I threw up into my Scarf.

We were at a Chinese restaurant. One with arguably good food but a really loud waitstaff.
It's a toss up, really. 

Alli said, "So, my son is really excited about this private school we are looking at. He doesn't even mind the dress code - collared shirt on top and chinos on the bottom."

"Are they uniforms? Or dress code guidelines?"

"Just guidelines. They're allowed seven colors on top, and I think three colors on the bottom."

And then I took a drink of my water. Which turned out to be a perilous mistake.  Because just then, my quick-witted mom said, "I would think its difficult to find three-colored pants."

And there was that millisecond when I wondered if I could maintain my composure. And then there was the overwhelming response from my insides: um, no. We aren't keeping the water, the composure, or your dignity.  I didn't just hold up one courtesy finger and carefully breathe through the swallowing.  I didn't cough just a little.  I threw up into my scarf. 

It's hard to recover a conversation after a situation like that. 

(And I have one question: why are Asian restaurants so stingy with their knives and napkins? Is there some cultural rule against being generous with these meal accessories?  I was vomiting. "Could we have some napkins?" They gave us one.  One.)

I recovered. As did the scarf.

I Resorted to Throwing the Broom.

So, either the spiders have gone overly crazy with their web designs in the lofty corners of my front porch, or that is something Robb routinely took care of without telling me.

I suspect the latter is the case.

I suddenly realized that the cobwebs were visible from the street.  That doesn't make a home so inviting, but more like the haunted house of the neighborhood.  No need to start any of those rumors.

So I headed out there with my broom, and I began sweeping away at the corners, clearing out all the muck.  I reached as I high as I could.  But the spiders had reached higher.  I stood on my tiptoes.  I reached with my broom. 

Finally, I resorted to throwing the broom at the cobwebs, hurtling it up in the general direction, and ducking out of the way before the broom or the cobwebs hit the ground.   Repeatedly.

In the end, I resolved to bring the step stool outside - the task I was avoiding as if it involved a donation of my bone marrow.  By the time I finished, I had cobwebs in my hair, in my flip flops, and I'm pretty sure in my teeth. 

But my entryway is inviting again.  All to make room for the autumn wreath. 

I took on the cobwebs.  (Robb would never believe this to be true.)

Seat 23 B. In the Middle.

Dallas to Denver.  Seat 23B.  It's in the middle.  I sat between two men, one young, one old. 

(Young = high school.  Old = retired.) 
(At least in this story.)

The young man looked out his window, looking back at the airport.  "It's depressing to leave my family."

(I don't talk much to strangers anymore, but this was a sentence I could acknowledge.)  "Oh, I'm sorry.  Yes, I bet it is." 

"My family lives in Texas, but I go to school in Colorado.  Are you from Texas?"

"No, I'm from Denver."

"Oh.  'Cause you sound like you're from Texas."

(I had handed him 12 words.  And in them, he found a Texan accent.)

I raised my eyebrows in response, not really sure what else to say.   In another season, I might have fluttered with paragraphs about where I'm originally from, how interesting accents are, the Salad Bowl of the United States - really, any number of topics.

I simply raised my eyebrows.  Nodded slightly.  The unspoken, "No kidding?  Texas.  Huh."

But he was finished with his observation anyway.  Back to his longing looks out the window.

Once we had reached prime elevation, I broke out the laptop.  Type, type, type.  Click, click, click.

"So, is that like some summary or something you're writing for a class?" asks the young man.

He had been reading over my shoulder.  (I can't say I haven't done the same thing.  There isn't much privacy in the forced intimacy of plane flights.)

"Oh, no, I'm working on a manuscript."

He looked at me squarely.  "Dude.  You're a writer?"

"I am."

"Oh.  That's weird."

I raised my eyebrows.  Nodded slightly.  The unspoken, "Weird.  Well, huh.  Nobody has actually ever responded that way."

He looked out the window.  I typed and clicked.  I'm sure he kept reading.  Over my shoulder.

"We'll need you to power down now, ma'am," says the airline attendant, gathering one last round of trash.

I shut down the laptop and exchange it for my current paperback, another from the collections of Madeleine L'Engle.  Man, I love her. 

The older man speaks from the other side, "So, as a writer, don't you worry about reading other people's stuff?  Like you might plaigiarize it or something?"

This was our opening dialogue, at the end of the flight.  We hadn't exchanged words yet, although I had retrieved several things for him from the floor between our seats, since he didn't have a left arm and kept dropping things.

"Well, I'm pretty careful."

"My goodness, if I were a writer, I'd never read anybody else's book ever again.  All I'd do is write.  So I could make sure it was my own stuff.  I mean, don't you ever write something and then think, wait, did I think of that, or did it come from somebody else, something else I read?"

In another season, I may have launched into a diatribe about the benefits of a writer's reading, about building one's thoughts on the inspiration of others, about the truth that good writers are good readers. 

Instead, I said, "Well, I've always got a few books going at once, so I guess there are always a few voices speaking into my writing."

"So, do you write for children?"

"No, mostly adults."

"What do you write about?"

I should have said, "A public journal of the perils of dog walking."  But I wasn't quick enough on the draw.  I was honest instead.

"I am recently widowed.  I'm writing about this first year without my husband."

"Ah.  And what did your husband do?"  (Not typically the first response, but I'll roll with it.)

"He was a corporate trainer for Farmers Insurance."

"Oh, so he probably knows that actor who does the Farmers commercials about their specialized training."

(Wow.  Um, just, wow.)

"Well, no, he doesn't know the actor, but he was on the team that wrote that curriculum."  (And he traveled 20,000 airmiles that year, as I recall.)

He elbowed me with his half-arm.

"I'm just kiddin' with ya'.  Just joshin'.  You know, that actor?  He used to play the psychologist on one of those law and order shows, and he has always played such a smart guy until he played that one role in a movie with Tom Hanks.  I'll tell ya, in that movie he played such an idiot, a real know-it-all.  Blew off his own dog's face."

Oh.  My word.  I open my book.  Madeleine is so much safer than this.  (Robb would say, "Tricia, this is what you get for talking to the person next to you.  Just keep your headphones in. That's what I always did.")

He paid no attention to my nonverbal cues.  He plodded ahead.

"You know, the bottom line is whether they sell more insurance."

(That's really the bottom line.  Really?)

"You know, I'm old enough to remember the old beer commercials with sophisticated humor, and those commercials were a really big hit.  But the problem is that the people with sophisticated humor weren't the ones buying all the beer, so really their ad campaign didn't work at all.  The bottom line is whether they sell more of their product."

"Yes, I guess it is."

I opened my book.  I put in my headphones, even though the FAA denies the use of all electronics during take-off and landing. 

Madeleine and I cruised together to a safe landing, between these two oddballs. 

I'm taking her with me everywhere.

"Mommy, Do You Want to Know Where the Poop Is?"

That's a lose-lose question. I don't even want to answer, let alone think about the ramifications of the yes or the no.

"Um, what?"

"Do you want to know where the poop is?" I guess I asked him to repeat it.

"I suppose I do. Please show me."

As it turns out, Winston was reluctant to follow the house training rules at our house. I thought he was doing so well - or so much better. Turns out, he had a secret keeper.

Tyler was putting Winston's poop in the heating vent.

(I am deeply thankful to have learned about this before I flipped on the heat in another six weeks.)

So, those two little dogs we had?

Paisley was a biter. And Winston's poop lingered in the wrong places.

They have gone to live with new families who can handle such shenanigans. This woman has her limits.

Let this be a lesson to anyone who comes to live with us: no biting, and no poop in the heating vents. Or I shall find you a new home.

(No animals were harmed in this story. And that is truly by the grace of God.)

Hmmm. Perhaps.

I might need a new manicurist.

This place lured me in with their specials, their rewards card, their convenience. But that might not be enough.

She cut my toe as she began the pedicure. Cut my toe. Blood.

She quickly began applying this blue glue, a gel that works as a quick cure band aid. She kept casting quick glances my way to see if I noticed my own injury.

"What is that?" I asked, feeling a sense of rightful ownership of my foot.

"Oh, eets okay. It fine."

It fine.

She did paint a lovely design on my toes, one which the boys believe is the Diet Pepsi logo. Could be, really. Great environmental literacy, gentlemen.

As she worked on my nails, a relaxing (?) luxury I allow myself every other week, a fly buzzed between the two of us. I casually blew it away as it landed on or around me. But she finally had enough.

Suddenly, she shouted, "Zaaaah! Zaaaah!"

And if that were not alarming enough, she raised a paper towel roll over her head and aimed it at me. I kid you not. She was ready to pop me with her paper towels, in an effort to get that fly.

I ducked. (Can you blame me?)

I think the fly took his cue. I don't remember him coming back. But that could be because I was distracted by the fact that she was picking her own acryllic nails off while my polish was drying.

I've never had acryllic nails, but I feel pretty safe in saying that I don't think the standard procedure for removal is to wedge something underneath the nail and forcefully pluck it off, leaving glue and debris behind on the nailbed.

I mean, I can't be sure. I just don't think that's how it goes.

As the other patrons left, I was the only one to remain. The other manicurists gathered around our station, telling stories in another language (stories that seemed to evoke strong, pouding emotion from each other).

And as they spoke, they shelled and munched on pumpkin seeds. They nibbled away on them like squirrels on acorns, taking itsy bites with their front teeth. They cracked and chiseled at the shells, letting them fall to the floor.

p.s. Last month, she attended me while she stayed on the phone with a creditor. An angry phone call, complete with her bill laying in front of me. Let's just say it's not good for one's cuticles if her manicurist is angry.

(I might need a new place.)

Scent in the Air

I thought Winston was doing better at housetraining.

Turns out, Tyler has been dropping the poop into the heating vent in his bedroom.

For who knows how long.

I can't really talk about this yet.

Weird Cardigan

There is a team of people who come to the aid of the victims when there is a sudden, unexpected death. There are the police, firemen, and paramedics, first of all, and secondly there is the coroner. These are the officials who step in to handle the crisis, care for the patient, make the horrific pronouncement, and deal with the thousands of immediate details.

But all of these people leave the scene as soon as the official details are complete, so there are others who arrive to bridge the gap between the emergency and safety.

Enter: the Victim's Assistance People.

It really is a good idea, especially for people who have nobody else. If there had been no family or friends at my house that morning, it would have been even more tragically lonely to be in an empty house, just hours after such an atrocity.

But my home was instantly filled with family and close friends, and the number only grew as the day stretched on. So, I didn't really need this woman, who really didn't know me at all, to come to my assistance.

Especially because she was alarmingly similar to a Saturday Night Live character.

(In the face of tragedy, there is almost always comic relief. There has to be. The crushing grief would swallow one completely if there weren't something absurd to break the tension. There simply has to be.)

She kept hovering over me. Perhaps her intent was to be at the ready, always available should I have a question, raise a concern, need a tissue, etc. But instead of standing nearby, she hovered just above my right shoulder. All morning long. I kept catching her in my peripheral vision, and I jumped every time. This hovering, silent, cardigan woman.

Always there. Hovering. (I promise this story is true, neither delusional nor a hallucination.)

When nobody was near me, when they were making one of the many phone calls or trying to piece together details, she filled the silence by talking to me.

About very strange things.

Suddenly, her hovering presence leaned in close, and she said in this eery, quiet voice, "You know, you could have his thumbprint if you want it."

I looked at her, awkwardly over my right shoulder. Not sure what to do with this.

She continued. "My brother-in-law died last year. His wife wears his thumbprint on a necklace around her neck. You could do that."

What? Thumbprint? Of all the things in and out of my mind right now, this is what she adds? I was so confused - I thought she was telling me to make a decision. I was suddenly thinking about ink pads, wondering if I had one in the house, and how in the world this was my job.

"Well, do I need to get it now?" I asked.

"Oh, no. It's just something to keep in mind. Technology can really work to your benefit. They can do amazing things now."

Amazing things. Technology. Noted. Got it. Please stop talking. Weird cardigan.

In another moment, she said, leaning in again in her awkward hover, "Do you have pets?"

Pets. Yes. Pets. A pet. We do. I do. He did. I do. "Um, yes. A dog."

"Pets grieve too, you know."

I looked at her blankly. Our neighbors had whisked Molly out of the house that morning, and I truly hadn't given her a second thought just yet. But apparently Weird Cardigan felt like that should be at the top of my list.

"Pets. Okay."

She continued. "When my brother-in-law died, his cat crawled in between the sheets of his bed and died the next day."

Did you seriously just say that to me? Did you honestly just lean in close and whisper that into my ear? Something about a dead cat between the sheets?

How on earth do I respond to this?

• I'm sorry about the cat. (?)
• Thanks for the warning about the dog. (?)
• Do you know any good pet therapists?

What on earth??

Instead, I said, "Um, I need to get out of this conversation."

I did. I said that. I would tyically say that I'm a girl with greater tact, timing, and clever exit strategies. But, honestly, my mind was as broken as my heart, and that was the best I could give her. I need to walk away from you.

At one point, when my dad entered the kitchen, she said, "Hey! Go Broncos!! They've had quite a season, haven't they?!"

What? What?!

My dad looked at her blankly.

I said, "Your sweatshirt, Dad. She's talking about your sweatshirt."

"Oh."

He didn't have a response either. Nor should he. My precious dad threw on the closest thing next to the bed when my frantic phone call arrived, and it happened to be jeans, a baseball cap, and a Broncos sweatshirt. It was a matter of urgent necessity; it really wasn't a statement of his team loyalty.

My parents tried to dismiss her. Repeatedly.

"We're okay. We really are. We are believers, and we know that Robb is in heaven. That really is the framework for how we'll deal with this, how we'll help her. We don't know how we'll get through the next few days, but we do know where he is for eternity. So we are okay. We will be okay."

Cardigan nodded. "Oh, good. That helps me."

Well, for crying out loud. I'm so glad. We would certainly want to help you.

She finally left. I don't remember how or when, if someone escorted her out, or if she finally realized she wasn't necessary. But she was finally gone.

And I realized, if anyone is going to acknowledge how weird that was, it has to be me. Nobody is going to break this emotional tension until I do. And I can. In this moment, I can.

I said, in an intentionally loud voice, "I would just like for all of you to know this: I like every single one of you a whole lot more than that victim's assistant. And her weird cardigan."

And the room spilled with laughter. In the midst, we laughed.

God bless that woman and her cardigan.

She gave me something to laugh about.

Trash Man!

I heard the tell-tale signs of the garbage truck outside my bedroom window. And even in my half-awake place, I felt that implicit sinking feeling: It's trash day. I didn't take out the trash.

(I forgot it last week too. I assure you, our garbage can will only handle so much forgetting.)

I jumped out of bed and threw on a pair of shoes. All right, brown ballet flats. If you must know.

In my pajamas, I raced down the stairs, through the house, waited impatiently for the garage door to comply with my needs, and hastily pushed an unweildy trash can down to the sidewalk.

I raced down the street, my arms waving wildly, chasing the trash truck.

In my jammies.

They stopped for me. So gracious of them. They seemed sympathetic - perhaps for my appearance, my garbage plight, my vast measures to remember this one simple task.

(Guess whose job it was to take out the trash? Well, not mine. And I think the neighbors long for Robb's efficient productivity as well, as we are all learning now that we, as a collective neighborhood, do not look at the recycling calendar. We counted on Robb. He watched the 'every other week,' enlisted my help in collecting our last few items and taking the bins out to the street. And the neighbors then followed suit, as Robb sent them the cue by setting the example. Now that his mental checklist is not here to guide us, well, let's just say my garage isn't the only one filled with recyclables. Someday, somebody will remember. And we'll see the bins on the street and follow suit. Someday. It will be a mass exodus of plastics and glass.)

That's one way to start the morning. Whew.

(A girl should wear a bra before she meets her garbage man face to face. Just sayin'. Keep that information in mind.)

Giggling Widow

I went to the doctor today for a follow-up visit to gauge how well my meds are working out for me.

(God is good, and antidepressants aren't bad. Is my motto.)

As the nurse gave me the once-over before my doctor saw me, she asked a few typical questions.

"So, how are you coping?"

I have absolutely no idea how to answer this question. No idea. It's so vague. It changes by the moment. Even to say "okay" feels like a farse. There are no words, but I tried to piece together an answer to explain my widowed life in a nutshell.

That's just a bad question to start with. Not her fault, just not okay for me. But moving on.

"And when did your husband die?"

"December 23."

"Oh, that's right on Christmas Eve," she said casually, and made note on my medical chart.

Um, no it isn't.

My mom and I cast a split-second side glance at each other, just enough to furrow our eyebrows and silently say, "What the...? Did she just...? What just happened?"

And suddenly I got the giggles.

There I was, to be evaluated for my anxiety, grief, depression, and sleeplessness, and I'm nearly snorting to contain my laughter. She was taking my blood pressure, and I was clasping my hand over my mouth.

My mom busied herself with the wall mural. Ever the queen of the straight face.

It was one of those tense situations where something goes slightly awry at just the right moment, and laughter is inevitable. Might as well add delirium to the list, Nurse. This widow can't stop giggling.

So, for the record, December 23 is not Christmas Eve. It just isn't. Never will be.

(Hey. Guess what. I laughed today.)

Predatory

This note arrived in the mail. Hand written.

Dear Robb,

Remember how we talked in early December about you
wanting to sell your home?

I'm ready to talk details. Give me a call.
Put this rubberband on your wrist to remind you.

Can't wait to hear from you.

Nick

The note included first names, last names, our address, and misleading information to indicate that Robb had plans to sell our home - plans I know he did not make, plans someone believes I should blindly step into.

Predatory mail. I heard this would happen.

I have little fight left.

***

God, I ask for your hand of justice to deal with a man who preys upon a widow and her children. Please.

Above and Beyond

The Starbucks manager greeted me this morning: "I have something for you."

She slipped around the corner into the Starbucks inner sanctum, and she came back with a clear plastic box. It was latched closed, had a handle on top, and filled with games, toys, crafts, and crayons.

"I saw you here with your boys on their snow day, and I loved the pictures on your blog, so I got this box of fun for you. Any time you want to bring them here, this box is just for you guys. I know it's hard enough to get two little guys out and on the go, so don't worry about packing toys and games. We'll keep these here for you."

Before I could say thank you, she continued, "And don't worry - this won't be out and available for anyone else. It's just for your kids. You let any of the baristas know when you need it; we all know you. We want to help you, and we really want to make sure your kids like it here."

Impressive. Above and beyond.

People amaze me.

A Coupon for Everything

In today's mail I received a coupon for $100 off a tombstone.

A tombstone for a man who was cremated.

Or $200 off, in case I'd like to have my name added as well.

Also, the coupon was only valid in Ohio, just in case I'd like to have a marble/granite tombstone shipped across the country.

I'll give that some thought.

At least the whole thing made me laugh out loud. That, I can go for.

Me and Bette Midler.

Turns out, I have a celebrity look alike: Bette Midler. And her pronouncement as my look alike did not come easily, nor without a story. It's time I went public with this nonsense.


My brother was the featured entertainment for a professional fundraising gala my dad was hosting. (Not nepotism. My brother is That Good.) I will go anywhere to see my brother do anything, but the charity tickets cost something astronomical. Instead, I signed up to 'volunteer' as an usher. I would read people's tickets and guide them to their seats, all under the guise of watching my brother perform. I just had to be okay with standing in the doorway, gesturing with an open hand, and minding the subtly lit aisle.


You betcha. Can do.


Oh, and this job of ushering came with one other agreement: A Quick Tutorial on Emergency Exits in Case of a Fire. I had inadvertantly placed myself in the theater version of an airplane emergency exit row, all just to see my brother. Still, totally worth it.


I should add: I hadn't really planned to be an usher. I had only planned to look busy and watch my brother. Or hide in a corner and watch my brother. You see the common denominator, I'm sure.


Well, along came the Meeting of the Ushers. The Head Usher, a woman who most assuredly took her job too seriously - I mean, what are the odds of a fire-related emergency, really?? - gathered us all around her for a verbal presentation. Had she the technology, I'm sure she would have elaborated with PowerPoint.


"Ladies and gentlemen, your job is to stand at the doorway, collect tickets, and guide people to their seats. Should there be an emergency, we are counting on your undying faithfulness to get these cherished guests out of the building safely."


(Yada, yada, yada, yeah, yeah. Right. My brother's on stage soon. Can you wrap this up?)


She continues, "The emergency exits are here, here, here, and --"


She stops. Cold. Mid sentence. She zeroes in on me.


"Oh. My. Heavens. Has anyone EVER told you that you look EXACTLY like Bette Midler?? Wow. It's uncanny, really."

















And just as quickly, she was back on topic, gesturing with an open hand to all the emergency exits. But her little tirade had given her just a few seconds to photograph my face, file my mugshot into her Bette Midler file, and keep close tabs on me all night.


I had not meant for anyone to keep close tabs on me that night. I wanted to be invisible; I wanted to watch my brother and only pretend to be altruistic and servant minded. But she kept finding me in my off-task state. She continued to lead me by the hand to my subtly lit aisle.


She did.


And she called me Bette.


(Not Amy Adams? Julia Roberts? Meg Ryan in her early years? Nope. Bette. The Wind Beneath My Wings.)

And so it is. I suppose.

Enter: The Smart Phone.

It wasn't an impulsive decision. I took on a few extra editing assignments, and we spent the summer waiting, researching, watching ebay, and carefully scouting out my entrance into the world of Smart Phones.

We decided to purchase a gently used one, to take advantage of the hobbies of the utmost techies: those who love to have the newest technology, so they sell their gently used - still good as new - phones on ebay. After multiple auctions and careful bidding, we found it. My Droid.

And it arrived. Oh, it arrived.

We headed straight to the phone store, de-activated the old phone, upgraded to the new, and with only a few small hiccups, I entered the world of online capabilities right in my pocket. Or most often, in my hand.

The next day, we began a new tradition in our family: Friday Fun. Since the boys are not in preschool on Friday, and since naps have been relegated to some of my favorite memories, we need to beef up our Fridays. Leave it to me: bring on the fun. And on our first Friday of the new regime, I declared a day at the pool.

We loaded up with swim trunks, towels, dry clothes, pool noodles, snacks, juice, and monkey inner tubes, and we settled in. They splashed and played, and I sat nearby: watching them, and enjoying my new companion and all her said capabilities. I updated my calendar. I surfed the internet. I scrolled through Facebook udpates. I watched my little splashers and their together fun, and then I thought, "Oh! The Camera option! Well, I haven't taken a picture yet! Let's see what this baby can do."

And I am not sure what happened next. It unfolded like a slow motion, horrifying thriller movie scene. Suddenly, the phone was out of my hands. It crashed on the cement, bounced twice, broke in pieces (the back popped off and the battery fell out), and then splashed into the pool.

Dunk. Straight to the bottom.

I said one word. Six times. I won't be blogging it.

And then I jumped in the water. Fully clothed. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do, and I would have done the same thing for $200 cash in the bottom of the pool. I would have. This was the technological equivalent. I dove down and recovered it, and I use that term loosely. I gathered all its drippy pieces in my hands.

I gathered the boys out of the water, under the premise that I had made a horrible mistake and the promise that I would bring them back to the pool as soon as possible. (The poor children had been swimming for all of 17 minutes.) I sloshed them to the locker room and put them in dry clothes, sadly having no dry options for myself. But frankly, I didn't care. I was so distracted by the magnitude of the situation that it didn't occur to me that I looked like a drowned rat.

(Long curly hair does noticeable things in its various states of unexpected pooltime recovery.)

To their credit, the boys adapted well to the change in plans. They were most impressed with my plunge into the pool, and they talked again and again about my splash to the bottom. Oh, and there was mention of the broken phone. And Tucker, who evokes whatever emotion his mother currently presents, offered to spank the swimming pool. A thoughtful gesture.

At home, I immersed all the separate parts into a bowl of rice, which I had been told is the smartest thing to do for wet electronics. And we might have been fine. We really might have. See, I later learned that there is nothing inside a phone that cannot dry. A wet phone can be salvaged, if you just give it enough time to completely dry. ("Enough Time" = Days, people. Days.) It's a wet phone combined with a wet battery: this is a problem. And this is where I made my mistake. Impatient to measure the damage, I inadvertantly created more. I put the phone back together, turned it on, and it buzzed in my hand. Not the "You have a Text" buzz. More of a "Fried to a Crisp" buzz. And then it got hot in my hand.

That's probably not usually good.

And it proved not to be. This was my mistake. The beginning of the end. With my long-awaited Smart Phone, that had been mine for 14 hours.

The boys and I headed back to the phone store to reactivate my 'old phone', the one I had been using just the day before. The girls behind the counter even remembered me from the night before. Only now I was holding both a broken phone and a broken heart.

Now, if you're still reading, allow me to paint this scene: I stand by my assertion that a phone store is the worst place in the world to take two small children. There is plenty to entice them, but nothing they may hold. There is plenty to draw them in, but nothing I may say yes to. There are plenty of people around, plenty of waiting, and plenty of problems lurking. Add to that: this particular store boasts a 1930s model of a motorcycle as well as a replica of some kind of big deal car. Real deal. Heavy. Expensive. Enticing to little boys.

So you can imagine that they wanted to climb, touch, run, play - frankly, get back in the pool I had whisked them out of. After frantic attempts to corral them, I finally got down one knee and said, "Guys, here's the deal. Think of your favorite toy. That phone was mine. It was my favorite toy, and Daddy gave it to me. And today I broke it. So my heart is very sad, and I really just don't have the energy to chase you around the store. Please just stand beside me, be kind, still, and respectful. Please."

And when I stood up, the man in front of me sneered, "Nice try, Mom. I give you credit: you do better than most."

Nice Try.

Excellent. Because that's the sarcasm I needed right now. 'Preciate it.

Here's how the rest of it went down: I got the old phone working again. I called my husband to tell him what had happened, but I was far past the point of verbal clarity. I was in that indecipherable place with monosyllabic sobbing that is closer to the native tongue of Chewbacca.

Still, he understood. He got me. And he came home. And he gave me his phone. To keep.

(Insert sidenote: We decided that I would acquire his, which was newer than the gently used one I had only just wrapped my heart around, and he would upgrade to a newer version. It was a sly plan: he was both noble and opportunistic. But hey, I got a phone. His. A man who loves his wife so well should get some technological perks. Go get a new phone, honey. I'll happily take yours.)

And that is how the two people in this marital union ended up with brand new Smart Phones. So much for careful planning, research, saved money, and shrewd bidding. Bring on the impulsive quick fix. Sometimes, it's just the solution.

The following evening, we went on a date with our Smart Phones. Nothing says romance like two lovebirds addicted to isolating technology. But it was ours, and we were together, and we took pictures of our togetherness for our spousal caller ID. I downloaded Dictionary.com; he downloaded the Periodic Table. We spoke our love languages.

P.S. I went back to the phone store today, for a separate matter totally unrelated to a wet phone. And the girl behind the counter, who has now seen me many times and on many levels of emotional status, said, "Ma'am, when you left the store, we couldn't stop talking about you."

"Oh? About the tragedy of the sunken phone?"

"No, about what a great mom you are. You really are. Nobody keeps their kids off the car and the motorcycle, but you did. We talked about you all day. You're doing a great job. I don't know why I'm crying right now, ma'am. I just had to tell you: You're a Great Mom."

That right there? Worth the whole ordeal. Or at least most of it.

I think I'll download a new App: Affirmation for the On the Go Mom.

Who has a new Smart Phone.

"Mommy, this is stuck on me."

That's a potty seat, ladies and gentlemen.

Stuck.

That's alarming on so many levels.

And sadly, this isn't the first time we've handled this dilemma.

More on My Neck

Tyler leaned in close, studying just under my chin.

"Mommy, what is that on your neck? I think it's germs."

Germs?!

Good grief. First last week's episode, and now this.

I'm beginning to develop a complex about my neck.

In the Flower Beds

A book lover can never be completely without her cherished companion, so when we packed our bag for a morning at the park, I chucked my current dog-eared favorite inside. You just never know when you can catch a paragraph or two.

The boys were sunscreened, snacked, and playing nicely, so I whipped out the book. I read a paragraph... okay, two of them. And after those less-than-two minutes had passed, I looked up to check on my little men. But they weren't there.

Don't panic. I didn't. They were both gone. That can only mean they are together.

Still, I calmly dropped everything to find them. And when I didn't spot them immediately, I picked up my pace. And my heartrate.

That's when I heard snickering - from innocent bystanders. Other moms, older children, all in the know, snickering and pointing with glances in my direction. Glances that said, 'Wait 'til she sees what we see...'

And then I found them.

Naked.

In the course of my two paragraphs, the boys had stripped their clothes and headed to the flowerbed. They were standing with their shorts around their ankles and their t-shirts pulled high. I came running, pulling their clothes on as fast as I could.

I used my loud stage whisper as I whisked their clothes back on. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

"We had to poop in the flowers."

They had to poop in the flowers.

Bound for Greatness

"And what is your last name?" asked the woman I had only just met.

We were making polite, get-to-know-you conversation among crowds at a ladies' breakfast that would later be profound and insightful.


"It's Williford."


"Ah. Good one. Nice and long." She stretched her hands to exemplify the greatness of a lengthy name.


"Well, yes. Thank you. My maiden name was Lott, so a longer name is new to me. Or, new ten years ago."


"Lott! Yes! Nice and choppy!" And she clapped her hands together, like, chop-chop.


Clearly this woman had some opinions and thoughts on length and syllables of names.


She asked about my boys' names. When I told her, she frowned. "Now, you know they'll never be President, of course. Too many syllables."

"(?)," said the look on my face.


"I mean, think about it. Look at the pattern. Bill. Clin-ton. George. Bush. Ba-rack. O-ba-ma." She clapped her hands with every first and last name.


"So... (insert 'unsure of where this is going...') I don't think I see a pattern."

"Oh, but there is one."

Um..."Okay."

"Tyler could shorten his last name and take after Gerald Ford. He could be President Ford."

"Except that's not his name."

"Oh, right, of course. And you'll also need to send them to Yale or Harvard if they plan to lead the country, and well, you know, those are tough to get into."

"Right. And so today, I think we'll make sure we don't have any potty training accidents. Maybe we'll master that first."

"Oh, sure. Good idea."

Courtesy laughter.

Then she adds, "Did you know you are part Indian, since you and your husband are arranged?"

She was a wealth of theories, I'm telling you. I began listening politely, as I seemed to have little to offer that made any sense at all.

Disgusting Find of the Day

"Here, Mommy."

"What is that?"

"I found it."

"What is it?"

"It was by my carseat."

"And what is it?"

It's now in my hand. And what is it... it looks sort of like a smashed no-bake cookie. But I haven't (no-)baked those in ages, and the boys haven't ever eaten one in the minivan.

Hmm. But we did do McDonalds on-the-go last week.

What I have in my hand is a half-eaten, dried up, hard-as-a-rock hamburger patty.

Tucker is very linear and precise, and it bothers him deeply when both halves of the bun do not align with the hamburger in the middle. So, he took matters into his own hands. Gone with the beef.

And apparently he chucked it over his shoulder, in the car.

I'm growing more and more aware of the need to visit the car wash. And definitely the vacuum station.

The Species in Question

I came downstairs this morning to find:

• The blinds pulled (which is not a child-friendly task).
• The throw pillows strewn all about.
• One pillow unzipped.
• Tyler eating the cotton stuffing.

Am I raising boys, or house training puppies?