Microwave meltdowns, teenage trauma, and true love

published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, December 29th, 2010


My microwave is on the fritz, or is it “on the blitz?” Whatever we call this abode of dying appliances, the Great Electric Elysian Fields of Junk, my microwave oven is headed there. In spirit, it’s there already, but in the physical, its carcass remains hulking over our stove, its electronic display forever taunting me to “Press Clock” to reset the time.


It’s a long story. Do you really want to hear it? I guess that depends on what my competition for your attention is: A crying baby? A pile of bills? The Washington Post?


Thank you for peeling yourself away from that engrossing nutrition information label on your jug of milk.


My microwave has been shutting itself down in stages. It started this summer. It wasn’t one of those dramatic events, like when a toddler or preschooler has a complete, and of course, public, meltdown. There was no sudden clunking sound, no shower of sparks, no disturbing smoke. It was nothing obvious like that. It was much more subtle and invidious, like carbon monoxide poisoning, or the creeping sarcasm of a teenaged child, which sometimes feels like the same thing. My microwave slowly and painfully dug its heels in and refused to cooperate in matters that it had once anticipated and gleefully participated in. It so happens that my microwave is about five years old. In my estimation, that equates to fifteen in microwave-years?


I first noticed that the “5” on the touch-pad wouldn’t work. Perhaps it would work; but it refused to do so for me. The more pressure I applied at the keypad, the more insistent it became. Nothing could make it produce a five. Was it a nuisance? Yes. Was it debilitating? No.


Microwaving and parenting are a lot alike. It’s not that you get wonderful and instant results with a warm and toasty feeling. It’s that you learn that there’s only so much pressure you can apply to any one point without the child balking altogether.


But fear not. It’s commonly believed that parents are smarter than their progeny, despite repeated attempts at the offspring to prove otherwise. Microwaves are the same way. We could work around this. If you needed to heat something for “1:45” we just avoided the situation by heating it for one second less or more, thereby avoiding the 5 altogether. This is the same way we avoid certain triggers for certain children. Mushrooms cause a meltdown? Never serve that child mushrooms. Housework causes a child to sulk and do a slovenly job? Toss all the yard-work and lifting chores at that one.


There are even intricate ways of tricking the microwave. Bribes work well with children, but they hold little appeal for appliances. For five exact minutes of heating, one could start the microwave with four minutes and then press the “Add 30 sec.” button twice, so Ha! The microwave was not quite as clever as it had thought itself to be. Another alternative was to punch in “4:60” as the cooking time. I wish all of life’s problems were this simple to solve. Ditto on parenting.


Did I still love my microwave? Don’t I love my children? Of course I did, and of course I do. We all have our flaws (although most of us spend a lifetime seeking ours and wondering, if perhaps, we might not be that rare exception to the rule). We cannot let minor aggravations steal our joy. So the five wouldn’t work, and we could live with that. Then, the Auto Defrost button decided that it had put in a full lifetime’s worth of service (in this case, five years), so it didn’t plan on working either. Not that big of a deal, because we could at least use the Quick Defrost button repeatedly. Sometimes I feel like our whole life is a series of work-arounds.


When news of the non-cooperating microwave made its way around the house, someone suggested we apply the Master Reset Philosophy, usually reserved for computers with blue screens, to the microwave. Just unplug it for a few minutes and then plug it back in. That should reset the circuits, and all would be well.


I decided to give it a try. What could it hurt? After restoring power to the microwave, not only did the 5 and the Auto/Defrost not work, now the 7 had defected to the enemy camp. It, too, refused to work.


By the time Thanksgiving rolled around, I had to instruct my daughters as they came home from college that, “Oh, by the way, the 5,7, and the Auto Defrost” buttons don’t work. They gave me a look that seemed to say, “Is that the cause of, or the result of, our father being in the hospital at the moment?”


My husband is the sort of person who loves gadgets, which is supposed to define the stereotypical male. But his love extends beyond the lusting state, and also includes the maintenance aspect of love, which is a truer, and sadly, rarer, form of love.


To finish this love-story will require another week, and possibly another microwave.

The politics of Christmas

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, on Wednesday, Dec. 22nd, 2010.

Do you know that exciting feeling when you realize that you know someone who is rich or someone who is famous, or better yet, both rich and famous? I know; we’re supposed to be immune to that sort of worldly thinking, but there are some things that are universal, and some instincts that are so primal that you cannot control the tingle of excitement.

 Imagine my surprise when my parents and sister returned from a political fundraiser in South Carolina a couple of months ago. I was surprised, first, that they had gone, because they aren’t that politically active, but I was even more surprised by the family connections behind the event.

 You probably do not have any reason to keep up with South Carolina politics, (most people barely keep up with their own area) but the new Governor-elect, due to be sworn into office in about three weeks is an Indian-American woman by the name of Nikki Haley. Her maiden name is Randhawa, and her given name is Nimrata.
 I actually know this woman! OK – that’s a bit of a stretch. I should say, more accurately, that I knew her as a child. OK – even that’s a bit of a stretch, because when I “knew” her, I was about nine years old, and she was a mere three-year-old, a preschooler, when our families got together. That was in the mid-seventies. The 1970’s, thank you.

 Back in the seventies, before being Indian immigrants was commonplace enough to have us lampooned in cartoons or integrated into movies and TV shows as actual elements of real American society, if you were Indian, and you knew another Indian, you became best friends. Automatically. The common background and the huddling together against the foreignness and the newness of the society you had entered and wanted to be a part of, without being changed by it, were a significant enough base on which to form a tight bond.

 My parents have life-long friends and friendships that they formed that way, in addition to the American friends that they have made and stayed in touch with over the years. Surprisingly, they have maintained contact with these friends, even though their friendships were formed in “prehistoric times,” back in the Dark/Slow Age that predates the use of email and Facebook.

 We lived in a tiny town called Denmark, South Carolina. My father taught at a Black college called Voorhees College. In the patch of land devoted to faculty housing, with about fifteen apartments, there were three other Indian families. That’s a pretty high concentration of Indian immigrants in the middle of the rural South. So the families got together often. Remember, we didn’t all have cell phones and have cable television then. In addition to our fellow apartment dwelling families, there were several more established, whether more financially savvy or more secure in their immigration status, who lived in houses in the area.

 The Randhawas were one such family, and we four children would play with their four children. I, being nine, was obviously too sophisticated to be playing with the preschool set in the gathering. I was busy, I believe, doing cooler things like running into the sliding glass door in my rush to get outside to their backyard to play.

 What, you might be wondering, does any of this have to do with Christmas? See what I love about you? As if being the reader of a local newspaper in print wasn’t already enough to qualify you as an exceptional individual, you once again show your astuteness. You are wondering what, on Earth, does name-dropping have to do with this holy time in the Christian calendar.


In a few weeks, someone I knew superficially as a child will come into power. She will hold the highest office in her state. Perhaps this entitles me to call upon her or ask for special favors or privileges. Unfortunately, I never got to know her as an adult. I highly doubt that she knows me.

 For many people, Christ is that little baby in the manger. In their minds, He is forever fixed there, happy and gurgling and awaiting the gifts of the wise men who sought him from afar. They do not know much else about what He grew up to teach, how He turned our concepts of right and wrong and love and hatred right up on their heads.

 He is One on whom we can call, One who knows us and who will never forsake us. He holds a higher office than any office we can envision or approach, and yet He makes Himself available to us. We can seek Him out and petition Him. And He answers. Merry Christmas, all year long.

Marie Antoinette And The Triple Amputee

published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend, 12/17/2010 and in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, 10/11/2005.


With Christmas just days away, I’ve been thinking a lot about toys. Well, not a lot, but for the past five minutes, at least. I know I’ve had months to think about, if not act upon, it. After all, the Christmas shopping season officially began on July 5th. It used to be August 1st, but faced too much competition with the Halloween displays that now go up concurrently with the back-to-school specials. Next week, look for Valentine’s displays.


Are my kids the only ones who continue playing with toys they have destroyed?


When my eldest daughter received a porcelain doll for her fifth birthday, both she and the younger daughter stood with mouths agape, marveling at this beautiful object. Being only slightly over two-and-a-half, the younger one was allowed to touch it only under severe supervision by the elder.


A year later, the elder received a second, larger porcelain doll from my parents. This was to be the start of a collection. (My eldest son started a light bulb collection at age three; in practical terms, it was all the same to me. Those were his admired fragile objects.)


My daughter tends to be overly generous, and typically regrets it later. Soon after she had neatened the new doll’s dress, she looked at her younger sister who was still months away from turning four. She carefully brought down the first doll. Yes, the very one that had been dressed, redressed, and kept so carefully for an entire year. “Here,” she said gravely, “now that I have a new doll, you can have this one.”


The little sister looked up in wonder at the generosity of this benevolent being. She smiled, hugged it gently, cradled it, and held it to the light. It was a moment to remember, a Kodak moment if ever you saw one. And then…the doorbell rang.


It doesn’t matter how many times you tell the kids that the Boogey Man could be lurking outside the door, that he would be just the audacious type to ring the doorbell before swooping them out into the dark of night. No, tell them fifty times, and still, when the doorbell rings they all hurtle forward, jockeying to be the first to get it.


Our three-and-a-half year old daughter had been the proud owner of that coveted porcelain doll for about two minutes when the doorbell beckoned. There were the usual shouts of “I’ll get it! No! I’ll get it!” when we heard a “chink” followed by a dampened thud. I don’t remember whose eyes and mouths were rounder, but there it was…the doll had been decapitated.


That look of regret passed over the eyes of the six-year-old. You could see she was reconsidering, just a bit too late in this case. Each of them, considering the doll to be her own, was crushed, even more than the doll itself.


We thought of gluing the doll, but in the meantime, she was dubbed “Marie Antoinette.” Oddly enough, the younger continued to play with the rest of the doll, putting its stockings, shoes, and dress on and off. If there are any psychologists out there, kindly do not call me. I can get all the advice I want from the grocery store bag-persons who have, in the past, psychoanalyzed my child seated in the cart. Dressing a headless doll might seem a bit macabre, but you must agree that, minus the head, it is loads easier for small hands to accomplish.


Then, because we laughed our heads off (pun absolutely and disgustingly intended), they had to know who Marie Antoinette was, so we checked out books and read about her. About a year later, we finally did hot-melt-glue the head back on, and while the doll was never restored to its original condition, it continued to be quite a conversation piece.


I’ve noticed that the third installment of the Toy Story movie is out, just in time for the Christmas theater experience. I remember when the first one came out. When my middle son was two (a decade ago), he was thrilled to realize that the big Woody and Buzz Lightyear dolls (sorry, “action figure” is the masculine term required here) were associated with the movie. He would stand at the head of the stairs, shout “To-itty and B’yond!” and repeatedly toss the hard plastic Buzz figure in attempts at aviation. Buzz did not fare very well.


What was left of this doll was just the trunk and one complete arm. As a testament to the engineers, its wings and voice still worked. The helmet, head, and amputated limbs were stored safely away, just in case, even though it was beyond the scope of our usual panacea, hot-melt-glue. The kid continued to play with the Buzz torso. What is wrong with my children?


This year, to simplify things, I plan to give my children a cardboard box with bubble wrap, Styrofoam peanuts, sticks, and dirt and water. That’s what kids really like to play with. If you’re interested, I’ll make you a package too. For you, just $ 19.99, of course.

"What's in your wallet?"

published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend, December 10th, 2010 as "How much cash do you have on you?"

“Do you have any money on you, Vin?” my sister asks me. She doesn’t need any cash. She’s just checking up on me, like any good older sister would.


Isn’t that funny how, even though I’m 44 years old, in the presence of my sister who is two years older, I can instantly revert to my status as The Baby of the Family: the one who needs to be checked up on.


I’ve always been her pet project. I was her first charity case when she was 16 and I was 14. The first job my sister had was as a cashier at a grocery store. She was making the big bucks, with minimum wage being $ 3.35 an hour. By working every chance she wasn’t in school, she could sometimes bring home paychecks that exceeded $100. That was big bucks.


She worked at a store called Bi-Lo, which proudly advertised itself as “Bi-Lo Quality Foods.” The names of the stores used to crack up my cousins who would visit from New Jersey. Everything about the South would crack them up. “Ha, ha,” they would roar with laughter, “Who wants to buy low-quality foods?” The humiliation of living in such a backward place as South Carolina could only be heightened when we drove past the “Piggly Wiggly.” They had never heard of a stupider name. And yes, I’m allowed to say “stupider.” I grew up in rural South Carolina. Remember?


My sister would buy me circus peanuts at the end of her shift. I loved those gigantic, overly orange, super-sweetened fake things. They even tasted good if they got stale, if ever I could leave them alone long enough to get that way. I come back to reality.


“Oh, yes – actually, I have $15!” I say with a measure of triumph in my voice, knowing I just aced this particular test. This is vastly more cash than I normally have on hand, because it’s so much easier just to swipe and pay for things, and then reckon with a single bill at the end of the month.


My sister rolls her eyes. “No, really. Do you have any money on you?” she asks in exasperation. I think she means money with a capital M.


What am I going to need money for? I am in the hospital, waiting for my husband to regain consciousness, and at most, I say to his intubated and IV-laden body, “I’m just stepping down the hallway to go get a cup of coffee, okay?” I say this in an abnormally loud voice. Is it because I want him, somewhere deep below all the medications and tubes, to hear my voice and make a recovery that would be fitting for the final four minutes of a made-for-TV drama? Or is it because I want the medical staff in the ICU to hear and know that their patient, who is the sum of all their readings and measurements and charts, is my husband, and I would not normally just walk off and leave him without saying where I’m headed and when I’ll be back. “I’ll be back in five minutes, okay?” I again say too loudly. At most, I will need two dollars for the coffee. So fifteen dollars can last a week. Besides, they take cards at the hospital canteen.


My sister starts fishing around in the bottom of her handbag. “Here,” she says as she starts counting large denominations into my hand. In all, she presses two hundred dollars into my hand and refuses to take it back or to be thanked for any of it.


“Now, you always, always, should keep a hundred dollars with you – just in case.” So one of the hundreds is for spending – just in case. And the other hundred is for keeping, also just in case.


I had to laugh, remembering the time last year when I had to dispose of an hour and a half after school before a classroom potluck dinner. I planned to take my two youngest who attended school with me to a corner McDonald’s and have them eat and tackle their homework.


Inside, I saw the signs indicating that the debit/credit card readers were down. We would have to resort to primitive methods, like using cash. I had just unloaded my children and their homework folders, and I wasn’t about to reverse the process as minutes ticked away. I fished about in my purse. All I could come up with was $1.54. They each got an apple pie and they shared a cup of water.


It wasn’t exactly the fries and chicken nuggets they were hoping for, but on the bright side, they appreciated what they got, had more time to get all their homework done, and actually had an appetite for the potluck dinner.


You would think I would have learned my lesson about needing to carry cash. But like with many things in life, this was an ambivalent lesson. It worked out.


And don’t worry about my carrying too much cash around. I don’t have a hundred dollars in my purse.

How much is that ride in the high-tech whirligig…the one that could save your life?

published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend, Friday, Dec. 3rd, 2010
 I have decided not to write about my husband and his heart attack this week because I am afraid I might be boring you. It is not a good thing to beat a dead horse, and it is even worse when you use your spouse as that defunct equine. (Also, the man is now conscious and able to read this column, so I shall have to be more careful about what I reveal.) There is much more to be said (or written) on this topic, but I will save it for later, because I doubt you want to read the serial, unabridged version of my family’s crisis, week after week.

I wish this column were interactive. I could check whether your eyes are glazing over or whether you are rushing off to check the obituaries. I could ask you what sounds more interesting: a column about my progressively degenerating microwave, or a column about the myriad misadventures of my children. Perhaps family emergencies look more appealing.


I don’t have any Christmas lights up yet. I can barely understand how it came to be December so suddenly. (This is a little deceptive on my part, because I just made you think that I usually have lights up at this time. In truth, I wait until my children are on break from school or college and let them mess with the bundles of lights and whatever meager and mismatched decorations are to be propped up about the house. I am no Martha Stewart. Our formal dining table has not been seen for sometime, as it houses microscopes, gadgets, papers, and other junk associated with modern life. )


The last I recall, it was November 8th, and my husband’s heart had stopped. In some ways, that’s when time stopped too. Oh, thank you, I see you will tolerate one more column from me. But if you plan to smash a tomato on this page to register your vegetarian displeasure, let me advise you that it is better to eat it, and it is better when cooked than raw, apparently. Tomatoes are a heart-healthy food.


Last week’s column left off with my husband being airlifted to Fairfax Hospital on the day that I entered my time warp. “My only free helicopter ride,” he would say later, “and I was asleep for it!” Although I was (and daily am) immensely relieved to have him back, I had to gently inject some reality, “True, you weren’t conscious for it, but I have serious doubts about that ride being free.”


Want to know how much such a helicopter ride costs? I haven’t received a bill yet, but I’ve been able to see online that our insurance company is balking at the charge. They have disapproved of the $ 18,504 high-tech, lifesaving ride.

I will tell you upfront that I am not a big spender. To me, “expensive” is a pair of shoes that costs $ 19.99 at Payless. I much prefer to buy them on clearance, when both the temperature outside and the price of the then-useless sandals have dropped to the single-digit range.

So it might seem odd to you, but I am not in the least bit concerned about the $ 18,504 that might eventually, however slowly, have to come out of our pockets. Indeed, if every dime associated with his transport, hospital stay, and his miraculous and complete recovery (and that’s upward of ten thousand dimes) needs to be produced from our pockets, I will still not be afraid.


You might think that I am in some sort of financial denial. Granted, a charge of $ 18,504 appears to be as distant a star as a charge of $ 185,040 from my perspective, but here’s how I figure it: having my husband here, and having this brilliant and engaged father of our six children here, is worth far more to me than any mountain of dimes. I am ashamed to say that in our 24 years of marriage, I have not always felt this way. It has taken this emergency for me to realize that and to appreciate him.


And here’s what else I figure: if the God I serve is able to take a situation like this, and if the God I serve heeds our fervent and heart-felt prayers to answer and restore life, then He is not going to abandon me now. It will all be well.


I know that we must all go to meet our Maker at some point. We cannot extend life in our various carapaces indefinitely. I’m glad that my husband’s time was not now.


Please don’t think your local columnist is putting out a tin cup. I have already been overwhelmed by the care and generosity of our community and friends and family. I would not need another act of kindness, because already, my cup runneth over.


So, if all those years of saving money on shoes can now be used towards the technology, skill, and care that went into saving my husband’s life, then it has been money well saved and now, money even better spent.

A Thanksgiving to be thankful for

published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend, Nov. 26, 2010

How do I compress a miracle into 850 words? The old, flippant, me would have said such brevity would itself be a miracle. But the new me is tempered and sober. I can no longer take the name of miracles in vain.

My husband, Eldred, turned 53 last week. He was here for this birthday, thank God, having been pulled off of Death’s doorstep three weeks ago. My husband is alive and well and at home, and it is nothing short of miraculous.

He spent twelve days hospitalized: eight in intensive care, and five of those, unconscious. Without the access to technology, skilled personnel, transportation, and communications available in this era and in this area, my husband would not be alive today. Were it not for your ardent prayers – thank you - and those of many others, and sheer divine mercy, he might not be here.


Eldred suffered a massive heart attack and cardiac arrest in the early morning hours on November 8th. Thank God I was nearby. Thank God for the competent and calming woman who answered my hysterical 911 call and walked me through CPR. Thank God he was walking when he collapsed, or he might have expired unnoticed in the chair where he had just finished an email. Thank God he wasn’t driving, or he would surely have lost his life, and possibly taken others with him. Thank God for the EMS who came at once and transported him to Fauquier Hospital as soon as they had him on drips and a ventilator.


While the paramedics worked, I called the Headmaster of my school, Dr. Young Shin. “I’m not coming to school today,” I babbled repetitively. “Eldred…Eldred…Eldred…” was all I could sob before getting any coherent information out to him. That he understood me is amazing. He and the staff and families at Providence Christian Academy have been incredibly good to me.


When I got to the ER, I knew things must be really bad, because they would not let me go to him immediately. The Fauquier Hospital staff were wonderfully supportive, particularly a lady by the name of Ina, who insisted I put graham crackers and juice into my bag, reminding me to take care of myself while medical experts took care of my husband. It was soon decided that he be airlifted to Inova Fairfax Hospital for an emergency catheterization procedure.


My pastor, the ever-loving Dick Wright came to both hospitals. Before “retiring” to pastoral work in 2005, he was the most widely syndicated political cartoonist in the US and a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize. His gifted hands held mine in my hour of despair.


“I can’t lose him, right?” I beseeched Dick through tears early that Monday morning in the ER of Fauquier Hospital. Had I ever really appreciated my husband of 24 years? Pastor Dick reassured me I would not lose him and that he himself is a walking showcase of cardiac work.

Before leaving the hospital, I watched from a distance as my seemingly lifeless husband was hoisted from the gurney into the garish, blue helicopter. How our boys would have liked to see such a helicopter from up close in happier times. It was an eerie feeling to be left holding a “Patient’s Belongings” bag that contained all of my husband’s clothes that had been safety-scissored off of him. Please, Lord, don’t let this be my last memory of him. Please don’t let him die.

When I got home, I felt lost and stupid. I needed to notify my husband’s workplace, but what was his director’s phone number? All I had was my husband’s desk number at work. I called it, hoping to get an option to reach an operator, but I got a generic voicemail. I checked my husband’s cell phone, but that was of no use. After Googling and a few phone calls, I left a message explaining my husband’s absence.


I mapped out directions to the hospital, and left money with the children at home. No one would be going to school that day.


Elizabeth Baden, my sweet, bubbly friend from church and several others offered to care for my four children left at home (the two older girls are at college), but I felt comfortable leaving my eldest son, just months shy of 16, in charge.


At worst, he might torture the younger ones with perplexing math problems. Perhaps hygiene would be neglected. Perhaps they would watch too many cartoons. None of those things, ordinarily of great concern, mattered now.


Don’t brush your teeth. Don’t change your underwear. Watch “Kung Fu Panda” all day long. None of it will matter if we lose your father.


Incidentally, the kids performed remarkably well: They cleaned themselves and the house, which had looked like a disaster zone well before my husband’s episode. I’m thankful for my children. I’m thankful to have my husband back.


This is the most thankful Thanksgiving I will ever have had. I plan to treasure each day and each person in my life, including you. Happy Thanksgiving. I plan to give thanks daily.

How to milk rabbits

published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend, Nov. 27, 2009

Did you know that you can milk rabbits? A mother rabbit only nurses her kits once or twice a day for fewer than five minutes. Even with such Spartan feedings, these little creatures grow from blind, limp, hairless rats to become small, fuzzy hoppers. In three weeks, they are a perfect miniature of a rabbit. If anything affirms the love of our Creator, it is in seeing new life.


Maybe you can’t milk rabbits, but I know how. This is my fourth (but not final) column on the pet rabbits we had in California. As a matter of fact, today's' column marks my 80th one since coming to Warrenton in 2005. (Not that I’ve been keeping track.)


We had rabbits for eighteen months a decade ago, and now I’m going to talk as if I'm some big rabbit expert. This is the miracle of American marketing. (The “big” part I’ve attained, but “expert” is doubtful.) Soon you are going to believe that I am, indeed, a big rabbit expert. This is the miracle of American consumerism. Someone puts it out there, and many of us gobble it up.


Here's a brief recap of my rabbit columns. (Like I am acquainted with “brief.”) We thought we had three female rabbits, but we had a reverse trio: two males and one female. (Usually a trio consists of one buck and two does.) While under the impression that females were housed together, there was some unauthorized mating. When the males were together, there was unauthorized fighting. No, I'm not talking about dorm arrangements – we are still talking rabbits.


My husband had threatened to do target practice on rabbits if they cost him one second of time or caused him one ounce of sweat. Soon, he was busy building a six-foot hutch with three separate enclosures. The much sought-after female was soon with kits. A rabbits can bear one to fifteen of them in about 31 days. Right after kindling, rabbits are not averse to immediately repeating the cycle.


My older daughters were nine and seven when they marked the due date on the calendar. As they counted down days, the two little Marsha the Milkmaids calculated their profits. They were going to sell baby bunnies, of course.


They set their prices – should it be $ 5 per rabbit, or $ 20, like the pet store? Oh, fine – they could charge like the pet store. Their line of imaginary customers was undeterred by price.


How many bunnies should they bank on? The books said a litter could consist of one to fifteen, so they would be conservative and estimate a dozen. This female rabbit was looking more and more like a cash cow. Her litter could generate $ 240. I tried to inject doses of reality, but it's hard to be the hypodermic syringe in someone's hot air balloon of joy.


As the day approached, we put in a nest box. Sure enough, the morning arrived. The girls came squealing in from the backyard. There were four bunnies. Look, look! My daughters had brought them in. Two that they held out were cold and stiff. “Oh, honey,” I knew they had never touched death before. Fuzzy, the mother, must have kindled in the night, but not into the lined nest box. A kit that has fallen out of the nest box can sometimes be warmed and “brought back,” but these were too far gone. The other two had bloodied forepaws. Had Fuzzy been a little overzealous in cleaning her babies?


We then made the fateful decision to take over the care of the kits. Fuzzy was a novice at this. We should have realized then that so were we. We read up and prepared the substitute formula, complete with bonemeal. We put the babies into little newborn socks. We got droppers out and got busy playing mother rabbit. It didn't take long to find out that the Good Lord has already done a perfect casting job. Real mother rabbits suit that role best. The two little survivors did not make it long under our care. One got too cold, and all our desperate rewarming efforts were of no avail. We overfed the other baby or fed it too quickly. Dropper poised as usual, at the tiny mouth of the newborn, the babe sputtered as it suckled, and formula seeped up out of its nostrils. Death is a terrible enough thing to witness. Worse still is when it comes from your hands.


We were going to have a few more tries before our adventures were over. But at that time, we learned ever so much, far beyond the “don't count and cash in your bunnies before they hatch” aphorism. We learned the wonder and marvel of life itself, and the beauty of the Breath of Life. We learned that we do not hold it in our hands, and we have not the power to give it.


I hope you and your loved ones had a wonderful Thanksgiving together. Thank you, Friend, for being my reader.

Dear Null Null…

Published in Nov. 19, 2010 edition of The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend

“Dear Null Null,” begins an endearing and personalized letter to me. Perhaps I exaggerate when I say “letter.” It’s just an email, since no one spent time or money on a postage stamp.

I know the Bible says that we should humble ourselves, because that is far more pleasant than when others have to do it for us. But being called NULL NULL really hits below the belt. That’s several shades worse than being zero. Zero is at least a number that can be represented, whereas NULL indicates a void – a field in someone’s computer program that hasn’t been given the breath of life of one’s or zero’s or any combination thereof. It hasn’t even been filled – you are empty and nothingness. You are not even zero. Hello, NULL.

Repeating NULL, on the surface, could be viewed as the placeholder for your last name. But the people who sent me this email must know I come from a Hindi-speaking household. In Hindi, to emphasize or express something in its superlative form, you just double the adjective. For example, “garam” means hot, as in temperature – not pungency as in food or in the slang form used by so many tweens to describe the vampire person in Twilight. So, if I want to describe a steaming appetizer, I would say “garam garam samosa.” Or a wonderfully hot cup of tea would be “ek cup garam garam chai,” where “ek” means one, and “cup” said with a non-aspirated, Hindi accented, “k” sound (no puff of air following it) means cup, and of course, chai means “tea.” Please don’t say “chai tea” because you are American, and saying “tea tea” makes no sense.

Being NULL NULL makes me doubly nothing, super-void. This makes me ponder black holes and the like, and since I am not a qualified physicist, I stop that sort of thinking immediately, before I get sucked into something too deep for me to comprehend. I am still trying to understand the complicated system of grocery store coupons.

And I am trying to understand why I keep getting weird communications by email, like the one from the friend of a long-lost relative. I don’t tend to be a terribly suspicious person. This email says it’s from a “Friend of your Late Uncle George” who recently died in some foreign land, and, unbeknownst to everyone else, this Late Uncle George, whom you didn’t even know you had, had a stash of millions of dollars, and this friend will be happy to share half of that with you, because that’s just the sort of person he is.


There’s just one minor complication, however. This was all done in secret, although no one is implying that Uncle George was in any way a criminal. He was the trustee of something, but now power in that country has changed hands (which might imply that money had also changed hands), but the Evil People in charge would now be unwilling to share the funds that Uncle George had so skillfully and shadily acquired. Could you please just wire about $10,000 to this old friend of your unknown uncle, so he can tap into the millions for the both of you? Thank you. He will be in touch as soon as you send all your bank information. Promise. By the way, don’t mention this to anyone, because then the whole deal would be over, and the Evil People would squander the funds by distributing it to the poor. Also, everyone else may have gotten this same email.


Here’s another suspicious thing lately: we’ve received five phone calls from our Ohio bank, “just checking to see if we are happy with everything.” What, are they going to offer me some kind of counseling if I’m not? The first time, as soon as I said everything was fine, they were ready to disconnect. That made me really suspicious. Not so fast. So I asked a few questions about their new features, such as deposits online, just to make sure the person calling me really had some connection to the bank.


Last night, when I got the fifth call checking on my Happiness Factor, I did not bother to hide the irritation in my voice. “Look, I was happy with your service before you started calling me every evening. While this might be a courtesy call, the depth of your courtesy is beginning to grate on my nerves. If you want me to be happy, you need to remove me from the list.”


According to Jim on the other end of the line, that has now been done, which is a good, good thing. After all, there is only so much attention that NULL NULL can handle.

Do Not Be Still, Heart of My Heart

Written 11/11/2010. Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend on 12 Nov. 2010

Do I write this or not? I have wrestled with that question, and after thinking and praying, I have decided that my husband, my family, and I, need as many prayers as possible to be lifted to the Lord of Heaven and Earth.


My husband is a very private person. This may surprise you, considering he is essential to my writing, but he’s a good sport, as long as I don’t give out too much information.


He would not want me to relay this, but I am going to be selfish and thoughtless and tell you anyway. If you read my column every week, then we can consider ourselves friends. So this is just between us, as friends. If he doesn’t like it, he’s going to have to regain consciousness and tell me off. I would love that. I’m waiting for that.


Our life has changed dramatically this week. Early Monday morning (Nov. 8th), I was downstairs to prepare for the school day at about 3:00 am. No, it’s not that I’m such a hard worker; it’s that I am a chronic procrastinator. Eldred came down around 4:00 am, asked for Ibuprofen, and went back upstairs to try to sleep. Half an hour later, he came down to ask for another tablet.


“Are you getting the flu?” I asked.


“Just give me the other tablet,” he snapped. I did not take offense, because pain can make anyone snappy, and obviously he was in pain.


Eldred almost always makes the coffee, and brings me my cup in bed. But this time I could offer him his cup. “No, just give me some ice chips and water.” He said he might just take a sick day since he wasn’t feeling well. Ice water in hand, he finished his emails.


Later, he walked into the kitchen to get his coffee. I heard a tremendous crash. It sounded like an entire shelf had fallen off the pantry. I dashed around the corner and was momentarily confused. Where had he gone?


It was then, to my horror that I realized that the crash had been my husband hitting the floor, all six-foot-one-inch and 235-pounds of him, lying there. His head was almost under the kitchen sink, and his feet were toward the pantry. The cup had shattered somewhere along the way, and coffee was spilled on the stovetop and pooled around his feet.


I shrieked, and could get no response from him. I called 911 and cried hysterically into the phone. All of August’s CPR training had fled my mind. I was a wreck. The dispatcher calmed me down, got information, and had me begin with two breaths, followed by 30 compressions to the heart. I counted each pump, crying. On each 30th compression, Eldred took a big gasp of air that both surprised and frightened me. My high school and middle school sons had heard the commotion and came down, along with my second-grader daughter.


The rest was a blur of lights and sirens, paramedics, tubes, shock treatments and phone calls. There was Fauquier Hospital and his airlift to Inova Fairfax Hospital, where we are now. We wait. I wait.


Can life be this fragile? It is here one moment, and then, in an instant, the life we have known and grown accustomed to, and sometimes bored with, is swept away from us. It swoops down upon you in a single devastating moment, and you watch helplessly as the shards and splinters of your life are carried away in the tidal wave.


Is it gone, our life of Saturday mornings together, sneaking out to Panera before the kids wake up? His warm, warm hands and the shared jokes – is all that gone?


Here lies the most brilliant man I have ever known. He cannot share his insights on history or explain that physics problem to our sons. He cannot advise my daughters on their course registration for spring. He cannot tell me what to do about the car, or anything right now except to lie here and, hopefully, heal.


He is sedated. A machine is breathing for him. A tube through his nose is sending his nourishment. He could explain all this equipment to me, this amazing teacher, if only he could get up.


Will he? His life – our life – everything, it seems, hangs on the balance. I think he will be back to his usual self, even if it takes months. I have to believe that, because I can’t do this thing on my own. I really, really, need him. I wish I had ever told him that in a clear and beautiful way before.


Daily, step by step, there is reason for thanks and room for hope. He’s in there, somewhere just below the tubes and pads and medications.


Pray that he comes through unscathed. Pray that the right side of his heart will begin pumping again. Pray that he loses none of his brilliance and humor as he heals. Pray that he be made whole again.


And in case you don’t know this, I really appreciate you, my friend. Thank you.

**********
Update: Nov. 15th, 2010 - Eldred is back! He is himself - laughing, joking, and asking detailed technical questions of the medical team. Thank you, Lord!  Thank you, family, friends, church family, and readers for your love, prayers, and support.

Readers beware. Readers, be scared.

published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition of Feb. 6th, 2009:

Peladophobia is becoming a rampant problem with middle-aged men, and if you have been watching cable TV, you will know this well. School and community professionals should employ an early detection system to screen people for this social ill. In case you didn’t know it, peladophobia is the fear of bald people. In our society, it is not technically the fear of bald people, but the fear of going bald ourselves that truly plagues us. The only thing that might be remotely as frightening as going bald is the fear of being too hairy. I would have used the term “hirsute” for “hairy” here, but I am not allowed to.

My children – yes, my own flesh and blood, accuse me of embellishing, sorry, padding, this column with unnecessary vocabulary words when ordinary (pedestrian) ones will do. They do read this column, although it is sometimes under duress. I used to bribe them into reading, but I now find that threatening them is faster, easier, and cheaper (or “more expedient, effective, and economical” if I’m allowed to use my own words). Not only is it easier on the pocketbook, it is quite possibly better for their character development.

When bribes and threats fail to entice them to read, I have two other techniques in my arsenal to encourage them to read my writing.

Scene 1: “Mom, have you seen my physics book?” I survey the seventeen stacks of books that have come to live on every horizontal surface that used to be visible. Only the floor is sacrosanct, and therefore safe from our vertical library piles. (I am afraid I will be one of those people who is one day discovered with books, papers, and Christmas cards from the past 35 years piled knee-high when the authorities are sent in to investigate an unholy smell.)

Even the high chair has been standing sentry for the past two years, its cavern piled high with books, notebooks, and papers from the seat past the height of the little table area which once held small meals on a Cookie Monster melamine plate, waiting for its contents to be dropped below, or ground into the table, or otherwise rejected. Why do we use plates on high chairs at all? I know; you’re going to pull that hygiene argument out of your un-infested, hygienic hat, aren’t you? Well, the little high chair table surface needs no longer suffer these indignities. It has become home to the electric pencil sharpener. I check our bookcases that are stuffed double deep in several places.


“Oh, wow!” I announce triumphantly, pointing to Pile # 13A. This pile has been intelligently stacked, teetering over the edge like an experiment in center-of-gravity by some unknown genius in the house. (This is probably the same character that never reloads the toilet paper, waiting for the empty cardboard roll to spontaneously regenerate itself.)


This pile is an upside down pyramid, massive anatomy textbooks have been stacked atop the tiny, antique math books my husband had used in his school years and has brought back from India for our kids’ training (torture). These tiny tomes don’t mess around. There are no pictures, no colors, and no clever problems involving which country recycles more than others, or which community once served the largest cake that was ever baked. You know the magaziney-textbooks that get swapped out every few years? An entire page is loaded with full-color photographs of the cake, and two ample paragraphs about the community that got together to bake it. Following that is a recipe for their cake, and finally, at long last, there are a couple of token problems on finding the area and perimeter of that cake. Here, imagination must be set aside, and the cake is simplified into a two dimensional rectangle.

No, these books are the size of an adult hand, and were used by the student two years in a row. There are succinct paragraphs on how to do something, like find the least common multiple, three examples, and then, literally hundreds of problems. All of the problems have answers in the back. The author expected the student to know the times tables and squares up to 20, and know what all the primes are up to 100, at least. You would be crazy to use a calculator, because most everything cancels out – as long as you know your times tables.

“Your physics book is right there, of course! It’s just under this week’s column. What? You haven’t read it yet?” Bingo! I have finally snagged a reader. It doesn’t take much inducement to get some people to put off doing their physics homework.

Scene 2: I wait for an audience of a few young people. I walk about, giggling and chuckling to myself. (“This is weird,” they think. Mom is in a good mood, and she hasn’t barked out orders at anyone nor is she lecturing anyone.) Their first response is to run and check the fridge to see whether I might have possibly opened the bottle of mango rum that my sister gave me eighteen months ago. No, it is intact. They are safe. Mom is not intoxicated, but she is acting bizarre and demented, nonetheless. Perhaps it would have been more comforting if alcohol could have been blamed.

My next outburst of maniacal laughter piques their curiosity. “What is it, Mom?” They have finally taken the bait. “Oh, it’s nothing.” We play this game for a few seconds until I finally say, “Oh, I was just remembering what I wrote about you this week.” If that doesn’t send at least one scrambling to read, I threaten them each with some household chore, and that usually does the trick. Yes! I have suckered a couple of other readers.

After all this effort, what do I get from my closest, 24/7 associates? I get constructive criticism, of course. Some of it is valid. For example, I had written about an author who used her husband’s toothbrush to clean up the toothpaste globs he left in the sink. My physics-avoider pointed out that it sound like Toothpaste-Avenger and Laura Doyle, author of “The Surrendered Wife” that I had discussed in the preceding paragraph, were one and the same. In fact, they were not. So she was right, but one should be careful in letting sixteen-year-olds know they are right, because they hold that over your head all the time.

At other times, I get sharp inhalations of breath and accusations like, “Mom! Did you get Isabel’s permission to use her name in here?” Yes, of course, I had talked to sweet Isabel first. Perhaps because my children have routinely witnessed me doing stupid or embarrassing things, they have difficulty believing that I can manage as an adult without their advice.

 Sometimes the writing elicits groans, “Ew! Mom, did you have to say that about the sapling supports not being the only things sagging around here? Some of my friends read this, you know.” Good. First, it helps to know there are other readers. Secondly, I now have ammunition with which to threaten them the next time they’re getting too uppity.

But the most disgusting feedback I get is, “Mom, why do you have to use stupid vocabulary words in there all the time?” Okay, to be fair, this comes from the one that is home-schooled. He keeps a vocabulary notebook in which he enters and defines every unknown word he encounters. Sometimes, it’s a little embarrassing, like when he ran into what he thought was “afro-ha-desic.” Don’t get scared about what we’re learning. We started with an article on Rhodesia, which led to reading about Zimbabwe, followed by wildlife in Africa that are sometimes slaughtered for their parts which are believed to have aphrodisiacal qualities. This requires learning about Aphrodite, as well as how to pronounce the original word. Do you think there is a problem with this sort of stream-of-consciousness learning?

So, you have a problem with the vocabulary, and with stream-of-consciousness? Well, that really puts me into a rebellious mood. I learned a new word this week: prelapsarian. It has to do with the state of things before the fall of mankind. I learned that word, and now, I’m not even going to work it into this column.

Fear of hair, in case you were wondering, is chaetophobia, or hypertrichophobia, or trichopathophobia, or trichophobia. How’s that for vocabulary? Spell check is choking on these. I wonder what home-school boy is going to think when this one prints. Provided, that is, that I can get him to read it.

Why I Hate Halloween

This is my least favorite holiday of the year. It’s when innocuous places such as your local greeting-card store start hanging cardboard skeletons on their front doors. Not that I mind my children learning anatomy and respecting a skeleton for the incredible feat of God’s design that it is, or knowing that we carry a version (plus or minus a few floating ribs) inside of us all year long. Why should they fear their own bodies?

It’s not the skeletons that disturb me. Nor is it the underlying ancient celebration of evil. It’s just the amount of candy I, as a loving and caring parent, am annually compelled to eat. My kids do not go trick-or-treating. Yet I like to keep at least a 4-lb bag of miniature chocolates for the kids who might knock at my door.

I don’t want to look like a cheapskate and give them a 30-minute lecture on my feelings about Halloween when all they really want is candy. With my upbringing in an Indian family where my mother could keep four burners on to whip up a feast for unexpected visitors, I wouldn’t know what to do if I ran out of candy.

You can’t open a roll of lifesavers and drop them one-at-a-time, can you? You’d be suspected of poisoning or lacing the candy with drugs. (Not that the germs on the fingertips of many meal-preparers are a desirable alternative, but still, you feel some obligation to health standards.) Parents of trick-or-treaters should demand that participating homes turn on porch lights, and display a Department of Health certificate showing that their candy is safe to eat, nutritious, and of course, low in fat.

Remember the lady in your childhood who refused to distribute candy? What a party pooper! Her porch light was on, but when she came out with her “goodies” there was an awful thud as a big red apple crashed into your bag, pulverizing your Smarties to look like old-time medicinal powders. Not only was this accursed apple devoid of added sugar, fat, preservatives, artificial colorings and flavorings, it also occupied half the volume of your bag! Who would dress up and pound the pavement in the dark for a healthy snack? After all, this was back in the 1970’s, when French fries and ketchup counted as two servings of vegetables. That lady was an extremist in her day!

I expect to be stuck with 3 pounds of artificially flavored and colored sugar and fat, neatly wrapped in morsel-sized packaging. And like any other conscientious mother, I’m not going to let my kids eat any of it! Okay, maybe they can have one or two of pieces on the days when they’ve eaten all their dinner (gratefully), done their school work and chores, tidied their rooms, played nicely, not whined, taken naps, and in general, made sycophants of themselves. But that will still leave me with at least 2½ pounds’ worth. I wouldn’t dare stuff that into their growing bodies, and also, out of consideration for all those I have ever seen going hungry, I won’t throw any of it away either.

So, the choice is obvious - I’ll have it in the dark of night as I’m cleaning my kitchen (if I’m cleaning my kitchen) when the entire household is asleep: the epitome of maternal sacrifice for my children’s health.

Perhaps I shouldn’t be so selfish. I should care as deeply for the children who come to my door as I do for my own kids. Let’s give them something healthy too. Can you get individually wrapped edible Styrofoam (AKA rice cakes)? How about little bottles of drinking water or boxed raisins?

I’ve got it! Boiled eggs – all natural, biodegradable, tamper-proof packages of protein. And children, you needn’t worry; I’d never be so heartless as to give out apples. That incident alone has scarred me for life, or I’d have trick-or-treated into my teens…you know, like the “big kids” who pop one pillowcase on their heads and carry another as the treat bag.

While I’m in this altruistic mood, what shall I punish myself with? Whoppers are good: they keep well in apron pockets, and, should anyone happen to suddenly intrude, can be discreetly pushed to the side of one’s mouth without serious breath alteration. And as long as I plan to suffer, I wonder if Whoppers come in gallon-sized jugs.

Tackle the Toilet: Take the Plunge! (PG-13)

published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend, February 20th, 2009

This is it. I’ve had it. I’ve completely had it.

Before I begin my diatribe, I will spend a final sane moment and warn you that today’s column is NOT for the young reader. This column is rated PG-13: Pretty Gross, even for 13-year-olds. (Now that I have perked up the interest of those who are too young to ordinarily be interested in what I have to say, I will begin.)

Someone has habitually been breaking into our home. The doors and windows, as flimsy as they are, show no signs of forced entry. No alarms go off. Our dog never makes a racket. If either dog or alarm were operational, we could catch the villain in the act, but s/he always gets away.

Yet, I am certain that someone has been entering our home.

How do I know this? I have evidence, that’s how. It is a very nasty sort of evidence, but the intruder always leaves something behind. Man or woman, boy or girl, s/he always leaves the same crappy calling card.  It is a clogged toilet.

Why not pin the blame on a member of my own household, you say? I see. You, too, are a simple-minded thinker like me, because I had initially come to the same conclusion. Simple minds are so easily distracted by the obvious.

We are happily and simple-mindedly going about our own business. Sometimes this business involves the lifting of the toilet seat cover, either for personal use, or to facilitate the planting of a young-one, pants down, for a little visit until they call to be wiped when…simulate music from Jaws here…we discover that Something is rotten in the Town of Warrenton. And it’s right there, in the toilet bowl! Paper is puckered into the little hole that apparently just couldn’t chug, chug, chug this stuff away, no matter how much it thought it could or how much we wished it would. There is a disturbing lack of water in the bowl, and an even more disturbing proliferation of solid material.

Back when I thought like a simpleton, I would see this and fume. “All right! Who clogged the toilet this time?”

In a household of this size, it is hard to keep track of who has gone, or when, or in which particular bathroom. So, when I bellow like a beached beluga, I get one of two responses. The most common response is no response. When you sound like an animal in your own home, people refuse to condone that type of behavior and simply ignore you. Sadly, this is a system of which I was a big proponent. It works wonders on shrieking two-year-olds, but is even more maddening when applied on a full-grown adult with a bloated bladder.

The other response I’m used to hearing is a series of sweet and innocent-sounding “Not me’s.” Of course, it couldn’t be you, with your angelic face. I carried you within my own body for nine months, where you proceeding to squash and smash my bladder. I carried you and cared for you from the earliest times of your infancy, when you controlled my every waking moment. You controlled when or whether I was allowed to eat, sleep, or use the bathroom. And, no, it couldn’t be you, who as a toddler followed me everywhere, and made me suffer your constant company even when I needed a few moments of privacy with the toilet.

You have caused me nothing but suffering in the toilet department all your life, so of course, it couldn’t be you. That’s too obvious! It must be Mystery Man on the Go…again…and again who breaks into our house, feels the urge, begins to purge, and either forgets to flush or is unsuccessful in doing so. He has to be the one who ends up clogging the toilet.

I don’t know a lot about toilets, but I have learned how to plunge them. Being the sort of person who is interested in life-long education and an educated youth, I have trained everyone in the double-digit age range in our house in this simple plunging exercise.

Our home was a new construction, so our American Standard toilets are 6.o Lpf or 1.6 gpf. I’m no do-it-yourselfer, and I know very little about toilets, (except that there should be a bowlful of clear water in them before each use and after each flush). Regardless, I will venture to say that 6.0 Lpf means each flush consists of 6.0 liters of water, which is the same as 1.6 gallons being tossed at whatever you can send its way. I don’t know what the “old” flushing standard was in the good old days when we didn’t care about our food, our water, our planet, or whether the pollutants we left behind could make a tear trickle down from the eye of a weathered Native American man on commercial television in the 1970’s.

How much water does the new flushing standard save? I’m not sure. I suspect the data is skewed, because some people in our house routinely flush multiple times after a single visit, desperately hoping that the next 1.6 gallons will do the trick that the earlier, lethargic one could not.

Once upon a time, when I was a kinder, gentler person, I would have sighed after the chorus of “not-me’s.” I would have picked up the trusty implement and taken the plunge. I had resigned myself to the fate of ACP (anonymous clog plunging) forever, and wrote it off as one of those petty or unpleasant tasks that falls upon the sagging shoulders of the happy homemaker.

But then, something snapped. Perhaps it was being forty-two years old, and still having to routinely perform ACP throughout the house. Perhaps I had achieved and exceeded my lifelong ACP quota at a relatively early age. Or, perhaps, like stores who shower the nth customer, I had performed an ACP for the nth and final time, and now it was time to pass along the baton (or plunger) of knowledge.

At any rate, one fine day I decided my plunging services, like me, were exhausted. I allowed a clogged toilet to fester, because no one would ‘fess up. (Naturally not. We all realize it was Mystery Man.) I realize that this has not been a pleasant thought. But I assure you, the sight is far worse than the thought. If you were just enjoying a nice snack or a drink, I apologize.

Day One. I announce that I have retired from ACP. Some other heroic, altruistic soul is going to have to step up to the plate (or bowl) and do the duty, even though it had not been his or her fault. No response.

Day Two. Would the guilty party please just go and plunge the thing, because that bathroom has become entirely unusable. No response.

Day Three. Assemble the children. (It was close to Christmas at the time – perhaps that might have explained the little present?) “Hey, guys, you know how in some families people choose names to give each other presents?” Yes, yes – their eyes light up. To this I actually get a response, and it is in the affirmative. I sense excitement and a keen desire to participate. All people of plunging age have their names written down, and the youngest child in the house drew a name. “Here,” I say, “you get plunging duty on this one.” It was not a pleasant task, but I must say that I admire the fortitude with which the unlucky child approached the task – with plunger in hand, he almost looked like a soldier going off to war.

Yesterday, it happened again. So at night, I allowed each potential plunger to draw lots. It was very Biblical, I thought – just like when Jonah was on the ship and no one knew why they were having horrible weather problems, or when they needed a quick replacement for Judas Iscariot’s twelfth disciple position. Each paper had “Freebird” written on it, save but one. That one had the dreaded “Clogger” written on it. The children hesitatingly drew their lots. A sudden cloud of doubt fell around the child who pulled “Clogger.” The others viewed him with a sense of sympathy and doubt. (His name had been pulled on the Christmas name-drawing as well.)

Experience is a great teacher, and this one thing I have learned: you don’t have to wait three days before drawing names. I just wish I had learned this technique years and years ago.

On snakes and getting organized

My house is a shambles at the moment. And I’m not talking about the fact that I have a small snake in my refrigerator.

Don’t worry; the snake is dead and it’s double bagged. Also, don’t worry about the economy being bad. Snake is not on the menu. It was dead in the Vint Hill area, so I picked it up with my hand inside a gallon-sized Ziploc bag. I know you’re worried about my safety, so let me reassure you that I first took the precaution of making sure the snake was dead by taking my sandal off and very scientifically tossing it in its vicinity. Seeing that the snake had no reaction, I concluded that either the snake was dead or was male, and could not even feign interest in my shoe, however stylish.

I was going to keep little Snakey for the next day’s life science and biology class to view under the stereomicroscope. This is the one good thing about not throwing things away: You never know when you might need a gallon-sized bag in your purse. Finding those items, when you are a hoarder and you actually need them, of course, is another matter.

I suppose I shouldn’t complain about the state of my house, because it could easily get worse. It often does. I’m not the most organized person, and the more that is going on in my life, the more it shows.

For example, I’ve been carrying a birthday card for a niece in my purse. Sorry. I guess that was a dangling modifier. You’re going to think I also keep a niece in my purse. Sometimes it gets so heavy that it feels that way. If she didn’t mind hanging around under my armpit and could help me locate things in that abyss, it might be worth a try. But let me rephrase that: In my purse, I have a card for my niece. It’s already written in and in its own envelope. All I need to do is address it and put a stamp on it to actually get it out. Her birthday was at the beginning of the month. Should I send it now even though it’s late? Should I save it for next year? And who’s to say whether I could find this card eleven months from now. I’m having trouble remembering where I last left the stamps last week.

I need to get organized. I know that people say getting organized is a life-long process. It’s taken my whole life, and I still haven’t gotten there. Maybe it’s not a destination. Maybe it’s not a place you ever get to. Maybe it’s a process or a habit you develop just like what you eat and how (or whether) you exercise. You practice these and are mindful of them, but are never done (until you reach Snakey’s state.)

I've run across some good ideas on staying organized and happy. Obviously, I have yet to employ these tactics. Just ask our local librarians. They’ll tell you about the material I’ve been returning atrociously late. If getting organized is a pathway, I haven’t even made it out of the merge lane. I’m one of those new drivers who is stuck there, waiting for life to slow down enough so I can comfortably merge in. But life and traffic just don’t work that way. I need to pick up my pace and just jump right in.

Once, while trapped in the chair at the dentist’s office, I was flipping through some kind of “Family Fun” magazine and read through an article on getting organized. Yes, it's a little tricky to read while you're propped back, wearing sunglasses and have a light shining in your face. (Are they trying to simulate a beach experience? I’m glad they don’t have the hygienists running about in beachwear, or some people might need bigger bibs.)
But sitting in that chair, I could brave the elements because I was desperate. At this point, I can’t remember any of the techniques I read except to keep all your library material in one designated spot, like in a basket or on a particular shelf. Apparently, that hasn’t worked for me, either. Our designated spot for library books is in front of the engrossed reader. The only problem is that the readers refuse to stay in those darned baskets. Perhaps I should try my purse.

I have some tips of my own on getting organized. I can't guarantee that they will work for you - just because they don't work for me doesn’t guarantee that they won’t work for you. Next week I’ll share these tips with you. I can see that you are fascinated, so I expect you to join me.

See you next week! I’ve got to go and grab that snake before one of the kids takes it to school for lunch.

Exercise - what a pain in the abs

There are people who live, eat, and breathe fitness. (Shocker: I am not one of them.)  They love to workout. They need to workout. They are not trying to be athletic, they are just athletic beings. This would be Kelly Fadel. Kelly is a certified group fitness instructor as well as a certified Pilates instructor who taught fitness classes at Chestnut Forks Athletic Club.

Yet she gave freely of her time twice a week, in spite of having her toddler daughter, Faith, in tow. Kelly brought in all of her exercise gear: balls, bands, bells, mats, and even the little stepping platforms. She set the tone with music: either soothing and relaxing or upbeat and requiring a lot of movement. Her goal was to help women regain strength and get everything realigned, “as God intended our bodies to be,” she would say. It was her ministry to the women of the church and to anyone else who cared to partake.

Many women who came to Kelly's class were young moms with perfect figures. I wondered why they needed to be there. Then it occurred to me: perhaps that is how they “happened” to have perfect figures in the first place. Then there were women like me.

When I first tried doing a few sit-ups at home, the kids were watching. They laughed and suddenly felt better about whatever pathetic number of sit-ups and pushups they could eek out of their own youthful bodies. Each sit-up I attempted was accompanied by sounds reminiscent of child-birthing scenes that seem to be a requirement in many a movie. These were involuntary sounds. Apparently, they came from me. I needed professional help, and a more supportive environment.

The next morning I determined to drop everything and dash off to Kelly's class. The only equipment I had was a water bottle, so I ransacked my eldest daughter's closet for old sweat pants. (She is several inches taller than I am, so I sometimes get hand-me-ups.) Yanking the sweats on, I hoped there were no obvious holes in them. No time to rifle for socks. Sorry to gross you out, but I snatched up a pair that my husband had conveniently discarded right near the entryway. Dark sweats (blue), dark socks (black) – it worked for me. Getting to class was a priority. If people had to be shocked by little flashes of skin through “holy” sweatpants, or offended by “my” stinky socks, then that was a price I was willing for them to pay. Driving into the church parking lot, I suddenly remembered that I should have brought my second daughter's mat. Too late. After all, I was almost on time for the class. I swiped the big, silvery sun-shield from under the Suburban's seat and dropped my youngest off in the playroom where the church provided childcare. Then, heart pumping from all the preparation and the hurried driving (of course, I didn't speed),

I was now ready for the class.

I was surprised by Kelly's calm demeanor and her bubbly personality. She was gracious about people like me who came in late, even welcoming us for coming at all in the flurry of the morning.

I remember the first time I saw Kelly Fadel at church. She is one of those gorgeous women that people can't help but notice when she enters a room, no matter how spiritual they're trying to be. When I see a woman like this, I suspect she might be vain or snooty or loathsome in some other way. This rarely turns out to be the case, but this first, childish, sour-grapes response seems to be an ingrained, primal instinct. It didn't take long to get to know Kelly, though. Her speech is charmingly Southern, and she is every bit human and fallible. At the end of the class, she often shared her foibles for the week or her struggles with her toddler, and left us in laughter mixed with pain. (The abs had already had a workout by then.)

“Abs are engaged...,” she reminded us often during the class. Kelly's Texan accent came through in each reminder. When she said “engaged” it sounded like she was about to say, “and guys...” She cheered us further with, “Abs are absa-LOOT-ly engaged!” I was amazed that this woman could even talk through these tortuous exercises. I could barely breathe, and even that we were reminded to do in the correct way.

Of course, I could not do any of the toning or strengthening exercises I attempted. I wanted to let Kelly know that these abs had not only been engaged, they had also gotten married and then served as a temporary housing facility for six children. Apparently, they were in rebellion, and had no plans of getting engaged again. Ever.

“Now you float one leg up,” she said as her leg rose effortlessly up. My leg was having separation anxiety and didn't want to leave the floor. It felt more like it was of the ship-sinking variety than the type that planned to float.

There was an exercise where we had to hug ourselves into a bundle and attempt to roll up from a supine position. On repeated attempts, I could only rock high enough to glimpse that everyone else in the class had made it into a seated position, just before tugged me back down into insect-on-its-back position. Since our group was entirely female, I let loose one of my childbirthing shrieks, and finally managed to dodder up. My husband's socks were loose and flopped beyond my toes. It was nice to feel “safe” when even if you were at your worst.

“Don't you worry, Vineeta,” Corlee soothed me. “When I first started these exercises, I couldn't do a single one either. I just went home and cried.” Within a few months, Corlee now could not only keep up with all the exercises, she could even breathe well enough afterwards to give advice.

Corlee Brown is a tall, willowy woman with a razor-sharp wit. She has one of those life-of-the-party types of personalities. If you're around her for any length of time, you're going to be laughing. She's a dozen years my senior, but you would never guess it, because she is in better shape than I have ever been, and her eyes are always bright and full of mischief.

One summer, my husband was teaching a Sunday School class on Bible times, with an emphasis on the history and culture of the era. He spent the entire summer making elaborate PowerPoint slides and taught it like a college course. Every once in a while, it's good to remember why I love this man. There was usually a big group of people in attendance, and as always, you could count on my husband to say something controversial.

He was about to talk about Priapus, the Greek god of fertility, and warned that people of a delicate disposition might be embarrassed by the next slides featuring the deity’s image on ancient coins. Without getting into any graphic detail, suffice it to say that Viagra and male enhancement drugs are not at all modern concepts. “Embarrassed?” Corlee's voice cut in. “I'm excited!” Our entire class erupted in laughter.

After one exercise class, Kelly was discussing nutrition with us, and was giving us pointers on what how she ate a tiny handful of almonds every day. Corlee thought of another potential nutritional pitfall. “What color is your pee, Vineeta?” Corlee suddenly asked. Her face was so earnest and concerned, that I realized that she wasn't joking, as I might have initially believed. Answering such a question in public makes you feel as if you have just held up your urine sample for all the world to behold. “Um...” I hesitated.

“Is it yellow? Is there any color to it?” Corlee pressed the point. I was just glad my kids weren't around. “Well...” my hesitation was taken as a confession. “You need to drink more water, Vineeta,” Corlee dished out her verdict like an oral prescription.

Sadly, the exercise class is no longer offered in our church due to issues with the facility, space, and scheduling conflicts, even though Kelly was willing to continue teaching. Everyone seems to have found alternatives, although I doubt that any are free. The best thing about Kelly's exercise class, in hindsight, was not so much that it was free, or even free-free. It was how free we could be while we were there together.