Kelly Coleman Potter's Blog, page 3
December 3, 2013
Diff'rent Strokes and Such
My head hurts and I'm mentally and physically drained. I'm not complaining. Just stating a fact. I'm also watching Diff'rent Strokes on Antenna TV.
I woke up this morning at 5:50, and for a refreshing change of pace, I only lied in bed for twenty minutes checking out Facebook posts, and my usual morning check to see if I sold any books overnight. I always hope to be astounded that overnight the book fairies have orchestrated some fantastic advertising for me, and I'll discover that I moved up into the top of the charts on Amazon. It's yet to happen. Damn fairies.
In some ways, I'm grateful that I was compelled to make a run to the store to get cat food and some cleaning products before I got sucked into rewriting or time squandering. I'd carried the bags in, gave the dogs their treats (heaven forbid I come home without a prize for those three....and I thought my kids were spoiled back in the day getting their surprises), replenished the cats' bowl, and realized I didn't have my cell phone.
There was a text from a friend letting me know that my step-sister had lost her battle with cancer and she didn't want me to read it on Facebook, even though she felt it was a crappy way to tell me in a text. It was nice she was thinking of me. To make a long story short, my sister (that's what I'd always considered her even though our parents are no longer married) was diagnosed with breast cancer some years back. It seemed at the time the prognosis was really good because they'd caught it early. They knew to look for it because she'd lost both her mom and grandma to the disease.
The cancer had returned sometime after the first of the year, and it just wasn't good. Those damn cancer cells migrate through the body, and it's my understanding, it can take years for them to show up again even with regular testing. She'd spent a good portion of the last almost three months in the hospital, coming home for only a few days before returning. Family was called in about three weeks ago as they thought she was fading fast. She continued radiation for pain management, and was moved to a continuing care unit.
Her mom died when she was in sixth grade. It wasn't too long after my mom married her dad. She and her brother were whisked from their home and moved in with my step-dad and mom. I never saw her cry, and mainly we were instructed to be nice because she'd just lost her mom. No one talked about it, and I suppose I didn't know what to say. I do remember her listening to a taped recording of her mom singing, "Someone's in the kitchen with Dinah." It creeped me out a little because at that time at the ripe ole age of 15 or so, I didn't understand that she wasn't listening to a dead woman. She was listening to her mom. Looking back now, it was sweet and her way of coping with the loss. But wow, she was strong even then. And, I suppose when you lose a parent like that and life as you know it is turned upside down moving into someone else's home, changing schools, and not having your mommy, well, some people do adapt and become strong. I don't know how she did it, in retrospect.
She certainly was one of those people.
This post clearly has nothing to do with Diff'rent Strokes, consequently, but is a disjointed rambling attempt at something.
She was a fighter and tough. Through my tears and grief today, I wanted to crawl into bed, have a good cry, and go to sleep, despite the fact the world was still revolving and life was taking place around me. My oldest son will be home on leave from the Navy next week. I've got a billion things to get done. I have a book project in its final stages of proofreading that is just screaming to be uploaded to Amazon and CreateSpace. I didn't, though. I tried to attend to what was needed of me today with happy memories of those younger years growing up with my step-sister.
People move on all the time to whatever lies beyond for us when this life is over. Others will stop, reflect, decide life is too short, and oftentimes, it's a fleeting thought before we're drawn back into the daily grind of life. We get caught up in what is going on right in front of us, and we forget those feelings brought on by grief and mourning. I personally know that sometimes a death of someone, and it doesn't even have to be someone close, can propel us into creating and reaching a goal. When a classmate of mine died at the age of 30 from melanoma, I decided life was too short to lollygag and landed my weekly column that I wrote for ten years.
Today, I've been thinking about what a complainer I can be even when I'm not solely stating a fact. I can be so impatient, easily annoyed when others get in the way of what I'm trying to accomplish. My struggles are hardly comparable to what some people go through on a daily basis merely to survive, get by, make ends meet, and plainly cope. There's certainly no reason I couldn't strive to better...in general. She could certainly serve as a source of inspiration for me.
My sister was a great lady. She leaves behind a caring husband and five wonderful daughters that range from pre-teen to young adult, and a two year old grandson. She was kind, caring, giving, and I never heard her complain. Ever. And it wasn't because it was not polite to complain, but because it wasn't in her nature to do so. I know people say these things about others once they are gone, but it's the honest truth. I'm not painting a picture for posterity misrepresenting. She was a great mom and friend to others. Undoubtedly, she will be missed by everyone who knew and loved her.
She was also my favorite margarita drinking companion. This weekend, I shall go to our favorite Mexican restaurant and raise a glass or two in her memory and to the lessons a little sister can teach a big sister.
I woke up this morning at 5:50, and for a refreshing change of pace, I only lied in bed for twenty minutes checking out Facebook posts, and my usual morning check to see if I sold any books overnight. I always hope to be astounded that overnight the book fairies have orchestrated some fantastic advertising for me, and I'll discover that I moved up into the top of the charts on Amazon. It's yet to happen. Damn fairies.
In some ways, I'm grateful that I was compelled to make a run to the store to get cat food and some cleaning products before I got sucked into rewriting or time squandering. I'd carried the bags in, gave the dogs their treats (heaven forbid I come home without a prize for those three....and I thought my kids were spoiled back in the day getting their surprises), replenished the cats' bowl, and realized I didn't have my cell phone.
There was a text from a friend letting me know that my step-sister had lost her battle with cancer and she didn't want me to read it on Facebook, even though she felt it was a crappy way to tell me in a text. It was nice she was thinking of me. To make a long story short, my sister (that's what I'd always considered her even though our parents are no longer married) was diagnosed with breast cancer some years back. It seemed at the time the prognosis was really good because they'd caught it early. They knew to look for it because she'd lost both her mom and grandma to the disease.
The cancer had returned sometime after the first of the year, and it just wasn't good. Those damn cancer cells migrate through the body, and it's my understanding, it can take years for them to show up again even with regular testing. She'd spent a good portion of the last almost three months in the hospital, coming home for only a few days before returning. Family was called in about three weeks ago as they thought she was fading fast. She continued radiation for pain management, and was moved to a continuing care unit.
Her mom died when she was in sixth grade. It wasn't too long after my mom married her dad. She and her brother were whisked from their home and moved in with my step-dad and mom. I never saw her cry, and mainly we were instructed to be nice because she'd just lost her mom. No one talked about it, and I suppose I didn't know what to say. I do remember her listening to a taped recording of her mom singing, "Someone's in the kitchen with Dinah." It creeped me out a little because at that time at the ripe ole age of 15 or so, I didn't understand that she wasn't listening to a dead woman. She was listening to her mom. Looking back now, it was sweet and her way of coping with the loss. But wow, she was strong even then. And, I suppose when you lose a parent like that and life as you know it is turned upside down moving into someone else's home, changing schools, and not having your mommy, well, some people do adapt and become strong. I don't know how she did it, in retrospect.
She certainly was one of those people.
This post clearly has nothing to do with Diff'rent Strokes, consequently, but is a disjointed rambling attempt at something.
She was a fighter and tough. Through my tears and grief today, I wanted to crawl into bed, have a good cry, and go to sleep, despite the fact the world was still revolving and life was taking place around me. My oldest son will be home on leave from the Navy next week. I've got a billion things to get done. I have a book project in its final stages of proofreading that is just screaming to be uploaded to Amazon and CreateSpace. I didn't, though. I tried to attend to what was needed of me today with happy memories of those younger years growing up with my step-sister.
People move on all the time to whatever lies beyond for us when this life is over. Others will stop, reflect, decide life is too short, and oftentimes, it's a fleeting thought before we're drawn back into the daily grind of life. We get caught up in what is going on right in front of us, and we forget those feelings brought on by grief and mourning. I personally know that sometimes a death of someone, and it doesn't even have to be someone close, can propel us into creating and reaching a goal. When a classmate of mine died at the age of 30 from melanoma, I decided life was too short to lollygag and landed my weekly column that I wrote for ten years.
Today, I've been thinking about what a complainer I can be even when I'm not solely stating a fact. I can be so impatient, easily annoyed when others get in the way of what I'm trying to accomplish. My struggles are hardly comparable to what some people go through on a daily basis merely to survive, get by, make ends meet, and plainly cope. There's certainly no reason I couldn't strive to better...in general. She could certainly serve as a source of inspiration for me.
My sister was a great lady. She leaves behind a caring husband and five wonderful daughters that range from pre-teen to young adult, and a two year old grandson. She was kind, caring, giving, and I never heard her complain. Ever. And it wasn't because it was not polite to complain, but because it wasn't in her nature to do so. I know people say these things about others once they are gone, but it's the honest truth. I'm not painting a picture for posterity misrepresenting. She was a great mom and friend to others. Undoubtedly, she will be missed by everyone who knew and loved her.
She was also my favorite margarita drinking companion. This weekend, I shall go to our favorite Mexican restaurant and raise a glass or two in her memory and to the lessons a little sister can teach a big sister.
Perfect Stocking Stuffer for Moms, New or Used Ones!
Looking for the perfect gift for the moms in your life? New moms or moms that are well, a little on the used side like me. Well, look no further. My book, A Little Off-Kelter...the parenting years, is now available in paperback.
http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00E9H3J6C Here's my Amazon writer's page where you can purchase the Kindle or paperback version. Either can be sent as a gift. If your favorite mom doesn't have a Kindle - no problem! The Kindle App is available for Android and Apple products.
If you'd like to order from CreateSpace, the link is https://www.createspace.com/3853575
For a chance to win a free paperback copy, visit and like my Facebook fan page. I need a few more likes in order to do the promotion. https://www.facebook.com/pages/Kelly-Coleman-Potter-writer/212737235506584
Coming soon, Four Eyes Were Never Better Than Two...and other observations.
http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00E9H3J6C Here's my Amazon writer's page where you can purchase the Kindle or paperback version. Either can be sent as a gift. If your favorite mom doesn't have a Kindle - no problem! The Kindle App is available for Android and Apple products.
If you'd like to order from CreateSpace, the link is https://www.createspace.com/3853575
For a chance to win a free paperback copy, visit and like my Facebook fan page. I need a few more likes in order to do the promotion. https://www.facebook.com/pages/Kelly-Coleman-Potter-writer/212737235506584
Coming soon, Four Eyes Were Never Better Than Two...and other observations.
Revisiting the 90,000 Questions of Summer
One great thing about writing a weekly column for ten years is that I did so when my kids were growing up. It's almost like I have a weekly summation of what was going on during those ten years since I did write a lot about parenting.
Now that both of my boys are in the Navy and in their 20s, these summer days seem like a lifetime ago. I don't necessarily miss those long days of summer, but I can read this and fondly remember.
90,000 Questions of Summer
As a child, summer vacation seemed to last an eternity. While I wasn’t anxious to get back to the books and the teachers, it didn’t seem like the carefree summer would ever end.
It’s one thing that has remained the same. Summer break still feels like the longest three months of the year. It isn’t that I don’t love my children, but I dread summer vacation.
I’m not some ungrateful shrew who can’t stand kids, but it takes time to adjust to no longer having quiet time, Monday-Friday, from 7:30 a.m.-3:30 p.m. This quiet time is replaced with constant interaction until the end of August.
I’ve read that the average four year-old will ask 437 questions a day. What the statistic didn’t note was that they don’t stop asking that many questions, and as they grow older, they ask even more.
With each day of summer vacation, approximately 1,000 questions are posed to me in one day. When the sun starts to rise, and I haven’t had my coffee, they begin:
What’s for breakfast? Why don’t you ever buy good cereal? Who ate my favorite cereal? Can I go out to play? Why can’t I go out at 6:00 a.m.? Can I ride my bike? Can I ride my bike on the highway? Then can I ride my bike to Grandma’s?
Can I get the hose out? Are we going swimming today? How do you know it’s going to storm? What happens if you swim while there’s lightning? Does getting struck by lightning hurt? How do you die? Did the dog die from lightning? If I dug him up, would he still have fur and bones? What does “morbid” mean?
It’s guaranteed there are always lunchtime questions:
What are we having for lunch? Is there anything I like? Do we have any of those little things? You know, those one things? Why don’t you ever buy me anything I like? Why did you get that kind of mustard? Is this bologna really made from pig lips and snouts? Are you going to make something I don’t like for dinner too?
After I’ve sent them outside to play, and they’ve had all the brotherly love they can stand:
Why did I have to have a brother? Why wasn’t I an only child? Do you love him more? Doesn’t he ever get in trouble? If I put him in a big box, would the mail truck take him away to China? Are there really kids starving there? Can we go wrestle on the trampoline? Does a broken leg hurt? Why do you always tell us you aren’t in the mood for spending the day in the emergency room? Are you going to tell Daddy what we did today?
By afternoon, they take full advantage of the plethora of information that is their mother:
Can I give the cat a bath? Why not? Why don’t cats like water? Have you ever given a cat a bath? Didn’t you tell me that you did once? What would happen if I gave the cat a bath? How would my eyeballs get scratched out? Would the scratches bleed? Would the cat really run away? Do you have to get stitches if a cat bites you? Can you get rabies from a cat? How do you know cats don’t like water?
Would the dog like to go for a ride on a motorcycle? How about the go-kart? What if I went really slow and put him in a seatbelt? Could he wear a helmet? Do they make helmets for dogs? Can you kill flowers by peeing on them? How come dogs can go to the bathroom outside then? Could dogs wear diapers if they wanted to? Would they bite me if I tried to put a diaper on one? How many days is grounded for a month?
The inquisitive little boogers are still at it even at bedtime:
Do I have to go to bed? Why do I have to go to bed when I’m not tired? What if I can’t go to sleep? What if I stayed up all night? Are you feeling all right, Mommy? Why do you make a funny face like you are growling? What’s high blood pressure mean? Why do you tell us cussing is bad when you just said a bad word?
I seem to have all the answers, but just one question. How many days until school starts?
Now that both of my boys are in the Navy and in their 20s, these summer days seem like a lifetime ago. I don't necessarily miss those long days of summer, but I can read this and fondly remember.
90,000 Questions of Summer
As a child, summer vacation seemed to last an eternity. While I wasn’t anxious to get back to the books and the teachers, it didn’t seem like the carefree summer would ever end.
It’s one thing that has remained the same. Summer break still feels like the longest three months of the year. It isn’t that I don’t love my children, but I dread summer vacation.
I’m not some ungrateful shrew who can’t stand kids, but it takes time to adjust to no longer having quiet time, Monday-Friday, from 7:30 a.m.-3:30 p.m. This quiet time is replaced with constant interaction until the end of August.
I’ve read that the average four year-old will ask 437 questions a day. What the statistic didn’t note was that they don’t stop asking that many questions, and as they grow older, they ask even more.
With each day of summer vacation, approximately 1,000 questions are posed to me in one day. When the sun starts to rise, and I haven’t had my coffee, they begin:
What’s for breakfast? Why don’t you ever buy good cereal? Who ate my favorite cereal? Can I go out to play? Why can’t I go out at 6:00 a.m.? Can I ride my bike? Can I ride my bike on the highway? Then can I ride my bike to Grandma’s?
Can I get the hose out? Are we going swimming today? How do you know it’s going to storm? What happens if you swim while there’s lightning? Does getting struck by lightning hurt? How do you die? Did the dog die from lightning? If I dug him up, would he still have fur and bones? What does “morbid” mean?
It’s guaranteed there are always lunchtime questions:
What are we having for lunch? Is there anything I like? Do we have any of those little things? You know, those one things? Why don’t you ever buy me anything I like? Why did you get that kind of mustard? Is this bologna really made from pig lips and snouts? Are you going to make something I don’t like for dinner too?
After I’ve sent them outside to play, and they’ve had all the brotherly love they can stand:
Why did I have to have a brother? Why wasn’t I an only child? Do you love him more? Doesn’t he ever get in trouble? If I put him in a big box, would the mail truck take him away to China? Are there really kids starving there? Can we go wrestle on the trampoline? Does a broken leg hurt? Why do you always tell us you aren’t in the mood for spending the day in the emergency room? Are you going to tell Daddy what we did today?
By afternoon, they take full advantage of the plethora of information that is their mother:
Can I give the cat a bath? Why not? Why don’t cats like water? Have you ever given a cat a bath? Didn’t you tell me that you did once? What would happen if I gave the cat a bath? How would my eyeballs get scratched out? Would the scratches bleed? Would the cat really run away? Do you have to get stitches if a cat bites you? Can you get rabies from a cat? How do you know cats don’t like water?
Would the dog like to go for a ride on a motorcycle? How about the go-kart? What if I went really slow and put him in a seatbelt? Could he wear a helmet? Do they make helmets for dogs? Can you kill flowers by peeing on them? How come dogs can go to the bathroom outside then? Could dogs wear diapers if they wanted to? Would they bite me if I tried to put a diaper on one? How many days is grounded for a month?
The inquisitive little boogers are still at it even at bedtime:
Do I have to go to bed? Why do I have to go to bed when I’m not tired? What if I can’t go to sleep? What if I stayed up all night? Are you feeling all right, Mommy? Why do you make a funny face like you are growling? What’s high blood pressure mean? Why do you tell us cussing is bad when you just said a bad word?
I seem to have all the answers, but just one question. How many days until school starts?
First book!
Nod sympathetically if you’ve ever……extracted a gum wrapper from a toddler’s nostril, but sought medical treatment when it came to a piece of a colored pencil lodged deeply into an ear canal.
…punished a child because he wouldn’t stop taunting his brother with a Peter Frampton album.
…played a rousing game of “What that’s funky smell?” only to discover what might be a petrifying bologna sandwich behind the recliner.
…needed a prescription for a tranquilizer when your firstborn started driving.
…spent any amount of time trying to describe why a Sleestack scared you, why you wanted to marry the Fonz, and who Mork from Ork was.
…installed a security system to keep a three-year old from going on the lam with his beagle, and pondered if it were possible that both of your children were reincarnates of Harry Houdini.
…wondered how a child who once emitted the sweet scent of newborn now puts off an odor that could make a skunk feel inadequate.
…ever rambled incoherently, “These kids are going to drive me to drinking,” or something about a frontal lobotomy.
If you nodded like a bobblehead, chances are you’re a parent - or you’ve got some really strange hobbies. A Little Off-Kelter…the parenting years is a collection of forty columns that originally ran in print. (Hey, the compilation thing worked for Ronco and K-tel, didn’t it?) Whether the kids are underfoot or have flown the nest, moms and dads alike will relate to these humorous tales of woe and wonderment.
http://www.amazon.com/Little-Off-Kelter-parenting-years-ebook/dp/B00E9EFIWI/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1375359164&sr=1-1
It's available on Kindle. If you don't have a Kindle, there's a Kindle app that works with most readers, android, and Apple products. http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=dig_arl_box?ie=UTF8&docId=1000493771
What is so funny?
I wrote the following column many years ago when my boys were young and easily amused. Well, they still have this twisted sense of humor that can only make a parent proud. Still, I never quite got what was so funny about a good fart. When my oldest son got married a few weeks ago, I became instant granny to a sweet little four year old girl. I'd be lying if I said I didn't anticipate how great it might be to have someone who was around on my side. Someone equally appalled by the butt antics of the male gender.
This was a short-lived fantasy, apparently. He called out to her to come here because he had something for her. Of course, being a child, I'm guessing she thought he might have some candy, a toy, or some other great surprise. Instead, he let one rip, which made her giggle. She paid it forward and showed her grandma the new trick she'd learned by giving her the gift of gaseous emissions.
Oy.
***
Passed gas, broke wind, tooted, pooted, farted. They can call it whatever they like, and pull their own finger, because I am never going to find it amusing.
When I was a kid, “fart” was very improper terminology. It wasn’t ladylike. Little girls weren’t supposed to say it. Instead, the appropriate phrase was “let a stinker.” Even then, it was only used in reference to someone else having committed the crime. Young ladies weren’t supposed to do it, let alone draw attention to it. Though, my youngest sister missed that memo early on, and I actually recall my mom telling her that young ladies weren't supposed to let one rip and be proud of it. No, nice little girls were supposed to go hide in a closet to do things like that.
My, how the times have changed. Or, should I say how my environment has changed since I now dwell with three males who treat passing gas like an Olympic event. If one of them isn’t windy, the other two likely are. I wish I had a dollar for every fight I have broken up, which has erupted from one child using the other’s pillow as some sort of rear end filter while letting one rip. The race was on to see if you really could give someone pink eye from farting on someone's bed linens after they saw it in a movie. The temptation is great to start lacing their meals with Beano.
Honestly, I don’t think I used the f-word (fart, not the other f-word) until after I was a mother. I never even heard my grandma use the term until she had two great-grandsons. As luck would have it, my husband and I would have two boys, both who find nothing funnier than flatulence. What seems to make it even more enjoyable is sharing it with someone else. Oh, lucky me to be the recipient.
I have no clue what is so comical about it. I have yet to grasp the humor. Perhaps, it is something I am not meant to understand because I am not of the male persuasion. I have witnessed the three of them laughing so hard they had tears in their eyes. “What is so funny?” I will innocently inquire. If one of them is barely able to respond with, “silent, BUT deadly,” I know it is my cue to leave the room before I'd be encompassed by a cloud of noxious fumes.
One evening while we were out for dinner, I found myself saying to my family, “I don’t know what I did in a past life, but it must have been really bad considering what I have to put up with in this one.”
I was enjoying a decent meal. No one was arguing or drawing attention in our direction. Then it happened. A roll of thunder erupted from our sons’ side of the booth, resonating against the vinyl seat. Both children started laughing. My husband stifled a chuckle, and nearly giggled aloud when he asked our son, “What do you say?”
“Mom! Why did you do that? Oh man, Mom,” my smart aleck son responded while waving his hand in front of his face.
Okay, that wasn’t the answer my husband was going for. He was, of course, requesting that our son say a simple “excuse me,” but blaming it on Mom seemed to be just as acceptable. I was simply not amused at all, but all three were about to split a seam laughing at their ingenuity. Not only was the public emission funny, but also blaming it on the only female made it all the richer.
While at home, they don’t place blame. Heavens no. They take full credit for the ability to clear a room and induce dry heaves. The dogs are never blamed. That would be a shame for not giving credit where credit is due.
Recently, we rented and watched the movie "Dreamcatcher." I had read the book by Stephen King quite some time ago, but I am always interested to see how well they adapt his story to the big screen. In attempts to not spoil the storyline, I must point out that there are scenes involving expulsions of bodily gases. It didn’t faze me to read that these aliens (referred to as weasels later in the story) inhabiting the victim’s body caused atrocious flatulence and belching, but it was a little more than I wanted to see on the television screen. Not so with my husband, though. “I think I have a weasel problem,” he said before burping loudly. He laughed, he laughed, and he laughed some more. For weeks to come, everyone but me bragged about weasel issues.
The first time my husband committed a social faux pas in front of me, he actually said, “excuse me.” That was then, but this is now. I have grown accustomed to sleeping with my hands wrapped tightly around the blankets, just below my chin, to ensure no covers are pulled over my head while the “weasel” population continues to grow.
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This was a short-lived fantasy, apparently. He called out to her to come here because he had something for her. Of course, being a child, I'm guessing she thought he might have some candy, a toy, or some other great surprise. Instead, he let one rip, which made her giggle. She paid it forward and showed her grandma the new trick she'd learned by giving her the gift of gaseous emissions.
Oy.
***
Passed gas, broke wind, tooted, pooted, farted. They can call it whatever they like, and pull their own finger, because I am never going to find it amusing.
When I was a kid, “fart” was very improper terminology. It wasn’t ladylike. Little girls weren’t supposed to say it. Instead, the appropriate phrase was “let a stinker.” Even then, it was only used in reference to someone else having committed the crime. Young ladies weren’t supposed to do it, let alone draw attention to it. Though, my youngest sister missed that memo early on, and I actually recall my mom telling her that young ladies weren't supposed to let one rip and be proud of it. No, nice little girls were supposed to go hide in a closet to do things like that.
My, how the times have changed. Or, should I say how my environment has changed since I now dwell with three males who treat passing gas like an Olympic event. If one of them isn’t windy, the other two likely are. I wish I had a dollar for every fight I have broken up, which has erupted from one child using the other’s pillow as some sort of rear end filter while letting one rip. The race was on to see if you really could give someone pink eye from farting on someone's bed linens after they saw it in a movie. The temptation is great to start lacing their meals with Beano.
Honestly, I don’t think I used the f-word (fart, not the other f-word) until after I was a mother. I never even heard my grandma use the term until she had two great-grandsons. As luck would have it, my husband and I would have two boys, both who find nothing funnier than flatulence. What seems to make it even more enjoyable is sharing it with someone else. Oh, lucky me to be the recipient.
I have no clue what is so comical about it. I have yet to grasp the humor. Perhaps, it is something I am not meant to understand because I am not of the male persuasion. I have witnessed the three of them laughing so hard they had tears in their eyes. “What is so funny?” I will innocently inquire. If one of them is barely able to respond with, “silent, BUT deadly,” I know it is my cue to leave the room before I'd be encompassed by a cloud of noxious fumes.
One evening while we were out for dinner, I found myself saying to my family, “I don’t know what I did in a past life, but it must have been really bad considering what I have to put up with in this one.”
I was enjoying a decent meal. No one was arguing or drawing attention in our direction. Then it happened. A roll of thunder erupted from our sons’ side of the booth, resonating against the vinyl seat. Both children started laughing. My husband stifled a chuckle, and nearly giggled aloud when he asked our son, “What do you say?”
“Mom! Why did you do that? Oh man, Mom,” my smart aleck son responded while waving his hand in front of his face.
Okay, that wasn’t the answer my husband was going for. He was, of course, requesting that our son say a simple “excuse me,” but blaming it on Mom seemed to be just as acceptable. I was simply not amused at all, but all three were about to split a seam laughing at their ingenuity. Not only was the public emission funny, but also blaming it on the only female made it all the richer.
While at home, they don’t place blame. Heavens no. They take full credit for the ability to clear a room and induce dry heaves. The dogs are never blamed. That would be a shame for not giving credit where credit is due.
Recently, we rented and watched the movie "Dreamcatcher." I had read the book by Stephen King quite some time ago, but I am always interested to see how well they adapt his story to the big screen. In attempts to not spoil the storyline, I must point out that there are scenes involving expulsions of bodily gases. It didn’t faze me to read that these aliens (referred to as weasels later in the story) inhabiting the victim’s body caused atrocious flatulence and belching, but it was a little more than I wanted to see on the television screen. Not so with my husband, though. “I think I have a weasel problem,” he said before burping loudly. He laughed, he laughed, and he laughed some more. For weeks to come, everyone but me bragged about weasel issues.
The first time my husband committed a social faux pas in front of me, he actually said, “excuse me.” That was then, but this is now. I have grown accustomed to sleeping with my hands wrapped tightly around the blankets, just below my chin, to ensure no covers are pulled over my head while the “weasel” population continues to grow.
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September 20, 2012
The scarring for life was free
We have this yearly tradition around here called the Bluffton Free Street Fair. For outsiders, it’s a bizarre concept. Even for someone who has lived in Indiana for more years than he’s willing to admit, which would be almost 20 now, my husband still doesn’t quite grasp it. The downtown area is closed off, streets are blocked, concessions stands move in, rides go up, carnies abound, bees buzz and look for potential victims, parades march almost nightly, and this is just the way it is each year during the third week of September. Yes, it’s a huge pain in the hindquarters to get from one end of town to the other with the detours and all. But, it is only one week a year. After his first year in Indiana, this week has also marked the start of the discussion my husband and I have yearly. “Do I really need to go to the fair?” he asks me. Does anyone really NEED to go to the fair? Well, not really, I suppose. There are years I want to go. Years I don’t care if I go. However, I think there’s some unwritten law that if you live around here, you have to go to the fair at least once during the week, much like you must have a basketball hoop on your property, or within playing distance of your home. It's an unspoken rule. My husband, a native upstate New Yorker, hasn't the first clue why anyone would want to brave the crowds. He just doesn’t get it, and I suppose it’s the same for others who have been transplanted to our area. They also seem hell-bent on pointing out the whole “free” part. “Free? What’s free? You have to pay to park unless you want to park two miles away and walk. The only free part is the walking. You can walk through the Industrial Tent for free, but the people in there try to sell you crap, and there’s nothing free about that. Get stung by a bee or fourteen, and the Benadryl to treat that is far from free. You get thirsty. A soda is $5. Nothing free about that.” Yeah, okay, at one time, it was probably more “free” than it is now. Most of us, though, have been dragged to the fair before we could form memories. Street Fair is an ingrained part of our lives. I grew up with my grandma’s tales of the fair from the 30s & 40s about sideshows, many of which were freak shows. I can’t imagine. It's a far cry from bearded ladies and fat men, but the strangest, most exotic thing I ever saw was a tapir. They advertised it as some sort of mutant wild pig. I felt so bad for the critter; I paid money twice to go in to see it to pet its nose through the cage. According to my grandma’s stories, it was the naked lady shows that really got the most attention with men lining up outside the tents for blocks. That’d go over like a lead balloon at the fair these days, but I find watching some of the carnival workers the best free freak show you’ll ever get. Well, unless one hangs out in some of the bars towards the bewitching hours towards the close of the fair on Saturday night, and it’s hard telling what you might see. Or, I should say I’ve seen some things that rival what gentlemen paid a nickel to see back in those early days of the fair. The Bluffton Free Street Fair certainly has left me with many memories through the years. Petting that tapir through its cage is perhaps one of the most bittersweet. However, my earliest memory of the fair involves another animal. I begged to ride on the ponies - the ones that walk in a circle, go probably 1/2 mph at their top speed inside the enclosure, and are about as harmless as a toothless Chihuahua. My grandma lifted me onto the pony of my choosing, and I was fine until it started to move. My presence alone did something to the beast causing it to go from a slow crawl to a break-neck trot. Grandma held onto me tightly to keep me from falling, or getting whiplash. If I didn't somehow set them off to start with, my blood-curdling shrieks didn't help matters. I was terrified. Grandma didn't seem too sure what to do next, either. She jogged alongside the pony to keep me from sliding off. Me, I just cried and screamed all the louder. About that time, my grandpa yelled something at the guy in charge, and he tried, somewhat unsuccessfully, to simmer the ponies down and get them to stop. At this point, most of the kids were crying and yelling for their folks. But, of course, there's one demented sort in every crowd who seemed to be delighted in getting the ride of his life. That child was not me, I can assure you. I got off that pony and swore that I was never going back to the fair. I also swore I'd never ride anything with four legs. The latter of which I've held firm to...because I've not been on a horse or anything of the sort, not even a camel or elephant ride at the zoo, since that day probably a good 39 years ago. However, I've returned to the fair many times. One just can't help it. Years after graduating high school, Street Fair draws those back who left the area. Old friends reunite on the streets of Bluffton in the midst of the concessions and the crowds. Even though college, the military, and our paths in life took us away from the city, Street Fair weekend brings us back again. It has been almost an unspoken pact that we would see each other at the fair when the night air became chilled and autumn was upon us. When my kids were little ones, it was Saturday afternoons I saw the most familiar faces. I bumped into my classmates and old acquaintances with their own children sporting bracelets for unlimited rides. We all go back, taking our kids, and sometimes, dragging along spouses from other areas who never truly understand why we find it so important to go at least once. It’s been quite a few years since I cautiously walked by the pony rides, sometimes crossing to the other side of the street to avoid them, remembering the time I had the ride of my life. I guess someone decided it wasn’t a good idea anymore, which is fine by me. Actually, I’m glad that while the fair beckons to me, the ponies don’t hear their calling to return.
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August 22, 2012
So what if I'm stuck?
Note: While working on the book project, I've been going through some old columns I wrote while I did the ten year column writing gig. This was written when my kids were a good bit younger, but they definitely still subscribe to that "don't get her started" philosophy if they think I might step into the wayback machine and start telling stories.
My kids, in no effort to help bridge any generation gap, continually tell me that I am stuck in the 70s. I suppose there are worse decades I could be accused of being stuck in and, for some reason, the 80s come to mind. Thinking back on big hair and neon colors, I really don’t think that 70s were so bad. I am not saying I would trade in my off-white appliances for ones in a lovely shade of avocado green, but they were good times.
The offspring were certain I had completely lost my mind when I spent a day watching VH-1’s “I Love the 70s.” I think the children subscribe to a “don’t get them started” philosophy. If there is the slightest chance my husband and I will start reminiscing about our childhoods, they volunteer to clean their bedrooms.
Some things remain unexplainable to our boys when we start talking about the things we used to watch on TV or toys we had. If my husband or I quote commercials like, “Weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down,” or “Two all beef patties special sauce lettuce cheese pickles onion on a sesame seed bun…Big Mac,” our kids look at us like we have just landed from a different planet sporting three heads with purple tentacles. “Ancient Chinese secret” not only incites eye rolling, but threats to check us into the nearest mental facility.
An impression of Mork from Ork goes completely over their heads. The fact that I had a crush on Henry Winkler as the Fonz makes them laugh so hard they nearly wet their pants. “What you talking ‘bout, Willis?” does not amuse them. They don’t care that I may have never learned about adjectives, conjunctions, interjections, and gravity without “Schoolhouse Rock.”
“Let me get this straight,” they laugh. “Wonder Woman had an invisible plane, a lasso that could make people tell the truth, and she was cool?” I haven’t even bothered telling them about Shazam and Isis from two of my favorite Saturday morning shows. I doubt they would be impressed that wristbands could deflect bullets, or that we didn’t question seeing strings when the scenes required the characters to fly.
They don’t revel in my stories, let out a sigh, and reflect on the good old days when I talk about my riding Inch Worm, my favorite mode of transportation when I was four years old. In fact, when I talk about its yellow seat and wheels, my kids roll their eyes and wonder how I could ride a plastic worm of all things. It embarrasses them, and they weren’t even born.
They don’t know a thing about a leaking Stretch Armstrong, or who Evel Knievel is. I can ramble on and on about the Baby Alive that ate food and soiled diapers. They really couldn’t care less that I loved my Growin’ Up Skipper doll because with a crank of the arm, she grew taller and more womanly. My dolls are the last thing they want to hear about, even the Suntan Jodi that tanned under a living room lamp, and went from blonde to brunette with a twist of the scalp.
That isn’t to say that some things haven’t transcended the generations. They had a Sit n Spin. By the time my younger sibling got a Slip n Slide, I was too big to use it, but my children had one. Bicycles remain standard issue for kids despite that ours sported banana seats, orange flags, baskets, and huge handlebars.
There are events and things my kids experience that bear similarity to their parents’ childhoods. I am afraid there are things my kids will never get, though: telephones with cords, pen pals from Big Blue Marble, “fill ‘er up with regular,” Captain Kangaroo, a K-tel played on a turntable, after school specials, Judy Blume, Colorforms, black and white television, 8 tracks, and why it was shocking that Mikey liked it.
Aside from polyester and harvest gold, I have to say if they are right, and that I am trapped in times past, the 70s isn’t a bad decade in which to be stuck. I've created a fan page on Facebook here: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Kelly-Coleman-Potter/212737235506584 , if you're inclined to click like. Share with your friends and I'll be eternally grateful.
