I have a morning routine. I've had this morning routine for at least all of the 18 or so years that Don has known me. Each morning I make coffee. One might note from earlier blogs that I feel very strongly about my morning coffee. But it's what happens while the coffee is brewing.

Assuming there aren't two little dumplings and a hound dog demanding pancakes or otherwise vying for my attention, while the coffee is brewing I empty the dishwasher. It's my thing....the dishwasher gets turned on last thing at night (by Don himself, who can't trust the delay button). So, second-thing in the morning: I like to empty the dishwasher.

On the periodic chance that Don didn't quite hit all the right buttons, if I open the dishwasher and find dirty dishes, it tends to put a crimp in my day. Call me particular, but I just like to start the day with an empty dishwasher.

So, imagine my dismay when something comes up....early morning tennis, early morning Yahtzee, early morning coffee overflow, and I don't get the chance to empty the dishwasher. In this scenario, I expect everyone to simply place their dirty dishes in the sink~ the staging area, if you will~ for when I finally get around to emptying the dishwasher.

Keeping this brief history and slight OCD tendency in mind can't we all just imagine my reaction to Don putting dirty dishes into my dishwasher that is still filled with clean dishes? Beginning with the slight twitch of my left eyelid, I'm certain my expletives can be heard within a 5-mile radius.

Here's the thing: Don has a morning routine, too.

Orange Juice. Each and every morning he has a glass of orange juice.

(At this time I won't get into how he is the only one in the family that drinks the orange juice yet how every morning he leaves the carton of orange juice on the kitchen counter in case someone else would like to enjoy a glass.)

For reasons that are completely unknown to me, Don cannot stay away from my dishwasher. He cannot simply leave his soiled juice glass in the sink. He always puts his dishes in the dishwasher. This behavior would make most housewives swoon and on most days this behavior works . But on days like today, when I spent the morning swirling crepes and melting chocolate, have packed the cooler and the pool bag, fed the dog and the chickens, I expect a sink full of dirty dishes when I get home at 2 in the afternoon. It's not until I have completely emptied the bottom shelf and am three-quarters of the way through the top shelf that I discover, not only, Don's pulp covered juice glass, upside down and drooling directly onto the now empty bottom rack, but his sticky Carnation Irish Cream coffee cup, as well. I am quite certain he won't appreciate my head-spinning, maniacal phone call imploring him to STAY AWAY FROM MY KITCHEN! I then need to look back through the stacks of silverware, plates, and bowls to find the ones that are now covered with a streak of pulp or sticky Irish Cream. Neither go well with the Beef Wellington I am planning for dinner.

I've asked the question before: How can you NOT tell that you are putting dirty dishes into a dishwasher that is filled with CLEAN dishes??? But even more disturbing: Knowing that before you went to bed, you RAN the dishwasher; is it at all humanly possible to empty a dishwasher and then fill it again, with deceptively dirty dishes, by 10 o'clock in the morning?? I maintain that as an educated and middle aged man, he should be able to figure it out.

Don thinks he should get an occasional 'Get Out of Dishwasher Faux Pas Jail' card

I say: Do NOT pass Go, my friend.

My Day as a Proctor

Note: This day actually happened back in June 2010. The content may be questionable thus it's been sitting in the hopper for a couple of months.

Today I spent 4 hours watching over a group of 8th graders as they took their End of Grade Algebra test. Here are a few of the interesting things I witnessed. (Warning: May not be suitable for young children or the faint of heart.)

Normally, it's the kindergarteners or the funky looking kids that pick their noses, but today, it was a tall, good looking swimmer who not only picked his nose, but then ate it, too. More than once, he did this. In fact, more than three times he dined on his own mucous. He was also the one who finished his test first....perhaps all the protein he injested?

I witnessed one horrified girl that thought she got her period. Without the luxury of running to the bathroom during the test, this is how she surveyed her situation: She stood up for the 2 minute break, I saw her discreetly feeling around the back of her shorts. She then inspected her hand......and smelled it.

She had my attention.

Quickly, she sat down and, less discreetly, inspected inside the legs of her shorts and again smelled her fingers.

Curious.

She stood again, looked at the seat of her chair and abruptly sat back down and crossed her legs. I thought of offering her an OB, but her shorts were black and as far as I could tell, there was no sign of period, or whatever she was smelling for.

I saw one boy trying to mask his erection by pulling down his t-shirt but for those adept at spotting a boner a mile away, he had little success.

My sister will be thrilled that I saw several girls wearing flip-flops and socks together.

I saw lots of girls who are no doubt aware of their beauty and only one in particular who has no idea she is the most stunning person in the room.

There was one boy who made me wonder if I might like to be an 8th grader again.

There was the cuticle picker, who seemed to be daydreaming the entire time, but then miraculously was the third person to finish. And, while escorting her to the bathroom (as a Proctor, that was in my job description) she conveyed that it was an easy test for her. I could have sworn she was at the wrong test.

But the most exciting part of my day was witnessing an entire classroom of young people taking an enormously long and difficult test of which I could only dream of passing, completing or comprehending.

Oh the books that you will read~

As a co-chairman for the Scholastic Book Fair at my son's school, just exactly what are my duties? My responsibilities? Is it simply to arrive on the designated date and time, open the carts and display the books in such a way that they are most pleasing to every age, gender and reading level? I can do that.

Is it to run reports, count monies, restock inventory? I can absolutely do that.

But ask me to decipher just exactly what goes on at home for each and every child who declares that $3.99 is just too much money for their parent to send to school is beyond all comprehension of mine.

Yesterday morning a young girl walked in with her 'wishlist'...this is the list that each child can create when her class visits the Bookfair at their designated time. Certainly, not every parent is aware that the Bookfair is in progress, nor when their child's class will visit. So, in all probability the child will return home from school, eager to report that her class visited the bookfair today and could she please have $5, $10, even $15 to spend at the Bookfair when their class returns on, say, Wednesday?

This is what I envisioned anyhow, when the girl approached the checkout desk with her completed wishlist and a pile of books and asked if she could pay with a check. I whole-heartedly told her that YES, she could pay with a check. The young girl presented me with two ill-folded checks written out, in pencil, in a distinct child's handwriting. They were filled out as follows:

In the Pay to the Order Of section: Book Fair

In the Amount box: $31.95

On the Pay line: $3.99 $4.99 $2.99 $6.99 $12.99

On the Signature line: My Little Pony Don't Let the Pigeon on the Bus

Under the signature line was written, and misspelled, what I presume to be her father's name. The same name pre-printed on the top of the check. On the reverse side was a neat and tidy list of prices and spot-on addition. Clearly the back of the checks were her scratch paper.

I asked the girl if her father filled out these checks, she vehemently told me he had. I explained that these checks weren't written correctly and that the bank wouldn't accept them as payment. As if she might go home and educate her father, I showed her how the checks would look if they were filled out properly. Based upon the demographic and socio-economic makeup of our elementary school, it's not unlikely that Dad has yet to master filling out a personal check. It's also a distinct possibility that the young girl would go to any length necessary to get the books she wanted. I naively suspected the English as a Second Language scenario and thought the whole incident rather heartwarming and cute. However, later in the day, her class visited the Bookfair for the second time. After a few minutes of "shopping", I noticed the young girl with an unmistakable square abdomen protruding from underneath her sweater. I simply asked the teacher if she'd like me to handle the situation or would she prefer to have a chat with the girl herself.

Again, what is my role? My first response is to buy the girl a book. I wanted so badly to ask her which book she longed for the most and I would pay for it with my own money. Then the sinical devil on my left shoulder pointed out that this young third grader might have quite intentionally taken checks from an elder's wallet, and hoped to pass them off as currency. It is also my knee jerk reaction to get those parents on the phone and explain the situation, however, one never knows if this would prompt a strong tongue lashing or a full-on beating.

On the one hand, I find her to be industrious and clever. On the other, who will teach her to focus her industriousness toward honest endeavors? How can we ensure that this little girl stays true to herself and true to society?

When she showed up again this morning at my desk with wide and beautiful eyes, she announced to me that she would like to purchase something. I watched her like a hawk while she retrieved the item which cost $3.99. When she unfolded just three dollars I could feel her heart sink as she realized there still wasn't enough money for her to buy the book she wanted. In a momentary need to solve all the world's problems, I then quietly pulled her aside and whispered to her, " Today I would like to give you enough money for this book that you want. You don't have to repay me, but I do ask that you never walk into a Bookfair or store and attempt to take something home that you haven't paid for. You got away with it this time, but next time you might get in a lot of trouble. And certainly as you get older, you will get into trouble if this behavior continues." As I held her cheeks in my hands I offered, " You're a beautiful little girl and I'd love to see you succeed and be the best person you can be"

A bit much for a shy little third grader, perhaps, but I'll be sleeping soundly tonight.

Good Morning, Professor

The other night, while reading a magazine in bed, I came across a blurb that inspired me. It suggested that upon waking each morning, take a few minutes to jot down positive thoughts and gratitudes in a journal. The article suggests that the mere act of writing affirmations might change our behaviors and thus produce a positive daily outcome in all aspects of our lives.

Sounds easy. What's not to like about that idea.

Here's the scenario I picture in my head:

It's 6 a.m., a stream of sun comes through my window and shines brilliantly onto my face which is sleeping peacefully atop a feather pillow with satin case. I awaken easily; feeling thoroughly rested. When I turn to my bedside table it is free of all clutter save for an elegant leather-bound book, a gorgeously carved writing stylus and perhaps a freshly brewed cup of steaming coffee. I take a few minutes to straighten my 100% organic cotton pyjamas, which are a lovely set, in a pattern of pink and green paisley. Then I spend some alone time jotting down a few positive thoughts for my day. A few things that made me happy yesterday. I am grateful for so many things, if I do not will myself to stop writing, the day will surely escape me. I walk downstairs and greet my family who are waiting patiently to break their fast.

Here's the reality:

The alarm sounds at 6am, suddenly my world is jostled into consciencenous while Don makes his way to my side of the bed for our morning cuddle. I am barely coherent....

As I become at least aware that there is life, I unclamp my jaw, for I have been clenching all night. My fingers and arms are so completely numb, I can barely straighten my flannel Eeyore pajamas which are twisted around me like a straight jacket. (Forget holding a beautifully carved writing stylus.) Some mutation occurs in those eight hours of sleep. I enter my bed as a vibrant and healthy 45 year old, and arise as an old lady with pillow case wrinkles, who can barely unfold herself or walk across the bedroom. I'm freezing, my socks have come off at some point during the night. Still there is no room for lights...it must remain dark. My eyes will likely never adjust

Once arisen, the daily greeting that actually happens is the assessment of how well each of us has slept. I have to ask Don how he slept. Don, however, can surmise based on my hair. If he says: Well, good morning Professor, I simply nod for my hair tells it all. What starts as some basic lopey curls at 10 pm becomes this raging, untamable head of frizz by six a.m. I could actually store my leatherbound gratitude journal within it and no one would ever know. If, on the other hand, Don looks at me with a worried eye and simply clucks his tongue, my hair must look exactly as it did upon retiring eight hours prior and thus it was not a good night of sleep~he doesn't even have to ask.

Pity the 12 year old who is already awake and waiting, waiting, waiting for someone to listen to her morning onslaught of questions and observations. Pity the mom who must feign interest and mumble some answers. All that is missing is the cold-cream and curlers.

Perhaps my gratitude journal might be better served if written before bed, while I am still alert, coherent and lucid. Without question I am more thankful at night.

Maybe It's Just Me......

Well, I was almost hoping for some freak-out, psycho outcome to the sleepover saga. Something that would confirm, without a doubt, that serious therapy should be implemented for at least one of the parties involved. But, in fact the whole process, from RSVP-ing, to drop-off and pick-up, were all quite normal. Eerily normal. Eyebrow-raising normal. Not normal for two people who haven't spoken in 9 months, but normal in a "Let's just sweep that animosity right under the rug, shall we" sort of way.

When I finally mustered up the courage to RSVP I used my icy, professional office voice and was met with a very enthusiastic "Helloooo, How are youuuuu, No, it's OK that you're RSVP-ing so late, no problem, Great, See you Saturday"

Hmm.

I could only stare at the phone in disbelief.

Surely drop-off would be weird.

"Helloooo Graham, how are you, welcome." followed by, for my benefit, a complete run-down of the next 24-hours of activity.

Well, just you watch out because tomorrow when I pick up my son, I'm definitely confronting you, just wait.

Pick up: "Ohhhh, they had SOoooo much fun, what a good boy. Graham won the first game of bowling, he's a really good bowler, you know." and then, here it comes, a heartfelt "Thanks SO much for letting Graham come, I'm really glad you let him and Billy was so excited that he could come"

Huh? Wha? LET him come? Could it be I'm the crazy one? Could this all be my imagination? My fault?

Well, thank goodness Graham left his pillow there because, for sure, I'll confront her when I go to pick that up. First, though, she'll need to follow the script that I have in my head.

Words to Live By: Stop making me think I'm psycho by acting so psycho.

The Plan: Donny-style.

It's SO painful to watch. I want so badly to jump in, proclaim the sovereign state that is my kitchen and throw the blender down the basement stairs where, alas, it will meet it's untimely death. Three times a day, for the past seven days, I stand at my island, bite my tongue, clench my jaw and just wait for it all to be over. Until lunchtime. And then dinnertime. Oh, but then there's The Cleansing Day.

Because his jeans don't quite fit, Don has embarked upon a health regimen consisting of two protein shakes a day and a sensible meal at night. And with it comes the use of an appliance he has no business even knowing about. He's decided that he needs to lose 10 pounds. His pants don't fit, for heaven's sake. This, coming from a man who has proudly donned his 1979, 32-inch waist, button-up Levi's more times than any one wife should witness. A man, who, two years ago decided he was traveling down a road to inflexibility and thus took up Yoga and can now hold a Downward Dog and practically do the splits. THIS from a man who exercises daily, watches what he eats and isn't the least bit indulgent in thought, word, or dessert. Dude, my pants don't fit either....I'm up a solid ten, myself. What's so wrong with being fat and happy?

But this shake business is just fundamentally and aesthetically amiss. It's for someone who can achieve culinary perfection in leftovers from the bowels of the fridge. Someone who can accidentally drink the wine relegated to cooking and barely even notice. It's for someone who thinks Bud Light is downright delectable.

Someone kinda like, Don.

The whole process is just so comical, so, not the way I would do it and therefore it's just wrong. First, honey, you must cover all of the powder and fruit with a liquid. You can't put in half a cup of water and expect the whole mess to congeal into a delicious smoothie. Once you get enough liquid in there, sweetheart, then you must pulse it a few times to get it going. Then you can leave it on "whip" and walk away for seven and a half minutes while you do God-knows-what.

Given the chance, I'm certain I could create a shake for him that would knock his deerskin slippers right into oblivion. Though it would defeat the purpose of The Plan.

Still, I love his game face. His brave and satisfied look of: This is just one darn delicious meal I'm having here. With conviction and one eye twitching.

So, what this means is that each morning and afternoon there's a strange man in my kitchen...stumbling about, trying to look comfortable, taking up space and always, always leaving a path of dribbled shake in his wake. There is constant blender-presence in my area...be it in the sink, filled with soap and water, on the dish drainer or, (and this is my favorite)...precariously perched in the fridge with just a smidge of shake left in it. For me, the blender is an appliance that comes out when the kids request that once-a-year milkshake. Or in the summer, when a Pina Colada will just hit the spot. It's not a daily appliance. It's one of those appliances that you think you might have all the parts to.

Of course, with everthing that Don does, there are also the Donny rules that apply. One can absolutely not finish up a rousing game of platform tennis without an adult beverage (Mmm, not on The Plan). Tonight, on this sacred day of Cleanse, the non-blended portion of our dinner consisted of grilled Hangar Steak, (yeah, also, not on The Plan), risotto (SO not on the plan) and a green salad (this is the sensible part of The Plan). Surely the instructional DVD holds one caveat: If the wife is offering up something more sumptuous than this nasty cleansing juice, then, by all means, F the regimen for today.

So when all is said and done and he goes back to his nightly cocktail and multiple handfuls of mixed nuts, I suspect these sacred 10 pounds will be back. I suspect the inevitable return to a midnight scoop of sherbet will bring us both back to very familiar territory. Fat and Happy!

Words to Live By: Boost the mileage, lose ten pounds. It's that simple.

As The Freaky World Turns

Two years ago, on the first day of school in a brand new town, my then 8-year old returned home jubilant in the fact that he'd made a new friend on the bus! This friend, for matters of privacy, I'll call Billy. Turns out Billy lives just down the street, which in our neck of the woods or as the crow flies means: across a meadow, over a creek, through a stand of oak trees, through a smaller meadow and into the back forty of Billys property! A perfect trek for two 8 year old adventurers. This friendship blossomed as did the friendship of the four adults involved. Billy's dad was a wealth of information in all things country living. He owns a tractor, a truck, is as equally skilled with a table saw as he is with a golf club. Billy's mom, so I thought, was a like minded, no-nonsense mom with lots of referrals for the good doctors, dentists and grocery stores. (I turned a blind eye to her appreciation of white zinfandel.)

However, last summer, the phone calls stopped and the playdates came to a screeching halt. I thought perhaps they may have gone back home to "Ohio" for the summer or at least for an extended stay. There were several more attempts at making contact. Then, back at school in the fall, I finally saw my friend from across the courtyard at a school function. As I approached her she abruptly turned in the other direction and avoided my contact. Hmm. Curious, but I thought nothing of it; perhaps she just didn't see me.

It wasn't until my entire family was out for a walk. We strolled past their house and they were outside. There was a sudden feeling of complete clarity when Billy's father simply looked at us and offered what I call, The Carolina Nod. Nothing more than a simple acknowlegement that I was in his presence. No 'howdy-do, how was your summer? ' No 'beautiful day, ain't it?' None of the normalcies that one might encounter when passing by a neighbor who is standing a mere 4 feet away.

After a couple of sleepless nights over the blatant disregard, I decided to make the phone call. I left a simple message stating that clearly there was some animosity and that I'd like the opportunity to either explain myself or apologize. Graham misses Billy's friendship, so, for the sake of our sons won't she please tell me what we've done wrong?? I offered the opportunity to call me back, email me, or if it's completely unfixable then continue to ignore me.
The explanation has, so far, never come. Almost a full school year later, I still haven't the slightest idea why we are suddenly not on speaking or even acknowledging terms.

Then, in a turn of events this week, Graham came home with an invitation to Billy's sleepover birthday party. It's a printed invitation, with Graham's name, in adult handwriting. Surely, not an oversight or an unintended inclusion. Graham is beside himself with glee and excitement over a sleepover at Billy's. He knows of four other boys that will be there as well. Which, in my evil mind, is quite a relief. My over active imagination has already written, filmed and produced the horror movie that goes along with this scenario. Point is, while being true to myself and my dignity, how do I drop my son for a full 24 hour stay, in someone's home who is blatantly not speaking to me, or allowing our children to play together? Does she, like me, lay awake at night wondering just exactly what she'll say to me? Will I simply check my feelings and hurt at the door? Will I even be asked to walk through that door? And mostly am I condoning such behavior by the mere fact of ignoring it and pretending like all is right with our world? Life was supposed to be so simple when we left the hustle and bustle of Long Island.


Words to Live By:

As parents we have an obligation to model healthy and mature behaviors to our children. (Notwithstanding the occasional outburst of anger due to shoes left, once again, right in the middle of the entryway rather than in the shoe basket!)