Monthly Archives: October 2014

Froyo Information

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I have an ugliness in my heart. No, seriously. I’m learning I lack patience, grace and compassion in circumstances where I perceive someone isn’t being… a prudent steward of the brain cells God has given them. I’m working hard on this. I’m making progress. But, coincidentally, I’m finding God gives me ample opportunities to practice what I’m learning. He’s schooling me. I’d say I’m pulling about C- at present.

Our daughter celebrated a birthday recently. She had been asking to go to Menchie’s Frozen Yogurt for days prior to. The evening of her big day rolled around and we had yet to make it there. Although a reluctant participant, I concluded the giant Costco cake had not been a sufficient sugar buzz. I checked the store hour’s online and wouldn’t ya know it, luck on my side! They were open until 10 and it wasn’t even 6, so off we went for frozen yogurt.

My hubby was quiet while driving, possibly still reeling from the not quite adequate win the Seahawks managed to pull off in the last 40+ seconds of a game they should have won healthily. I digress.

We arrived at Menchie’s and found a sufficiently undersized parking spot right up front. The kids bolted inside. It was quiet. Too quiet.

It was at this point my failings began to show. I started noticing… everything. Garbage overflowing. Yogurt all over the floor. Chairs askew. And where were the helpers? None to be found. Not a soul in the joint.

I met the fam back at the yogurt stations and continued my examination. The troughs were filthy and overflowing with sticky gunk. Lights flashing above every other flavor indicating they were empty. I walked across the sticky floor, still, no helpers. There was my son, standing in front of his one and only favorite, Vanilla Snow. The light was flashing. Birthday girl stepped in to try it out. Nothing. I glanced around, still no helpers. S tried the Vanilla Snow Chocolate combo and after thirty seconds it spurted out in a soupy mess. L began his search for an alternative. I started seeking out the help to see if we could fix the issue, after all they still had 4 hours of business left. Surely they had more Vanilla Snow!

As the kids moved through the process, we were joined by another couple, then a gal walked in. I was confident the help would show now. Come on, it was like rush hour. But, no. The couple winced and shrugged as they learned their favorites were out. The gal left empty handed and another family came in, then another. It was a full on yogurt stampede and there were no options to be had, no help to be found.

Now well after 6, I stood at the cash register as if my very presence would summon the help. I noticed the unsupervised tip jar just waiting for a bad person to come by and take it home. The patrons were starting to look around as if to say, “Hey, you are out of your featured flavor and I’m a little upset! Helpers!?”

I stared into the hallway that led to the back room and for the next thirty seconds I thought, “Oh my dear, what if there is a medical emergency in the back room and I’m going to have to jump into action and perform CPR!!? What if that bad person surpassed the tip jar and went straight to the back for a hold up!?” I asked C to go check as the lobby was now full and danger was in the air.

But then, at that very moment, two profoundly unaware yoots emerged from the shadows. Brittany bounced to the cash register with Pony Boy right behind her. My maternal radar went off like a rocket on the Fourth of July. Suddenly, it all became clear. Brittany and Pony Boy were in the back room sampling! And to think I was willing to offer her CPR! Clearly Pony Boy had managed the mouth to mouth all on his own! For shame.

Annoyed, Brittany asked, “are you ready?”

“Not as ready as you darlin’, but, we noticed the Vanilla Snow is gone…”

Brittany turned and upon seeing the flashing light above our favorite flavor, she quipped, “Uh, no it’s just low…go ahead and put your yogurt on the scale.”

C took one step back. I offered her some helpful information hoping it might assist her in drawing a reasonable conclusion and formulating a call to action, “Actually, it is completely empty, not coming out at all…”

Before I could finish my public service announcement, Brittany shrugged her shoulders and said, “Oh. That’ll be $7,915.36.”

“Oh?”

I stared. I stared hard. Brittany avoided eye contact. Pony Boy stood behind her as if to hold down the very floor he was standing on. And I might note here, his shirt was dirty and his shoes too big.

And, here’s where I fail. I don’t just think, “Oh an inconvenience, no big deal” and move about my evening. I stop and think, “Someday Brittany and Pony Boy are going to be old enough to vote. What if Brittany becomes a Pharmacist and I end up at her Pharmacy? Someday my son is going to want a wife, is this what he will have to choose from? How many health codes has Brittany violated today? How many!?” No, I don’t offer grace and move on, I stand there frozen as these frightening possibilities reel through my mind!

I glanced at S. I don’t read lips but she clearly whispered, “Mom, no. It’s my birthday. Please, don’t make a scene and embarrass me. I have school tomorrow! People are staring mom. You’re going to get a rep. Let it go.”

I glanced at C and although I cannot read minds, I knew for certain he was thinking, “Cam, I would ask you to consider, you are not the Moral Police. But, if you feel the need to take Brittany to school, I’m not going to stop you. And, should there be consequences to your little free public education program, I’m not going to stop them either.”

And then I made sure C read my mind, “You are on MY team!”

I looked back at Brittany and for the sake of my daughter, and the rep I’ve never had, I bit my tongue clean off and handed her my mortgage payment.

I lingered until my family found a seat out of ear shot and settled the score, “Fine. But I’m taking 17 Menchie’s spoons and a free scoop of the topping of my choice for our trouble!”

I approached my family at the table, “Come on kids, you can drink that in the car. We need to get home, Mama has a letter to write!”

And so there we were, scootin’ along as I craftily composed a letter in my mind to the CEO of Menchie’s.

And then, this. My son reached my heart with the most effective means by which to reach my heart, humor. “Watcha doing back there Pretty Boy, Mmmm, Mmmmm, Mmmm… mixin flavors!?”

The Beetles Knees

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The joy that is climbing into a bed of freshly laundered sheets and blankets. You know what I’m talking about, {insert collective sigh here}. It’s glorious.

The other night I slid into bed and let the fresh smell of late summer breeze soaked linens envelope my tired body.

And the pillows! I like pillows. Lots and lots of pillows. I use one under my head, I wrap my arms around one in a fluffy cuddle hug. Since I’m a side sleeper, I like one wedged between my knees and one between my feet. It’s a nightly dance of coordinated tucking, but we make it work.

So there I was, sufficiently cradled, linen bliss.

But then…

There was a scratchy scratch just beneath my knee. One might think it a pesky down feather. We don’t have down pillows.

Irritated, I chirped, “But, everything is brand spanking new out of the wash, I tucked and fluffed and smoothed and tucked…”

Too tired to get up, I reached down to my knee with one hand. There was something there. A Lego? A toenail clipping? A rogue chip someone snuck in?

I pinched the foreign entity between my fingers.

It moved.

I pulled it up and out from under the covers. In a voice to rival Abe Vigoda I said to my husband, “Turn. On. The. Light. NOW!”

Without any delay or falling out of bed or knocking the lamp off his nightstand, my husband gracefully turned on the light.

There between my fingers riled the biggest, the sharpest, the wiggliest Madagascan Quadrupled Winged Yellow Flanked Beetle Stink Bug Monster I have ever seen in my life!

Now, I’m a relatively calm woman, and by “relatively” I mean all the time except when a foreign bug is between my knees in my freshly laundered bed.

I nearly lost consciousness.

With the grace of a wounded water buffalo, I trampled to the bathroom as fast as my spastic legs would carry. My husband, hot on my heals, inquired, “What! Whaaat!?”

I tossed that devil spawn into the nearest depository, the bathroom sink. I ran hot water, bleach, vinegar, anchovy juice, gasoline and then I lit a match! As the funeral pyre rose to the ceiling I declared, “Burn you vile enemy of the woooorld, you’ve ruined my liiiiife!” and I shook my fist in the air for dramatic effect.

Then, my husband offered what he felt to be a reasonable observation, “Well, I would have killed it first, but….”

I inhaled my next breath like a starving child on Thanksgiving. I slowly turned to the man I love with all of my being. I reached deep, deep in my soul for the compassion that sustains us. But it was too late. Someone was about to come to Jesus.

With an eerie calm I launched fire from my eyes and rebuked his nonsense, “I just had an uninvited Madagascan Quadrupled Winged Yellow Flanked Beetle Stink Bug Monster between my knees. My bare knees! In our freshly laundered bed. Let me offer a few descriptive words. Cardiac arrest. Anaphylaxis. Loss of faculties. Trauma. And you give me advice on how to dispose of it properly!? You, my dear man, do not get to decide.” And I shook my fist in the air for dramatic effect.

Without cracking a smirk or laughing at my hysterics, my husband held my shoulders as I shook over the sink. I stood there for a solid half hour to ensure there would not be a reintroduction.

Though he found my despondency mildly entertaining, he managed to offer a nugget of compassion, “You’re right sweetie, I’m sorry. You do whatever you want with that thing.”

Killing me softly, I whispered, “Thank you. Please get the whisky.”

I wept. I wept for the solace that was my bed, forever tarnished, gone.

And then, I did what any strong, reasonable minded woman would do. I placed a flame thrower on my nightstand. Right next to my Bible.  And the bottle of whisky.