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Full Moons and Safety Glass
Full Moons and Safety Glass
Balancing money, time, self, and family
Member Since: April 14, 2008 Last Signed In: November 15, 2009 Blog Views: 3929 Send To A Friend Sign Guestbook Add as a Friend
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(I apologize about the un-timeliness of this posting. I had planned on posting it right after Easter, but misplaced the jump drive I had it saved on and just found it.)
I was a history major in college. History is a very useful major if you like history. As a history major, you can count on a couple of truths. The first truth is that you will be constantly barraged with the same question over and over: “Oh, are you planning to teach high school history?” As if to imply that there was something bizarre about teaching high school history. I am not a high school history teacher, by the way. The second truth is that, while in college, history majors read about 300 pages each week. Three hundred is a lot of pages. While the science majors groan and complain about hours in the lab, scoffing at the “social science workload”, history majors toil throughout the night, developing intense caffeine addictions, all the while attempting to emblaze ancient royalty lineage in their memories. Or, creating intricate outlines of political and social timelines and historical triggers—all in a pitiful attempt to keep straight historical details, sure to be forgotten by the time the next semester rolled around. The best history professors always included fiction or other period-specific writing. Although this little exercise in social context is great teaching method, these novels just add more pages to the 300-pages-and-counting weekly requirement. In my current profession I never use my history degree. I don’t regret getting a history degree. I just never use it. Over the Easter holiday, though, I was reminded of a lecture that one of my first college professors gave. He gave the lecture in a stuffy lecture hall, crammed full of 200 hung over co-eds. After more than fifteen years, I still remember the lecture. I remember it because it was a lecture about rats. Yup, rats. These lecture-worthy rats infested Atlantic-crossing ships in the 17th century. These rats, apparently, had the ability to chew through iron, hold their breath underwater for over fifteen minutes, and flatten themselves into a postage-stamp sized hole. Sort of like a plague-carrying Flat Stanley with sharp teeth. The reason I was reminded of this lecture was because just fourteen short hours before my girls were to discover their Easter baskets crammed with coloring books, Barbie outfits, and candy. Baskets whose contents were in dangerous peril. No, not because of rats--because of my sister’s very cute, overly eager, overly hungry, and tenacious beagle, Ripley. When it comes to the quest for food, Ripley is possibly the most diabolical and crafty dog I have ever encountered. She has been caught in some very compromising positions attempting to steal food—sneaking food off tables, out of the hands of babies, and even chocolate-flavored Nicorette out a purse. Her shrewdness is made even harder to deal with because she is so dang cute. Her sweet little Snoopy face has the puppy-like quality unexpected in a dog coming up on ten years. It was Ripley’s cunning desire for food that nearly cost Ava and Carmen their Easter baskets. About a week before Easter, I diligently packed—and mailed—a box to my sister’s house in Denver. The content of the box included Easter presents for my nieces and nephew, my girls’ baskets, and the intended contents for their baskets—coloring books, Barbie clothes, Dora sunglasses, lip gloss, and candy. It was the candy that caused the problem. Chocolate rabbits, peeps, jelly beans, and chocolate marshmallow eggs—all of it was just too much for Ripley. Although the box had been sitting, sealed up with packing tape, on my sister’s living room floor for nearly three days, sweet little Ripley waited until we were out of the house on Saturday afternoon to find a way to get to the candy. And get to the candy she did. The amazing part was how she got into the candy. Not only did she manage to chew through a sealed shipping box, but she also weaseled into the box through a hole no bigger in diameter than seven inches. We never were able to figure it out, but somehow she got her head or whole body into the box, pulled out the bed sheet I had used as padding, and dragged out (and ate) all of the candy that was somewhere towards the bottom of the box. Poor Ripley spent the afternoon getting her beagle stomach pumped. I, on the other hand, spent the afternoon trying to find last-minute replacement candy. Not so easy to do at 4:30 pm the Saturday before Easter. Target’s shelves were totally empty. My dad and I finally ended up at a grocery store stocking up on just enough candy to make up for the candy theft. The whole situation was made even more dicey because the adults “in the know”, couldn’t talk freely about what had happened. The two four-year-olds in the house were sure to put two-and-two together if too much conversation floated around about the lost candy. By Easter Morning, though, all was well. Easter baskets were full and eggs were hidden. The magic could live on. Live on, that is, until Tuesday afternoon. Tuesday afternoon my sister called me from Denver. The box of candy and goodies that we had packed to be shipped home with all of the Easter loot had been—ahem—broken into again. By Ripley. All of the candy was, again gone. Foil wrappers and all. And, as Charlie Brown would say…RATS!
I am about to post something I never thought I would post.
As I have recently blogged, my family and I are leaving for week-long adventure at Disneyland and the surrounding area. I'm sure I will have MUCH to write about upon my return and I hope to do some posting if time and technology will allow. This is our first trip to the Big D with both girls, allowing I am sure, for much hilarity and good blog fodder. I do plan on tweeting little nuggets of observation during the trip. And, if you are so inclined, you are welcome to follow the fun. http://twitter.com/LivelyPa... I feel like a crazy person tweeting, but my lovely friend and fellow SMC blogger, Kelli, has paved the way. In the meantime, I wish all of the SMC community a great Mother's Day. And remember...they really can't do it without us!
Next week my family is heading out on a family vacation to the big D…Disneyland. The girls are already bonkers and Paul and I are, well, resolved. We know the girls will have a great time, but we also know that the car trip, tired kids, sugar highs (and subsequent crashes), will take their toll. I think Paul summed up our shared trepidation best when he asked me the other night: “Do they sell booze at Disneyland?”
No, we aren’t alcoholics. No, we don’t want the Happiest Place on Earth spoiled by the drunkest people in Orange County. We just know that it will be a loooooong four days in the park. There will, however, be wine and a portable DVD player in the hotel room. Despite my curmudgeon-sounding sentiments, I am thrilled and delighted to be spearheading this effort. I have (of course) made all of the arrangements, purchased all of the tickets (including those for the Long Beach Aquarium for when we are sick of the big mouse), and have started packing. Paul and I have fielded literally hundreds of questions and have shown the girls clips of the “scarier” rides on YouTube to reduce the freak-out factor (I am sure this effort will prove futile as the Haunted Mansion doors open). I even took them to the nail salon for “vacation toenails” and arranged for lunch with the princesses. Yes, in spite of my efforts to breed tomboys, my two girls were bodysnatched by the Disney Marketing Machine while in utero and are currently in love with the Disney Princess franchise. Sigh. Yet all of my hard work and preparation is dripping with irony. Real irony, not the Alanis Morisette version. Why? Because as most moms know, Walt Disney apparently had an inner hatred of mothers. Virtually every mother in every Disney movie is mysteriously absent (emotionally or physically), dead, or ends up dead.
Oh sure, there are some exceptions mostly taking place in the animal kingdom. The Lion King got to keep his mom, but his dad suffered death by trampling. 101 Dalmations got two high functioning parents but the tradeoff was a crazed, serial killing, chain smoker who captured them and tried to skin them like Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs. OK, OK, I also know that Disney merely adapted many of these stories and he isn’t entirely to blame for the lack of motherly presence. Still, I find it ironic that I have worked hard to plan this vacation over M-O-T-H-E-R-S Day weekend (and the subsequent week). So, I ask you…what should I be more afraid of next week? The sugar highs or disappearing into the Disneyland Mother Abyss? |
