He Forgot the Poop Sac

Sinai hospital. 4 am. Thanks for the Lasix (sp?) doc. I'm peeing every 1/2 hour. And starving--having eaten practically nothing but liquids for two weeks. Surgery soon. Looking forward to it. Blog surfing. Find one about a year's worth of crock pot cooking. Reminds me of my own crockpot story. I'm about to incriminate myself. Promise you'll still love me.

About 1980. Larry brings home a cottontail and drops it, skinned and all, into the kitchen sink. The kids are little. Clayton hasn't been born yet. We gardened. We canned. We hunted. He shot it, I cooked it, and we ate it. Grass fed beef. Goat milk. Home grown corn, potatoes and tomatoes. A different life. But I digress. So I rinse the little bunny's body, drop it in the crock pot, cover it with potatoes, carrots and onions, add water, salt and pepper. Put on the lid. Turn on the heat.

The next night:
What's for dinner? (Now how did you know that was asked by a man?).
Rabbit and potatoes.
You mean...the rabbit I brought home last night?
Yeah.
But I didn't finish cleaning it.
What do you mean you didn't finish cleaning it? You always clean in the carport and bring me the finished--parts.
Well, I forgot the poop sac.

The poop sac. Little brown pebbly rabbit poop. Hmm. The crock pot is full! There's so much food in there! Good, healthy organic-before-we-knew-what-organic-meant food that we planted and nurtured and harvested. And luckily, the poop sac is on the very bottom. Once I turned on the heat, I never touched the food until the next night.

Fast forward 25 years. I'm telling my younger sister, Rachel, the story. She's laughing. She and Mike did the mountain-man-and-his-little-woman stint too, in Oregon. So she gets the self-sufficiency at all costs mentally. In fact, we used to talk about collaborating on a cookbook: How to Make Two Hot Dogs Feed a Family of Five. But I digress again. Back to the story:

Rachel: So did you throw it out?
No.
Did you eat it? Now she's laughing harder.
No.
Well if you didn't throw it out and you didn't eat it, what did you do with it?
I'm laughing now too, and barely able to squeak out the truth:
We fed it to the kids!
We laugh so hard that tears run down our faces.

Oh the things we confess as we age!! But in my defense--I scooped off the top just that one time--and the rest wasn't totally wasted. It went to the dogs.

One Ringy Dingy, Two Ringy Dingies

Hmmmm....I wonder how many people who read my posts actually know where this post's title comes from....

I'm lying on a 'bed' in the ER. I've been there about 5 hours (not in the bed, but the ER). I've had a run-in with a nurse with control issues and I've won. No arguing. Just the good 'ol passive response of ignoring her and doing what I wanted. OK, sidebar: I HATE it when people try to use their titles to throw their weight around, and she had plenty of weight to throw. She told me to put on the gown and I said I'd rather not. She said I must and I said I was already braless and could pull up my shirt. She said it was hospital policy. What a bunch of crap. I proceeded to ignore her and climb up on the bed. She said the doctor wouldn't see me if I didn't have on a gown. Liar!! When I didn't respond to that she said she'd leave it up to my nurse. Then she ran her big xxx out to find him. I asked myself why I even cared about the gown. I mean, why was it such a big deal to put it on? Because at that point I was DETERMINED that I wasn't going to do it even if they called the hospital administrator to my room!! I would have rather been naked than wear that horrible scrap of fabric which is not only cheap and scratchy but humiliating as well. I was swearing and crying (I only swore in my head). Can you hear the melt-down coming? I didn't look good and I sure as hec didn't feel good! I wasn't about to comply.After about 30 minutes of crying (sometime I'm going to have to blog about assertiveness issues because I definitely have them. I can count on two hands the few times in my life when I've actually been assertive and not just passive/aggressive. Usually I'm just a big woos, except for that time I became a mother bear in a run-in with an excuse for a vp at the jr high over some issues with Clayton. I was actually assertive then. More like livid and 'You so much as look cross-eyed at my child and I'll twist your head so far around you'll...' well, you get the idea. Yes, I admit that in the re-telling of this I derive a certain prideful unchristian-like pleasure remembering that lovely afternoon...that guy so frozen he didn't even breathe...three men in the room all with their mouths open down to the floor...Wonder Woman!!...Sigh...)

So anyway, my nurse was a wonderful person. He didn't say one word about that horrid gown and I've decided that I will never wear one again! Take that! I've discovered that being defiant is not only empowering, it can be fun. Huh! So it's only taken me fifty years to figure that one out. My friend Kathy is applauding as she reads this. Yes, one is never too old to learn. So thanks for indulging my rant and now I'll finish what I actually started to write about:

I'm in bed in the ER and I've met my nurse (Don) and he's cool and I'm done crying. I'm feeling much better. I'm looking around, wondering when the doctor will be in. Patience is definitely one of my virtues. Then I hear a phone ringing in the nurse's station. It's right outside my 'room.' It rings. And it rings. And it rings, and rings and rings and rings. Why isn't anyone answering the phone? Yes, it was a weekend and the ER was busy, but I laid there and watched nurses and doctors and transporters and techs walk back and forth and no one picked up the phone. Ring...By this time it has been ringing for at least five minutes. I think to myself, 'Whoever's calling is not going to hang up until that phone gets answered.' Still, the phone rings and still, every one ignores it. Ring...ring...It was as though everyone was waiting for everyone else to answer it. Ring...Boy, whoever is calling is determined to get through. That's something that Rachel would do, I think to myself. She wouldn't be angry either. Ring...She'd just bite down like a pit bull on a bone and think, 'I'm not hanging up until someone answers this phone.' Ring...ring...ring...Now I'm getting annoyed. I've already had a little taste of assertiveness so I'm feeling a little boldness. "PHO-ONE!" I yell. Too quiet. No one hears that. I try again. "Hey! Is anyone going to answer the phone?" I am louder this time and it feels good. Now I realize that the phone ringing is not my problem, however, a hospital is a public place and surely I'm not the only patient annoyed by the constant ringing. Suddenly my nurse comes running in. "Don!" I say, "What's wrong with the staff? Don't they answer the phones around here?" He reaches behind my head, picks up the phone, pushes a button and hands it to me--with a huge grin on his face.
" Wha...for me??" I don't know what to say. I'm not a mother bear anymore. I'm a mouse. Or maybe a piece of mouse's poop..."Hel...hello?"
"Marci, is that you?"
"Rachel? Is that you?" (Why am I not surprised!)
"Wow, that rang a long time, but I'd already decided, 'I'm not hanging up this phone until someone answers!'"
I tell her what happened and we laugh for a long time. Two weeks later we're still laughing. But really, I can swear the ringing was coming from the nurses' station...and no, I wasn't there for a hearing problem, but maybe I should have been.

Buzz, buzz, buzz

Once upon a time, again

my hair began to shed
just like cats in summertime
the mess I made, oh dread!
I flew that week from East to West
to Mama's house I went
No brush or comb I used at all
and silk scarves was I lent

When I got home I couldn't wait
to have the mess removed.
My daughter turned the clippers on;
my sanity improved.

Owen helped; his little face
it bore such concentration.
When he stopped Chantel resumed.
His look of consternation
disappeared, he laughed and shrieked,

"You look like Uncle Clayton!"

I thought I did, and maybe do
look like my youngest child,

But John and I look so alike,
as he would say, "That's wild!"
(I love ya, Bo!)
And family, thanks for the buzz party!

What's in a Name? A Whole Lot!!

I've always thought it would be fun to write a book about people's nick names. There are so many strange ones out there, and the sources of them are even more interesting, the same with real names. Some years ago I was working at Rachel's factory during the holiday season and the phones were ringing non-stop. I decided to help the sales department and answer calls for awhile. The caller was from Florida and she wanted to place an order. After taking down her items, the call went pretty much like this:

"May I have your name?"

"XXoody"

"I'm sorry, can you spell that for me?"

"Yes, Trudy. T-R-U-D-Y."

"Oh! Trudy! I thought you said Poody!"

"POOOOODY! Lawrrrdd!" She was practically screaming into the telephone.

"It was bad enough with Trudy--you know, kids and all, 'Trudy, Trudy, fat and fruity' but if my parents had named me Poody why I'd have to kill em!"

"Well, I grew up in the South too, and I have this cousin named Cynthia but everyone has always called her Pody..."

Yes, in spite of my talking without thinking, the woman did finalize her order. Good thing she had a sense of humor.

Past and present nicknames in our families include but are not limited to (but don't ask me who's who; I'll never tell): Wimba, Dode, Boh, Guh, Bear, Sweet Pea, Bug, Wells, Blondie, Muffin, Moose Poose, Mother Brain, Lawrence of Arabia You Cool Dude You, Telbell, The Budster, Brandony Baloney, Toasty Toad, Sis, Chantilly Lace, Vee, Monkey, Pooty, Mama Jama Salama, Pops, Aunty M, Nicholasmouse, Ebird, Booger, Jiddy, Punk, Raisin, Rye Girl, Rye Boy, and Sweety Peety.

Let me know if there's a name you'd like added to the list!

A Little Anectdote from my Hospital Roommate. Golly I Love Non-Fiction...

She Don’t Take It From Nobody

Lying in bed in the dark

someone with a flashlight

carving lines and circles on her walls

searching

she rolls, ducks the flashlight’s beam

closes her hand around her red tennis shoes

slips out the front door

charges the corner of the house screaming waving

a big silver blade

sees surprise sudden fear

in the eyes staring from behind the black face-mask

his retreating figure

growing smaller in her sight

while she chases him

screaming

dew grass clawing

the hem of her long nightgown

She thinks probably she would have caught him

if she hadn’t been carrying a machete.

Funny Baby

I can't take credit for finding this. I first saw it on my niece's website, but this little guy is hilarious. Take a look.

I Heard This in Church

"Parenting is like being pecked to death by a flock of chickens."

Potty Mouth; Same Stuff, Different Generation

I was responding to Chantel's recent post about Owen's potty mouth when I realized that I was creating an entry worthy of its own space. So here goes.

Living with the Calders is wonderful, interesting, happy, and safe, but sometimes with a little bit of "Oh, no!" thrown in. I'm referring to the things I see Owen doing that Brandon did 25 years ago. A part of me says, "No. I'm not going there. I already raised my kids. Now I just want to be Grammy." But living with grandchildren creates another whole dynamic that I didn't think much about when I was just visiting. The discipline role is mine by default along with all the other roles that being a grandmother offer. Tel and Austin and I have had talks about what works and what doesn't and I think we do a pretty fair job of being consistent. At least we keep trying. And Owen keeps trying us to make sure that we're always learning. One 'parent' might be stronger or more consistent about bedtime, or table manners, or disrespectful behavior than another, or one may ignore a little more than another before 'counting.' One really doesn't want to be "Monster Grammy" so that one finds herself giving little warnings before counting, but I won't mention which one that is. But no matter what's happening with Owen's growth (and Soren's too, although Owen tests more often right now), there's always the surprise reminder that as much as I learned as a parent, I still fall right back into the old patterns, even though it's been 19 years since I've had a 6-year-old, and almost 26 years since Brandon was one. I always thought if I had it to do over, I'd be such a great parent and so incredibly consistent and wise. Humph! I'm aware of when I'm being less than perfectly consistent with Owen. What keeps surprising me is that the older I get, I'm still just me--imperfections and all. Now having said all that, I'll get to what prompted all this to begin with.

Owen's potty mouth is slowly getting better. But progress is never made in a perfect upward line. It's always two steps forward and a step or two back. Most of the time I either ignore Owen's mouth, or I count, and he's getting better about stopping at 2 instead of going to his room at 3. But once in awhile he catches me completely off guard and I have to turn away so he doesn't see me suppressing a laugh. Once in awhile he even unknowingly creates a situation wherein the best response is to laugh.

For example, a couple of days after coming back from California, Idaho, and Brandon's funeral services, I was feeling pretty dazed. Owen and I were at the table together doing art. Chantel and Austin were outside or down the hall and Marti, Austin's mother, was somewhere in the house too. She had come for a visit. Suddenly, Owen, out of the quiet blue says, "Grammy? My Mom farts. Do you think my mom farts? And I think her farts stink. Don't you think so? Grammy? Grammy? I'm sure my Mom farts--a lot. My mom farts every day. Grammy, are you listening?" Now I didn't think this was funny, but this was one of those weird moments when I was completely ambushed by his quick little mind. I didn't say anything, nor did I even hint at a smile. In fact, I didn't even look up. I just continued to work on my painting. But I quickly realized that this one-sided conversation was getting out of hand. Just like ignoring a situation never worked with Brandon, it doesn't work with Owen either. He became more determined than ever to get my attention. And now that I'm thinking about it, given the terribly sad state of affairs at our house, perhaps he wanted me to laugh right then more than ever. But I didn't. And right about the delayed-reaction moment that I opened my mouth to say something I hoped would be effective, Marti steps around the corner and says something to the effect of, "Owen, you will stop what you're saying immediately and you will talk about something else, do you understand?" It was not only the statement, but the way it was delivered, with the perfect cadence, the precisely perfect inflections in her voice, and the slight but oh so effectively placed pause. I couldn't look at Marti, but I'm certain she had her eyebrows positioned perfectly as well. There's no way one can say something like that without having mastered the technique of precision eyebrow positioning. Owen was stopped in his tracks, while I sat there and wondered if I could have made a delivery with as much authority as Marti did.

In my defense, I claim environment and perhaps even genetics. I was the middle child, the peace maker, the "good one," and the one my younger brother dubbed "Polly Pure Heart." Talk about living up to a standard! Therefore, I have never associated myself with words like "authoritative" or "strict." Even "consistent" had a rather mean sound to it. "Sweet" is the adjective I've most often heard, in fact, as recently as last night on the telephone with my mother! I think it's too late for me. I was the kind of child that an adult had only to raise his or her eyebrow a certain way--and a single one at that--or lift a pointer finger in a silent warning, and I would cease and desist any thing remotely resembling bad or even improper behavior. I never got a spanking. I never had my mouth washed out with soap, and I can't remember even being sent to my room (unless it was for do-overs since shoving everything into a neat pile in the middle of the floor didn't constitute cleaning my room). Probably most of my biggest infractions were laughing at my brothers' potty mouths--partly because they were funny, and partly from the excitement of living vicariously through my them. But I never got in trouble for laughing.

Fast forward 40 years. Owen had just pulled a fast one. I remained stoic at the table that day, but my mouth was probably still hanging open when Marti turned around and left the room after the perfect delivery of the perfect one-liner. I wondered for a fleeting moment if I should feel embarrassed-- a six-year-old getting the better of me, and I think he had been just about to realize that if he hadn't already. Instead of putting myself down though, I felt grateful--grateful that Marti grew up as the oldest of seven children, including a set of twins. Somebody had to do it! And as fast as Owen was on the draw, Marti aimed to kill, and she didn't miss. She comes by her skills naturally just like I do. Mine just don't happen to be in the consistent parent realm. Unlike me, Marti did not grow up with illusions of the power of the eyebrows. She came. She conquered. She left. Just like that! And she made it look easy! But for me it really isn't.

In the future, for serious infractions, like the one Owen made by disrespecting his mother, I hope I'm a little bit faster in speaking up and a little firmer at how I sound. If I pretend to be someone else, I may just pull it off. If, on the other hand, you happen to be visiting and see me turn away from Owen as I try to hide a smile, know that I'm not laughing so much at what Owen has said, although every potty mouth little boy seems to think he's come up with something original. No, I'm smiling because I'm looking back over the years and realizing, potty mouth may be squelched but it will never die. It was around long before either Marti or I came along and it will be here a long time after we're gone. And yet, as parents and grandparents, we're obligated to do our best to at least keep it to a dull roar.

Potty mouth doesn't begin at six even though we continue to hope that we might have it controlled by 6 and 3/4. Unfortunately, it doesn't end at sixteen either, although it does seem to be less prevalent during the dating years, but after that? Well, you tell me. Does potty mouth ever end? Really? How many males do you know who never, ever resort to some comment about body parts or body functions as a source of humor? And I'm not saying that women don't use it too (nor am I talking about filth or abuse of the sacred masquerading as humor). It's just that in my experience, I can't think of a single male, either close friend or family member, who doesn't slip into the old funny once in awhile.

So for those of you who feel righteous indignation that I sometimes laugh at the improper, or the little boy crude I can only, in my defense, tell you that I grew up with an older and younger brother, raised two boys, and heard plenty of potty mouth from other adults (all males mind you) all in the guise of "Oh, boy, isn't this hilarious?" and age was never a determining factor. I heard it throughout my life and given certain company, I hear it still! I'll bet money that even you who don't laugh now, laughed plenty when you were a kid and you're still tempted on occasion. See if you can find someone who never slips up. But asking your boss about this when he's in a three-piece suit doesn't count. Try asking your girlfriend about her ex-husband instead. She might even tell you about the time they were playing this game called "Revenge of the Rotten Eggs"... And I don't care how old you are. When she tells you the truth--you're gonna laugh.

Rare Find!!

I found the following while sorting through old cards and letters. I decided that scanning and posting would be more effective than trying to explain...I received this in the mail in 1998.


Leah is all grown up now, living in Thailand studying fashion design and pattern making. I have always enjoyed her sense of humor and seeing the world through her eyes.

How to Tell if Your Feet Stink

Can't take credit for this. Came in my email and I thought it was too funny to pass up.

Alessandra's Story

When Alessandra was 5, she visited Morocco with Claude, her French-Canadian come-what-may father, and Danielle, her American feminist mother. Danielle agreed to wear traditional dress out of respect for their hosts, but the family found their vacation to another country not exactly what they had in mind.

Alessandra and her parents shopped at an outdoor market for figs and vodka. The local men and women were fascinated with Alessandra's golden curls and large blue eyes, but Dani resented their unfamiliar hands and constant reaching out to touch her daughter's hair and face. (Chantel gets this). When Alessandra and her parents returned to the home of their hosts, Dani was even more resentful when she realized that she was expected to spend the rest of the day helping to prepare dinner-- tending a fire and turning the spit that held a whole lamb.

Dinner was a process in which everyone ate from the same bowl with their fingers: Take two fingers, dip, suck, dip again, suck, and pass. The bowl went to all the men first, boys second, women third, and little girls last. By the time the food reached Alessandra, it had passed through 30 hands, (or 150 fingers and 30 types of saliva.)

After dinner Danielle was dancing with the other women when Alessandra pulled on her skirt. She looked down at her daughter's green face, scooped her up, and ran out into the courtyard where Alessandra "evacuated her dinner at both ends."

A local doctor came to the house. As soon as he arrived, the doctor turned Alessandra over and much to her surprise and her mother's horror, gave her a suppository. Danielle had had it.

"Claude, call a cab! We are leaving!"

Danielle wrapped Alessandra in a blanket, changed back into her jeans and t-shirt, and the family went to a hotel in Marakesh.

This was the gist of a story we critqued the other day in my non-fiction workshop. Our purpose was to discuss what worked, what didn't. We made comments and suggestions, and we asked the writer questions. Our chatter was full of astute observations--invaluable to any serious writer. But typical of the feminine ability to multi-task, our critique went from the meaning of the word "evacuating" into multiple directions like exploding fireworks--or maybe like projectile vomiting.

"What's a suppository?"
"Have you ever heard of those intestine cleaning things?"
"I know a woman who gives herself a wheat grass enema every day."
"Some people use coffee--"
"Yeah, or cocaine--"
"Its like a giant horse-pill in some kind of medium that dissolves quickly."
"Using suppositories is the absolute fastest way of absorbing medicine, much faster than swallowing a pill."
"Did you say a cocaine enema?"
"Those are called colonics."
"Have you ever seen pictures of what's inside your intestines?"
"If you eat a lot of cheese and stuff, you can have a build-up."
"I guess that would help if you can't hold anything down."
"What's a colonic?"
"People get carried away with the whole cleansing thing."
"It's supposed to be really relaxing."
"Yeah, right!"
"The pictures on the internet are amazing."
"Yeah, but you have to be careful what you eat for awhile after that."
"Well, what's the purpose of cleansing if you're just going to eat more crap?"
"Like this two-foot long piece that looked like tar."
"How does it work?"
"That sounds gross."
"Is there a drip pan, or what?
"Well, some people want to see what's in their bodies--sort of motivating you know?
"Some things are better left to the imagination."

Clearly, this critique had gone sideways. Alessandra sat at the end of the table to my left. "See what your story started?" I said. She laughed.

I had been watching the faces of my classmates, but especially my professor, a small Chinese man with a dry sense of humor and quick, anxious mannerisms. He had been listening the whole time, laughing occasionally, but remaining quiet. Finally when there was a break in the chatter, he said, "Ok then...uh...'evacuate at both ends'---that means puke and poo, right?" The whole table erupted in laughter. We had come full circle.