Speaking, Without Words

Yesterday I came home from Ariel’s music lessons (that girl has to get a driver’s license soon) to find the front lawn littered with massive magnolia branches.

Me: Hmm. Look what Dad did while I was gone.
Ariel: Yeah.

We go into the house, and I find my beloved husband.

Cal smiles. (Now for those of you who haven’t been married for twenty plus years, I will have to interpret.) A smile with a twinkle in the eye means: Neener! Look at what I did while you were gone.

I raise an eyebrow. Translation: You never would have done this if I would have been home because I would have pitched an absolute hissy fit. And I would have been justified in doing so because you were foolhardy! (BTW, if the eyebrow would have been raised a fraction of an inch higher, it would have included an mild accusation of a violation of the 6th commandment—Thou shalt not kill—even yourself, by accident. But the eyebrow didn’t go that high.)

Cal raises the corner of his mouth. Translation: Don’t be a hypocrite, sweetiepie. You would have done the same thing, only you’re too wimpy and can’t move the massive ladder without help.

I wrinkle my brow. Translation: I would NOT have climbed up the ladder, shimmied up the very high pitched roof, and sat on top of the chimney to cut tree branches. (Yes, he really did this.)

Cal raises both eyebrows. Translation: Are you or are you not the woman who stood up on a sled and rode it over a jump that was so dangerous that other parents said to their children, and I quote, “Don’t even think of doing what that woman just did!”

I lick my lower lip. Translation: Okay. I’m guilty as charged, but you should have let me do the climbing since I have much better sense of balance than you do.

Cal’s other eye twinkles. Translation: So, what do you think?

Finally, the conversation becomes verbal once again. I say, “Honey, the tree looks great!”

You too can learn to speak facial expressions—it only takes a couple of decades of marriage. But, I must warn you occasionally the gesture for words method of dialogue can lead to interesting communication errors, and your conversation can morph from the kids need to be hung upside down by their toenails to you did what to the van with a jar of honey?

Here’s a picture of Cal and the tree. Unfortunately, you don't get a sense of the pitch or breadth of the roof that was so extreme that when we had to re-roof several years ago, many roofers weren't even willing to consider our roof once they saw it.




Here’s a picture of some of the beautiful flowers I picked from the chopped down branches. The scent is interesting, sort of like sour oranges.

God's Sense of Humor

Ariel got three deliveries today. They were textbooks—economics, public speaking, and linear algebra. When she opened the package containing the last book, I heard squeals of delight. Then she opened the book. “Oh…my…gosh, Mom. Did you hear that?! The spine cracked—I’m the first person to ever use this book!!” Ariel proceeded to hurry to her room with the book cradled reverently in her arms.

After thirty minutes or so, she came to find Calvin and me. “Guess what? I just read the first chapter and did all the homework on matrices…” She paused for effect. “And I got all the problems correct.” Cal and I looked at each other and said, “Great!”

Cal found something to do, so I had to listen to a lecture on Row-Echelon and reduced Row-Echelon forms—does she seriously think I have any idea what she’s talking about? And then there was some new uber-cool vector thingy—this is how I know that God has a sense of humor. I hated vectors with a consuming passion—Ariel loves them almost above parametric equations, so she’s always explaining some new vector analysis protocol. When she came up for air, she moved on to some Gauss principle/constant/formula/elimination/whatever. (Gauss was a late 16th century math nerd/genius. Apparently, he wasn’t the nicest guy to be around, but I was told it was because he was “one of the greatest math minds, EVER.”)

She just told me, “Mom, I moved on to chapter two, and this is so cool.” I think I just heard Calvin go outside to finish trimming the magnolia tree. I’m so jealous.

Our Little Monkey Girl

One of the other “blessings” of very hot weather (notice I didn’t say ridiculously hot weather or infernally hot weather—see, I’m embracing the heat) is that my dog can’t stop shedding. She’s been shedding for months. Normally, a Lab sheds fur for a few weeks. But, Jezebel is going on two months plus. In fact, the boys’ new fun activity is pulling out hunks of fur while they watch reruns of Star Trek. This might be amusing to them, and the dog loves it, but, they forget what they’ve done by the end of the movie, and they bail leaving piles of black fur all over my bedroom floor. Of course, then there’s the time the piles of fur got wrapped up in Jez’s blanket along with clean laundry (it happened to be piled in a chair where some nameless male child wanted to sit), my pillow, etc. Needless to say, I had a conversation with the boys. They said, “Oops. Sorry.”

You’d think Jez would be completely naked by now. But she’s not, instead she’s still got a thick coat except on her tummy where pink skin is starting to show through. Ariel calls her “Monkey Girl” because her belly looks just like a monkey’s. The boys aren’t fond of Jez’s new nickname—you don’t call a big black Lab with a spiked collar, “Monkey Girl.” That’s like calling a Rottweiler “Tinkerbell.” It just doesn’t work unless you’re going for the irony factor.

Right now, Jez is out running with Calvin. She has to get in her morning run regarding of how hot it is. Afterwards, she comes home with her tongue hanging to the floor. I tease Cal that eventually either he or she will trip over it. Then, Jez flops down to the floor and closes her eyes—she’s done for the morning. Cal’s tried to run without her, thinking the heat and humidity is too much for her. But now, Jez won’t let him out of her sight. She won’t even eat her breakfast because she’s so anxious that he might go running without her. In fact, first thing in the morning, she whines at the bedroom door because she’s afraid Cal might sneak out the back door of our bedroom to go running without her.

Maybe it’s not the heat that making her lose her fur, maybe it’s anxiety making her go bald. Poor Little Monkey!

A Whole New Frontier

It was 102 yesterday (according to the electronic billboard at the doctor’s office where they make money by encouraging women to feel inadequate about themselves) when Cal and I went out for dinner. Thursday was our 21st wedding anniversary, but since we were too busy on Thursday, we celebrated yesterday. After dinner, we went to see the new Star Trek movie.

Let me say upfront that while I do appreciate some sci-fi (I’ve read Ender’s Game, Dune, and Interstellar Pig—if you haven’t read it, you must even though the book is middle grade), I am by no means a “trekkie.” I’ve only watched some reruns of the original series, some episodes of ST: the Next Generation, and a few of the assorted movies. I went to this new movie thinking, “How are they (the writers) going to breathe new life into a series that’s already been beaten to death?” After all, the second batch of Star Wars movies should be ample evidence that you “can’t get blood from a turnip.”

But these writers didn’t need a turnip, they got a whole new warm body. Without giving any spoilers, let’s just say that alternative realities can shake a lot of things loose. And Iowa never looked so cool. Not to mention Mr. Sulu—who went from being scary-happy to a fencing dude: Mr. Sulu gets assigned to a mission because he has “advanced tactical weapons training.” Just before Kirk and Sulu “space jump”, Kirk asks Sulu what kind of weapons training he had. Sulu says, “Fencing!” How can you not love that?! Especially since it comes in handy. Not to mention Scottie, who comes in halfway through the movie with all of his Gaelic “charm.” (Is it Gaelic—if not, I’m sure I’ll get lots of comments.)

My only issue with the movie is Spock. In the original series, Spock always lifted his eyebrow with ironic charm and an only barely concealed twinkle in his eye. This Spock has none of that. Of course, there’s a reason, and by the end of the movie there’s hope that in the next movie the Vulcan-human paradoxical sense of humor will be back. I’ll be waiting!

ps You even find out why McCoy is called "Bones", and it's not because he's a doctor.

Embrace the Heat!

In my last post, I complained about the heat. And it’s still hot. But here’s the thing, I’ve decided to embrace the heat. You see, I’ve lived places like Southern California and Northern California where the differences in the seasons are measured in minor temperature variations and the amount of rain that falls. Those things don’t mark seasons—at least, not very well. I like seeing the passage of time, knowing that everything changes.

I’d much rather endure the heat then give up the seasons. Besides, I learned one thing in New England—weather is a character-builder. I can put up with the bitter cold (Once when it was negative 70--as in below zero--with the wind chill factor, Cal and I stood outside in our pajamas to prove our toughness—a blast of Arctic winds ended it quickly.) But heat is harder for me to bear, so this is my opportunity for sanctification. When I’m old and gray (though my kids think I’m old now and I do have a few gray hairs), I can just see myself sitting in a rocking chair and telling my grandkids, “You think this is hot? You should’ve been here in the summer of ’09. By golly, it was in the 100s in June. Yep, those were the good ole days!”

My new slogan is “Embrace the Heat!” Of course, right now I’m enjoying the heat from the study of my air conditioned home. But, hey, it’s a step in the right direction.

High Temperatures

Yesterday it was 98 degrees. My grass seedlings wept and only survived because I drown them in water. The only living things enjoying the heat are my hedge of knockout roses—they’re in a blooming nirvana. Today, I’d like to avoid thermometers—it’s easier to handle the heat if you don’t know how hot it is.

Only I can’t avoid thermometers unless I close my eyes when I drive—the doctor’s office on nearest cross-street proclaims the temperature and a “coupon” for $500 off a breast augmentation surgery. The doctor is a plastic surgeon. He also advertises getting ready for “bikini weather.” His slogan is “Diet and exercise—yuck. Liposuction—yeah.” I’m not sure which advertisement I find more offensive. The fact that he (yes, I’m a sexist and assume the doctor is male) thinks women need their glands enlarged or the fact that he wants people to believe that the way to deal with excess adipose tissue is to suck it out of your body with a glorified vacuum.

But wait…I was talking about the heat. (Sorry, went crazy on a tangent there for a moment.) Back to the temperature. It’s in the high 90s outside, maybe even pushing 100. Inside the air conditioner is running, but we still have people living at 100 degrees. Matt still has his upper respiratory infection and a fever just over 103. Thankfully, ibuprophen keeps it down to 101. However, we’ve added another malady to our house. Ariel now has a fever and throat infection. I’m either going to learn patience really soon or start buying Sam’s Club-sized cartons of masks and gloves.

The Plague Redux

Since early May there has been at least one sick person in our family. And just when I thought we were finally getting healthy, Matthew came down with the scourge. He’s coughing and stewing an aggressive fever. His cough is slightly different though. Instead of the wet cough that sounds like a backfiring tuba, Matt has a croupy cough that sounds like a seal on steroids.

What is prolonging this plague? Why couldn’t everyone get super sick at once and then we could be done with it? I’m sure there must be some heavy-duty sanctification behind it, but if I knew what exactly I was supposed to learn I’m sure I could do it much faster.

I’m probably supposed to be more patient, which means I shouldn’t have said, “Jacob, we’re getting really tired of listening to your cough.” Yeah, that was the epitome of tact and motherly compassion. Or, “Matt, you don’t need to announce your fever every five minutes.” After all, he doesn’t have anything more exciting to do. (Though I will state for the record that digital thermometers that measure to the tenth of a degree were created by engineers who had never taken care of a sick, bored pre-teen.) Or, my favorite, “If you don’t cover you mouth when you hack, I will duct-tape your mouth shut.” Okay, I didn’t really say that—I only thought it. Hmm…I see a pattern here. Patience. I need to hurry up and get some.