That Was Nice to Hear

On Monday, after Genius Golfer left for his new job, and The Boy had left for school, I headed out to work too.  GG and I had talked about me needing to be home in the afternoon so The Boy wasn't just left home alone.

I know, he is 16 and a half, and fairly responsible.  But is is 16 and a half.  And I'm his mom.

So at some point during the day, I poked my head into my boss' office and ask if he had a minute.  Sure, he said in his usual friendly way.  I told him that GG started a job that morning and that I know it was short notice but I'd really need to go to the 9am-3pm schedule we talked about weeks before.  He said that he'd be happy to make that happen, and told me that as soon as 3 PM comes along just to go home.

I was grateful for the understanding that I'm a mom first and then an employee.  I'm not sure I have ever worked where that was the case.  But it was nice.  And at 3 PM I was clocking out and heading home to check on The Boy.

Yesterday my boss caught me in a moment when things were slow and told me that when I came into to talk with him on Monday he thought I was going to tell him I quit.  He said he was freaking out on the inside.

I reassured him and told him that we have a lot of making up to do financially and that even if that were done quickly, I've got two missions and a college tuition yet to pay for, so he's stuck with me for a while.

It's nice to feel needed, and valued at work.  I know I am lucky to have that.  It hasn't always been that way.

A Joke for My Dad

I love a good joke, especially a blonde joke.  This one has a political twist, just for my dad.

This is the story of the blonde flying in a two-seater airplane
with just the pilot. He has a heart attack and dies.

She, frantic, calls out a May Day."May Day! May Day! Help me!
Help me!My pilot had a heart attack and is dead. And I don't know how to fly.Help me! Please help me!"

She hears a voice over the radio saying:

"This is Air Traffic Control and I have you loud and clear. I will talk you through this and get you back on the ground. I've had a lot of experience with this kind of problem. Now, just take a deep breath.  Everything will be fine! Now give me your height and position."

"She says, "I'm 5'4" and I support Obama."

"O.K." says the voice on the radio....Repeat after me: Our Father Who art in Heaven...."

If I Ever Had a "Dream" Guest Blogger, This Would Be Him

I know my parents will see this if I post it here, even though I swiped it from Facebook.  I loved this.  I even read it out loud this morning to The Boy.  My parents' 50th anniversary is fast approaching.  And Mr. And Mrs. Rowe sure would have been "our kind of people" growing up--and still today, for that matter.  For whatever reason, I see a lot of my parents' wisdom in the Rowes' parenting style.  Or maybe I just think their son, Mike, is hysterical and so smart!

As of today, John and Peggy Rowe have been married for exactly 53 years.

If you ask them how they did it, they’ll credit an uncompromising honesty with one another. If you press them, though, you’ll learn their commitment to the truth did not extend to their children. Indeed, when it came to raising three boys on the salary of a public-school teacher, my parents lied like rugs.

I remember a television commercial that used to air during the Baltimore Orioles home games. It was for an amusement park in Ocean City, Md., and according to the announcer, a visit there would afford me “the time of my life.” At that particular moment, my life had amounted to nine years, and for the most part, I was satisfied with the way things were going. Then I saw The Wild Mouse.

The Wild Mouse was a giant roller-coaster that threatened to leap from our black-and-white television and smash through the wall of our tiny den. It shared the boardwalk with the Round-Up, the Tilt-a-Whirl, and several other mysterious contraptions that plunged and spun this way and that. I had never seen anything like them – a parade of machines devised for no other purpose than pure enjoyment. I remember the camera zooming in on a kid about my age. He was strapped into The Wild Mouse next to a pretty girl, his excitement teetering on the verge of rapture. I was transfixed.

“Hey, Peggy, get a load of these ding-a-lings on the TV. I think they’re gonna puke on each other.”

My parents sat on the sofa behind me. They spoke very casually, but loud enough for me to hear. “Oh, those poor children. Why would anyone stand in line all day just to get vomited on?”

“Obviously, Peggy, those kids are deranged. Look at ‘em.” I searched the sea of jubilant faces for signs of idiocy or nausea.

“Isn’t it sad, John, how some children need machines to have fun?”

“It sure is, Peg. It sure is.”

Later in the game another commercial appeared, this one for a new movie called Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. It was playing at The Senator, and according to the announcer, it was “a thrilling film for the whole family … a must-see event!” I had never been to The Senator before, or any other movie theater. I was captivated.

“Tell me something, Peg. Why would anyone want to see the movie, when they could read the book instead? Books are so much more interesting.”

“Well, John, as I understand it, movies are for children who can’t read very well. Isn’t that sad?”

“It sure is, Peg. It sure is.”

In 1971, there was no money for amusement parks or “must-see” events. But I never felt bad about missing such things. I was too busy feeling sorry for people who had to endure them.

“Hey, Dad, can we order a pizza tonight?”

“A what?” We had never eaten a pizza before, much less ordered one. The concept of food delivery was completely foreign.

“Bobby Price says his mother has a pizza pie delivered right to their house every Friday night," I said. "And Chinese food every Wednesday.”

My father sighed, and spoke with a hint of sadness. “Look, son, Bobby’s mother doesn’t know how to cook. It’s not her fault they can’t have normal food.” Then, quietly to my mother. “Peg, maybe you should call Mrs. Price and give her the recipe for your meatloaf casserole.”

“Of course, John. That poor boy deserves a home-cooked meal.”

“He sure does, Peg. He sure does.”

It was a strange sort of snobbery to develop at such an early age – this sympathy for the fortunate – but that’s precisely what my parents engendered. With duplicity and guile, they turned envy to pity. By the time I was 11, I felt nothing but compassion for my classmates who were forced to wear the latest fashion. Sadly, they had no older cousins to provide them with a superior wardrobe of “softer, studier, broken-in alternatives.”

My parents' subterfuge was second-nature, as it had to be, for temptations were everywhere.

One Sunday after church, our neighbors came by with a slideshow from their most recent family vacation - hundreds of photos from Yellowstone and Yosemite. The Brannigans stayed for hours and told stories about Indians and geysers and wild bears. My brothers and I were spellbound. When they left, my dad smiled and waved as they pulled out of the driveway, but when he turned around, his expression said it all. “Oh, those poor bastards.”

Like a Greek chorus, my mother was right there, dabbing at her eyes with a Kleenex. “Gosh, John, can you imagine flying all the way across the country just to take a walk in the woods?”

“No, honey, I sure can’t. But then again, not everyone has a forest in their own backyard!”

“That’s a good point, John. That’s a very good point.”

My parents shifted their gaze toward the large tract of woods just beyond our pasture, and looked with satisfaction at the epicenter of affordable and sensible amusement that kept me occupied on a daily basis. A swift running creek, a swamp of frogs and cattails, an old wooden bridge, and a maze of hidden trails that might lead anywhere.

Later, when I was less gullible (and TV commercials more persuasive), a new parenting style would evolve, one that included phrases like, “No!” and “Because I said so!” But when I entered the sixth grade, I did so with a firm understanding that that movie theaters were for the illiterate, vacations for the unimaginative, and home delivery for lazy housewives that couldn’t cook. As for amusement parks, they were probably OK, if you didn’t mind waiting in line all day for a chance to vomit on your friend.

Anyway, my parents celebrated their 53rd anniversary with a cruise. They sailed down through the Panama Canal and saw the rain forests of Costa Rica. They assure me they had a great time. But I’m gonna need to see some pictures.

Happy Anniversary.

Mike

Oh! That Explains It

Yesterday at work, my computer was being very temperamental.  It would boot up then I'd try to get into a program--any program-- and almost as quickly the computer would kick me off and shut down  the program.  This went on all day.  It was a nearly useless day at work for me, except I did several projects that were more manual labor than computer driven projects.  I steam cleaned the men's restroom, for example.

 The funny part was that when I first finally got this machine to boot up, this is what was waiting for me:

Afternoon Driver, Alec, who is a UVU student, but a UofU fan, thought this would be a funny prank.  And since he had access to my computer over the weekend--he was on call--he made the Ute's logo my screen caver.

It is VERY harsh to look at as a BYU fan, and even a USU parent.  The red is just glaring.  It hurts me eyes, and my heart.

As the day progressed and I still couldn't get on my machine, I told Alec that he infected it with some sort of Utes virus and that I was quite put out.  He just laughed and thought he was so funny!

Meanwhile, I am trying to concoct a retaliatory plan and scheme to get him back for this.  Oh, and hope that my computer will work today.