of these other people sitting by you? Anyone in your family work in law enforcement?

BlahBlahBlah
Same questions, many times over. I'm starting to get bored. I stifle a yawn.

The benches in the courthouse are wood. Like old church pews. As I’m sitting there listening I come to the realization that I shouldn’t have had that third cup of coffee. Or I should have used the restroom when they said “If you need to use the bathroom you should do so now before we go into the courtroom” Ooops.

I’m glancing at the clock as the judge is thanking us for our being here. That we will be taking breaks. That they never know how long these things will last and that by us appearing here at court as prospective jurors, this is how the justice system continues to be fair and impartial by citizens such as ourselves.

Judging by the progress made thus far, I’m thinking, You can hold it, Nancy. I’m also thinking I should’ve worn those crepe soled shoes rather than the leather ones, these click on the tile and I can’t sneak out if needed without drawing attention.

Damn.

The defense lawyer is ill-prepared. He obviously doesn’t do this much. He keeps referring to his notes and his delivery then is ill-timed because he has to keep flipping through pages. His client keeps turning his head and rolling his eyes. Even the judge is looking at him impatiently. Blue pin striped suit, double vent, jacket a little too snug. He doesn‘t miss many meals this guy. Black hair done Guido style with a little too much hair goop. He’s one of those that hangs out after work downtown letting any stray female know he’s a lawyer. I can just picture it. Fact is, when out I purposely sidestep these characters.

His client is a middle aged man wearing perhaps his best clothes. Black leather jacket and khaki pants. Black tennis shoes. Slumped shoulders, wiry black hair, mustache. The charge is assault. At a car wash.

The City of Lakewood’s prosecutor starts with her questioning of the jurors on the stand. Until she introduced herself, I figured she was a stenographer. She’s poorly dressed. As I’m looking at her, I feel badly for her. Her hair is greasy…like two days past acceptable greasy. It’s shoulder length and hangs in the back like spaghetti. She’s wearing a floral skirt. White background with large hot pink hibiscus on it. Little clear palettes make it shimmer. It would be nice and appropriate for a summer wedding or cocktail party, but not in a courtroom. I can’t see what blouse she’s wearing from my seat but whatever it is, it’s covered up by a ridiculous oversized hot pink jean jacket. Ill fitting, but a hot pink jean jacket? Ina courtroom? I’m amazed that she hasn’t been given a dress code warning by the court. She’s even wearing sandals. And do I need to mention the white at this time of year? She's got so many Glamour don'ts added up, we need not add more.

To me? By her dress alone, she doesn’t carry any importance or authority.

This is fun, watching this court of law unfold. It’s some good people watching also. Except that my stomach is now making these sounds that alerts me I soon need to use the restroom. Luckily enough, both the prosecutor and the defense attorney are satisfied with the original eight people addressed. They pull one more and send her through the same question field and they are happy with her for an alternate.

The rest of us sitting in the courtroom are thanked for our time and dismissed. I’m slightly disappointed that I didn’t even get called to be questioned, but happy in a way that I didn’t get called to the stand. I had to put a lot of things in place just in case I did have to spend the entire day here. So I’m ecstatic that on such a beautiful day I can do something other than watch these two unprepared, poorly dressed lawyers present their case.

I’m sure those called will be riveted by their performance.

I might not have been able to keep myself at break from informing the prosecutor that she’s dressed inappropriately. Maybe I’d have given her my business card. I could definitely help her with her professional wardrobe. The least I could do is to send her to my hairdresser to fix that mess.

CSI this was not. Or at least I’d assume it wasn’t even close.
I don’t watch that show either.

But now I’ve done my civic duty. I wonder if I’ll ever get called again. Probably not. But if I do, I’m not drinking coffee that day.

But I may wear jeans.
:-)

majestic trees...

Are you safe?

When you go to bed at night, do feel like your home is a safe haven for you? I’ve always felt safe in my house. It’s big. It’s sturdy. And having been built in 1905, it’s built well. Solid. Safe.

Lakewood is rather safe as well. Everything about Lakewood creates a comfort zone and sense of stability.

On the North Coast on the edge of Lake Erie we are protected from natural catastrophes as well. We aren’t in fear of earthquakes, or mudslides, or tsunamis, or volcanoes. We don’t have forest fires, or flooding, or tornadoes. We are seemingly insulated from disasters. At least those that Mother Nature is responsible for.

Usually.

The last tornado on record in Lakewood was back in 1965. But one touched down here this past Friday night.

A joke here in Cleveland is ‘the weatherman can’t tell yesterdays weather’. Or ‘In Cleveland, just blink and the weather will change.’ It’s true. It does.

Weatherbug showed on their radar that a huge storm was headed our way last Friday. Allright, so what. I did the manditory pre-storm checklist and made sure all my tools were put away. Rakes and shovels put back in the garage, garage doors firmly closed and windows closed and locked. No biggie.

The wind started picking up around 7:00pm. The rain started hammering the house at 8:12pm. And then the hail started at 9:22pm.

Large as marbles, it hammered the back side of my home. Boo had a girlfriend over for a sleepover and the sound was deafening. They were a little scared by it, but a little intrigued all the same. We don't get that much severe weather here and I don't think Boo has ever seen (or heard) hail before.

“Mommy! WHAT is that out on the ground?” Boo asked.

“It’s hail, darlin’. BIG hail.” I replied. I can't remember, if ever, I've seen hail this big myself. I remember collecting some as a child that looked like peas, but never marbles.

“It’s the size of my marbles! Can I go out and get some?” she pleaded.

“Not unitl it stops. If those hit your head, it’ll hurt. Really, really hurt. Bad.”

So we watched.
And we listened.
And it WAS scary. It sounded as if there were a firing squad out on my deck firing off clip after clip of ammunition against my back windows. I thought they would break at any moment. And then I thought about my car. I failed to put it in the garage and it was sitting out in the drive. Under the pin oak. Imight as well have painted a bullseye on it. 'Incoming!' Ugh. I hope that it makes it through this unscathed.

Then the towns siren started.
Low at first and then drowning out even our conversation. It never goes off except for testing.

“I think maybe we should go downstairs for a bit.” I calmly suggested. At least I tried to sound calm. The wild look in my eyes belied my voice.

My basement is a basement made for a house built in 1905. It’s not the rec-room basement of modern built homes. The ceiling beams hang low and the copper pipes shine in the rafters. It has a laundry room and the rest is storage. Not exactly a place to hang out. But hang out is exactly what we did.

Grabbing a couple of bean bags to sit on we cleared a small area, drug a old discarded side table over and started to play cards. One game of rummy, three of old maid and then a rousing game of concentration using not one deck but two. With the storm booming through the house periodically even the dogs and cat came down to hang with us. When the siren subsided we ventured back upstairs. The power only flickered once. Just enough to turn off any televisions and clocks so the house permeated with an eerie blue glow.

When the storm was mostly past with just remnants of gusting wind blowing swirling debris, I ventured outside to find that the hail had sheared off freshly emerged leaves from the trees. They lay covering the driveway and lawn as if it were fall. But all the leaves were a fresh green, not brown after a seasons life. Small twigs and branches littered the area. My car looked as if it had been decoupaged with oak leaves.

I walked out to the tree lawn to inspect the damage up and down the street. My neighbor two doors down lost a large limb in the storm that smashed her new garage and punched out a couple of west windows in the process.

A friend in Clifton Park had lost power when a tree fell over their street. They just moved into their home in December and have been busy with yard work this spring. Her middle daughter was having her first communion on Saturday and they were in a rush to get the particulars together for the family party. Their home wasn’t damaged, but all their new landscaping was a mess. The power was out until Monday. The party was moved and all the food perished with the outage.

Everywhere you looked there were large 125 year old red oak trees uprooted and laid out across property lines. Clifton Boulevard is known for it’s oak lined parkway. Every third tree seemed to be on it’s side. Their large root systems exposed for all to see. It was sad sight. History in the making. Or unmaking as it were.

I have a rental property on Clifton Boulevard. A three family home that I had purchased back in 1991 and have owned since then. The property has two very large oaks in the back. I’m not necessarily a tree hugger, but if it’s still alive, I’ll keep it. By their sheer size, arborists have estimated their years to be somewhere in the 130-150 year old range. Those bad boys can stay there as long as they’d like. They were here long before I was.

I don’t do much for the trees. I have them fertilized from time to time. They come and inject goodies into it’s cambium layer. For a tree it’s like me sticking a B12 under my tongue. It gives them a little boost. I have them trimmed of their deadwood periodically, but I pretty much let them do their own thing. They are healthy for trees of that age. Every so often there will be a branch that dies off. It’s the way of the tree. It reverts it’s energy to another portion of itself to keep growing.

My neighbor behind the house hates my trees. She thinks ‘They are dead or dying. Cut them down.’ But they aren’t, so I won’t. It’s a point of contention between us. She doesn’t like me because of my trees. She has even called the City of Lakewood to file a formal complaint. But the city inspector doesn’t see anything wrong with my trees either, so they still stand.

I don’t think she’s going to be inviting me to tea any time soon.

Yesterday I drove in to visit with my dad. We had a great day. And after dinner he said, “You’d best get on your way back home.”

Dad’s kicking me out of the house? That’s unheard of. He usually asks if I can stay longer. “There’s a big storm coming and I want you to stay in front of it.”

Another storm? Argh. I just dodged a bullet with that last storm! With all the trees down, having found my dead branch that my neighbor hates to have still hanging on is a miricle in and of itself. But I don’t want to have to worry about another storm coming. I do have due diligence on my side. I am in possession of a signed contract to prove I was being proactive with the trees in case something does indeed happen before they get there, but still…please don’t let that branch fall before then. My neighbor will never, ever let me hear the end of it if that happens.

I suppose that branch shows just how strong and healthy those trees actually are.
Or stubborn. (like me)

The drive home was uneventful. But I checked the Doppler radar when I got back in front of my computer. Yup. There is was. A doozy of a storm front headed right towards us. One that shows red and yellow on the radar screen.

I went to bed feeling anxious.

And the storm did hit. In the middle of the night with large crashes of lighting and booming thunderclouds. The heavy downpour left my backyard a veritable pond.

But no downed branches or leaves this time around.
And the oaks at Clifton still stand.

Standing on my deck with my coffee this morning, overlooking what more yard work needs to be done to clean up after this last temper tantrum from Mother Nature, I can envision my neighbor doing the same. She's probably having her morning tea in her breakfast nook looking into her own backyard shaded by the branches of my tree that she hates. Lines creasing her forhead as she sees her nemisis, my trees, still hanging there majestically over the back of her property.

Ha.

Another bullet dodged.
I do hope Mother Nature will take a few days off. That she will be nice to us for the next couple of weeks. I like me a good storm now and again. However I've still yard waste to pick up from LAST weeks storm, let alone the one from yesterday.

Mother Nature...please. With all due respect, just wait until the tree guys get here...
:-)

nothing but time...

Six months.

Does six months seem like a long time?
Or just a small drop in the bucket?
I suppose it all depends on who is checking. At that particular time.

Six months for a kid waiting for summer vacation seems like a lifetime. Waiting for your income tax refund check can seem like forever when you're eyeing a new patio furniture set that you shouldn't really buy. But for others? Maybe time moves much too swiftly.

In conversation the other day I learned that a friends uncle by marriage has pancreatic cancer. Still a young man by today’s standards, the doctors have informed him that he only has 6 months to live. Most of those six months he will probably not be in robust health.

It made me pause to wonder, ‘What would I do if I were told I only had 6 months to live?’

If I had an unending supply of money perhaps I’d take on that list of unfulfilled dreams and check them off, one by one, until my time ran out. But unlike Jack Nicholson in The Bucket List, I do not have a unlimited supply at my disposal. I don’t have that Black American Express card that I dream about. You know the one. It has no spending limit and the bill never comes? That one. And my money tree in the backyard seems to have shriveled and isn’t looking to grow a new root system anytime soon.

So what does one do?

That weight loss program I’ve embarked upon would seem rather futile. I seen people get into shape and lose weight to look perfect for their wedding day, but for your own funeral? Nah. Bring me another crème brulee instead.

And what about my golf game? No need to lower the handicap further. I highly doubt I’ll be playing where ever it is my soul ends up after my death.

I would still like the opportunity to hike to Machu Pichu in Peru before I die. Perhaps that trip might bring me the peace and serenity that I seek. After sitting in the clouds amongst the ruins, I could probably let go. Of everything. Perhaps I’d pass whilst there. I would physically be closer to heaven. Maybe because of my close proximity to the heavens they might let me in those pearly gates? “C’mon in Nancy. No need sending you back down.“ Peter would say, jingling the keys.

Or would I sink into depression and drown my sorrow of my ill fated pull of the lifeline straw? Open a line of credit at the local tavern and spend my days like Bukowski writing down my remorse over my impending doom.

I don’t really know. I’m not sure what I would do. Fight? Give up and resign?

I’d like to think that being of a positive nature that I’d fight back. But I can’t be positive that I would.

I’m always amazed when watching I Shouldn’t Be Alive on television. The strength that many of these people find within themselves leaves me speachless. They tenously hold on by a thread to life in certain situations that by all regards seems a hopeless cause. But they do. And they live to tell about it.

I wonder what might happen if I were caught in a canyon for days. Could cut my own arm off slowly with a pocket knife in order to make it out of their predicament after 3 days? I highly doubt I could.

I ponder if a shark just ate my leg while diving that I could garner the strength to fight back by punching it until it swam away? And then go on to be fitted for cyber legs and run marathons? There is definitely no way.

I asked a couple of my close friends what they would do. Melissa, always upbeat, said that there were some places that she’d want to return to. To basically say ‘Goodbye’ to people that who mean the most to her. The family in France and the people in Thailand with whom she lived while she was in the Peace Corp. She did say that if she had the energy that she’d make the trek to Machu Pichu with me if there were time. Always thinking of others, that gal.

Damian said he’d finally write that book. To leave something of himself behind. The book would allow him to have peace. For himself and for hopefully for those reading his words. That it might perhaps shed an understanding of peace, his peace, as guidance for others. I'd like a copy of that. It'd give me something to hold on to. Signed, of course.

And one said they’d find a way to get medicinal marijuana, dig out the old albums and live like Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix in a blissful Purple Haze until the end came.

There was a movie shown at the Cleveland Film Festival called Timer. A digital clock is implanted into your wrist that counts down the seconds until you meet your one true love. That could be rather distracting and become all consuming. But what if the watch told you the time of your death? Would you live the rest of your life with reckless abandon because you know that your time isn’t up? Yet.

I’ve got timepieces that don’t keep quite the right time. Gorgeous wrist art, but they do lose seconds. Which turn into minutes. Which turns into hours if you don’t keep track. So who’s to say that the timer on your wrist couldn’t be wrong as well?

I’d probably get one of the faulty ones. Somewhere in the universe is some sort of bias when it comes to 'all things Nancy'. I went to a meeting where someone said, ‘God won’t lead you to it if you can’t get through it.’ Well yippity-do-da. I’m so glad that He feels that I’m capable. But c’mon now. How about letting someone else get through it for a change?

I bought a pair of shoes on eBay. The seller packed them wrong; sent them in a bag, not a box. So they have creases in the leather on the front due to the handling at the post office. Easily avoided. But I let it go. It wasn’t that big of a deal. I DID let her know so she wouldn’t disappoint future eBay buyers. It was an obvious oversight due to her newness to the eBay community.

I had my house painted. They did a great job. Or so I thought. When I put the screens in this spring I found that they hadn't scrapped away the excess from the window panes up on the third floor. It wasn’t obvious from street level and I didn't know that they missed it. Solution? I could call them back and bitch, but instead of confrontation I just threw up a ladder and scrapped it off myself. No biggie.

I bought a Jeep. So far I’ve had to have it serviced for the DVD player, the catalytic converter and the drive train. All under warranty but they don’t supply loaners when service is being done. Something I got used to when I owned a Land Rover. The dealership is close to the house, so I just walked home and shopped close to home the next day or so. Why complain. I just looked at it as leaving a little less carbon footprint on Mother Earth for a couple of days. The weather was nice, so I put away the pretty shoes, pulled out the comfy ones and just hoofed it.

That’s the way I am.
I’m rather complacent. Or too understanding.

I had a tenant let me know about a couple of things at the property that he felt could be improved upon. He’d been renting the house for three years. “Nancy, when your electrician replaced the electrical boxes, I think he messed up with some of the breakers. You should have him look at it. Some breakers will switch if you have a hair dryer and the TV running and others won’t switch at all.”

First thought? Uh, Jeff. Why didn’t you tell me then? That was two years ago!

He continued with, “You’re a nice lady. Sometimes you should get mad. People are going to take advantage of you.”

Interesting comment.
One for food for thought.

Me? Get mad? Get angry?

Nah. It takes too much energy. And creates wrinkles on my forehead.
I don’t want to be one of those women that look like they are constantly mad and bitter that I see in the grocery.

So I take a deep breath.
And I take a look at my landscaping.

How IS that money tree coming along…

It better grow faster. I need the funding for Machu Pichu.
And if it doesn’t mature by then….I might get mad.

But at least my timer seems to be working. I’ve at least a few years left.
Hopefully.

 :-)

lost in different translation...

My dad is a genius.

No, really, he is. He’s a card carrying member of Mensa. The International High IQ Society. Which is pretty darn cool. IntenseGuy the other day had a blog post about the Hubble Telescope, wishing it a Happy Birthday, if you will. I mentioned to him that it was my dad’s patent that allows the mirroring system to work on the Hubble. Fact is, all mirrors now sent on space missions are because of my dad’s input to the scientific world. He's got thirty-four current patents under his name. Neat stuff.

Growing up, this didn’t mean much to me. I knew dad went to work. And then he came home. We had a pretty normal nuclear family. It was right out of Better Homes & Garden Magazine. A family of four with both parents, one son, one daughter, a dog, two cars, ranch home and a television. We went on family vacations the week after school was out. The car would be loaded, camper hitched to the back and off we would go for two weeks into the great American countryside.

To complete the picture, my mother was even a Home-Ec teacher. She wore aprons at home. We had church ice-cream socials. They had bridge parties. My brother and I would bring out the cocktail nuts, say a joke to their friends and then go to bed.

We were the typical American family.

When my brother and I got older we started to understand that my dad was more than a little smarter than our friends' dads. He had a scientific mind. He was a scientist, so that worked out well for him. He could figure shit out. When solving a problem, he would not only solve the problem at hand, but found ways to improve the original design. Routine jobs became science projects.

I hung around my dad a lot. My mom too, but I liked to putz around with him. Each day was a learning experience. I re-seated my first toilet when I was five. I knew all the tools in the tool box and their uses by seven. I helped him re-roof the house at nine. I was mowing the yard with the rider mower when I was ten and learned how to drive when I was twelve. We planted award-winning gardens. With his guidance I learned the value of money and bought my first rental at nine. I learned a plethora of things from my dad. He was, and still is, a wealth of knowledge.

When I was sixteen the family started weekly sessions with Doctor Nausbaum. He looked just like you might envision a Doctor Nausbaum to look. Mousy brown hair, big glasses, slight in stature but he didn’t miss to many meals. He had facial hair, but that wasn’t uncommon in the late 70’s. Our family scheduled weekly sessions with him to help facilitate our family communication.

You see, since my dad had such a great mind, he didn’t know how to communicate outside of the scientific world. He didn’t understand ‘feelings’. He had a hard time getting his mind around the soft sides of emotion. My mom was the lovey-dovey one to us kids. My dad was the man in the family. And up until our own free thinking ways, we never questioned it. It’s just the way dad was. But then we started to realize that our dad was different and there was a break in translation.

It not bad being different, at all. But you still need to have the communication skills at hand to well, converse. We couldn’t talk at his level and he had absolutely no understanding of ours. Enter Doctor Nausbaum.

Doctor Nausbaum had this annoying trait. He would rub his beard and sort of hummm, and say, “hmmmmm (as if in aggreement) ….so how does that make…you…feeeell? Hmmm?”

It made me want to scream. Or tear my hair out. Or as I just heard a line in the movie The Answer Man, chew my arms off at my wrists.

I can still hear his voice in my head. I can still see him rubbing his beard. I can still see his beady little eyes as he watched our family. I can still hear the Ka-ching in his head as he said “Come back again next week. We’re making progress.”

Progress? Please.

The sessions did have a benefit. It got all of us together at least once a week at that point. Me being a junior in high school, I had places to go; people to see. My older brother? He had even more places to go; more people to see. Doctor Nausbaums was not high on our list. But it succeeded in getting the entire family on the same page to understand that we disagree on different subjects. My dad would never fully understand how I resented not getting the message that one of the Daves had called, not being allowed to go to the basketball games as a punishment or missing ski club because of the Doctor Nusbaums sessions. And in turn I can honestly say in turn that I’ll never understand the process of how his brain works.

Over the years I’ve done a pretty good job translating what he says and does into human-oid terms. But sometimes my brother and I will share a shrug over the dinner table when visiting that equates to, “That’s dad for ya’.” After you Alfonzo.

I was replacing a light fixture in the hallway. It’s an old house; very old. 105 years old to be exact. The wiring in places has been replaced and in others it hasn’t. This particular light was on a four way switch. I understand basic wiring and can easily follow a diagram, yet I couldn't get this fixture to work. One switch would have the light hot all the time and another wouldn’t work. Run down two flights of stairs, turn off the power, go back up two flights and change the wiring around, run back downstairs turn the power on and let’s have a go again. Different problem but still not right. So...run down two flights of stairs, turn off the power, go back up two flights and change the wiring around, run back downstairs and turn the power on and let’s have a go again. Still not solved.

By the fifth or sixth attempt, not only was I getting an excellent stair master workout, but I was getting a little frustrated. I called my dad. He’d know what to do, I was sure of it.

“Dad…I need your help. I can't quite figure out this wiring.” I asked.

“OK. What have you done so far?” came the fast reply. He perked up with the knowledge that his knowledge was needed.

“Black to black, white to the other wire, green to ground, second black to black and well….I must have mixed up the travelor. But it’s not working.”

“So there’s two wires from the ceiling, but four in the light?”

“Yes.”

“And it’s a 3 bulb fixture?”

“Yes. But one stays on all the time and it’s not supposed to.”

“Did you change the wires?”

Duh. Many times. “Yes.”

“Did you…blahblahblahblah….” while he was asking all the did you questions, I started daydreaming and thought about the wiring and figured it out on my own. He didn’t give me the answer, but listening to his questions made me realize where I had made the mistake.

“Thanks Dad. I got it. I think I know the problem.”

“Are you sure? But….“, he hesitated, “I didn’t tell you what to do yet!”

His scientific mind had made my problem more than what it was. I just needed to attach the 3 wires to the same lead. No worries. It worked.

But that’s my dad. What he thinks is the easy fix is actually the hard way around. That’s okay. I’m older now. I get it. I understand that we see things differently. We process differently. We’re different.

He’s Mensa.
I’m not.

But I’ve got a better arsenal of common sense….so it works out.

Plus I beat him in Scrabble now three times. I wrote it down. It's a big deal. It is. Nobody beats dad at Scrabble. The game was almost made for him. The first time I caught him re-adding the scores because the game had been close. Very close. He’s one of those Scrabble players where he’ll play one letter in between 3 words and get 42 points. Tough cookie that one, my dad.

Maybe someday I’ll get to be a card carrier of Mensa. I'd wear that ring proudly. But I highly doubt that will happen. And I'm okay with that. However, I can always dream. And I can hear the voice in my head...

'But how does that make you feeeeeelll?'

:-)

perhaps a vodka gimlet...

Amusement parks are great people watching places.

Over the years, I’ve found that I can pass time faster while herded through miles of aluminum railing by looking at the other park guests. It’s hard not to look at them. You pass by many of the same faces every four minutes or so.

But the best people watching happens not at the regular amusement parks that sport roller coasters, it’s the water parks that provide the most stellar sights.

Boo had Friday off from school this week. So a few of us KoffeeKlatch moms took advantage of a weekday offer at Kalahari that was hard to pass up. A room with four water park passes, 14” pizza, 4 fountain drinks and a full spread breakfast buffet…all for the low, low price of $129.00 +tax.

Normally the same room with amenities goes for $299.00 (the cost of water park admission alone is $39 per person for an all day pass), so immediately I’m feeling all warm and fuzzy about our visit to one of the areas nicest water park facilities.

There are several Kalahari water parks. Fredericksburg, Virginia; Wisconsin Dells, Wisconsin; and Sandusky, Ohio. It’s about an hour away from our home. Easy enough to get to without becoming time consuming. It’s a great mini-vacation spot. Lots of things to do; spa, rope course, game room, various restaurants and bars, shopping and yes…an indoor and outdoor water park.

Now, I’m not a big water park gal. The idea of over chlorinated water, standing in line with others while wet and in a bathing suit doesn’t really appeal to me. Walking up stairs behind strangers with their behind in my face doesn’t appeal to me. Walking up stairs with my behind in strangers faces doesn’t appeal to me. But on the urging of my friends and my daughters insistence that “This is going to be great!”, I succumbed to the pressure and booked a room.

Checking in was a breeze. There was no line for the valet. No line for the concierge. No line for the elevator and no waiting for the bellboy. This made me happy. We looked through the large picture window displaying all of the indoor wonderland and lo and behold! there were no major lines for any of the attractions either. We raced to the room, changed into our bathing suits and off we went to see what sort of wet mayhem we could get into.

Slipping into my suit was slightly anxiety driven. I’ve not had it on since last summer. Will it still fit? Why didn’t I try the bloody thing on at home first? kept running in the back of my head. A little snug across the bust line but surprisingly a little looser across the bum. Thank you, treadmill. Bear had hers on in record time and as I was adjusting, turning this way and that in the mirror, making sure that I wouldn’t entirely embarrass myself when I dropped my cover up, she was impatient and nudging me, “C’mon already! You look fine….”

“Good enough”, I told her, “Let’s go! Nothing I can do about it now anyway!” I hadn't noticed any 10 minute liposuction kiosks on the way in, so this is as good as it was going to get. Today.

Once inside, we found the rest of our group. The adults concluded that a little liquid confidence delved out from the Tiki bar was all that was needed to drop the cover and hit the wave pool.

As I stood there dodging the waves (too much fun), I looked around me. I don't know why I had gotten myself worked up about my appearance. I hadn’t anything to worry about. I mean, yes, I would love to lose a few pounds; get myself back in to my comfort zone. But geez, some of the people here need a lesson in proper attire.

There’s the older woman, whom by the look of her figure, her hair is premature gray. White really. In good shape for her age, perhaps even a tad too thin, but has seemingly borrowed a bikini from her 17 year old daughter. It’s nice that she can borrow her daughters bikini, but I hasten to think that a string bikini adorned with bedazzled skulls is not befitting a woman of her years.

Or the late 20’s gal with her toddler son. Granted, she obviously gave birth 16 months ago, but perhaps you might save the skimpy (very skimpy) two peice for when you lose the baby weight? A few to many folds to content with…and darlin’ please! Do not bend over to grab your boy! There are people behind you! Ugh.

Or the body builder guy all tatted up in his Nautica swim trunks. Not bad. But the color combination was not. They were white, he was dark skinned. Add water…what do you think happened. Yeah. He needs a little personal grooming. Double ugh.

Not everyone at the park were Galmour No-No's. There were some very tasteful swimsuits on all kinds of body types. But there were some seriously out of shape people traipsing about in very skimpy coverings. I stood there not really worrying about my own shape any longer. But I thought about what I was seeing in front of me.

Granted, water parks aren’t where you’d expect to find the pretty people of the world. They are out in hot tubs on private yachts, lounge chairs on cruise ships and lying on beaches in Cabo. They are not at Kalahari on discount days. Even so, this is a sad state of affairs if the majority of middle America is grossly overweight.

It made me think about parts of the movie, Food, Inc. It followed a family whose parents in the documentary couldn’t afford to buy fresh fruit or vegetables for their brood, so they ate fast food instead. They wanted to buy organic for health reasons, but could only afford the dollar burgers instead. The movie is fascinating, yet disturbing. On many levels.

I love corn. Corn on the cob, canned corn, corn muffins, creamed corn. Hell, I even like corn puffs and popped corn. I got nothing against good ol’ corn. Rightly American, corn seems to be. I’ve never been to a barbeque where there hasn’t been some sort of corn product. Or two. Or three. I know when I eat corn. I can tell by the next time I use the bathroom. Not to disturb you, but after I eat corn; I inevitably can see it has passed through my system. It’s right there in brown and yellow.

That’s disturbing enough. But did you know that corn and corn by-products are hidden in products that you wouldn’t have suspected have corn in it? Most kinds of baby powders, foot powders and feminine powder use corn for their primary ingredient. Duracell Batteries, Kingsford Charcoal and Febreeze Deodorizing spray is also corn. Natural Living bedding at Target is corn. I mean, even Q-tips use corn for the stick! Who knew?

But it’s the high fructose corn syrup that is in everything. It’s a substitute for sugar and adds body to the product. Most processed foods in the USA contasin high fructose syrup. Did you know that the average American eats 41.5 lbs of high fructose corn syrup per year? Peanut Butter, condiments, breads, cereals and soft drinks to name just a few.

Outside of the fact that beverages containing high fructose corn syrup have high levels of reactive carbonyls which are linked with cell and tissue damage that leads to diabetes, they are just not good for you. With a 12 oz Pepsi containing 103% of your daily allowance for sugar (32g or 8tsp) at 150 calories and 41g of carbs, it’s no wonder there are so many overweight people. How about yogurt? Thought that was a healthy addition to your lunch routine? All those Activia commercials got ya’? 110 calories, 2 g of fat, 19g of carbs and 5 g of protein. But it contains high levels of what?…yup. High fructose corn syrup and MSG.

Studies have shown that MSG causes obesity, stress, fatigue, asthma, irritable bowel syndrome, retinal degeneration, migraine headaches and can lead to brain damage in babies and young children. I always order Chinese food and ask them to hold the MSG. I've been doing that for years. A friend, who's a personal trainer, told me to. I never questioned it, but now I'm glad I listened to him.

Corn in itself is hard for the body to process. And much of the corn we get is from Monsanto Genetically Altered corn, which scientists have just recently found causes liver damage in rats. Nice. So by reducing our intake of corn, we not only are being nicer to our bodies but may make a difference, however small, in how the mega companies make the food we eat.

I’ve given up sodas. Every once in a while I crave one, and succumb to it’s bubbly goodness. But not often. I’ve started buying from our local growers and buying organic (actually super organic as many organic products are marketing ploys). Trying to be a smarter consumer makes me feel as if I do have a choice. I remember the days when I was blissfully ignorant of everything confirmed by Food, Inc. It just makes your head spin. I hope I don't end up like Red Buttons character on the original Poseidon Adventure. A health conscious Habasasher, he places before him the pills he'll take through dinner. Not that he was having dinner like the rest, he took the pills as a substitute for actually eating. Geez, and that was back in 1972. Before Monsanto. Before Food, Inc.

I’m hoping that this time next year with the changes I’ve been making in my grocery list, I’ll be that much slimmer when I put on my bathing suit at Kalahari. Every little bit counts. Or perhaps even some of the other guests at the park might have done the same. It'd be nice not to have to endure all the plumber butt cracks and personal grooming faux pas.

But I suppose that means I'll need to pass on those Pina Coladas. Too much corn syrup. And no Icees for me ever again. 280% of the daily allowance of sugar. And that Cuba Libre? Nope. Can't have that either.

I wonder, is vodka made with corn? God, I certainly hope not.
Then I’d be royally screwed…

:-)