Weird Al, Motorcycle Maintenance, and My Cell Phone

Because of my children, I know the lyrics to Weird Al songs.  They're in my head and what's more, I can identify with some of them.  Like this from "Amish Paradise".

But we ain't really quaint, so please don't point and stare
We're just technologically impaired

I am technologically impaired.

I purposefully have the simplest cell phone I could find.  And it is a complete mystery to me.  It does what it wants and I have to just hope for the best.

The other night we were at the Village Theater, enjoying a great production of Lost in Yonkers.  Since our kids were home alone (can I tell you how much better my life has become since I have a live in babysitter?), I had my cell phone on in case they needed us.  It was on silent mode in my jacket pocket.  I get fidgety and as I was recrossing my legs and leaning on Adam's shoulder (because why wouldn't I?) I accidentally bumped my phone.

It started talking to me.  "Say a voice command..."  My voice command is,  "Be quiet, phone."

I handed the phone to Adam and he made it behave and handed it back to me but I was wary.  

My phone has a mind of its own.

I was considering my technological impairment and it reminded me of the book Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.  I read it in college, when I was home for the summer.  I remember reading it on my parents front porch in the blessed dry heat of a Nevada summer.  I remember thinking I might be going slightly insane while I read it because it's kind of a rambling crazy book.  I remember one part that resonated with me though.

Something about technology being dehumanizing and downright scary.  (I can't remember exactly what the book said, maybe it was the lazy heat, maybe I really was going crazy.)

But technology.

I don't really get it.

I have a tenuous relationship with my computer.

I can blog, I can check my email, I can do google searches, I can put books on hold at the library, I can navigate our school curriculum that is online, I can place Amazon.com orders.

And that's it.

If something goes wrong, I have no recourse but to turn to Adam.  He tries to explain it to me...to teach a girl to fish... and my hands fly over my ears so I can't hear him and my eyes glaze over.

More than once, in frustration, when Adam's explained things to me over and over he'll say, "You're as smart as I am."  In other words, figure it out already.

Well, first of all, I'm NOT as smart as him.  Kicking his trash at Boggle doesn't mean much.

Secondly, I don't want to know.  There's the real problem.

My cell phone sometimes goes to speaker mode because I accidentally push something.  (or just because it wants to)  The other day I was tossing my phone in my bag and it took a picture of my hand.  I have no idea what I did to make it take a picture.  Sometimes I can make it take pictures...if Mark shows me how.

I am dazzled by people that can text on their phones.  It's one thing when teenagers text.  They can also play Mario Kart; they're superstars.  But there are a whole lot of other people that can text too (like every other person in America).

Just not me.

My phone came with a user's manual.

It's still in the plastic cover.

Because I don't want to know.

And because it's bigger than the phone.

Also it may or may not be in Spanish.  I don't know.  Because I haven't opened it.

I am not proud (or convenienced) by any of this but I take a little comfort that it's not my fault, really.

(I love it when I can blame something else...like genes...for my failings.)

My dad who built the house I grew up in, creates art every day of his life, can fix anything and will build a tool if he needs to, is staggered by computers too.

And he calls me for tech support sometimes which is at once a heady and frightening feeling.

And Marianne.  Marianne my wonder sister who can pretty much do everything in the world and do it with panache may or may not know how to work a DVD player.

I feel OK in this kind of company.

And happily, Emma did not inherit my flaw.

For her birthday she got an ipod.

I told her (obviously) we'd wait for Dad to get home before we opened the package and put songs on it and whatever other voodoo is required for music.

Emma gave me a strange look and read the owner's manual and before long had it charged up and full of songs and pumping music into her little ears.

Every mother's dream is to raise a daughter better than herself.

Names

I come from a family of namers.  My dad names things.  My dad tried for years to get trees to grow in our yard when I was growing up.  One problem is the whole desert thing.  Then, my parents house is situated on rocky ground.  Very rocky.  There were also "other" problems (like when I accidentally ran the lawn mower over ten tiny trees my dad had planted one afternoon).  My dad finally solved the problem by having Enoch dig a 6 cubic foot hole in the yard.  The tree planted in this rock free sanctuary grew!

My dad named it Frank.

Here are some photos that captured Frank in his summer glory

you have no idea the longing this picture fills me with...summer...sunshine...Nevada

You've got to admit, Frank's a handsome tree.

One summer day I heard an unexpected sound emerging from my dad's shop.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Floyd," was his cryptic reply.  It was his new tumbler, polishing up some spurs.  But my dad names things.

He also named our cars.  (and my brothers name their cars)

This is not a comprehensive list.  I likely don't remember all the cars (and my mom has been pointing out my blogging inaccuracies lately--accuracy?  Who needs it?)

We drove:

Sorrelly
Augustus
October
Brown Brown
Big Brown (sensing a theme)
Blackie
Winnie Mae

Like I said, a partial list.

Why this journey down the list of our named possessions?

Because I come by naming things honestly.

There's a computer generated voice in our school curriculum.  I named her Delores.  (She just sounds so much like a Delores...although I don't actually know anyone named Delores.)  Today we were reading about early American art.  We called on Delores to help us pronounce words like frakturs and grisaille.

A while later, out of the blue, in a quiet moment in the school room (and believe me quiet is only momentary), Braeden said, "I don't think Delores knows how to feel any emotion."

There are very few people in the world that know how to make me laugh like that birthday boy.

FYI:  Here's something I learned in school today.  I learn new things all the time.  Did you know the Pennsylvania Dutch were actually German?  Pennsylvania Dutch comes from Pennsylvania Deutch.  Who knew?  (If you knew stop showing off.  I didn't know.)

The Bad and The Ugly

My pretend friend Christie  (she's my pretend friend because I read her blog and even though I've never met her in person, I want to) wrote a post on her blog about our real selves vs. our blog selves.  She encouraged her readers to write a post revealing their less varnished, more real selves...down to the photo with no make up.

While I do occasionally record a bit of a pity party here, I usually post The Good.  I only pick pictures to post of myself that are passable; I only pick pictures to post of my house that are clean-ish.  Kind of like how I tidy up before my visiting teachers come over.  It's all about tricking people into thinking you're better than you are.

I'll take the challenge though.

Here's my picture:

So in addition to the jumbled school room clutter in the background, here I am.  No make-up and disheveled hair.  Sadly, that's not much different than when I do have make-up on and have done my hair (or tried to).  Neither make-up, hair or looking photogenic are in my realm of expertise.

And here are the confessions that I have to make...the real things.

The inside of my car is almost always a mess and I really don't care that much.

I love organizing things. I am lousy at keeping things organized.

I ate the chocolate covered cherries Janet gave me for Christmas one after the other and didn't tell my children or Adam that we even had them.

I can be cranky.  Really cranky.  And sarcastic.  Really sarcastic.

I never ever want to eat breakfast with my children and rarely do.  I don't want to talk to anyone first thing in the morning.

I haven't balanced my bank statement for years and years.  Numbers like that make me feel quaky.

I don't take criticism well.

If given the choice to read, write, home school, or work on some creative project,  I will always choose that over house work.  And you can tell.

While my house will always look fairly clean if I know you're coming over, I leave laundry in the dryer until there's another load ready to go in.  If my dishes won't fit in the dishwasher, they have to wait until the next load.  I'm not hand washing them.

(and I was raised better than that)

Bear of Very Little Brain

“People who don't Think probably don't have Brains; rather, they have grey fluff that's blown into their heads by mistake.”

-Winnie the Pooh

I think I've finally lost all my marbles.  My cognition has been compromised.

Is it Christmas preparations that are getting to me?

I have a pile of presents under the tree which is good for my anxiety.  They're wrapped!  They're done!

What's bad for my anxiety is that I can't remember exactly what's in them.  I have counted several times to see if my children have an equal number.  Then I realize one child has more.  I get more gifts for the other two.  Then I remember that I still have stuff coming from Amazon.  Then I panic.  Now how many gifts does everyone have?

I remember things I've purchased. Are they wrapped?  Are they hiding in my closet?

Will I have to just unwrap everything and see once and for all what I really have?

This is no way to live.  I don't know what to blame for my gifting indiscretion.  It could be that I'm busier than I've ever been in my life.  I feel like my To Do list is chasing me every day and I'm staying ahead of it by sheer force of will. 

And losing my marbles all along the way.

Take this for example:  I have phone troubles.  And by phone troubles I don't just mean my phone isn't working.

Although it isn't.

Remember this?  And then there was the time last summer that I gave my neighbor my phone number so she could call Braeden to babysit.

Except for I gave her Janet's phone number accidentally.

Then since my phone isn't working, I've been troubleshooting it (between trying to remember what exactly is under the tree and Everything Else),  I plugged in an old phone to see if the phone was the trouble.  I dialed my number from my cell phone to see if the old phone would at least accept a call.

Except I dialed Janet's number accidentally.

Yesterday I was still troubleshooting the miserable phones (between trying to remember what exactly is under the tree and Everything Else).  The phone company, which was trying to be helpful but mostly just frightened me with talk of $91 for the first half hour if a repairman came, told me some things to try.  I wanted to call Adam to make sure I knew what I was doing.  So I dialed his cell phone.

Except I dialed Janet's number accidentally.

She said, "Did you mean to call me?"

I said, "No," sheepishly.

Really though, if you're going to keep calling someone, accidentally, don't you think Janet is a great choice?

I do.

OCD

There are two types of people in the world:

People that should set the tables for the ward Christmas party

And people that should not.

I don't know which group I belong to because does anyone truly like the person that follows behind and not so subtly fixes what other people have done?

I think not.

Genetics

Marianne told me that she was "saving a small fortune in gift tags this year" by color coding the gifts under the tree for her 6 children . Every child has his or her own wrapping paper.

I said that would work well for me because I have lots of wrapping paper.

But it wouldn't work well for me because none of it goes together and coordinating gifts under the tree are a thing of beauty for yours truly.

I have a small problem...and I confided it to my skilled sister who's cranking out twice the gifts for twice the children. I have too much wrapping paper.

Every year I buy a roll or two after Christmas. Because they're so cheap! And I love a good bargain!

Then every autumn I buy a roll or two. Because they're so pretty! And I love Christmas!

The same thing happens with ornaments. I bought a big set of red balls for my family room tree to find an unopened set near my Christmas boxes under the stairs. I bought them last year. After Christmas.

And I succumbed and bought some more straw ornaments for my living room tree too. I need more straw ornaments like Seattle needs more clouds.

Rats.

Marianne told me that I was like our mother. She said, "Remember the mustard?"

Oh yes. Our poor mother. She doesn't deserve the cheeky daughters she was given.

When she was a school teacher (she taught business, accounting, computers, key boarding), she was also the FBLA leader. Because my mom is capable beyond all reason, they gave the FBLA the job of concession stands at the basketball games. My mom with a handful of stalwart future business leaders of America would serve out hamburgers and hot dogs. My mom hated every greasy minute of it.

But she did it.

Because that's who she is.

She was busy. Busier than I hope to ever be and she'd buy more ketchup and mustard when she was at the store just in case she needed more. Once when I was home visiting (because my mom was only a teacher after I'd left home), I counted and between my mom's two refrigerators, there were 13 containers of mustard! Thirteen!

We teased our dear mother about all that mustard.

And now here I am with the wrapping paper.

If you can inherit quirks from your mother, you can also inherit insanity from your children.

When Braeden was little, he insisted that the nursery rhyme went, "When the pie was old, the birds began to sing..."



I would try to convince him that it was, "When the pie was opened," to no avail. I finally realized the futility of arguing with a toddler and I told him that when he was older and could read, he would know that I WAS RIGHT.

He was two. I'm not proud of myself.

But still, I was right.

The other day at lunch we were having one of our bizarre conversations of unknown origins and Braeden said that the Keebler elf was a girl. In the interest of brotherly solidarity, Mark agreed wholeheartedly with Braeden. Emma insisted that he most certainly was a boy elf. I agreed (of course) with Emma and Braeden said, "Listen to the voice next time. It's a girl. And kind of creepy."

Emma said, "He is wearing pants!" I indicated the jeans both she and I were wearing and told her that wasn't a great argument.

"It's a boy though Braeden. I promise," I assured my gender confused son.

Braeden insisted otherwise and I remembered the Sing a Song of Sixpence incident.

Except for what future event will prove to Braeden I'm right? The Keebler. Elf. Is. A. Boy.

Turns out Adam was the key. When I told him the story he reminded me, "The Elf is named Ernie."

Ah-ha!

(See what I mean, insanity...you inherit it from your children and it gets really sad when you argue at lunch over whether or not the Keebler Elf is a boy or a girl. Really sad.)

Useless Information

I wish the space in my brain that held useless information would relinquish some of it to the storage of useful information that I have a hard time hanging onto.

I can remember the birthdays of most of the kids I went to elementary school with. These are kids that are permanently frozen in time in my mind because I never see them or even think about them now…except for occasionally on their birthdays. Tanya Linnell, May 31: Brian McIntosh, August 30: Wyatt Winchell and Roland Archuleta, March 5: Aurora Salazar, April 4.

I can not remember how to order prints of pictures I took from with my digital camera on Costco.com even though Adam has shown me several times how to do it. It would be useful to know how.

I can remember the cheers that were chanted at high school basketball and football games and pep rallies. I wasn’t a cheerleader. I no longer live in the same town or even go to high school basketball or football games in my current town. But I know all the cheers. “L-L-L-E-O, P-P-P-A-R, L-E-O, P-A-R, Dddddddddd-S!” (We were the Wells Leopards.) “California Grapefruit, Arizona Cactus, We play your team just for practice.” “Our boys are F-I-N-E fine on the L-I-N-E line and we L-O-V-E love them all the T-I-M-E time. They are the B-E-S-T best of all the R-E-S-T rest and we L-O-V-E love them all the T-I-M-E time.” I could go on and on.

I can not remember directions to anyplace unless I’ve driven there at least 5-10 times. (Riding there in a car does not help.) It would be useful to remember directions. But I can’t.

Today I got three Happy Meals at McDonald’s. One for each kid. The toys were Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Emma said, “Mom, did you know that one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles is named Leonardo?” To them TMNT are at the cutting edge of new toys. I said that as a matter of fact I did and that the other turtles were named Michelangelo, Donatello, and Raphael. (I didn’t realize that I knew this useless information but I did have a cousin who was VERY into Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.) Braeden looked at me with a mixture of awe and respect that only a ten year old who calls all of his friends “Dude” can achieve. He asked, “How did you KNOW that?” I basked in the pleasure of his admiration—which happens less and less the taller he gets. I guess that sometimes, useless information comes in handy.