AAA Batteries Anyone?

So I'm driving between Montgomery and Mobile and a truck passes me, clearly because I was obeying all posted speed limits as I always do and he was not. Granted the limit I observe may not be exactly posted on the section of the pavement that I am currently traveling but its like they say, it's always 70 somewhere. So I gaze over at the truck and see the name and motto of the business on the side - AAA Batteries - Delivered and Installed.

This makes me quite curious. The business has to pay for the nice truck, the gas and all and I just can't see how there can be that much demand for that type of a service, especially in this economy. Who calls them, I wonder? How many people are there in the greater Alabama area who either can't find the little screwdriver one needs to open the battery compartment on kid's toys or household appliances or just can't match up that little cross thing on the battery with the little cross thing on the powerless object? Really, even I can open up the camera, kid's toy, remote control and other appliance essentials without assistance and get those little buggers in them. And, if they don't work, I have enough smarts to dump them out and reverse them. And, don't most devices use the AA variety anyway?

I ponder what these same folks might do if their garbage disposal quits working like ours did the other evening thanks to the sacrificial offering of a Popsicle stick by a member of my family who is over 40 and is not me. I'm thinking panic at the disco type of breakdown for sure. Now I, of course, handled it like a parent who recognizes their duty to effectively and responsibily teach home maintenance to their children should.

First, I emphatically ordered the kids to stand far, far away from the grinding machine to watch a pro at work. I inserted my hand into a plastic Walmart bag, raised it above my head and announced, for great effect, "I'm going in. No one move" figuring I could always get my hand out of the grinder faster than either of them could even get near a power switch since they were standing plastered against the far wall "for their own safety." I extracted the somewhat ground up wood with the flourish of a surgeon, held the stick up like a trophy for the kids to see and then disengaged my hand from the bag, reset the machine with the little red button on the bottom and voila, after two attempts, it began to purr. The kids jumped up and down and cheered - Aidan because he was frankly quite impressed that I fixed the thing and Mia because she likes to jump up and down and yell just for the heck of it, no reason necessary. I then suggest that one of them consider a career as a plumber as I believe that will save me quite a bit of money down the road. Or a doctor. Or both.

But, as usual, I digress. After about 25 minutes of pondering what percentage of the population has battery issues, how many of them would then call a service and how that service has been impacted by the current state of the economy I then decide that the business must just be a cover for something else. Surveillance? Drug running? Who knows but it must be interesting. And then, the lightbulb goes on. Car batteries. They deliver and install car batteries and wanted to be listed first in the phone book.

Well, at least it occupied me for a good 40 minutes.

So, several weeks ago, I go to get my scarf out of the coat closet and I find my sweet little girl’s princess dress, still on the hanger, mashed up into a ball and shoved under the scarf, along with the princess shoes that her loving brother bought her for Christmas with my very own money. I stunned by the cruelty of this disappearing act, as my dear, sweet daughter just loves, loves, loves the dress as it has Dora on it and she currently believes that she is Princess Dora based upon her haircut and head shape. And perhaps her mother suggesting something to that effect. Often.

I stand there and try to catch my breath from the shock, trying to figure out what cruel person had done such a thing, knowing quite well it wasn’t me, the loving brother or either of the cats although the cats would have done so if they had opposable thumbs as they are getting a tad tired of hearing ‘Kitty cat, kitty cat” screamed at them while they are being chased through the house although the throwing of treats by the bouncing child does seem to go a long way to mitigate their concern, at least for very brief periods.

I then realize that I haven’t recently seen the other princess dress or tutu that she had been given by wonderful friends and family in the past and come to the only logical conclusion – game on. We wait until the loving husband goes to play soccer and the search begins. Oddly, the other princess dress had made its way into the plastic pumpkin the kids use to go trick or treating. Now, that normally would have worked quite well if the pumpkin was at the bottom of a big trash can but considering it was sitting on a shelf, illuminated by a light, the effort could only rate a “almost pathetic” on the hiding scale.

We then find the tutu which only rated a “really, truly pathetic attempt” on the hiding scale as it was merely stuffed under a blanket in her closet, and then proceeded to make a go forward plan. First, we go upstairs and find designated hangers for the dresses and hang them prominently in her room. We then discuss the need for princess pants on a going forward basis as the princess has made the choice in the past to freeze her parts off rather than spoil the aesthetics of her look leading to her father's objection of the daily wearing of the princess dresses. Apparently, he does want to get her married off some day and having not frozen off some of one's parts does up the odds of this occurring so I'd say the objection is valid but, heck, might not be a bad thing when she is a teenager.

So, convincing the princess to wear pants was necessary and fortunately, absolutely simple. First, I explained that only princesses can wear pants that have horizontal stripes and pointed out by a tour of my closet that I, having gracefully aged out of the princess stage, have no garments with horizontal stripes because they make one look a bit like a chubby Dowager Empress who wants to visit the Willie Wonka factor in the very worst way and is just sadly living in that past dream. No, as everyone knows, horizontally stripped pants are merely for princesses.

We then find two pairs of princess pants with the required horizontal stripes in her dresser and she readily agrees that they are a necessary addition to her finery. she then decides to top off her look with the footwear of her choice. Golf shoes. Notthe princess ones her loving brother bought her for Christmas as they do seem to have been put in a "safe place" that rates as "pretty damn good" on the hiding scale. Now, the golf shoes may be one size too big but an impressive choice nonetheless as it appears she may have a fall back plan of trophy wife, golf pro or marketing executive if this princess thing doesn't work out.

But, for the last 14 or so days, it has apparently been good to be the princess.

Joan's Translation

Given my amazing command of the Spanish language, I have decided to translate Robert's post into English for those whose command of the Spanish language is not as highly skilled as mine. Now, my skills would best be described as "I can't speak a word of it but somehow I can generally read it and translate single words. And curse occasionally quite effectively and loudly while gesticulating at the ceiling for special Latino effect." But, because he used easy words, this translation in not only easy, it is accurate.

So here goes the official translation -" usually my wife writes on this blog. She is unique. Fortunately, she is out of town somewhere in Alabama and I have gotten my hands on her password. So, I want to share some info with my compadres in Peru about my family and, of course, my amazing wife. My son and daughter have reached the ages of 6 and 2 respectively. They are kind, considerate, well-mannered, and nice to other small children and animals whether the animals want to be subjected to the "nice kitty" treatment or not. They just both know how important it is to the animals self-esteem to be loved and appreciated. Of course, these traits have been nurtured in them by their amazing mother who apparently has skin that only appears to be around 7 years old despite her chronological age of 45. Truly, the woman is amazing, especially in her thought processes and parenting skills. Of course, my children can also be stubborn and loud, traits they have learned from me. Fortunately, my awesome and beautiful wife really appreciates these characteristics. Of course, that is when she is in Alabama and the kids and I are not anywhere near the state.

That's it for now, but I would like to update my Spanish speaking family and friends occasionally. Of course, I will ask my wife to also post the official translation for the English only speakers amongst us. She seems to do that so very well.

Ciao.

Robert"

Para todo el Peru.

Usualmente es mi esposa la que escribe por no decir la unica que escribe todo el contenido de nuestro blog, Hace un tiempo un amigo en el Peru me comento haber entrado y poder apreciar todo lo relacionado con mi familia claro esta que todo lo escrito esta en ingles por tal razon pense tal vez pueda ver otra persona especialmente en el Peru que me conosca y seria excelente poder saber de ellos. Espero poder escribir de vez en cuando algo interesante cabe mencionar que no soy tan buen escritor y aceptar que mi esposa es la que tiene el talento siendo yo su fan que apenas termina de escribir empiezo a leerlo.
Algo acerca de mi.
Vivo en Gringolandia cerca de 15 A~os
Casado con dos ni~os, Mia Grace tiene 2 y Aidan 6 a~os
Mi esposa se llama Joan es natural de aqui y estamos casados cerca de 7 a~os.
Dios los bendiga.
Robert

Hyperbole as Feel-Good Food

So I just got back from a meeting in Chicago, a city well known for its regional deep dish pizza and its special St. Patrick's Day green beer. And, if one is willing to be charitable, you could even give them credit for ball-park hotdogs. But, as far as I knew before Wednesday of last week, that was pretty much the extent of Chicagoland’s regional culinary delights.

So, I was looking forward to having some of that deep dish pizza. Or at least a ball park frank. As it was a fancy hotel meeting, I was sure that nothing but the best would be served to us and I knew they wouldn’t be able to resist showcasing the foods that put the city on the map.

But, unbeknownst to me, another regional specialty existed and given the recession and all, our hotel apparently saved the pizza money to present us with it. And, just in case we might miss their efforts and feel slighted, they kindly printed a little sign to let us know that we were being served a “regional selection of breads.” And what a selection it was.

White, wheat and for the more adventurous in our group, rye. Imagine my surprise as I thought I had seen the same white bread in Ohio, Atlanta, and in any gas station I’ve stopped in, grungy or not, while on the road throughout this great country of ours. And in Mexico, China and Peru believe it or not. And, I don’t recall any credit being given to the city of Chicago in any of these places. And the wheat and rye breads. What a joy it was to be able to experience them. It seemed a bit like déjà vu, but perhaps I had only been dreaming when I thought I had seen them before all over the world.

So then I got up a couple of days ago to go to work. Bleary eyed, tired and in need of some mighty fine potassium. Went to get a banana for my breakfast and noticed that my darling husband had labeled it, apparently so I wouldn’t think that that I was going to eat any odd generic banana. Nope, he made sure I knew it was Del Monte quality which I thought was pretty interesting, considering I hadn’t discussed the regional origin of white bread with him and and my opinion that, maybe, just maybe, it was a bit of hyperbole on the hotel's part.

So now I must just assume that everyone but me got a memo on the proper presentation of recession era food. It’s all in the marketing after all, isn’t it?

But, as the week has gone on, I have recognized that I didn’t get the memo because I might have questioned it. Especially the Del Monte quality part. After all, Del Monte is the company that makes those cat treats that are made from animal digest and, as their customer service rep recently pointed out to me, is somehow extracted from the organs of healthy animals and made “palatable”. Sure hope this recession eating ends soon or next time I'm in Chicago they will be serving those cat treats relabled as beef jerky or something. Yum.

Ear Karma

So I went to the hairdresser to get my hair cut for a Valentines ball that we were going to. My express instructions were that after the cut these awesome, cubic zirconium earnings I own would be able to be well displayed. I had just repierced my ears a week earlier to show the kids just how cool it was and how tough Mommy really is. They especially liked the bleeding part where the bleeding wouldn't stop due to my aspirin intake earlier that day and were more than amused by the attempt to bandage one ear. After my son and I crafted the bandaging, I looked like Van Gogh on one of his slightly saner days and now suspect that I may end up with heavily pierced kids given their amazement of the whole process. I did do my share of screaming and moaning to discourage such acts in the future as any good parent would obviously do.

Now, my hair at its longest would be called "really short" so making sure the earnings were in plain view wasn't a stretch. Nonetheless, we cut off about half of my hair. And I went to the ball and hardly any blood came out of my ears and that which did was just a nod to what a woman will do for beauty. And, red was the color de jour.

Now, when I was a child, well before I morphed into the sensitive, caring, thoughtful, well-spoken, nice and unbelievably humble individual that I am today, I made a few life mistakes. Now, I could excuse them as I was probably around 11 at the time, but even if I did, the karma had already been set in motion. Although many will find this almost impossible to believe, I actually teased one of my brothers about his ears sticking out from his head when he was a child, leading him to wear a pageboy haircut for several years which made him look like that kid on some brand of paint while the other kids did not look like paint can models. This caused him great anguish as children do happen to be the meanest creatures on earth and his classmates were, of course, children. Of course, this teasing probably helped turn him into the successful man he is today although it is also possible that his higher education, JD degree and his working his butt off might have also had something to do with it but, hey, at least I planted the seed.

So, back to the hair and its consequences. I went from really short to "what were you thinking" which was, "hey, in this economy, if I cut it this short, I only have to show up three times a year."

And, I now apparently also have a haircut that is "elf like". Or so I thought I was lovingly being informed of by the son last night. He was so excited he was hollering, "MOMMY, FROM THE BACK YOU LOOK LIKE AN ELF!" I knew he was referring to those elves that have their hair painted on versus those that have that yarn stuff but who cares, he likes elves and he was lovingly comparing me to one of those great creatures. I mean, he wasn't telling me I look like a troll although I can do that look effortlessly in the morning. Nope, an elf it was. Of course, using my best Carl Rodgers reflecting skills to make sure he knows he was really, really heard I stated, "I look like an elf" which gave him the lead to add more information and he did. He informed me that " from the back YOUR EARS STICK OUT JUST LIKE AN ELF! I know I shouldn't have gone there, but awesome parent that I am, I know he needs to be really, really listened to so I stated, "from the back, my ears stick out just like an elf and that is good." Apparently, I didn't quite reflect the message accurately as he didn't quite agree with the good part as his assessment was, "Nope, not quite good". So now I'm making sure no one is standing behind me which is causing me to have to rotate in circles quite a bit. What the heck, it will grow back in three month or so. I sure hope I don't have any other karma teed up and heading my way but, even if so, I'm not going with the pageboy.

Zumba - Latin for torture

So, for the last year and a half, I’ve been in extensive physical fitness training. I’ve walked on the treadmill at the YMCA for 30 minutes three times a week darn near every week. Impressive schedule.

First, my goal was to be able to walk around China, breathing the grey air while carrying a baby for a period of 5 minutes. I accomplished that goal successfully. Next, my goal was to walk on the treadmill long enough to watch the “Ellen” show because I like it and if I am on the treadmill at the YMCA no one can interrupt me to ask me what is for dinner, why daddy did this or that or to complain about the color/shape/size or current availability of princess shoes. I have also met this goal although I modified it a bit. I don’t watch the second half of the show because too much TV will just rot your brain. Can’t have that as it would clearly be a health hazard.

So I’m at the gym, training, and I see a sign for Zumba class. Sign says it is a “fun and easy” way to get into shape that is set to Latin and contemporary music and, as it happens, the class is in 20 minutes. I figure, heck, I used to be a salsa dancer and Ellen is a rerun so what the heck why don’t I go check it out? So, after walking arduously for 15 minutes, off I go to Zumba, as it is “fun and easy.”

I get there and folks have big thermoses of water or humongous containers of water. One has a mini keg type. Most of the folks are dressed in these tight dance pants and sleeveless tops while I am in sweatpants a size too big for me and a non-matching baggy T-shirt. And, I don’t have a barrel or bottle or cup of water as my training on the treadmill just doesn’t reach that level of hydration need. But I continue to think, what the heck, I used to dance salsa, just how hard can this be? It’s posted as “fun” and the good folks at the YMCA wouldn’t, couldn’t lie, could they?

Next, in come the instructors wearing some type of hip-hop pants and tank tops and they appear to be in some pretty good shape. Scary good shape actually. And I notice that a handful of the participants appear to be about 18 and have a version of the tight pants that are painted on and mini tank tops which they also look pretty darn good in. This concerns me for a minute but the gal who is next to me tells me she is 50 years old and I notice her makeup is impeccable. Clearly, this class is a “fun and easy” way to get into shape as it wouldn’t make any sense for anyone to come in with great makeup that could be ruined should extraordinary exertion become necessary. I tell her that I’ve come for 30 minutes of the 60 minute class as my family expects me home for dinner, giving me an out should one become necessary.

And the class starts. Within seconds, I’m thanking the lords of the dance that I can get my feet to dance a mean salsa without tripping because, by gosh, if I hadn’t, I would have been toast. Splattered toast, butter down. And this is before I finished the warm up song.

Then it gets interesting. I’m supposed to be dancing like a maniac to cumbia and hip hop music, following the moves of the instructor all the while shaking my booty after the instructor shows the moves for each song to the “new folks” for 30 seconds before each song begins. Now, my booty shakes even when I walk so that doesn’t initially seem like it will present a problem. But no, they start and shake the booty like the women who walk around wearing the big feathers and not much else during Carnival in Rio De Janero after all have imbibed on mucho cervezas. We are talking shaking so fast you feel the breeze which implies that one has some control over the shaking which just isn’t happening for me considering I have the pendulous swing of the buttocks that comes from being 45 and having a shape that can best be described as “backloaded” but, by gosh, I continue to try.

Meanwhile, I’m keep watching the woman next to me. We are 15 minutes in and I suspect I might just fall out. Her makeup is still impeccable. I decide to continue, having no reasonable way to get out of the class now that pagers are obsolete. I pump it, I push it, I cumbia, I salsa, and I attempt to make a grimace appear to be a smile to show how much “fun” I am having. Thirty minutes goes by and I’m painfully getting the need for the water kegs as I run out of the class and into the bathroom to put my head under the sink facet to drink as much and as fast as I can while I “keep moving” as instructed.

And then I have a choice to make – go back in or leave and go home. I consider the fact that I am one shade redder than a tomato and feeling like I might collapse or puke. Logic tells me that perhaps I should call it a Zumba day given the particulars.

But, that would assume that I am willing to admit defeat as I’m falling out at 45 while a 50 year-old woman is still pumping, pushing, and dancing her happy self away in makeup that still hasn’t slipped off her face. I consider that thought untenable. So, I go back for 30 more minutes.

I somehow get home and the family is initially a bit concerned that I either got a sunburn or had red paint thrown at me accidentally. Nope, I tell them, Zumba. It’s “fun and easy”. I painfully change my clothes and somehow make it back down the stairs and decide to lie down on the hardwood floor to converse with my family. Figure it might give us all a new perspective. I quickly realize that I have no ability to rise again which doesn’t concern me as rising would mean I would have to walk somewhere and that isn’t happening. The cats and kids can just come visit me where I am. The daughter confuses my comment of “I think I may just die right here and now” to mean that I want to pay some version of “dead horsey” so I made a decision to self preserve.

I call the kids over and explain to them that their father and I had very carefully considered how big of a family to have and that there was a very strong reason we had decided on two of them. In fact, it was for this situation. I instructed each to take one of my legs and pull my big booty out of the living room and down the hallway so that I could crawl up the stairs into my bed. With effort, they succeeded.