Ranting

                                     

First: Kudos to the person who made the text look like a tree. That's clever. It is also the only nice thing I have to say about this particular arrangement of words.

I've been a leader of young women and young men in some church capacity for most of my adult life. And I hate these things. They're everywhere. Someone has a creative idea which is supposed to let our youth know they're to keep themselves pristine or whatever--and it conveys messages I'm certain the author of the idea never intended. So today, because this "tree" makes me feel incredibly grouchy, I'm debunking some of those messages.

1. Girls aren't like apples. They're people. They have thoughts and intelligence and ideas and talents and potential and beauty, and the concept that they're simply sitting on a tree waiting to be consumed by boys makes me want to scream a tiny bit. It's a stupid comparison which demeans all that young women are and can become.

2. "The best ones are at the top of the tree..."  Since when have we started sending the message that some people are better than others? I have been taught that God is no respecter of persons, that all are alike in his sight. I've read this in the scriptures, as well. I've never read anything in the scriptures about really great girl-apples hanging at the top of a tree.

3. What does this say about the majority of boys? They like rotten apples? Or, if we follow the metaphor, they simply exist so that they can take advantage of "easy" girls. This is an unfair and rather nasty stereotype rearing its ugly head. In truth, classifying young men and women according to their sexual appetites is a huge disservice. As teens, they go through so many physical and emotional changes that even they aren't sure who or what they are.

4. "They just have to wait for the right boy to come along..." Okay, Dian...deep breath.....  I cannot even begin to express how much I hate this statement. To any girl who might stumble across my words today: Don't you dare wait for "the right boy!" Get out there and live! Dance, sing, go on a mission, get several degrees, travel the world, adopt orphans, run for public office, buy a house, teach others, write books and poetry, run marathons, enter bodybuilding contests, be a part of Doctors Without Borders or Habitat for Humanity! Do whatever you want, but DON'T WAIT FOR ANYONE! You have one beautiful life. Figure out who you are and celebrate that. I promise, if you do what I've said, regardless of whether or not you meet and marry someone, you'll have fewer regrets and your life will be amazing. Also, people who explore and expand their potential tend to attract other people. There's a good chance that while you're becoming wonderful, you'll encounter someone just as amazing as you are and the two of you will decide to spend the rest of your existence together. But don't wait. You are not an apple.

This nasty-cutesy tree has been posted repeatedly on Facebook for more than a year. It's always accompanied words similar to this: "If you're a parent of a young woman, you need to read this!" I agree. Read it, retch a bit, then tell your daughters (and sons) all the reasons things like this detract from who they really are, why such things should never be spread (like diseases), and then let them know in real words what point the stupid tree should be trying to convey:

"All young women are wonderful in the sight of God. All young men are, as well. It's great if they make it to adulthood without contracting STDs or having teen pregnancies or just engaging in sexual behaviors which are demeaning to their partners and undermine their own self-esteem. But if they don't, they can recover. The Atonement is for all people and it brings us all to the same level in God's sight. And no one is going to finish this life without making regrettable mistakes and hurting other people unless they die within their first 12 months. Try your best to treat yourself and others with respect. Learn self-control and remember that one day you'll be old and sex will only be on your mind 95% of the time. And if you want to climb trees, don't do it because you're trying to find a mate. Do it because it's fun."

“You should laugh every day.” –Jim Valvano

I don't get songs stuck in my head. I used to try because my friends would tell me about the phenomenon and I wanted to see what it was like. I could never do it. I really don't understand how it works. Aaron tells me that usually it involves not the complete song, but a catchy snippet that keeps repeating. I know when it's happening to Aaron because he shares whatever is stuck in his head...over...and...over...again...

I do get words or phrases that pop into my head randomly. Aaron says that's not the same thing because they don't repeat and I can stop thinking about them if I want to, but sometimes when I'm really, really tired, a word gets into my head that makes me laugh and then I can't stop thinking about it.

Last night when Aaron came to bed I was lying under the covers giggling helplessly. I tried to stop thinking about the word. I knew he was tired and wanted to sleep. I kept giggling anyway. Aaron was unhappy. He was more unhappy when he asked what was funny and I choked out, "Lunch meat," then dissolved into giggles once again.

Aaron sighed, kissed me good night, and turned off the light. I have no idea how long I laughed. I've heard of crying oneself to sleep. Last night I giggled myself to sleep. And just in case you were wondering, nitrate and sodium laden meat of questionable origin is hilarious.

I'm not in the habit of denigrating my husband. I adore him. He's smart, capable, imaginative, a great listener--altogether an amazing man, which is why I married him. However, he's not perfect. He has weaknesses. Occasionally those weaknesses make me a bit insane.

For instance, this: 

No, this is not my car, garage, or driveway. But what I want you to notice is the orientation of the car. Notice that it's backed into the driveway. Aaron has an obsession with backing the car into the driveway (or random parking space). I don't know why. 

Sometimes I think maybe it's because if I'm running late for something and he's ready, we'll save three seconds because I won't have to walk around the front of the car to get in and thereby arrive at whatever destination on time. I've yet to convince him that three seconds is not a time saver.

Or it could be because he has mad backing skills and he's waiting for me to notice. I should compliment him more. 

Or maybe it's because he just likes to drive and backing takes longer than just driving into the driveway, thus extending his sojourn in the car.

I don't know. I don't get it. I want to get it. But mostly, I just want my teeth to stop grinding when he does that backing up thing. I have no idea why it makes me crazy, but quelling the impulses to jump out of the car and run away (if I'm in the car when he's backing up) or lock myself in the bathroom for ten minutes (if I'm not) is becoming more and more difficult. So someday, if you happen to notice road burn on my shins, elbows  and face, you'll know what happened.

Pretend you don't notice, okay?

My son is so weird.

Me: Alex, why were you cutting up a paper plate last night?

Alex: I dunno.

Me: Why did you leave the scissors and mess there on the floor.

Alex: I dunno.

Me: I don't either--but I DO know that you're going to clean it up--NOW!

Alex: Mom, I know you've been sick, so I'm no making fun of you, but I have to say, when you talk in that voice it's pretty scary. But when you try to yell, it just disappears. It's not scary, it's funny.

Me: Clean it up, Alex.

Alex: I still think you sound funny.

Me: And while you're there, put your socks in the laundry.

Alex: I think they're Chris's socks.

Me: They're yours.

Alex: How do you know? They look like Chris's.

Me: I watched you take them off last night and leave them on the floor.

Alex: Are you watching me all the time?

Me: Yes.

Alex cleans up the scissors and paper plate mess, then pick up the socks.

Alex (muttering): I guess they are mine.

Me: How did you determine that?

Alex: They smell like peaches.

Me: Excuse me?

Alex: The socks--they smell like peaches, so I guess they're mine.

Me: I'm going to request that you don't explain that any further. I don't want to know.

Alex: Are you sure? It's very cool.

Me: I'm sure.

Alex: But I want to tell you.

Me: You're going to have to wait. I'm pretty sure I need to go take a nap, or check the color of the sky, or think about whether or not carpet makes sounds.

Alex: That's not very nice.

Me: Neither is leaving messes for your mother.

Alex: So, if I don't leave messes for awhile, you'll let me tell you why my socks smell like peaches?

Me: I guess so.

Alex: Cool.

Phantasaliberaphorism

I stayed up too late last night. When I finally crawled into bed, three hours remained before my morning would begin. I closed my eyes, blocked out Aaron's raucous snores and drifted into an incredibly lively dream world--only to be jolted wide-awake one hour later. Hail is noisier than Aaron's snores.

The long-winded hailstorm stole another hour of sleep and I dozed until my alarm scared the crap out of me at 5:00 a.m. Wearily I got ready, chauffeured Alex and Natalie to seminary, drove through lightly falling snow to the deserted grocery store (my preferred shopping time), picked up necessary edibles (which means half the store because I have teenagers), and went to my 7:00 meeting.

At this point I must confess that I have no recollection of the business transacted at said meeting. I'm hoping nothing was assigned to me. I'm fairly certain I made up at least twelve four-syllable words, used them with alacrity, and glared disparagingly at anyone who looked the least bit confused by my speech. I'm hoping none of the imaginary words rolled easily off the tongue. I have one colleague who uses such words simply because he likes to say them, but never has any idea if his usage is correct, nor does he seem to care. And I'd prefer to have my fanciful solecism forgotten forthwith.

I believe I attended and participated in (at least in the corporeal sense) two or three rehearsals and lunch meeting. All recollection of these events is spotty, at best. I returned home, spent one hour playing Solitaire (yup, got lots of work done in that hour), then taught piano lessons for the remainder of the evening. Naturally, the lessons went well, as I am an amazing teacher and can mesmerize any student with my prowess, even if I catnap during the lessons--which I did not.

In spite of the zombie-esque feeling which led me through this day, somewhere between lessons and 6:00 p.m., I made delicious chicken noodle soup with hot bread for dinner. It is immaterial whether I remember making it or not. Clearly, cooking is something which requires no conscious thought. Also, a rather lovely chocolate cake appeared later. I remember telling an online chat friend that I was making one. I do not recall actually making it. Regardless, it tasted very nice.

The obnoxious plethora of imaginary but most creative words, followed me throughout the day. It's a mercy that tomorrow I will remember none of them, and should anyone remind me, I will simply fix that person with my haughty, super-heroine I-can't-believe-you-would-even-consider-such-trumpery gaze, and the accusation will be immediately forgotten. And if that doesn't work, I plan to look confused and be a little embarrassed for the person who is so obviously mistaken in their memory of our conversation.

In the meantime, if I said the word phenolanolin in a previous conversation with you--don't look it up. It's not a word. It means nothing. And it's definitely not the chemical in turkey which makes you feel sleepy, nor is it a hormone produced by the thyroid which regulates growth.

And now I believe I will go get a drink of water.

Dear contractors working on my bathroom:

I do not like the untimeliness of your arrivals. If you say you will come at 8:50 a.m., I expect you to be here at 8:50 a.m. If you come later, I am tardy for my rehearsals--not good. If you come earlier, it is likely someone will be in the shower or frantically trying to get ready for work--not good.

I do not like the incessant mess you leave behind. I understand you are deconstructing and reconstructing my bathrooms, but I see no reason for there to be construction mess in my living room, bedroom and kitchen.

I do not like it when you leave your Mountain Dew bottles on the back of my one surviving toilet, and on the floor of the upstairs bathroom. You brought a HUGE trash can with you. Surely you can put your bottles in that.

I do not like the way your power tools make a very loud noise, followed by moments of complete silence, followed by muffled manic giggling. It makes me very nervous and I would like you to stop that.

All this, however, I will continue to endure without complaint if you will please, please, please, turn off the country music. Seriously. Three weeks of it has nearly driven me mad. It's time to listen to something else, my friends.

Love,

Dian

P.S. If you do not honor my request, I will be forced to start practicing while you are here--and I can practice for hours...I'm not kidding...

There are some things one does not want to hear at night.

One of those things is the pitter-patter of feet which passed up "little" years ago, the size of which more than doubles my own and is significantly larger than Aaron's. So last night it was a bit disconcerting when, around midnight, I heard Chris rise from his bed and begin descending the stairs toward my bedroom rather quickly. He stood in our doorway and said, "Mom? Dad? I need your help."

Aaron said quietly, "What's the matter, Chris?"

"Well, there's either an animal or an extremely large insect in my windowsill. I don't know what to do."

Aaron lay in silence for a few moments, then said, "Okay, I'll come up in a minute."

Chris stayed in our doorway for what seemed hours, but was probably only about ten seconds, then made his way back upstairs. Aaron left me in bed. A couple of minutes later he was back.

"You should come see," he said.

"Why?" I did not want to leave my bed.

"I think it might be a bat. Or a mouse."

I knew it wasn't a mouse. That critter would have been long gone the moment Chris got out of bed. So I grabbed my robe and wandered up to his room.

The bat was between Chris's blinds and the window pane, clutching one of the slats with its tiny claws--which were all we could really see. I went closer and looked through the side of the blind. Sure enough, it was a furry, very frightened brown bat. Then I noticed that the majority of my kitchen utensils and large mixing bowls were strewn over Chris's floor.

"What were you planning?" I asked, pointing at my salad tongs.

"Uhhh, we hadn't gotten that far yet." Aaron looked sheepishly at Chris, who shrugged.

I figured, as long as we were using my kitchen utensils, we should find something that worked. Aaron accompanied me back down to the kitchen and Chris stayed to guard the bat--or at least follow it wherever it might decide to fly, should it choose to do so.

I grabbed my largest mixing bowl, Aaron located two large round spatter screens with handles and suddenly became very excited about using his newest finds to capture the bat. I suggested we join forces, using both the bowl and one of the screens. He agreed.

Back in Chris's room, Aaron and Chris discussed different ways to get the bat off the blind and into the bowl. Both were fairly anxious to handle the bowl and splatter screen, but neither one wanted to pull the blind away from the window, which they agreed must happen, but also deemed the most dangerous job. I still haven't figured out why.

So it fell to me to work the blind while Aaron got ready with his bowl and screen and Chris guarded the closet--just in case the bat wanted to fly in there. Aaron slid the bowl easily over the bat, but the little rodent did not wish to relinquish its death grip on the blind slat. Aaron tapped the slat with the handle of the spatter screen, to no avail. Finally, Aaron slid the screen slowly toward the bat, being careful to keep the bowl edge tight against the blind, blocking any attempted escape. As the screen came toward it, the bat suddenly let go of the blind and hooked its claws into the circle of mesh. Aaron pulled it out from under the blind and plopped the bowl, bat and all onto Chris's carpeted floor, barely disguising a shudder.

I mentioned that the screen did not completely cover the bowl, and if the bat wished to do so, it could easily fly out. We needed to get it outside. I went to pick it up, but Aaron was determined to finish the job. The poor bat was squeaking.

Aaron went outside. And stayed there for a long time. After about five minutes, Chris and I stuck out heads out the front door to see why he hadn't returned. Aaron was sitting on the front porch. The bowl, still covered with the bat adorned screen was sitting in front of him on the lawn.

"Is something the matter?" I asked.

"I can't get it to fly away," Aaron sounded tired.

"Oh, that's easy. You have to tip the bowl upside-down and then remove it. Once the bat is out in the open, it will leave."

Aaron looked up at me. "I don't want it to fly at me."

"Aaron, it has one of the best radar systems in the world. It's non-aggressive and it wants to eat something significantly smaller than you. Do you want me to do it?"

Aaron sighed, turned the bowl over and lifted it off. The bat took off in the other direction like a bat out of...well..you know...

Chris said good night and went to bed. Aaron came in the house, went downstairs and got into bed. I put the kitchen paraphernalia away, then joined Aaron. His hand closed around mine and he started giggling. Minutes later he was snoring and I was wondering how I would ever get back to sleep. I walked to the bathroom, turned on the drier to help drown out (or at least blend with) Aaron's snores, got a drink of water, and went back to bed. I'm certain I eventually fell asleep because we all overslept this morning.

Interestingly, Natalie and Alex were happy to hurry getting ready for school. I wouldn't talk about the bat until they were completely ready to go--and they wanted to hear about it. I’m never above using a good story as a motivator.