What is it about a Buick?

Since my transfer and promotion to a town further away, we have decided to get a car for me to commute in. I had lots of cars in mind when we finally decided to get a car. I was picturing many, many types of vehicles. I pictured a little tiny Geo, or really old Honda. I even had the thought (seriously) cross my mind to look for an old diesel to make a grease car out of. Yes, I had many visions of our next car. I also had many requirements that a new car worthy and appropriate of my particular stage in life should have. Our new car had to have cruise control, air bags, be in good working condition, have minimal exterior damage, get good to decent gas mileage, be reasonably priced . . . and have a really nice sounding stereo. So, a few weeks ago, my wife and I decided to go ahead and make the purchase. The dealership my wife went to to get her vehicle (a really nice 2005 Dodge Grand Caravan) from had a really good deal on another vehicle as well. So we went and checked out what they had. Lo, and behold a pretty decent little Honda for a really good price. My wife and I got in and took it for a test drive. It was immediately obvious that this vehicle was previously owned by a teenager with more money than sense. How could I tell? The evidence from which I arrived at this conclusion was concrete and indisputable. The first clue: The kickin' after market stereo system with a 6-disc changer in the trunk and enough lights and buttons to confuse anyone at NASA. Now normally this wouldn't send off juvenile vibes on its own, but the second piece of evidence (marked "people's exhibit #2) was the obscene amount of bright red spray paint coating the dash, steering wheel, and anything else that used to be black plastic in the interior. "Interesting", says my wife. Interesting, indeed. Needless to say, we didn't purchase the vehicle, although by the end of the test drive, the stereo was kind of growing on me. But the car didn't have cruise control and the engine ran a little rough(a problem easily remedied by cranking the stereo up enough to drown out the sound of any engine noise. ) The next choice was a Dodge Stratus that was very, very nice but the price couldn't be lowered enough to make it affordable to me. Hence, choice number three which was what we ended up with. I have never owned a Buick before and I am really blessed to be able to afford a vehicle that meets my family's needs, and has most of the requirements I had been looking for. Not to sound ungrateful, but I was just getting used to being a member of the minivan club. If I may interject here, it is really hard, even if one is trying(which I'm not) to look excessively cool as a man while driving a minivan. So essentially, what high school started, driving a minivan finished off. Let's say however, that a tiny shred of He-man masculinity and hip young studness somehow survived the onslaught and lie cowering in the recesses of some minute emotional crevice. One way to completely nuke the lone surviving splinter of He-man masculinity and hip young studness is to drive a Buick Regal at 36 years old. Please don't misunderstand. I actually like the car. It drives smooth, has wonderful interior features, all-leather seats, stereo controls on the steering wheel, and a cassette/CD player with the stereo. It's just that something about a Buick that screams, "old-man car!!" Or maybe its my wife's voice screaming, "old-man car!!" wherever the voice is coming from, it is not lying. It IS an old man car. The best and worst features of my new Buick: Best: It doesn't matter how fast I drive, I always appear to moving slowly to everyone else. Seriously. I could be doing 100 miles an hour through a school zone and because I am driving a Buick the officer would wave at me as I went by with a deep nod of respect for the sweet old codger in the Buick. The reverse however is not true. When I go slower, it just looks like I'm going slower. The good part about that is everybody expects me to drive erratically and slow down and speed up and cross a line here and run a light there. It truly is amazing what I can get away with in this car. (just joking about that kids, your father does not now, or has not in the past ever had the urge to slow down.) The worst feature: the stereo. Its not what you think. The system has 8 speakers imbedded throughout the interior of the car. Along with the cassette/CD player previously mentioned and the volume it can achieve, it would seem like a dream come true. However, the good folks at GM have accomplished the incredible. The inconceivable. The groundbreaking scientists and engineers at Buick have designed through many trials and errors the mind-boggling feat of creating a stereo system that only sounds good playing NPR. I know you don't believe me. If I didn't own it, drive it and try to play music in it myself, I wouldn't believe it either. Fortunately, I don't have to worry much about listening to NPR for very long. Since the drive is only 35 miles one way, I can easily avoid long exposure to pseudo-intellectual hooey by driving 200 miles an hour. Good evening officer. My but these young people today sure respect their elders.

. . . more to follow.

but seriously folks . . .

Wow! Would you look at this. Here's another one. There must be something wrong. Well, there isn’t. I just have had a lot go through my mind lately and needed someplace to vent a little. I hope you don’t mind. Good.

Last month was a bittersweet month for me and I have been thinking a lot about it and finally had to get some thoughts down before I forgot them completely.

First of all, last month marked the 17th anniversary of my LDS mission to Georgia. It was March 7, 1990 that a nervous 19 year-old kid walked in to the MTC (missionary training center) in Provo Utah, and began a kind of odyssey that in a lot of ways continues to this very day. I have had a lot of time since then to think about that decision and the places it has led me. I didn’t know anything about anything then, but I sure thought I did. I still don’t know a whole lot, but I do know that I am closer to the person I want to be now because I made that choice than I would have been had I not boarded that plane that day. I have tried, but can not separate the experiences I had in the next two years from who I am, who I married, and who my children are. My mission didn’t give me all the answers I wanted. In fact, it raised more questions about myself, my religion, and my relationship with God than I thought existed. In the end, however, I found the answers to all the right questions. I found myself. I found a testimony of the Savior and his atonement. Somehow, somewhere, in the flurry and storm of hot, humid days, constant self doubt, longing for home, and physical/spiritual/emotional exhaustion I found God waiting for me and we established a relationship that is inconsistent, (all my fault, of course,) but more real than anything else I have yet to experience before or since—only my wedding day and the birth of my children can compare to it. Many things have come and gone as they tend to do in seventeen years. But one thing I have learned and kept close to me remains constant all these years. I know there is Someone out there who thinks I can do better. Someone who has faith in me regardless of the stupid things I do and will still be there should I need him. Knowing myself as well as I do that’s a very good thing, because as many times as I mess up and come crawling back for forgiveness we both know that there will always be . . . more to follow

I have NOT Died . . .

There are many ways to apologize, but they are all pathetic attempts to rationalize why I haven't been active in my blog. More particular to the point, they all sound lame when you and I both know that the chances are good that it will be another little while until I blog again. Anyway, how's this: I'm sorry. I got busy. Told you it was lame.

I have been promoted to a rehab manager at a different facility in a town about 40 minutes away. While I relish the opportunity to make more money, assume more responsibility, and to face a new challenge (in that order), it has been exceptionally stressful at times. On the other hand it has provided me with a lot of new stories and experiences that I would never have imagined. The facility I was assigned is what is known as a "behavioral facility" and therefore is the place other nursing homes send all the problem residents. You know, the ones that hit, spit, throw things, curse, and yell. Almost all of them have some kind of dementia, but the really interesting ones have bipolar disorder or paranoid schizophrenia or other psychotic episodes listed as additional diagnoses. It makes for a particularly fun day when you have to convince a hearing impaired, psychotic Alzheimer's patient with Parkinson's disease to do leg lifts or to "put your nose over your toes" while attempting to go from sit to stand. There are several good stories and events that happen from time to time and I have kind of made it a personal crusade of mine to look for and document those good stories in another blog that I may be starting soon. Unless I just decide to put them in here instead. Here's a good one that happened to me during one of the first days after I started as rehab manager:

Its funny how memory works and how it sometimes it doesn't. In my experiences with geriatric patients, It's not an "all or nothing" situation with memory loss. Things just start to go and at first its just annoying like when you can't remember where you left the remote control. Gradually more and more "things" stop making sense and its like you can't remember what you're trying to remember, but you but you know you should remember. Sometimes out of the blue something jogs your memory and everything is clear for a little longer. One example is music and Margaret.

The effect of music to stir memories and emotions that aren't reached in any other way continues to amaze me. "Margaret" is English. Married to a US soldier shortly after the second world war, she has been a widow for many years now. It has been years since she was in the UK, but she is still so very proud to tell any and all that she is from England and married a US soldier after the war. She loves to sing songs from the war and songs from church. She has three favorites: "Oh, How I love Jesus" , "America, the Beautiful" and "Rule Brittania". I first observed Margaret a couple of years ago when I was filling in for a

physical therapist at this same facility. She was very lively and kept singing "Rule Brittania" over and over until someone made her sing something else or got her distracted with telling them about where she was from. I thought she was kind of sweet then but really didn't give her another thought until I started working here full time two years later. It was hard to recognize Margaret this time, but her tell-tale oversized sunglasses were one of the only things that gave her away. She was hunched over her table in a chair muttering to herself. It was truly sad to see the effects of time and her cognitive condition. As she sat at one table muttering to herself and I sat across the room at another table doing a pile of paperwork, I began to wonder if she might still remember how the song went and so slowly I began whistling the first few notes of "Rule Brittania" over and over. Nothing happened at first. Then slowly, but steadily, her head began to lift and turn from side to side to find out where the noise was coming from. Although I doubt she saw me, I know she heard me because she let me whistle through the song a couple of more times before breaking into one of the more moving renditions of "Rule Brittania" I have ever heard. Her voice was thin, shaky and absolutely beautiful to hear. After the song, she began again with the stories of her American soldier husband and how England and the US had been allies during the war and helped them when the Germans were bombing England. Talking to no one in particular, it was nice to hear the stories again. It was nice to hear her sing. It was nice to have her back.

More to follow . . .

Cyber guilt

Ok. So I'm reading my wife's blog and she has this wonderful new post that I am reading. I'm cruising my way through her thoughts and feelings and her cool way of saying things only to realize after I get almost all the way through that it was a setup. I don't know how often this happens to other men, but apparently I've been cyber-guilt tripped. The question remains: Is virtual guilt as effective as its real counterpart? The answer is apparent in that I am blogging again for the first time in months because of it. I do like writing in my blog, I just don't take the time to do it as much. Maybe its because my wife is always on the computer. Nope, men are just as ineffective at cyber-guilting their spouses as we are at the other kinds.

Anyway, with a little help from my kids. I came up with a variation on the "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie" series. Maybe they'll publish this one as well. I'll file this one under "Children's books we'd like to see"

If You Give a Porcupine a Wedgie

If you give a porcupine a wedgie, the chances are you're going to get a lot of quills in your hands.
If you get lots of quills in your hands, the chances are you're going to have to see a doctor to get them all out.
If you go to a doctor to get them out, the chances are that you're going to have to wait in a waiting room for a long time.
If you wait in the doctor's office for a long time, the chances are that you're going to need something to read in the doctor's office.
If you want something to read in the doctor's office, the chances are that the only thing they'll have to read is old Ranger Rick magazines.
If all there are in the doctor's office is old Ranger Rick magazines, the chances are that there'll be at least one article (with color pictures) about porcupines.
If there is an article (with color pictures) about porcupines, the chances are that you're going to get really upset that you have to wait in a doctor's office for a long time trying to turn pages of a Ranger Rick magazine with porcupine quills in your hands just to find an article (with color pictures) of a porcupine.
If you get really upset that you have to wait in a doctors office for a long time trying to turn pages of a Ranger Rick magazine with porcupine quills in your hands just to find an artucle (with color pictures) of a porcupine, the chances are you're going to probably do something rash.
If you are so angry that you are willing to do something rash, the chances are the first thing that will come to your addled, frenzied, porcupine-hating mind is to go out immediately and go up to the first porcupine you find and give it a giant atomic wedgie.

What do you think? Maybe I'll never be a children's writer. But that's ok. At least I'll have my cyber-guilt to keep me warm.

. . . more to follow . . . probably

Mothers! what a concept

My wife revealed to me that she really dislikes Mother’s Day services at church, because the gushy, flowery, inspiring stories about perfect mothers makes her feel even more guilty about her perceived inadequacies in that department. As a result, my wife sometimes feels depressed and unworthy when Mother’s Day comes around.  I was really at a loss to respond to her then.  Mostly because I’m one of those who need a chance to let things ruminate while I formulate a reply, but also because there is really no way to immediately let her know how much I disagree with her assessment of her performance.  Words really seem worthless and a present is really cliché.  Flowers are nice and so are cards, but both really seem insufficient ways to show how much I appreciate my wife for the job she is doing as a mother and to my mom for what she has done and continues to do for me.
It’s not that moms have children that make them so great.  Its not they raise them, feed them, bathe them, clothe them and potty-train our kids.  It’s not just that they stay up nights with them when they’re sick and provide a shoulder to cry on when things get tough.  Its not that they have to fill all of those wonderful roles in their respective households that makes them so great. Although, those things are amazing and I am eternally grateful that we have mothers here to carry them out.  Maybe it’s because I see motherhood from a different perspective as a husband than I did when I was a just a son, but to me, it is the sum of the parts.
It just might interest many of you to know that mom’s are like real people with dreams, aspirations, hopes and fears.  While they are dealing with all of these facets of their personalities they are also engaged in trying to do their level best in dealing with the hopes, dreams, fears and aspirations of brand –new people.  In other words, inside every woman who is capable and has made the choice to become a mother, there is still a woman—a whole person with needs and dreams that has put many of the things she has always wanted aside to spend time wiping hineys, chasing naked kids from the bathtub, fighting kids to clean their rooms, trying to keep track of games, recitals, parent-teachers conferences, and innumerable other scheduled items as well as dealing with the emergencies and unplanned events that somehow just come up.  Add to this the prospect of a pudgy little bald guy coming home from work whining and complaining about his day and about his hopes, dreams, fears, and aspirations (then hoping she’s feeling a little frisky later) and you have a person who should be honored, respected and quite honestly given the Nobel Prize.  
That’s what makes moms so great to me.  My wife says she hates the stories of those “perfect” mothers that everyone tells at church on Mothers Day.  The truth is, I have a feeling there are days in every mother’s life when she has regrets and insecurities about her decision to be a mother.  She has times when she wonders how she can bow out gracefully and go back to just worrying about herself without feeling guilty about wanting to do the things she wants to do. The fact that real mothers don’t bail, even while they could (and sometimes want to), makes them extraordinary in my eyes.  There probably are no “perfect mothers” Just like there are no other perfect types of people.  That quote from the “Batman” movie sums it up pretty well.  “It’s not who we are that defines us, but what we do” Mothers do marvelous things for very little appreciation.  When we do show appreciation one day out of the year, we give them candy, cards, flowers, dinners, days off, presents, etc.  I am sure these are appreciated, but in reality, I’d love to give her more.  One of these days I’d like to show her how appreciated she is by finding a way to show her that I know she has dreams and hopes for her own life and then helping her reach them.  Just like all of the good and bad aspects of motherhood there is always . . . more to follow





  

A good day

Well its just after midnight on a Thursday and our family is complete again. We picked up Amy at the airport after a few minutes wait, because her flight was late. I guess the police man at the loading area wasn't too concerned that a minivan full of kids chanting "we want mommy, we want mommy"was much of a terrorist threat. He still asked us to make a few circles around the area so we wouldn't be "parking" in the loading zone. Before we left though, the preparations were pretty smooth as we got the house ready for mom's arrival. For some reason the theme song to "A-Team" kept playing in my head. While we weren't exactly a well-oiled machine we got a lot accomplished and I loved it when our plan came together. I learned a lot these last few days about myself, my kids, my wife and how laundry isn't done. Maybe some day I'll write them down here. Did I mention its after midnight on a Thursday? My life is going to be back to normal in a few hours and I'll be back at work while Amy stays home with the kids and things will be much like they were before. And you know what? That's OK with me.

More to follow . . .

Tomorrow, tomorrow . . .

I love ya tomorrow! Today wasn't so bad, but tomorrow is predicted to be sunny with a one hundred per cent chance of Amy coming home. It's just in the nick of time too. I don't know how long my 17 month old is going to tolerate going to Grandma's house. She has a good time when she's there, but she's getting more and more disappointed in me, I can tell. She used to love getting her coat on so she could go in the car. Now, however, when I get the coat out of the closet, she just eyes me warily as if she thinks I'm up to something. Luckily for me, Grandma and Grandpa are very good at keeping her entertained and she has a pretty short attention span.

Oh, I found out why Amy prefers to take her shower when I'm in the house as opposed to taking it sometime during the day when I'm gone to work. I thought it had something to do with security, keeping an eye on the kids, or something parentally notable like that. Instead . . . Oh, I'll just give you this morning's example. Shower running. Daddy humming. Shampoo foaming. Knock at the door and a muffled voice says something. I recognize the muffle as my five year-old daughter's muffle. "What is it Rilla?" I ask cheerfully as one whose shower has been interrupted can possibly answer. "Daddy, Muffle muffle muff-mo?" "What?" I ask. She repeats and I hear "Wet stars to grow? " "WHAT?!" I answer with noticeably less cheerfulness. "The water is on and I can't understand you honey, you're going to have to speak up." She yells through the door "I said, wart sorts if mow?" Now into full-scale exasperation I pull the shower curtain open enough to peek my head out and repeat what I heard, "WART SORTS IF MOW?!?" I recognize her own exasperated muffle and a distinct NO!! I then tell her to poke her head inside and tell me again what she said. She then repeats to me as if there should never have been any doubt and what kind of idiot doesn't understand her muffles through a door and with their head under water anyway, "Daddy, What . . . starts . . . with . . . "O"?" Feel free to insert a short incredulous silence here. I wasn't in the same zip code as her mind was. I just stared at her blur(I had my glasses off) and repeated it back to her to make sure I got it right. "Yeah, What starts with "O"?" Cheerfulness was now a distant (but cheerful) memory. I shook my head several times to make sureI got the shampoo out of my ears, then I simply responded with "How about, "Oh my gosh, I can't believe you interrupted my shower for that!"" Rilla simply giggled and said I was silly and that she couldn't take that to school with her for "O" day and decided to take Matthew's toy ostrich instead. I told her that was probably a better idea and politely asked permission to finish my shower. She graciously acquiesced and I finished the rest of my shower in peace. I hereby make a solemn vow to make sure my wife gets a shower in the mornings before I go if she wants one.

Other than that, things went well. Amy called this evening and is enjoying herself so much. She'll tell all about it I'm sure on her blog when she gets back. The house is still in one piece pretty much and the kids are still alive. They've been exceptionally well-behaved these last few days and I am very proud of them for bucking up and really picking up the slack. I am missing my wife terribly, but am so glad she could go. She'll be here tomorrow and I'll report then because as great as these last few days have been, there will be . . . more to follow