Perfect Moment Monday: HE WENT TO JARED'S

Perfect Moment Monday is about noticing a perfect moment rather than creating one. Perfect moments can be momentous or ordinary or somewhere in between.

Once a week we engage in mindfulness about something that is right with our world. Everyone is welcome to join. Details on how to participate are at the bottom of this post, complete with bloggy bling.

Please visit the links of the participants at the bottom.

Here's a perfect moment from my week. I hope you'll share yours, too.

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Regarding the title: well, kinda sorta.

Fifteen years ago when I proposed to Roger, we didn't want to spend a lot of money on wedding stuff. Instead we wanted to shoot our wad backpacking for a month through Greece and Turkey. So we economized on my engagement and wedding rings.

See, there had been a past, uh, relationship on my part, one that involved a ring with a small diamond. When I was 21, a boy asked me to marry him. It did not occur to me to say no (I thought marriage was what you did after college).

The ring was so pretty and the boy was so charming. The "no" became clear a couple of years later, at which time I was sad I had to stop wearing the ring. It stayed in a box in my drawer for many years, a literal hidden gem.

Fast forward to my true Mr Right. He was, in fact, SO right that he didn't mind if I recycled my cherished ring. If fit in with our plans to not go overboard with "stuff,"and to invest more in the marriage than in the wedding.

So we took the setting (on the right) and added a beautiful lavender tanzanite, and voilà -- engagement ring. Then we took the small diamond and added a band (with one to match his), and voilà -- wedding ring (on the left). They were simple and beautiful and suited me.

We had always talked (and by "we" I mean "I") about getting me a fancier ring for our 5th anniversary, to honor the kids we'd surely have.

Well, the 5th went by and the 10th went by and darn if kids aren't expensive. Other priorities came up and it didn't seem appropriate to spend on my wants rather than my family's needs.

Now the 15th anniversary looms later this year. The stars aligned recently for me to get a ring to celebrate this stage of my life, so I mySELF went to Jared's to see what they had. I wasn't impressed.

I found an online jeweler that allowed me to design a ring with diamonds (tiny) for Tessa's birthmonth and amethysts for Reed's. In addition, their names are etched onto faces of the band, like this sample (which has sapphire stones):This is my new bling, which honors my family, and makes me feel perfectly loved.

(click on any image to enlarge)

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To participate in Perfect Moment Monday:

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4. Visit the Perfect Moments of others (from the links below), and let the writers know you were there.

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What Perfect Moment have you recently been aware of? Be sure to visit these moments and share the love, and please come back next week (click to subscribe).






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Double feature

Thanks to the Girl Scouts, Rob and Lynne were having a grand Date Night. They'd dropped the kids off at the local school where the Scouts were hosting a Parents Night Out. They'd kissed the heads of their children and admonished them to behave for the babysitters. Before too long, Rob and Lynne were sipping their Pinots at a local bistro, enjoying the first, second and dessert courses, and discussing upcoming opportunities.

With plenty of time to spare, they arrived at the multiplex to see Lynne's pick, The Blind Side. The theater was sparsely populated, so Rob led Lynne to the front-row center of the main level. They sat together and put their coats on adjacent seats. They talked more as the pre-show ads played on.

~~~~~

Cecil's excitement eclipsed even the pain in his hip. He and Mildred were going on a date tonight. A real, live date -- dinner and movie with his life-love. He picked her up at the door of their retirement community in their old Caddy, now rarely driven. He hoisted himself out of the driver's seat, shuffled around the car and opened the door for her. She unsteadily lowered herself into the seat and as they drove away, he thought, "Sprung!" He was glad to leave all those old people behind.

Cecil drove 23 miles an hour across the town to their favorite place to eat, a chain cafeteria. It's strange that they would choose a place just like the cafeteria at the retirement home, but the cottage cheese really was better here. Cecil had chicken-fried steak, and Mildred had meatloaf. Doused in sauce, with creamy mashed potatoes.

They paid the bill and eventually got back into the Caddy. At 23 miles an hour, they headed a few parking lots away to the theater. The Blind Side was their choice. He fumbled the bills out of his wallet to pay the lady. Criminy. Even the senior prices were outrageous!

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The elderly couple entered the darkening theater just as the previews began. They stood at the entrance for a bit, unsure where to go and leery of the dark. There were plenty of seats up the stairs, but their preferred front row was filled.

Rob and Lynne both turned their attention to the newcomers. Simultaneously, Rob and Lynne moved their coats into their laps. Lynne stood and crept over to the older couple. "Sit here," she whispered loudly, and motioned for them sit in the newly available seats.

~~~~~

Something was nagging at Lynne. She was trying to pay full attention to the engaging movie, but the old lady beside her had been gone awhile. She'd left the theater, oh, 15 minutes ago.

Just watch the movie, Lynne told herself. She took a few mental notes for the review she was going to write about it. She didn't want her attention to wander any more.

But it did. Unable to quiet the uneasy feeling, Lynne leaned over and asked the old man if he wanted her to check on his wife. "Nah, she just went to the bathroom. We're 90. We're slow."

Two more scenes passed. Lynne whispered to Rob that she was going in. "Tell me everything I miss from now until when I get back."

Lynne got to the mostly empty bathroom, and the older woman was at the sink, washing her hands. Lynne took this opportunity to go to the bathroom herself.

She opened the first stall, clanked the latch and was committed to that stall, when she was assaulted by the smell of sick. The toilet had only one tell-tale sign of a mini-tragedy -- a tidy bundle on the back of the toilet rolled up in toilet paper. Well, that and the smell of sick. Without touching anything, Lynne relieved herself, then washed her hands.

The older lady was still at the sink, dabbing her face with a paper towel. "Are you OK?" asked Lynne.

"Oh, Sweetie." the woman said, without eye contact. "I've never been so sick in my 90 years. Cecil wanted to eat at his favorite place, but I just don't feel well at all."

"Would you like me to bring your husband back out?"

"No, Sweetie. Would you take me back to him? Here, please take my arm."

The two women twined their arms and began the long trek back to the theater. "It's a shame to ruin our date. But I am so sick, in the bowels. I am afraid I made quite a mess. I tried to clean it up."

Lynne was torn. She wanted to let the lady talk if she needed to, but she also wanted to resume her own date. When they got to the correct theater, Lynne asked the lady, "Here's a bench. Would you like to wait here while I let your husband know what's going on?"

"Oh, yes, Sweetie. God bless you. I don't know why I got so sick."

~~~~~

Lynne's eyes adjusted to the dark theater. She got to her own seat and whispered loudly to Cecil the news about his wife. He slapped his hand down in frustration. And did not get up. Lynne briefed Rob about the events of the last 10 minutes. They looked at each other in the dark, wondering what to do, trying not to create any more commotion for the other theater-goers.

Finally, the old man got up and walked toward the exit with a deep sigh. Rob could see a trail of coat, hat, and scarf, items that were about to be left behind. He leapt up, gathered the dropped items, and escorted the old man into the light.

"I'm so sorry," said Mildred when Cecil emerged. "Gah!" said Cecil, with that same frustrated hand gesture. "We never get out! And when we do, bad luck!" Cecil said, more to Rob than to Mildred.

Their coats on, Cecil and Mildred shuffled away to the parking lot, bracing for the cold air and the trip back to their reality.

Rob returned to the theater. He and Lynne never did fill each other in on the parts they missed, but they did decide on the spot to buy the DVD when The Blind Side is available.

And young. Boy did they feel young.

Images: Redbook, Health Jockey

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*Thisclose*

I am face-down on the floor, the life force ebbing from my body. Must. Dial. Phone.

"9-1-1. What is your emergency?"

I croak but can't speak.

"Ma'am? What is the nature of your emergency?"

Can't. Catch. Breath.

"Ma'am, are you choking?"

"No," I manage.

"Are you bleeding? Is there an intruder in the house? Are you on fire? Is there a Doberman hanging from your jugular?"

"No," I whisper.

"Ma'am, I would like to help you. Please tell me the nature of your emergency."

It takes every ounce of life left in me to blurt:

"Lego."

===========================
While picking up over the weekend, I got down on all fours to swipe under the couch.

I fell onto a Lego. An itty-bitty Lego.

Right in the "funny-bone" part of my knee. If I hadn't already been on my knees, it would have brought me to them. The pain was sharp and excruciating, and the shock to my nervous system on that reflex-point made the room go white.

I slumped down to the floor, almost passed out. Roger was out on a bike ride, and I felt badly that he'd come home to find his beloved wife dead by Lego. That the kids, fighting with each other obliviously elsewhere in the house, would feel guilty about their role in my accident, and that Lego creatures would forever haunt their dreams.

But apparently it was not my time, and within about 5 minutes, I caught my breath and was able to re-join the ranks of the living. No one even knew how close I came to the. end. And there's not even a bruise to prove my near transition from the quick to the dead.

Let this be a lesson for your knees.

(Tip of the hat to my sister, Tami.)





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Festival: Judgy McJudgerson

Marni's version
My version

I was bothered by our night at the Festival even as the next morning dawned. Regarding our interloper, I was incensed. I was indignant. I was irritated way out of proportion to anything Marni had done, any fallout that came from our interactions with her.

So why the lingering, massive annoyance? The only thing Marni may have been guilty of was an astounding (but harmless) ignorance of social boundaries. According to me.

As I drove the kids to school, I mentally listed her transgressions:

• She made arrangements with Tessa rather than with me.
• She smoked.
• Her boyfriend was intoxicated.
• My children viewed their affection as a prelude to "doing sex."
• Once we got moving, she delayed us with popcorn.
• She left her kids in my care. Twice.
• She bought things for Tessa and Reed that I would not have bought them.
• She indulged my children at every turn.
  

And yet. She was nice. She was guileless.

Hers were sins of a young, eager puppy -- untempered exuberance. A zest for life. What's so wrong with that? Living in the moment is something I strive to do. I meet someone who does just that and...?

I feel superior to her.

Slowly, the accusatory finger that made me feel so self-righteous began to point toward me. What about my sins?

I may have seemed, in contrast, to be a snobby, uptight, fun-dousing wet rag. My sin was one of arrogance. Yet she didn't judge me.

After I deposited the children at school, I reviewed the evening in my mind, this time from Marni's point of view.

And doing so gave me clarity.

I concluded that the nagging feeling I'd carried into the new day wasn't due to Marni's behavior. It was that my sin far outweighed hers.

And once I was able to coalesce that thought, to bring out that feeling with awareness and examine it in daylight, I could forgive the sinner inside me.

And be grateful to my interloper.

Festival: My version

Marni's version.

Roger was at Monolith, so I decided to take Tessa and Reed to our town's Festival Weekend. We invited my friend Michelle and her daughter Maddie.

But by the time we were ready to go, it was raining so we instead met at the Baby Boogie place, which was on the same street, so that we'd be ready to go to the Festival when it stopped raining.

In the meantime, the kids enjoyed the run of the place (it's allowed there) while Michelle and I caught up with each other over a glass of wine. Our children started hanging out with a boy who was about 8 and his sister, about 6. Perfect ages for our kids.

Just when we were in the middle of solving all the problems of the world, Tessa came over and asked if we could go to the Festival now with her new friend, Nina, and her family, since the rain had stopped.

I like to be nimble. It really wasn't in my best interest to add a family -- a family of strangers -- to the mix.

But with a glance, Michelle and I agreed on the path of least resistance. "Sure." And Tessa was off to deliver the news to Nina's mom.

I helped Tessa put her shoes back on (barefoot is allowed) and casually asked her about Nina, her brother and her mother.

"Nina is SO nice and she has a KITTY! Her mom smokes, though. And she was making out with her new boyfriend. I think they want to do sex."

Greeeaaaat.

The mom came up and introduced herself as Marni. She was of medium height, slender build, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, and had a curly mane of brown hair pulled back into a ponytail.She had an easy smile and I wanted to like her. But I was unsure of her influence on my children.

We paid our tab and gathered the children at the door. Just as we had some momentum, Marni stopped us to go get something. I was annoyed -- I don't like losing precious momentum. A minute later she deposited a bag of popcorn from the bar in the hands of each kid.

We hadn't gone a half a block before Marni stopped us again. "Can I trust you with my kids for just a minute? I'll be right back!" It apparently was a rhetorical question because she was gone before Michelle and I had a chance to say, "Ummmm, no. Please don't leave us responsible for your children. We don't even KNOW both their names." And also, why didn't she ask her BOYfriend to be responsible for her kids?

We'd lost our mobility because we didn't want to risk that she couldn't find us again. So we stayed at the nearby petting zoo, which cost $2 a person. I'd planned to give my kids $5 in tickets each to spend however they wanted, but we hadn't come across the ticket booth yet.

Boyfriend pulled out a wad of bills and admitted Marni's two kids. He kept rolling off bills, indicating that he'd pay for our kids to go petting, too. Michelle and I stopped him pretty cold.

"No, thanks for your consideration, but our children will use their own money if they want to go." The children did fight us, seeing that their new friends got to enter without having to making a choice between this and other rides or toys.

Boyfriend was slurring his words, and we were not so concerned with hurting his feelings. I'm afraid that our irritation at this bizarre turn of events was showing, but we assumed he didn't catch it.

Marni finally returned bearing light sabers for all -- even Michelle and me. What use do *I* have of aNOTHER light saber? Michelle and I shared a look that said, "why are they spending all this money on us?" We we both very uncomfortable by this point.

We headed over to the ticket booth and rides, and Marni did her disappearing act once more, this time reappearing with lighted carnival headwear for each of the kids.

I bought $20 worth of tickets, about double what I'd planned, and handed 8 of them to Marni. Not out of generosity, but to get out from under the burden of her lavishness. She seemed grateful.

Our kids used up their tickets on rides and both Michelle and I were eager to skedaddle, it being a school night. Marni tried to chat us up, asking us to stay. We demurred as politely as we could, given our eagerness to extricate.

No harm, no foul.

Next: Judgy McJudgerson

Festival: Marni's version

"Damn, life is good!" Marni thought to herself. It was her weekend to have the children. Here she was with them and her new, attentive boyfriend and a cold brew -- all the essentials after a long week working the blackjack table.

Her children, Brent and Nina, were amusing themselves in the common area of the restaurant/bar. Marni watched them befriend three other kids who matched their ages. Russ flirted with her and offered her a cigarette, which she accepted. He was already tipsy, but adorably so. Marni could tell he was really into her.

Marni's one goal for the evening was to have fun with her kids. It was Festival Weekend, and the rain was not going to dampen her enthusiasm or their fun. If they couldn't frolic outside, then they would inside. Which is what they were doing in this family-friendly bar.

Nina invited her mom to the dance floor and Marni was only too happy to oblige. Soon, Marni was dancing with Nina, Brent, and the the three children they'd been hanging out with. "Kids make friends so easily," she thought. "Adults should be able to, too!"

Marni got to know the blond girl, a very outgoing and fun-loving sort, who reminded her of herself. Together they hatched a plan to have their families hang out together for the Festival, as soon as the rain stopped.

Which it did. Marni put her plan into action. She strolled up to the table of the mother of the blond girl, who was deep in conversation with her friend, the mother of the other girl. "Our kids are having so much fun playing together. Would you like to go see the Festival soon and ride the rides together?"

The women looked confused, like they'd come into a story mid-chapter, but recovered and said, "Sure. We are just about to pay our bill and then head out."

They made their introductions, the three women, cleared their tabs and headed toward the Festival.

"Wait!" Marni said as they big group prepared to leave. "The kids want popcorn. I'll get a couple of bags from the bar."

One she'd secured a bag of popcorn for each of the kids, they exited the restaurant and ambled down the Festival's main avenue. Now, what would make this night perfect for the children?

The answer came in another kid's hand. She saw a young boy waving a multi-colored light saber and knew her kids would enjoy them immensely. So she set out to find the booth.

"I'll be right back. You watch the kids for just a minute!" she indicated to the other moms. And set out on her quest.

Within 15 minutes she came back to the place she left the group and passed out the booty to all the delighted kids. Brent and his blond friend were ecstatic, and the three girls were pretty happy, too. The light in their eyes fed her hunger for connecting with them. She even handed a light saber to each of the other two moms.

The kids clamored for rides, so the group moseyed over to that section of the Festival. Marni stopped on the way to buy more gifts for each kid. It felt so good to give, give, give.

Soon they came to the ticket booth, where each mom bought a ribbon of tickets. The mother of the two blond kids turned around, after her purchase, and gave Marni 8 tickets. "You've been so generous to my children -- I'd like you to spend these on YOUR children."

Well, ain't that nice! The three moms shepherded the five children onto rides. The kids screamed on the kiddie roller coaster and they squealed through the bouncy castle.

While the children rode, Marni made several overtures to make friends with the other two moms -- small talk about school, offering them a smoke, telling them about her job. But her heart sank as they continued talking more to each other than to her.

The children unanimously decided on the swing ride for their final adventure, and they were then out of tickets. The two moms deemed it time to go home, since it was a school night.

Marni tried to get them to stay because Brent and Nina were having such a good time with their new friends. The moms protested that they were out of tickets, to boot.

Marni pulled out her wallet, intending to buy another batch of ride tickets and divvy them up among the kids. But the two moms stood firm and pointed their children toward the parking lot.

"Bye! Hope to see you around again!" she said as they all walked away.

Next: My version

Show & Tell: A falling out, of sorts

Twenty years ago I was halfway through a year working in Japan. I had been teaching English, traveling the country, and working out some issues by leaving my falling-apart life behind for a bit.

Phase 1 of the year was Wonder. Everything in the Winter/Spring of 1989 was new and fascinating: the food, the people, the culture, the freedom. This period of growth and opening was exactly what I'd come for.

Summer brought Phase 2, which was Settling In. I felt confident enough in my language and getting-around skills to host my parents and sister for a visit in July and my boyfriend in August.

Things fell apart for Phase 3. Let's call it Ick. I had no more visits to look forward to, I became very homesick (especially for Boyfriend), and I was bored to tears with my job. Speaking simplified English and covering the same topics over and over allowed me to practice and perfect the art of the clandestine yawn to the point where I thought my cranium would implode.

The heat and humidity were stifling to this dry-heat girl raised in the semi-arid Rocky Mountains. By the end of the summer, I was sick of sopping though my clothes ALL THE TIME. It was only after midnight that it was tolerable to go outside. Conveniently, this is also when I would gather several hundred yen and head to the international phone on the street corner to call Boyfriend, who would be available then due to the time difference.

One suffocating night, around 1 am on my way home from the phone booth, I noticed a man with a flannel jacket (??) hanging over his forearm. Odd. He began to follow me along a deserted street, and I saw that his OTHER arm was moving up and down. Rapidly. With a grin, he flapped open his first arm to show me what he was pumping.

I freaked out, even though I knew I wasn't in any physical danger. He was a swine, but a harmless swine.

Still, I felt violated. The next day at work, I insisted that my coworker, a bilingual Japanese woman, help me make a police report.

She explained to me that reporting such a "crime" was just not done. Men will be men. Even if police DID look for the perv, even if they DID find him, nothing would happen to him. Shikata ga nai.

I insisted, and she accompanied to me to the local police station. In my mind I was quite powerful, bringing healthy feminine boundaries from America to my host country. I would save other women from this preying public crank wan.ker.

As soon as I finished puffing myself up, the translation deflation hit.

Know what the police officer said, as relayed to me by my colleague?

It probably fell out by itself.

Ma-tha-fa-ka.

I may have fallen off my chair. All by myself.

*****

See what my classmates are showing and telling over at The Town Crier's Show & Tell. And show something yourself -- EVERYONE is welcome.

Perfect Moment Monday: It's a crock and I'm a chump

Perfect Moment Monday isn't about creating a perfect moment as much as it is about noticing one. Perfect moments are just waiting to be observed, and can be momentous or ordinary or somewhere in between.

So we gather her once a week to engage in mindfulness about something that is right with our world, if only for a, well, a moment. Everyone is welcome to join. Details on how to participate are at the bottom of this post, complete with bloggy bling.

Now, here's mine.

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There's a bit of a leadup to this Perfect Moment.

It all started on Friday when I heard a radio ad on my way to pick up Tessa, for a casting call to take place over the weekend.

I've never harbored dreams of Tessa acting/singing/dancing, so what I did next was pure impulse. I dialed the number. And in the 10 minutes it took to drive through the school's pickup line, I had secured Tessa an audition for Sunday afternoon.

There were only two questions I asked: would I be able to be with Tessa during the entire process (yes) and was this actually an application for a modeling school (no). I even double checked both.

"No, ma'am," the chirpy girl said the third time I asked for reassurance. "This is most definitely an audition for real parts and not a pitch for a school."

Tessa was excited. Her favorite thing to do is to sing and dance and perform for imaginary audiences. There IS something in her that sparkles. And we expend a lot of energy taming her inner diva.

It took hours to get ready. The first time I curled her hair it didn't meet her standards, so we started all over. Once we had an acceptable 'do, she shellacked the heck out of it with hairspray. Moderation is not a concept she has mastered.

She chose a purple dress with white tights and looked beautifully sweet. On the drive down, a small run appeared at her thigh, which would have been hidden by the dress and not a worry except that she picked at it. By the time we arrived at the audition, the gaping hole was down to her knee.

"No worries," I said. " Just take them off and go bare-legged.'

"I can't, Mom." she devilishly replied. "I don't have anything on underneath!"

I have to verify this because I don't believe her. But she is not messing with me.

Crap. She has no other choice than to pretend that she meant to wear a huge hole in her tights.

We get out of the car and join The Throngs. Dozens of other cars are disgorging little girls in their Sunday best and accompanying uptight-looking moms. I realize I am one of them. We all head for the elevators, angling to be first in line so we can get on with our Sundays.

We check in by filling out forms and enclosing photos we were instructed to bring. We are herded into a room with a rocking video looping about the wonderful and exciting world of child acting! Everyone is having so much fun and there are no Mean Girls! Join us! You are just steps away from being the next Hannah Montana!

While Tessa watches, entranced, I work on the forms. I find the sucker punch.

It's a g*ddammed freakin' bite-me school.

At this point, I can gather our things and leave in a huff. Or I can consider this a nice, free Sunday activity made for mothers and daughters.

I breathe.

In the next room the girls line up along one wall and the parents on the other. This is the Runway Room, where a very unmodel-like man (think Barney Rubble) regales us with his credentials in the fashion world. He sashays up and down to loosen up the crowd before he guides the girls though The Walk.

The mom on my right hoots at his every lame joke as if her daughter's success depends Barney noticing her. The mom on my left reeks of whiskey. I turn into a stage mom myself when I keep motioning to Tessa to keep the tie of her dress out of her nose.

Tessa walks just fine and shares a big smile with a giggle at the end of her walk. Barney gives no indication of her "grade," but my heart swells with pride.

Next is the individual Interview. With the g*ddammed freakin' bite-me school director. She asks only one question of us: How supportive are the parents? She gives us the bum's rush and says to call at 7 pm tomorrow night to see if Tessa is accepted.

Finally, there IS an actual audition, ostensibly for a commercial. In a room full of other hopefuls, each girl is to say her lines on camera and persuade breakfast eaters everywhere to eat Kell.0gg's Corn Po.ps. Tessa says her name and age, and repeats the lines as they are fed to her. She speaks confidently and displays the ease that comes with enjoying oneself. Again, no reaction from the evaluators.

Then it's over. Tessa comes to the back row and sits in my lap and gives me a huge hug and kiss.

Once we're in the car, she tells me "Mom! That was awesome!"

A hard-won perfect moment.

Her favorite parts were the Runway and being on camera. She says she feels great.

She has no idea that this audition might have lead somewhere. So my question is, should I even call tonight to see if she was accepted into the g*ddammed freakin' bite-me school? There's no way we would ever enroll her.

I tend to think this was just a nice, free Sunday activity made for mothers and daughters.

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Perfect Moments.

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What happened in my bed

I sleep with a woobie. In the cold months. And Hubby doesn't mind.

What, you may ask, is a woobie? It's a loaf-of-bread-sized bag of millet or buckwheat covered in a flannel casing. Ours were made by one of my students years ago. Pop one in the microwave for 3 minutes, and you have warmth. Warmth on your lap for a cold drive in the morning. Warmth under your shirt when your core needs heating up. Warmth for cold sheets on a chilly night.

My family had three woobies.

Tonight I found two of them shredded underneath my nightstand, their guts spilled out all over the carpet like puke in a frat house. Know what this means?

A mouse has moved into our house.

Surely my third woobie, my favorite one with black-and-white-and-pink cows against a blue sky -- surely this one is saved. After all, I slept with it last night and left it in my bed, under the covers. Safe and sound.

BUT NO! THE FREAKING MOUSE GOT TO THAT ONE TOO!! Chewed up my woobie IN MY BED!! And left some TURDS for me as added injury!!

Needless to say, the exterminator has been called. I'll show no mercy.

Love Thursday: the day I earned my Mom badge

I have loved Tessa from the the moment I knew of her existence, but the lovin' wasn't proven until she was about 3 months old.

Rob had a conference in Costa Rica one summer, and I didn't want to miss the chance to travel with him. So we recruited two babysitters -- the kind who buy their own airline tickets and hotel room -- a/k/a "parents." Mine.

Three-month-old babies have a surprising amount of stuff. Clothing, diapers, wipes, and (in our case) formula, bottles, washing paraphernalia and drool cloths. One of the bulkiest things a baby needs is a bath. You know, one of these:

I envisioned getting on the plane with all her stuff and my stuff and a car seat and a stroller, and it was easy to decide we could do without the bath. I'd just have her take a bath with me.

Our hotel room had a beautiful deck bath. Deep but not long or wide. I filled it up (it took awhile because of the volume) and got in with Tessa. We played and burbled for awhile, happy in our liquid cocoon.

If you've read some of my other posts, you might know what's coming.

Go ahead. Try to look away.

Somewhere during Rubber Ducky (perhaps the line, you make bath time lots of fun?) Tessa got that look on her face. The one where her mouth turns into a downward arc which is not a frown. The one that shows exertion.

I couldn't get us out of the bath quickly enough without putting us both at risk. I yelled for Rob, for my mom, for anyone sitting in the next room.

At best (I'm thinking) the product of her efforts will be discrete. Contained. Easily removable. Pleasegod, pleasegod, pleasegod.

But noooooooo.

Within seconds, I am sitting in a vat of poop soup. Baby Tessa has the squirts.

What could I do?

My mom comes in, and quickly assesses what has happened. She grabs Tessa from me, and I open the drain.

Mom works at the sink to clean up Tessa, who is squealing happily at the crap storm she has unleashed. I wait in the tub as the soup recedes, shivering and wanting desperately to get clean. It takes forever because of the sheer volume of water, and for the, um, is viscosity the right word?

While trying to decide the best way out of this mess, Mom and I start to laugh hysterically. Tessa gets in on our giggles as well. (I just HOPE she was laughing WITH me and not AT me. But I'm not sure.)

Mom and I share a moment of knowing. I feel like I did the day I bridged from Brownies to Girl Scouts. See, I didn't cross the bridge into Motherhood via the usual route: pregnancy, labor, childbirth. There was never a defining moment where I felt accepted into the sisterhood of mothers.

Until Costa Rica, where I most definitely earned my badge.

Suffice to say that we eventually got ourselves and the bathroom squeaky clean. (Can I just say once again how much I love my mom?)

Tessa loves this story. I wonder if she'll feel the same in a few years when she's all dressed up for prom and waiting on her tuxedo'ed date?

When a ride in a Wienermobile ISN'T the high point of your day

Part 1
Roger and I had met only a month prior, but it felt like the real thing and we'd started talking casually about getting serious.

One night at my home, a show comes on TV about the World's Best Wedding Proposals. Roger looks at me and says, "I bet you expect me to come up with something really great."

I say, "Of course I do."

Part 2
A month or so later, we are Mile High Stadium several hours before the game. Working with my sister's organization on the Red Ribbon Campaign, we are collecting money to prevent teen substance abuse. It's several hours before kick-off and no one is passing by to put quarters in my can, so I take a break to do some sleuthing.

I ask an official-looking security guard, "What do I need to do to get a message up on the scoreboard?"

"Come with me," he beckons, and takes me into the bowels of the old Mile High Stadium. We end up in some sort of control room.

A woman with headphones on tells me I need 2 weeks notice to get something up. I explain to her my plan, and she says, "In that case, just write down what you want and make a check out to the city for $50."

I do.

Part 3
Before the game, we get to ride around the field in on the Oscar Meyer Wienermobile. The baloney company is also a Red Ribbon sponsor, and my sister is something of a mucky-muck in the campaign. Inside are my sisters, their husbands, and my guy and me. And the head cheese driver.

Can you guess what songs we sing as we ride around the stadium? We wish we were a certain brand of wieners that everyone is in love with, and that our names were spelled a certain way.

Part 4
During halftime my sisters have strict instructions to keep Roger in his seat. My announcement will be up for only 30 seconds.

That's not a problem, since he is fixated on the Punt, Pass and Kick competition among a couple dozen 8 year-olds on the field. In fact, when we DO try to get him to look at the scoreboard, he is slightly annoyed at missing Little Jimmy's punt.

But he does look up in time, to see this on the DiamondVision:

"Roger LastName: Score with me forever. Will you marry me? Lori"

He looks at me. He looks at it. He looks at me. He looks at it.

He tells me later that this is what he was thinking:

"Oh, wow! Someone else here has the same name I do!"

"And, wait! He ALSO has a girlfriend named Lori. Out of 70 thousand people, what are the odds?" [OK 1 in 69,999].

"Ummmm. I think that's me. Is that me? Do you mean ME?"

We lock eyes and he says "yes." My sisters and their husbands have, by now, let all the people around us know what's happening. There is a loud cheer in our section.

We leave sometime during the 3rd quarter and float home. Seriously, I don't remember walking to the car or driving it to my home. Just an elated, ethereal sensation. I now understand the term, "walking on air."

The Broncos beat the Browns. This is in the Wade Phillips days, and that is an accomplishment.

Part 5
I am friends with the Bill Husted, gossip columnist for the Rocky Mountain News (now with the Denver Post. I call him the next day to tell him what happened.

He is less impressed with the fact that I proposed than he is amused by Roger's reaction.

He puts the story in his column later that week, poking fun at Roger. Just a little.

Part 6
The Associated Press picks up the story. A friend of mine in Chicago calls to see if that was ME mentioned at the tail end of her local news. My grandma hears "the rest of the story" on Paul Harvey. And we get a dozen calls from morning-drive DJs around the country wanting to tease Roger on air for not quite getting that he was being proposed to.

We accept a half-dozen shows (for posterity; we have cassette tapes of them). Roger becomes increasingly irritated at the inanity of the DJs. He bests them each time with his superior wit and intelligence. So there.

Fast forward
Happy 14th anniversary of our engagement today, Roger. Score with me forever?

======================
See also:
How we met
My fate

Our hypothetical heroine

When in the middle of a Poop Horror Story, our hypothetical heroine was faced with these 10 options pointed out by you, my chicken-sh*t problem-solving readers:

• Flee and hope the next poor sap patron gets blamed.
• Deny. Pretend like nothing happened and allow the next poor sap patron to deal with it.
• Pretend to BE the next poor sap patron.
• Feign ignorance about the source of the problem while pointing out the problem.
• Grab some towels to clean up. Then do the laundry. Act as if you're just being extra-helpful this cheery morning.
• Fix the toilet (butt crack exposure optional) before the overflow starts. (Yeah, right, Casual McGyver and BattyGadget.)
  
• Hyperventilate about the disgusting-ness. ("Check!" says our mythical heroine.)
  
• Get a nametag that reads The Bathroom Flooder to honor your now-permanent nickname (which will likely replace "Truncation-of-your-name!" from here on out when you walk in the joint.)
• You would never get yourself into this pickle in the first place because you have a sphincter-of-steel.
• Acknowledge your humanness, indeed everyone's humanness (Kumbaya, anyone?) and march out of there like Carrie Bradshaw the time she fell on the catwalk during the fashion show. Ask for a plunger while holding your head high (and your pants-legs up).
  

As for our hypothetical heroine?

She may (or may not) have attempted to pull off the Carrie Bradshaw scene.

She also may (or may not) be doing more and more Kegel exercises these days.
.

The Coffee Shop

So you're sitting in a coffee shop. An independent one, with a personality. Like your very own caffeinated Cheers.

"Truncation-of-your-name!" the barista says as you walk in, already preparing your Americano with room for cream. You chit-chat with her, perhaps not as wittily as Norm does with Sam, and you get your frequent sipper card stamped.

You set up your laptop and check some emails. After awhile, the coffee starts doing its thing, waking up all parts of your body as it moves through your digestive tract. Hello, Large Bowel!

You go to the stall-less bathroom and do your business. No big deal. And, I literally mean, no big deal.

Are you with me?

You press the flusher and the toilet does its filling thing. And it keeps doing its filling thing and keeps doing its filling thing, but without doing its draining thing. As the water level rises, so does your panic.

Crap.

You scoop your bag off the floor (even though it's way in the corner and most likely out of harm's reach) and step awaaaaay from the commode, to protect your new gym shoes.

Now. What do you do?

(Hypothetically, of course.)
.

Show & Tell: Kid Clint and the pivotal burrito

"Find out," I told my friend, Don, "find out what you can about that guy with the blue eyes."

Don was the teacher of my Improvisational Comedy class. In addition, he was my contract employee, since I had hired him to teach the class for the adult learning network I ran in the mid 1990s.

One of the perks of my job was that I got to interview all the teachers and observe a 15 minute teaching demonstration of their classes. I also got to attend any class in our 64-page catalog, which we published 8 times a year. My areas of expertise became broad as the Great Plains and deep as its topsoil during the Great Depression.

I'd been spending my Saturday nights in the lower level of a bar where Don's improv troupe performed. A team of 15 players rotated 5 in and out each week, and several times I'd caught this very cute 20-something guy with piercing blue eyes. A guy who didn't always resort to the easy laughs one gets with crotch humor (Halloooo, google pervs!).

In fact, this guy proffered very literate humor. As a business major, I recognized but didn't "get" his references to Dante and Melville, to Cervantes and Scorsese. I just knew he was smart and funny. And had gorgeous eyes.

Hence my request to Don.

"What, exactly, would you like me to find out for you?" asked Don the Monday after a show.

"Just the important things," I replied. "Find out if he's single, if he's straight, and if he'd like to meet me." (It was, after all, the theatah.)

On Thursday, Don called with three answers: yes, yes and yes. And that the troupe was to perform at a street festival Saturday afternoon.

That day we had a brief hailstorm during which I subjected my sister, Tami, to witnessing a trying-on of my entire closet. I hadn't told her why I cared so much about my appearance.

The clouds finally cleared and we headed to the festival. We found the stage (really just a blocked-off intersection) and watched the street performance, where Blue Eyes ended up playing Clint Eastwood as a kid. On his bare knees in the middle of the street. With a lit cigarette hanging out his mouth.

Don had told Blue Eyes about me. In fact, while offstage, Don pointed our way and said to him, "Remember I told you about the girl who wanted to meet you?"

"Yeah," said my prey.

"See that girl over there?" Don said. "Oh, yeaaaaah," Blue Eyes said, appreciatively.

Don was pointing at my sister. My very BUXOM sister.

"It's the tall woman behind her," Don finished. "Hmmmmm," was the response, with perhaps an equally approving head nod (I'll never know, will I?).

We angled to meet each other after the show. After some misses, we ended up at the same burrito booth at the same time.

Extending a hand that bore a wrapped burrito, he said "Hi, Lori. Don has told me about you. I'm Roger."

With that, our fate was sealed. 14 years ago this week.

______________

More Show & Tell at Mel's.

Tales from Lake Toothbegone

I am heartsick. I literally feel sick in my heart, punched in the gut.

Tessa is going to lose her front top tooth. Her permanent front top tooth.

It's a 3-chapter short story. (The photo shows Tessa's smile before The Troubles.)

Chapter 1: The Break
Three months ago, we (meaning my sister, my parents and I, and NOT my Democrat husband) took Tessa and Reed to a Ron Paul rally. As an aside, he was an amazing speaker and the jam-packed room was even more squished than a Japanese train at rush hour.

After the event, we adults were chatting as the room emptied. Tessa, Reed and their cousin Dominic busied themselves by running around a bank of chairs. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tessa fall. In slow motion, I saw a speck of white and a gush of red as she crumpled to the ground. There was an interminable hang time before I heard her wail.

"Please let it be a baby tooth, please let it be a baby tooth," I chanted as we rushed to her.

The bottom half of her front, top, permanent tooth was no longer there. I found it on the floor nearby.

My mom scooped up Tessa as I got out my phone, not yet knowing who I would call on a Friday night. In a cluster we began walking out of the convention center (mom climbed several sets of stairs while carrying 45 extra pounds -- yay, mom), in search of a Starbucks. Not for a coffee, but for a cup of milk. To put the tooth chip in.

I got our family dentist on the phone. He said (proverbially) to give her Tyl.enol and call in the morning.

Tessa had been so freaked out just the week before at her teeth cleaning that the family dentist recommended she have her cavities filled by a pediatric dentist. So the next morning, I called the peds dentist and was invited to come in immediately.

Dr Jill got an assistant to come in on a Saturday morning to help her glue Tessa's chip back on, performing a pulpotomy (nerve treatment) along the way.

But, she said, the x-ray looked good, and with luck and care for the tooth, the rooted stub should last a long time, even if the glued-on chip doesn't. Tessa spent the next several weeks swishing with an antibiotic rinse to help heal the gum trauma.

Chapter 2: Say Ahhhhhh
Tessa had extensive dental surgery in March. Most of it wasn't related to the trauma. But all of it was related to the depletion of her college fund, as we are uninsured, dentally.

Recently, the stub began looking grayish to me, so just two weeks ago, we took her to an endodontist, at Dr Jill's urging. Again, Tessa required a lot of cajoling just to let the poor guy even take a look. He ended up saying things seem fine, and to come back in 6 months.

I thought we were in good shape.

Chapter 3: "Owwwwww"
During my trip last week, Rob told me over the phone that Tessa's tooth was hurting. We figured it was the adjacent tooth, which had been loose.

After I got home, her complaints intensified. We tried to pinpoint: was the pain in the tooth or in the gum? Was it a sharp pain or a dull ache? She was not able to be any more precise than to say simply, "it HURTS, Mama." Last night it looked like a canker sore. Good, I thought. A temporary condition.

Today she's doped up on both Tyl.enol and Mo.trin, and is unable to eat for the pain. Even fruit-yogurt shakes have no appeal. And Dr Jill can't see her until tomorrow afternoon.

Looking for more immediate relief, I called the endodontist we just visited. What I thought was a canker sore is probably an infection coming from the tooth through the gum.

She will likely lose the tooth. How could such a minor event have such huge repercussions?

I feel terrible.

(But I'm not blaming Ron Paul.)

You're so vain. You probably think this post is about you.

He was 19, two years older than I. Because I had been a band-weenie in high school (flute, thank you very much), it was quite a social promotion for me to wear his letter jacket at our small college. He -- the artist, the poet, the football star, the Paul McCartney look-alike -- he was interested in little ol' freshman me.

"Paul" and I were together less than a year. We began dating in late fall and broke up some time during the summer when we were home in our respective cities and he met a new girl. But in the early part of the summer, I received beautiful poetry written for me, devotions of undying love. Real handwritten letters in my mailbox. It was an endless summer and a painful fall.

Fifteen years later, he looked me up and began emailing me. He was going through a divorce, and I knew that such a thing can prompt a person to take stock of his past. We corresponded for a few months, and our interactions culminated in a phone call where I gently slipped in (in case he had begun wanting to become more than "old friends") that I was very happy in my marriage. The call ended and he never contacted me again.

Fast forward almost another decade to now. Soon I will be traveling to his city. I read in our alumni magazine that he has gotten remarried and has two step-children. He and his wife own a business, and I find an email address for it (not him, specifically). I write him a brief email congratulating him on his new family and business, and tell him I'll be in his town on a certain date. Would he like to have coffee?

I have reconnected with many old friends -- male and female -- from past eras of my life. Sometimes I have been the seeker and sometimes I have been the found. I have appreciated these opportunities to revisit situations from my teenage and naive self with my now grown-up eyes. I have valued the chances to reclaim bits of my spirit I may have allowed others to stow away.

I was prepared for Paul to respond "Sure. There's a Starbucks at Main and Broadway. When is good for you?" I was ready for "No. This really isn't a good time for me. Sorry." I was even ready for, "Do I know you??"

But I wasn't ready for what I got. Paul wrote back, as part of an email from his wife, "No, I would never meet with you. Never contact us again." His wife's portion says that when the High Ranking Clergyman married them, she and Paul made a commitment not to look into the past. And I should not contact them again.

So, being a polite and non-confrontational person, I will not.

But I would like to ask him/them this: how, exactly, did you go from "coffee" to "breaking the bonds of marriage" in one short email?

Oh, Lord, it's just as well. I bet his Starbucks serves clouds in the coffee.

WWSMD? What would a SAINTLY mother do?

So I'm sitting at my kitchen table, keeping an eye on the kids in the backyard while I work on the laptop. I am making over an adoption profile for a couple who has been passed over by expectant parents several times over the last 7 months. I've just figured out why, and I'm eager to write their profile review.

Tessa asks if she can turn on the hose. I say yes and watch her do so, telling her to turn down the pressure a bit.

Tessa and Reed squirt each other an squeal with delight for several minutes. I step away for a moment to put laundry into the dryer.

When I get back, Holy Crapoly! Water is showering in through the kitchen window -- all over the laptop and the my clients' photos.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?" I yell loud enough to scare the neighbors. I can see that Tessa has attached a fan-type sprinkler to the end of the previously naked hose, and she's ordered Reed to turn on the water full blast, which he does in his usual dutiful manner. "TURN OFF THE WATER YOU LITTLE.....IF YOU DON'T TURN THAT OFF RIGHT NOW I'M GONNA..." The thoughts are finished in my head, but luckily the words don't come out of my mouth.

In an instant I decide to head for the water source, though in hindsight it would have been better to get to the window and close it.

I'm blocked at the door by the spray of water, but I forge through and take the patio steps down two at a time to the faucet and turn it off.

"Get inside the house. NOW!" I yell at the kids. Reed begins to cry. I laser my anger at Tessa.

I scream at her with my aching, streppy throat: "You're SIX!" (This fact needs to be pointed out to her frequently, since Tessa believes she's actually 19 and can thus remove splinters from her brother's thumb with a needle, watch Sex and the City DVDs with me, answer my business telephone, and boil water for french-pressed coffee -- which resulted yesterday in a burned potholder.) "You do NOT get to put on sprinklers! YOU'RE FREAKING SIX!!"

By now I am totally out of control, shaking my head like a crazy woman and waving my arms madly.

"Look at this table! My computer is ruined -- and the pictures, too!" They scamper inside. "Get in your rooms, both of you!"

To unleash some of my anger I stomp my feet on the kitchen floor. This scares Reed, who is terrified in his room, crying that he didn't do anything (which is mostly true). I feel bad for him.

Tessa is at first defiant. "I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING!" she matches my anger. "Reed turned on the water; IT'S REED'S FAULT!"

This re-enrages me. "You're SIX and he's FOUR! You TOLD him to turn it on! Whatever happens to the computer is YOUR -- FAULT! YOU'RE -- SIX!" my teeth are gritted as I struggle to avoid words I'd regret.

I see myself out of control, ugly, mean. But I can't stop. I know I'm going to wish I'd handled this better, more calmly. And since all the windows are open, I'm sure the neighbors are hearing my rant. I wonder if anyone is calling social services, or the state mental hospital.

I grab a towel and wipe off the laptop. Luckily, it's positioning has protected the keyboard and screen, and I'm able to wipe off the non-vital parts. No harm. My pulse rate begins to lower, and I consciously breathe. I remember that Reed is scared.

I go to his room and tell him it's OK. That it was an accident and he couldn't have known what would happen. He asks me, several times, to make sure I tell Daddy (when he gets home) that we've already talked about this and he's done his time. I promise to.

By now, Tessa has also come around. I can hear her in her room sobbing, "It's all my fault. I ruined Mom's computer. It was me. All me."

I go in and embrace her. I tell her we were lucky -- the computer isn't ruined. I tell her, "Tessa, you're six. You could not have known what would happen when you attached that sprinkler, but I could. That's why you need to ask anytime you do something new." I also acknowledge the fact that she has taken responsibility.

She nods. She cries and apologizes. We check out my client's photos and she helps me clean up the table. She suggests I tell the clients that it was all her fault.

What Would a Saintly Mother Do? Don't ask me. I'm more Joan Crawford than Mother Theresa. Today, anyway.

###

Come read "Adoption Profile," the latest episode on Drama 2B Mama.