Hilariosity

I love comedy. I realize that is not exactly unique; everyone loves comedy. It really does help make life bearable. God is so kind to give us a sense of humor and the ability to recognize, and even "create," funniness. Look at animals, and they are so cute and funny. Once in college we had a cat that got a cereal box stuck on its head. His name was Frank, and he was kind of annoying, so nobody would take the thing off the poor cat. (Actually Frank turned out to be a girl, we found out when she had kittens.)

I don't like that show, "America's Funniest Home Videos" because they are always showing people getting hurt. I just don't think that's funny. There are enough crazy things kids and animals do and (kids) say, that I don't feel that showing all those painful looking injuries is necessary. Oh well, I don't have to watch it, and I don't. I do get into trouble sometimes, though, because I sometimes watch stuff I know I shouldn't just because I want so much to laugh.

It's really hard these days to find a 'clean' show or movie, especially a comedy. It is ironic because I never find the filth funny at all. You can have some very talented writers and actors doing some really clever funny stuff, and then they have to make it all gross with some inappropriate sex thing that does absolutely nothing to add to the plot or anything. And then it's ruined. Why? It doesn't take any imagination, any intelligence to talk dirty. It's dumbed down.

And a lot of times the premise is so good, like "50 First Dates." What an amusing concept. "Groundhog Day" would be one of my favorite movies of all time, but I really can't say that with all the smut. I realize these films are ridiculously tame in view of what's out there. But this is my world. I don't want to swim around in a polluted stench of human degradation. I could really like "Seinfeld," some of it is so funny, or "30 Rock," or maybe the funniest show I've ever seen--"Arrested Development." But all these shows have that seedy element, that seems invariably to get worse with time. And I just can't recommend them because of this.

A sense of humor has always been highly valued in my family of origin--a sign of intelligence--which I think it is. However, as a parent I made some huge errors in judgment with my older kids in valuing funniness over appropriateness. I refer to the fact that my oldest son, a born-again Bible believing Christian can nonetheless quote way way more lines from "The Simpsons" than he can verses from the Scriptures.

Well, I have learned one thing this time around, having kids. It is enough to just turn off the TV and watch what's actually going on around me. For instance, I wrote some of these down so I could remember them:


I asked Daniel, "Do you want chili for lunch?" He replied, "Does it taste like frosting?" I said, "no." Then he said,"Well then I'm not gonna eat it!"


At the library Daniel was looking at a Peanuts book with Snoopy and Woodstock on the cover. So he says to me (pointing to Woodstock), "This guy, this guy's name is Woodchip!"

Daniel was eating dried cranberries in his oatmeal and asked, "What comes from cranberries?" (but he said 'creeyanberries') I said, "cranberry bushes come from cranberries." Then he asked,"How bout crayons (but he said 'creeyans') do crayons come from cranberries?"

While John was doing his schoolwork at the kitchen table, Daniel was stacking up crayons intently. I asked him what he was making. He said,"a cabbage." I started laughing and John asked, "What are you making?" Daniel answered, "a cabbage--a log cabbage!" (log cabin)

Joke Daniel made up:

Knock knock.
Who's there?
Banana.
Banana who?
Banana peel and stick!

I mean, hilariosity, right?

Fishers' Motley Christmas

Well, if you read my blog, which I doubt, then you'd know that although I consider myself 'artistic' I am also excruciatingly lazy. I may not have mentioned that I am also painfully cheap. This combo leads to all kinds of home-decorating debacles, the crowning display at Christmas time.

It is not an exaggeration to say we have the worst Christmas tree of all time. In fact, I can just hear Commodore Norrington (of "Pirates of the Caribbean") declaring, in his English accent, "That's got to be the worst Christmas tree I've ever seen!" I have attached a photo to prove my point. Granted, the tree got knocked over by my four-year-old and we lost the best ornaments (glass). Still, you can pretty much see that it was, in its original state, lame.

With the advent (no pun intended) of facebook, even hermits like me have to face (another one) some pretty humiliating facts about ourselves. There is no more avoiding the reality that no matter how much I smoosh it around in my brain, our tree is devastatingly ugly. I see other peoples' trees on facebook and they are as drop-dead gorgeous as some of my old classmates, which also isn't fair.

I waltzed into a JC Penney the other day, without kids, which is about a decennial event for me--shopping at anyplace other than the grocery store or the dreaded Walmart. I was like a deer caught in the headlights. Everything in there was so dazzling and lit up and there was so much stuff!! Merchandise and clothes of every kind engulfed me and I was reeling, dizzily. Like those kids in Narnia I no longer had any way of knowing where to go, or how to get back. I didn't know where I was, let alone where to begin. This is the sad saga of a stay-at-home mom who is also a hermit.

My point is (and I only have 20 minutes til story time at the library) that although it is good to be thrifty, there is also a place for beauty. I tend to flop to one extreme or another. Like, I can be really obsessed with appearance, which is not right either. My cheapness and laziness must effect some kind of equilibrium. But, I need to once in a while take a cue from my women friends, and spend a couple bucks on something festive or lovely.

Or, I could take a cue from my step-mom Mary, who used to make some really cool things with us. I can remember making elaborate ornaments out of styrofoam spheres by sticking sparkling beads and colorful sequins into them with pins, pomander balls out of oranges and cloves suspended by beautiful ribbons, stringing popcorn and cranberries. And I guess it's not that she was being frugal, so much, as that she valued things we made...not just stuff made in China (it might have been Japan then).

So I'm going to give this some thought, and prayer, and I'll get back to you later.

Ta-Tee-Tah

Several years ago my husband and I took ballroom dance lessons through the park district in our town. It was a fairly humiliating experience, I think mainly because of the ambiance created in the fluorescent-lit elementary school gym, with its food pyramid posters and protectively caged formidable face clocks, dirty floors and lack of windows. Ugh, how I hated gym class.

Anyway, our instructor was kind of a character. Maybe all dance instructors are, I wouldn't know. But as we would practice our steps, instead of saying, "one, two, three" or whatever, he would say, "ta-tee-tah." It kind of makes me chuckle to remember it. An awkward bunch of middle aged couples, well we were in our thirties then...and this kind of silly guy trying to de-spazz us all into some graceful moves.

Long before this Ron and I used to go dancing, when we were young, but that was a completely different thing. Actually much more embarrassing, to be drunk and think you're really a great dancer...yeesh. I keep having to "add to dictionary" all these made up words. Writing is actually a huge challenge for me, as I can't use any facial expressions, which are about eighty-five percent of my vocabulary.

Well, we finally did meet a dance we actually liked in our remedial park district class--the polka. The polka was so much fun. You got to spring around all energetically, somewhat like the "dancing" we had done in the past, but more civilized. Culturally acceptable, if you will. We had finally made it to grown-up dancing.

That was probably 15 years ago, and sadly, we have never had an occasion to do any ballroom dancing. Everybody likes rock now. Even at weddings. Well, everybody except me. Yes, I have turned into my dad, thank goodness, in respect to music. I am so glad I don't have to spend the rest of my life missing out on the really good stuff I am discovering now. It makes rock music sound like how my old dancing looked--yech.

Promises Kept, Some Broken

Whenever I see polka-dots I think of ice cream, and the promise of fun. I was imagining they were colorful dots but I think they were actually pink and brown. I guess it all gets mish-moshed in my memory with the Wonder Bread logo. Of course I am referring to the Baskin-Robbins of my childhood and the thrill it was back then to get such a treat--an ice cream on a sugar cone. I guess it must have been with my Grandma June. She has always been, in herself, a promise of fun.

She is a sparkling woman. Ever since I can remember she has had white hair, attractively arranged, always classically well-dressed, usually in pastels. She is normally tan, and in great shape. She is in her 90's now, a tiny woman, but her presence fills the room wherever she goes. Her high soft voice is always always cheerful and melodic. She is of course a smiler, and her blue eyes actually do twinkle. Full of life, but calm, Grandma June is a picture of grace in the womanly sense.

She was a light in my murky childhood. She really taught me about hospitality. Her home was a constant haven, stocked with things kids love. There were toys and beautiful storybooks, and an outstanding array of breakfast cereals. We had wonderful meals there. Lunch might be cream of mushroom soup (which she taught me how to make--from a can), with a sandwich on our choice of breads, including pumpernickel, laden with scrumptious fixings from the "delicatessen," as she called it. There was an old fashioned kitchen in her basement, complete with a wringer for clothes washing, and an ancient fridge that was stocked with ice-cold glass bottles of RC cola.

This blog was supposed to be about how ice cream never really does live up to its suggestion of transporting me to some happy-land; and about how flowers (like ice cream and polka-dots, attractive and engaging) really are the fulfillment of their own promise. I also wanted to say that rarely do I meet a floral pattern I don't like. Birds, flowers, butterflies remind me of Grandma June--colorful and exciting and beautiful and welcoming.

The Art of Art

In my family there are many artists. My grandma Lou was a great (not famous) painter, and so is my Aunt Deedee though she keeps it a secret. My cousin Lindy can paint your socks off, as can my son Tim, my cousin Adam, etc. There are others, of course. I am an artist, too. I say this not because I'm very good, but it is more a frame of mind.

I'm glad that on both sides of my family people have always been art-minded. I'm glad because I know what I need to do sometimes. There are times when I just have to "do art." It doesn't have to be painting for me. My mother and father are both musicians, and really my first love (in doing the arts) is playing the piano. But it might be painting, or drawing, or writing, or photographing, or cooking, or sewing(!), or even dancing. And none of those things has to be done especially well, at the time, I just have to do them. I have to get something out, something deep inside that won't come out any other way.

For me it can also work just listening to music, in which case I guess the listening is the doing. Or reading poetry, though I don't do that much anymore. Even a really good movie can work. It's as though the artist is expressing something I truly "get" and my heart can fly with, or drown with, or whatever. What an ecstatic feeling--to be understood. How funny that you might not really be understanding the same things at all.

But it just goes to show you that art is on a level beyond the frame of communication wherein it is set. Today my four-year-old asked me what a "soul" is. Well, I didn't have time to answer him right then, which was a relief--I won't lie. But then he asked, "Is it the part that can love God?" And, not to get into a theological debate Watchman Nee-style over the dividing of the soul and spirit, I simply said, "yes." This little guy is an artist too... and so is God.

What Time is it?

I don't wear a watch or have a real cell-phone. So, wherever I go, I have to ask people what time it is. I recently had to ask a guy what day it was. Sometimes, just for a second, I don't know what season we're in. Like, when I see colorful flags in the schoolyard behind my house I think, "Is it field days again?" Then I pause, and think, "No, no, it's fall, not spring." And I gather from one of the neighborhood kids that the school has been having some sort of physical fitness challenge. He thought it sounded fun until he found out it was actually just a fun name for torture.

Field days at school were always an enigma to me. Suddenly, with no apparent warning, we were all outside the whole day participating in activities I didn't understand or know how to do. I wonder if the other kids felt as out of place as I did. And as for the physical fitness challenges, they were sprung on us just as cruelly. My family, on all sides, is as un-ripped as they come. My son, who is in the Army, has bemoaned the fact that he can work out like crazy and never ever get a muscular physique like his best friend seems to be born with. Not that we're not strong--you'd just never guess it from looking at us. Well, I mean, if by strong you're not talking chin-ups.

So, it's early fall, and the kids were furiously trying to create a leaf pile out of the meager droppings thus far. Only a few skimpy ash, the maples have yet to descend. The boys are still small enough that they had fun backing up about 30 yards and running full speed to jump into a little pile about two and-a-half feet across and one foot high. Brings to mind the old cartoon where the guy is supposed to jump from a ridiculously high ladder into a bucket of water.

Anyway, time. I have said that I read music, and that is mostly true, but I really don't read time very well. That's where the playing-by-ear part comes in. I guess it's the same for my mother, and she's really good. So I get frustrated in trying to teach reading time to my son; and I wonder where that "those who can't do, teach" saying came from. Time is math, and it is fascinating to me but somehow just beyond my mental grasp. There may have been a time when I would have understood time (and some other things) but I think I lost the window.

My eight-year-old son and I are studying World War II. I'm letting him pick the history topics this year and so far it's been Vikings and this. I used to be way too intimidated to even try to learn about such a complicated subject. Fortunately, I have somehow discovered that you actually can learn about these things, piece-by-piece. That a subject like WWII need not always be considered of infinite complexity (well, at least not to get a bit of a grasp of the happenings there.) So far it is coming together interestingly. Strange how we can look back at what was going on, all over the world, over a period of time. It's like having a bird's-eye view, somewhat, of how that war all came together. Duh, I know, but remember I went to public school.

So, to sum all this up: I don't really care what time it is, or I would have a watch. I guess I never much listened to what they were saying in school because I was too busy watching the clock. I now, finally, can love and appreciate fall because I don't have the "time to go back to school" stomachache. I would love to have the brain of my youth now that I know how to actually learn things. I hope all my sons appreciate the time and freedom they have/have had as homeschoolers, but I doubt it. I have now used up all the time I had in avoiding making dinner. Until next time--peace out.

Abruptness

I like to have things wrapped up, and I don't mean presents--or gifts, as they are more commonly called. My family always called them presents, and whatever they are I am a terrible present-wrapper. First of all I never have any wrapping paper around, well except Christmas wrapping, as that is bought easily and cheaply in bulk. Recently I had no choice but to buy some regular wrapping paper (the kind in the greeting card aisle as opposed to the super cheap kind you find at the dollar store) and was amazed at the quality and thickness of the stuff. It was glossy and wonderful. It didn't tear when you folded it. I thought, "Wow."

Another reason I am a bad wrapper is I guess because I am a slob. I secretly feel guilty about many crazy little problems that I have, assuming they occur because I am a lousy housekeeper. What I am referring to is the fact that every time I go to wrap a present, a piece of hair inevitably finds its way stuck to the tape. I mean, gross. Well, that is one aspect of slobbiness, another is the mashed-up-if-not-missing condition of the wrapping accoutrements. Then there is the laziness, and the impatience at the whole wrapping process.

But let's not forget the Ray Rayner factor. No matter how hard I may actually try (which I have, a time or two) it will never ever come out looking like Chauncey's. And believe me, there are plenty of "Chauncey"s around in my family.

For instance, my grandfather Floyd. He used to make these elaborate, really spectacular gift wrappings--complete with things like shimmering wrapping-paper origami birds perched on miniature gold ball ornaments, seated on a nest of garland. And I'm talking the 70's when nobody ever even heard of origami--maybe he invented it. Then I have plenty of sisters-in-law who are great at it. There's Dee, with the latest in earthy textures and raffia ribbons; Anne, with bright popping colors of glossiness and cellophane wonder...and there are plenty of others. Suffice is to say, I might think I was adopted,except for this fact: those are all relatives by marriage. The wrapping-challenged blood runs truly through my veins.

My Dad's idea of gift-wrap is a brown paper sack, and I'm not talking the trendy kind. Whenever he attempts a feat of wrapping, which is hilarious and makes me look like a pro, he always says, "Loki wrapped it." Loki was the dog, and he's been dead a long time. My Mother (by blood), however, prefers large plastic bags--the kind you get at Toys R Us or Target. Or she just has stuff shipped directly. Sometimes she asks me to then wrap the gifts for the kids--thereby establishing the fact that I am more advanced in wrapping skills than her and proving that I was not, in fact, adopted.

So, for now, I guess that about wraps it up!