Random Thoughts #507: Why I should Eat More Salads.

It all started one night as a nagging thought entered my head and refused to leave.  The more I tried to extinguish it, the more it insisted on pushing through.  My strange realization:  It seems that every time I casually pass by my basil plant I seriously considered taking a bite off of it.

I know.  I know.  That's just weird, you're thinking.

And it's true.  I'm pretty sure that's quite weird. 

I've decided it all must have stemmed from this,"You must eat salads" talk that has me so confused and taste buds downright frustrated.

The other night I dined on a barbecued chicken thigh for dinner topped off with a glass of white wine.  And it was amazing.

It was a night in which I truly listened to what my body was telling me to eat.  Meat and alcohol.  It doesn't get much more primitive than that.  Perhaps that is the real "caveman diet".  What more does one need?

Well, apparently basil.  Because as I was washing my face, getting ready for bed, I glanced over my shoulder as one does- just as they do in the commercials, swinging one's hair from side to side.  It was then that I saw it.  The basil herb plant that was resting ever so peacefully in my bathroom windowsill.
 
"Go ahead," she beckoned.  I'm sure it's a female plant.  "Try me.  Just one little leaf.  No one will know," Mrs. Basil insisted.

I began to feel awkward.  My basil plant was taunting me like an adolescent girl with a pack of cigarettes in the bathroom.  The pressure was more than I could handle.

Naturally, I did not want to be rude.  And yet, it still felt weird to just rip off one of those tiny, succulent leaves and start gnawing away on it.

After this went on for a while, I finally decided enough was enough.  I turned my back from my plant and continued to brush my teeth, ignoring the enticements.

No.  I would not be eating basil tonight.

That would, after all, just be weird.

However, it was in that moment of clarity that I also concluded that it just may be time to introduce some more "greens" into my life.  Perhaps I shall start with spinach.  It seems less pushy and a much better personality.

If You Dig It, They Will Come: How to Catch a Man.

Since the beginning of time, women have always had what is believed to be "traditional" places to find a man.  A bar.  A club.  Church.  Sporting events.  The gym. Iceland.

And while all of these "traditional" locations generally prove to produce positive results, there is a deep secret that not many in our modern society know.  It is a method that has been proven so successful- it has been kept on the down-low for centuries.  However, I am here today to reveal this secret.  Are you ready for it?

If you want to catch a man... you must dig a hole.

Yes, I said a hole.

What kind of hole?

Most any hole will do, however, it has been determined that the larger and more complex your hole, the better your luck.  Additionally, your success in catching a man will not only depend on the magnitude of this hole, but the location as well.

Sound crazy?  Perhaps.  So crazy, in fact, it works.

Observe:  Any time there is a hole, one can be guaranteed to spot men congregating.   It is true.  No one is quite sure why this phenomenon happens.  Many scientific studies have been performed to determine the cause.  However, when it comes down to it- the answer is simple.  Men are drawn to holes.  Men cannot resist investigating a hole.  A hole is the perfect location for a socializing affair.

In many cases one man will be observed digging the hole, while other men randomly stand by and watch.  In their minds they are working just as hard as the digger- by keeping him entertained, and every so often throwing out helpful suggestions to the man digging. 

And so to my single lady readers- you now know what you need to do.  Find a busy location in which men frequently pass.  Begin digging a hole.  Give it some time, and before you know it, I guarantee men will come.  Though I cannot promise you that the men that come will necessarily be your dream men, or that you will not be arrested, but you will, in fact, meet a man.  Or several.

Happy digging.  And if it so happens that you meet the man of your dreams, well a simple thank you is all that I need.  Or thank you diamonds.  Diamonds are always a good way to show your appreciation.

My Not-So-Pretty-Freak-Out Moment

It all started with a phone call.  It had been a night like any other night.  The whole family was driving down the road in our SUV.  We were just about to break out in a round of Row Your Boat when my phone began to ring- playing Flo Rida’s Whistle loudly over our sweet voices.  Whistling, I answered the phone. 

Mystery voice on phone:  Julia.  Hey.  [long pause]  I have something I need to tell you.

I recognized the voice of my best friend.  However, she wasn’t speaking in her normal happy tra-la-la voice.  Rather, it was more of a voice of dread.  I knew instantly something was wrong.

Fearing the worst, I asked her right away what was wrong.

Unhappy friend:  Well, I’m making... the phone call of shame...

Me:  The what?  [knowing that times were tight, my first thought was I wonder if she had taken a job as a stripper.  She can be compulsive like that.  Not that I have anything against strippers.  I’ve known some really nice ones.  They were always sparkly.  I just didn’t really foresee this as the optimal career for my friend.  When she is in front of a large group of people she doesn't know she gets nervous and makes really awkard jokes.  It just wouldn’t be good for tips.]

Unhappy friend:  Well… my kids... have... lice.

There it was.  She said it.  The words all mothers fear the most.  Well, almost.  They were the words that caused shunning among the PTA and the whispering and not-so-discretely pointing with eyes, lips, and head nods.  We would be known as the ‘dirty people down the street.’  

Quick say something to your obviously distraught friend.  Say something!!

Me:  Ooh,  gross. [not so supportive]  Ugh, that sucks.  Well, um, okay- thanks for letting me know… [Our kids had spent several days together that week. Crap.]  It’s no big deal! [AHHHH!]  They have all kinds of treatments for that now.  [Don’t panic…don’t panic…]  OkayIbettergonowbye.

I hang up the phone and look over at my husband.

Me:  Haha.  [Unhappy friend’s name] kids have lice.  Isn’t that funny?

Husband:  [Looking at me thoughtfully for a moment.] Okay.

I am silent for a moment.  I take this in.  I begin to do inventory in my head.  My head begins to itch.  I scratch it.  I recently had read something on Pinterest about ‘natural remedies’.  I laughed and scrolled on- thinking how embarrassing it would be to ‘pin’ something like that.  That would suggest my kids could get lice.  Oh funny Pinterest.  That would never happen to us.  I inform my kids not to wear random hats of strangers.  

But it was happening.

Though the details are somewhat vague from that moment on- I know the rest of the night went something like this:

Husband drops us off at home and goes on a run to the store for supplies.

I order the children to run downstairs and strip down to their underwear, throwing everything, including their coats into the washer.

I strip down to my underwear and throw all into the washer as well, turning it on the hottest setting possible.  

I kick myself for not having a burn barrel to just throw everything into.  

I wince in pain where I kicked myself.

I run upstairs and tell the kids not to touch anything.

I call them over and begin head checks on all three of them. 

I find nothing but am unconvinced.  I look further and find a few specs of dirt in my youngest child’s hair.  I resolve to give her baths more frequently.  (it’s a third child thing)

My head itches some more.  I run upstairs to check in the mirror.  I see nothing- but still remain unconvinced.

I run downstairs and into the pantry to pull out some apple cider vinegar.  

I drag the kids into the bathroom and begin pouring it over their heads over the sink.

It smells horribly and they complain of it.

I hush them and pour it in my own hair.  I consider pouring it onto the cats but I have run out.

I quickly run to their bedrooms to begin stripping their sheets.

I carry the bundles of bedding and toys- anything that may have touched their beds- down the stairs and throw it on the laundry room floor.

Husband arrives at home bearing coconut oil in his arms like a storybook hero.

I leap forward and grab the jar from his hand and began dousing the children’s hair in the oils.

My sister (the crazy one) arrives and I cannot understand why she will not treat her hair since she has been in the same room as my children who have been in the same room as my friend's children.

She says it's not a plague.  She's a nurse and uses all of these medical terms.

I begin yelling a lot.  Freak-out mode is on full force.  I cannot understand why no one else is taking this as serious as I am.

I fear the house is already condemned but do my best to save it as I begin bagging all of their clothes and blankets and throwing them outside.  I really love my house and don't want to lose it.

I isolate myself to my room as I've been told I've officially lost it.

The bugs continue to crawl all over me- reproducing every minute.

The world grows dark.  I either black out or go to sleep.  I'm not sure.  But when I awake- it is morning.  I look around to find the house is still intact.  Was it all a nightmare?  I touch my hair and feel the greasy oils in it.  Nope.  Wasn't a dream.

However, something has changed.  I suddenly don't feel as though the walls are caving in on my infested home.  I breath calmly.  In fact, my head doesn't even itch anymore.  

My sister comes into my room with a list of facts and myths about lice.  Looking around the house, it dawns on me that I may have overreacted- just a little.  Perhaps this is something that we can survive.

I also learn that it is not necessary to go to such measures when a louse has not even been spotted just because you know someone who has it. 

Somewhere in there I realize I may have slightly overreaccted.  Just a little.  I make several apologies and wonder what in the heck had come over me.

And then I call my unhappy friend.  I listen to her tell me about all of the crazy things she did the previous night too.  And then I realize- I am not alone in my crazy, irrational fears.  

Perhaps bugs make all mothers go a little insane.

And sometimes, if I'm very still, I can still feel them crawling all over me...

I Got to Fly!

An amazing thing happened just the other day.  Something that I have been longing for.  The missing link in my current career...

I got to fly.

Now I’m not talking about just any kind of flying.  I got fly on my old plane- the P-3 Orion- but as a civilian this time. 

Though it felt like a lifetime ago, it had [only] been eleven years.   Fortunately, I was able to still squeeze into my old flight suit that I had held onto all these years (and three kids later). 

So when I arose that morning, I was sure to tell everyone I know that I was flying.  The babysitter.  The gas station worker who made my breakfast burrito.  Fred, the hitch-hiker I pass every morning on my way into work.  He was not amused.  I swear Fred has no sense of humor some days.

And although I was slightly disappointed to not be met with a grand brass band serenading me as I gallantly walked up the ladder, my smile never left my face. 

The most surprising thing that I realized- as I climbed the ladder that I had once fallen down and broke the fall with my face on the tarmac- is that essentially nothing had changed. 

I found immediate relief in this.  With the looming threat of the “new and improved” P-8 threatening to take over our happy P-3 world, casting aside the old war craft with a swift fling,  one tends to cling to the familiar.

What was it about these dirty old planes that leaked oil, smelled of old men, and JP-5 exhaust with a splash of stained urine on the bathroom floor?  And when I say bathroom what I really mean is a closet with a free-standing urinal that never gets completely washed out after each use- but simply is reused as is.  Again and again.  Now imagine that smell in an air-tight sealed plane.

What is it about this hunk of steel that often brings me to the brink of nauseousness over and over that I’ve missed for so long?

Was it the thousand plus hours of my life that I devoted to the P-3 and her various missions?

Was it the way her engines lulled us gently in a dazed and relaxed state?   And just as we're about to fade off into a deep sleep, the plane drops, instantly causing everyone’s stomach to choke up in their throat as we broke through a slick of air and dropped a hundred feet.  God I miss that.

Or maybe it was the stressed whine she made while yanking into a turn, wings vibrating and blood draining out of our face. 

I could not be sure.

Perhaps it is just the memories that are tied up in those hours of staring into the deep blue Atlantic, Caribbean, or Mediterranean waters- searching for illegal drug runners- all the while dreaming of what my future held in far off places.  Or sitting sideways without a window, staring into a green computer screen littered with lines from ship engines- looking for one tiny line- a single minute of contact that stood out different from the rest.  Or maybe it was the on-station conversations at three o’clock in the morning, with a cheek full of salty sunflower seeds, as we tried to stay alert and awake through the long night.

Maybe it was the thrill of the catch- finding a submarine, a ship, a landmark, or even survivors of a wreck at sea.

Most likely it was a combination of all of the above.  Every airman has their favorite memories of the P-3.  The people and the places she took us to.  The reminder every so often that all of those hours counted for something.

The P-3 will always remain the guardian of the sea.  As long as she patrols the coast lines, her country’s citizens can sleep easy at night.

I promised myself in that moment I would never take a flight for granted again.  And I would buy Fred a bus pass.

The Harsh Truth

I refused to do it.  I couldn’t bear it.  I swore I never would.  And then... a few nights ago, I found myself doing what I never thought I'd have to do.

"I think it's time," my husband said.  

"No- I'm sure we have more time!"

"Julia.  It is time we are finally honest and own up to everything."

"But I just can't- it will… it will change everything!"

I stood there in silence, my arms crossed defensively.  I felt as if I was being attacked- made to feel wrong for how I felt.  I was not ready for this and I couldn't understand why he would make me.  I felt like a mother that was trying to hold onto her baby in a tornado- as she was slowly slipping through my fingers into the violent winds above.

"It's time we finally told her the truth about Santa."  He looked at me sternly.  Suddenly I felt like he was my parent too.  "She mentioned to me that her friends at school are telling her that there is no Santa and we are lying to her.  I just can't handle that."

He was right.  I didn’t want her to think we were liars.  Stupid friends.  I guess at 10, she was ready- whether I was or not.  We had pulled it off this long- but the jig was up.

Slowly we made our way up the stairs to her room, peeked our head in, and sat down on her bed.

"Hon, we want to talk to you about all of the questions you've been asking lately about Santa.  We never want you to think you cannot trust us."

She squinted her eyes at the light streaming through the door from the hallway.  "Okay," rolled off of her puffy lips.  Her face still looked so cherub-like- especially when she was sleepy.

Her father took a deep breath and slowly began an explanation of how we were the ones who bought, wrapped, and placed the presents under the tree every Christmas.

"But there really is a Santa Claus!" I quickly interjected.  "He lived hundreds of years ago.  He was a saint that gave presents to all of the children in his village."

"Right,” her dad continued.  "However, it would be impossible for one man to bring presents to all of the children in the world in one night-"

"And that is why the parents help!"  I interrupted.  I shot him a glance.

“So there really isn’t a Santa Claus?” she asked, tilting her head to the side.  I knew she already had her suspicions.

I waited for her to panic.  To begin shouting.  Instead, she brushed a piece of hair out of her eyes and there seemed to be a look of relief in them.  Validation.  Wisdom that comes with growing.

“No, Sweetheart.”

“But there is!”  I said- a little too loudly.  “Er, there was.  He’s the Spirit of Christmas!”

She looked at her dad and then back at me- absorbing it all.

I quickly mouthed the words to her, “I believe!” nodding my head up and down.

My husband looks over and rolls his eyes and smiles at his hopeless cause.

But the thing is, it’s true.  I do believe.  Okay, I do put the presents under the tree.  However, I do honestly believe in the magic that surrounds Christmas.  I believe that anything is possible.  People are kinder.  Miracles happen. 

My sister (the crazy one) recently sent me a letter she found on Pintrest that I just fell in love with.  I think the writer sums it up perfectly in this letter for their own child, no doubt full of questions.

“Santa is lots and lots of people who keep the spirit of Christmas alive.  He lives in our hearts- not at the North Pole.  Santa is the magic and love and spirit of giving to others.  What he does is teach children to believe in something they can’t see or touch.  Throughout your life you will need this capacity to believe in yourself, in your family, in your friends, and in God.”

I believe.  And I want my children to as well.  So after our conversation with our first-born daughter, I went downstairs.  Sat on the sofa.  And I began to weep, as any mother that just realized her baby was slipping out of her fingers would weep.

Happy Holidays 2012

From our family to yours...

This year was a big one for us as it marked the first year that all three kids are now in school.  School is great.  I’m always so proud and sometimes quite surprised at all that they learn on a daily basis.  For an example:

CJ:  Mom, we need more Irish muffins.  [English?]

Geography.

CC:  Mom, once I’m a grownup, will you guys be like old grannies?

Human Development.

CC:  I’m going to throw this chicken bone into the yard so it will grow into a chicken tree.

Agricultural Studies.

JP:  [to CC] You were an egg once.  Did you know that?  It was in egg in Mom’s stomach.

Family Life Education.

CC:  JP’s killing a rabbit for me so I can have one and it won’t run away.

Science.

CC:  I ‘fought’ I heard a lion in the woods, so I came inside!  (naturally)

Personal Safety & First Aid.

JP:  When I grow up, I’m going to be a butterfly buster.  Almost like a Ghost Buster.

Career development.

Mom:  Um, why are you wearing that bandana around your head?

JP:  Because I’ve been wearing it for a few days now…  Because it was crazy day at school.  And I looked pretty good.  I got a girlfriend that day.

Sociology.

CC:  Do Indians drink out of their shoes?

Cultural Studies.

JP:  No, we went to a craft store.  Not Michaels.  I think it was called Staples or something.  Actually I think Dad just drove around a lot because he was lost, but don’t tell him I said that.

Driver’s Education

Auntie L. (The Crazy One):  Are we going to drive until we stop?

The Law of Physics.

JP:  Mom, how did God create Heaven?

Mom:  I’m not sure.  No one really knows.

JP:  Can we look it up online?

Information Technology.

I’d like to take this moment to thank all teachers everywhere.  I know it isn’t easy.  Our kids are no exception.  May we all continue to learn every day as we ring in the New Year!

 

Love to all and wishes for a joyous holiday season!

We survived the end of the world.  Now what's next?

Don't Judge.

So this one time, I had jury duty.

The letter arrived without warning one day in the mail and explained to me that I had been selected.  I then brought it to work, bragging to everyone I saw.  What's not to love?  An excused day from work.  A day with lots of quiet waiting- so I would have to read a book!  I'd actually have time to read.  But my excitement was only met with groans and moans.  Everyone that I spoke to that had jury duty before could only tell me how much they hated it- how boring it was.

Surely, they had to be wrong.  What could be more American, besides voting, than serving on a jury?  After all, Americans are bestowed the right to a fair and speedy trial by their peers.  My mind drifted off to Law and Order, Boston Legal, and OJ Simpson...

Finally the day came.  I picked out my best jury duty outfit.  Something not too trendy- one that said I'm serious, but fair.  I'm up-to-date with modern ways of thinking- but I am a responsible citizen that makes good choices.  (most of the time)  And of course, I was sure to dress in layers, as court rooms always appeared cold.

My long day began by my going to the wrong court house.  When I arrived, I waved my magic paper in the air that notified the security guard that I had been specially selected.  Security did not think it was as exciting as I did.  He simply requested that I put my purse on the scanner and to "please stop waving that godforsaken paper in my face, ma'am."  I was quickly directed across the street to the proper location.  At least I knew my bag would pass inspection.  (I had spent the night before removing anything questionable- lighters, razors, AK-47...)  

I was not to be discouraged though.  I leapt up the stairs, into courtroom number 1 and found a seat in the middle, front row.  I wanted to see everything.  

A couple of girls sat next to me and naturally, they became my new friends (my selection process isn't too rigorous).  We chatted and waited.  We got hushed for talking too loudly.  

Then they showed us a movie about our 'duty as American citizens'.  I mentally took notes.

About half way through, new friend #1 pulled a water bottle out of her purse and took a long, hard swig off of it as if it were a flask of whiskey on a Texas ranch.  But before she could put it down, a large white haired man with a county emblem on his jacket (the bailiff?) came running at her.

"Ma'am!  There is NO drinking, or eating, or chewing gum in the courtroom!  Your water must exit immediately."  It was as if he expected the water in violation to walk out on its own.

Slowly Friend #1 lowered her water.  Friend #2 whispered, "Just hide it in your purse."

Mr. Food Police then quickly turned to a gray haired woman sitting behind us.  "You there!  Is that gum in your mouth?"

Her face turned pale as the 60-some year old woman replied in a hoarse voice, "No Sir, it's just a cough drop.  Are we not allowed to have cough drops?"

"No COUGH DROPS!" and he turned and walked away.

I was beginning to realize how hardcore this stuff really was.  The courtroom looked just like Judge Judy's.  It smelled musty but felt historical and polished.  There were paintings of angry men hanging on the walls throughout.  They all appeared to be former judges.  Perhaps famous.  Some maybe not so much.  But they all had a furrow upon their brow that simply said, "I judge you.  Therefore I am a judge."  As if it was unconstitutional for them to crack a smile.

I could hear Jack Nicholson yelling, "You can't handle the truth!"

Soon the Judge herself walked in as Mr. Food Police instructed, "All rise."

Following her were the prosecutors, defendant, and attorneys.  I waited, half expecting to hear a narration of a completely irrelevant story in addition to why they were here- just like on Judge Mathis.  “The Plaintiff likes to eat cheeseburgers on Tuesday nights and ended up getting a catholic girl pregnant.  He is suing the Defendant for late rent money.”  However, the narration never came.

Instead, the Judge explained that this was a criminal trial today rather than a civil.  The Defendant was accused of second-degree rape.  I was unsure of what the degree meant- but I figured I could Google it later on my lunch break.  I suddenly felt anxious. Holy smokes- this was the real deal.

What followed next was about as long and drawn-out as the movie Lawrence of Arabia.  We began the process of jury selection.  Did anyone know anyone involved in the case?  Was anyone in the jury a felon?  An illegal immigrant?  (because I'm sure they would run up and tell the judge)
We got to hear all about crimes that everyone's family members had committed and/or if those around us were involved in or witnessed a crime.

Someone mentioned a vandalism case and suddenly I was having a conflicted conversation with myself.  I recalled the time I had my iPod stolen out of my vehicle.  No, no. That's not a big enough crime.  But you called the cops and they did a police report.  No, no.  There were no arrests made.  It was a mini crime.  And mini crimes don't count.  I'm sure.  So I didn't say anything.

And then they brought the accused out.  My first instinct was to judge.  How could he commit such a horrible crime?  He's wearing a wrinkly shirt without a tie.  How unprofessional.  He probably never owned a dress shirt- so I'm sure he's a hoodlum.  But then something about his face seemed so young and innocent.  Was he being falsely accused?  Cases like these are so he said/she said.  Suddenly I was worried about having to make a decision that will ultimately decide the fate of this young man.

"If it does not fit, you cannot acquit."

All of the famous trials came flooding into my brain.  And then I began to feel light headed.  Not because of the pressure, but because it was nearly 1 o'clock and we had not eaten lunch yet.  This was a big deal.

As the lawyers discussed technicalities with the judge, my stomach began to rumble in the near-silent courtroom.  Loudly.  My mouth was parched.  I was literally starving right in front of them.  I clenched my abs trying to stop the noises to no avail.  Friend #1 and #2 began nonchalantly glancing my way.  Oh crap.  They probably thought I was gassy.  I wanted to whisper, "It's not gas- I'm just very hungry."  But that felt even more strange.

I glance up at Mr. Food Police.  He had his back to me, so I took the opportunity to rifle through my purse for something with some calories.  Anything.

I found some gum and quickly popped it into my mouth.  Mr. Food Police glanced my way.  I did not chew the gum, but began to suck every last bit of sugar I could get from it until it felt like a piece of squeaky rubber in my mouth.  Discretely, I folded the used gum between a piece of paper- careful not to look obvious.  I pretended to wipe my face with the paper.  I continued to do this with three more pieces until I felt somewhat satisfied with the few bits of sugar I was able to get.  It wasn't much- but I figured it'd hold me over for a little while anyway.

The judge asked everyone to line up in single-file when their number was called- as if it were a police lineup.  The Prosecutor and Defendant went through and looked at each person.  Then they whispered.  Then they would either say seat or exit- meaning a stay or go.  For the life of me I could not tell what basis they were using.  I simply could not predict the outcomes.  They were judging the jury!  One person must have looked sympathetic.  Another person looked somewhat angry- maybe with the law.

And then what happened- I did not see coming.  Not by a long shot.  They selected 12 jurors and 3 alternatives.  And then…

They told the rest of us we could go home.

That was it??  All this time for that?  It was after 2 o’clock!  I've never experienced anything so anti-climatic in my life. Six hours straight in a court room.  And now I'll never know what happened?  I mean, unless I read it in the paper.

So I picked up my magazines and gum wrappers and slowly made my way out of the courtroom.  I’d have to wait 3 more years for another chance to be a juror.  And then,  I finally realized why people moan and groan over jury duty.