Author Archives: metamegan

Like a Little Rory Calhoun

Saturday was a BIG day in Boulder, with Stage 6 of the USA ProCycling race coming through town and finishing on Flagstaff mountain. Jack and I headed straight to the party, in time for me to come down from my soccer coaching high and relax with a bloody mary before the racers came past our friends’ house. All the kids were making signs for the racers, and 90% of the signs said “RORY”. Now, I have a passing knowledge of cycling, I had watched the rest of the stages, I knew the leader’s names, I know the vocabulary, but we are big Tommy D fans, partly because he’s the only professional cyclist to invite the kids over on Thanksgiving for a bike ride.

So when I saw all the Rory signs, I said what any normal person in my position would say, “Rory Calhoun?” Because I don’t know any other Rorys. The answer, “No, Rory Sutherland. He lives in the neighborhood and so and so babysits his three year old.”

Then Dave showed, saw all the RORY signs and said, “Rory Calhoun?” And I said, “THANK YOU!” But someone else said, “No, Rory Sutherland.” I sighed. I mean, I was at a party that started in the morning, everyone was drinking, everyone was having fun, yet no one was catching my Simpsons reference. I’m not even sure how that is possible. Has there been a tear in the space-time continuum? I thought maybe it was the most obscure Simpsons reference on earth until I googled “like a little Rory Calhoun” and got a million pictures of cats, dogs and babies standing on their hind legs like little Rory Calhouns.

I may never know the answer to this riddle, but I feel better now that I have had this blog catharsis.

But I know who Rory Sutherland is now though, because he won Stage 6.

I am glad that I knew his back story before he won the day, and I could say I know someone who knows his baby. Blog readers, that means you have 4 degrees of separation between yourself and Rory Sutherland. (You -> Me -> Person I know -> Rory’s baby -> Rory Sutherland.) And I have proof that we were fans before his win, because here are Dave and Jack holding signs, like little Rory Calhouns.

The Negligent Inchworm Caretaker

I was a Botany major in college, and one semester I had an 8:00 am physics class and a 9:00 am Botany class. Once, in my 8:00 am Physics class, I noticed an inch worm on my leg. It was probably fall, and I was wearing jeans and hiking boots. I watched the inchworm inch up my leg until it got to my knee and then I got nervous and put it back down by my foot. This happened a couple times and I planned to keep track of it until class ended and I was able to take it back outside. And that was a good, environmentally friendly plan right up until we had a pop quiz at the end of class and I lost track of the inch worm. I looked around and felt more guilt than worry about the little guy who was destined to die of boredom and malnutrition in the physics hall. (Nothing against physics, I love physics, but inchworms probably have other interests.)

Alas, I headed all the way across campus to the Botany building and settled into Botany 101. In that class we sat around tables, about 8 people to a table. I told everyone the hilarious anecdote about the inchworm and then class started and I fell asleep. It was 9:00 am, as I said, and maybe that pop quiz really wore me out or something. Regardless, it was a light sleep, and I am sure I was still listening, and incredibly, I was probably still taking notes. Notes that I would find highly useless when it was time to study. What woke me? The slight padding of little inchworm feet on my ear. And how did I wake up? Frantically, with arms waving and hair tousling. Then I did what any normal, self respecting person would do; I pretended that nothing had happened. I glanced around, and no one was making eye contact so obviously no one saw. I took a deep breath and relaxed as much as I could, still not knowing exactly where I might see or feel an inchworm next. Then the person next to me leaned over and whispered in my ear, “It’s in the middle of the table.” Yup, there it was. I knocked the inchworm out of my hair and into the middle of the table and there it was still crawling around. That was one tough inchworm.

Now, that was a long time ago, but all the inchworm horror came back to me last night as I was preparing swiss chard to go into my frittata. I set the chard on the counter before I washed it, and when I picked it up there was an inchworm. I shuddered. Had I really once repeatedly picked up an inchworm and put it back down by my foot. Using, my own hands? Yuck. Who was I then, that 8:00 am morning? Some sort of wide-eyed environment-saving tree hugger? I was obviously someone who had never had an inchworm in her hair. An experience like that can change a person. But, ok, I still wanted to save the inchworm, especially after everything I put that first guy through. But there was no way I was touching it. So after I tore the leaves off the chard, I left some stalks on the counter next to the inchworm. And once it crawled onto a stalk, (no one knows better than I, how fast those things move) I took the stalk outside. Then I walked a couple steps towards the grass and tried to fling the inchworm off the stalk. What happened instead, is that the stalk broke in half, and I had the stump in my hand while the rest of the stalk with the inchworm went flying.

Then the dog picked up the stalk and ate it.

How’s My Diet Going?

I just redacted a giant history of MetaMegan and weight issues to get right to the point, because, really.

I am on a new exercise/diet plan. The exercise part is a two day a week weight training program that I am working on with a trainer. The diet was supposed to be that I eat the way I normally do, but sort of stay aware of what I am eating and be reasonable. But has anyone ever known me to be reasonable? I really don’t like to “pay attention to what I am eating” so if I am doing that, it means I try to eat as little as possible, and that always backfires. Usually pretty spectacularly, with me flying into a rage over someone leaving a bag of pretzels out on the counter. I barely even like pretzels, but if the bag is open on the counter, and I am at a huge calorie deficit, and I eat pretzels without even thinking about it, someone is going to hear me freak out. And by “someone” I mean, my family and any neighbor in a 100 yard radius.

So, today, I went to the gym, then came home and had coffee and oatmeal with skim milk. Then I went to work, with a lunch I had packed. I usually go shopping at noon on my days in the office, so I thought I would eat a quick lunch before noon. On my way to the microwave, I was thinking, “Wow, that oatmeal really did the trick. I am barely even hungry yet. Still, I should eat before I get really starving. Tra la la, this diet is going really well.”

Then I put my lunch in the microwave and started to to figure out how the microwave works, when I saw the time.

It was 10:45.

Panic Attack Parenting

I’ve been reading a lot of parenting articles on Facebook lately, and they are freaking me out. The first was about how kids aren’t getting enough time to be free and unstructured, but you don’t need to read it, I just summarized the entire article. I kind of agonized over this for days. Oddly, I was mostly worrying about Luke, who has about 10 hours of baseball a week, and nothing else going on. My full time daycare child is in a great place and I know he has plenty of time to use his imagination and play kick the can or whatever else people did in the article’s Utopian world. The real question I had from that article was, “Am I Supposed to Quit My Job So My Children Can Have Unstructured Play Time?” Because I don’t see how it’s possible to come straight home from school, make yourself a snack and play some pickup baseball with the kids on your street when both parents work. Why did I get irate about this article, when Dave and I both work from home, and Luke comes home from school and plays baseball in the street all the time? I’m not sure. Because I am crazy?

The next article to freak me out was about American Kids being spoiled. Again, I was filled with “I’m-doing-it-wrong-malaise.” But the thing that bugged me about that article was that no solutions were offered. In retrospect, the title was “Why Are American Kids so Spoiled” not “How to stop spoiling your kids.” In summary, kids are spoiled because their parents spoil them. It was a really groundbreaking article. Sorry I spoiled it for you.

So, all this has lead to a great deal of self-analysis, and as I pondered my parental failings, I remembered that back in the day, I used to ridicule parenting articles. What, pray tell is the difference between then and now? Have I lost my mojo? Is losing your mojo too 1999? What happens now? I lost my swagger? That sounds like it needs air quotes. Did I “lose” my “swagger”? OMG, I really have turned 39.5 haven’t I? It’s all over. Forget I ever said swagger. I am having a midlife crisis and I lost my mojo. I think it’s much better that we all agree that the problem is a midlife crisis. Because what else could possibly have happened in the last 4 years to cause me to doubt my parenting skills? Dun dun dun: Jack. Nope, it can’t be my sweet, sweet boy.

Summertime goal: If I must read parenting articles; view them as opportunities to revive my Panic Attack Magazine blog series.

Happy 19th Of July Comments Contest

Hello!

I will be having a July comments contest again this year – this will be the 4th year in a row. Last year, I tried to post everyday for the month of July, and that was very taxing because I am an extremely lazy individual.

So this year, I promise absolutely nothing. I will try to post a few things between now and the end of the month. One entry per comment. The prize will be something delicious and from my new favorite store.

Today, for the 19th, I started the celebration by taking Lucy for an hour and a half walk, so I was late for work. But I did shower, put on a cute outfit and leave the house, all miraculous feats. (See above: Lazy. ) I shopped a little at lunch, and will be stopping to pick up a cake on my way home from work. Aside from the fact that it is as hot as a thousand white hot suns outside, it looks like it will be a very nice 19th of July.

And how are all of you going to celebrate?

One Summer Night

The first and only time I snuck out of the house was to hang out in my friend John’s front yard. I went home before my curfew, said goodnight to my parents, and quietly went back out the door. I walked two blocks to his house, and I sat in the grass and mostly listened to John and his friends talk. Joe was there, and Will, and Chris, and Julie. I hadn’t left for college yet, and they had finished their first or second years at school. It was different than the summer before, when I still had a year of high school left. I can remember where everyone sat; on the steps and on the grass. I listened to everyone talking, with passion, about music and the world and I felt like my life was starting.

It was such a shock to learn that John died. I have been listening to this song, and remembering.

When You’re With Grandma, Call Me Maybe

Before anyone gets on my case for being the last person to do a Call Me Maybe thing, let me just preface this by saying, I don’t care, and it’s the least of my worries.

My first instinct in telling this story was to defend myself for even knowing the song at all. I don’t know why I still feel embarrassed to admit that I am not someone who knows or cares a lot about music. And by that I mean, I am someone who knows (knows is a strong word…) and cares a lot about music, but I don’t know about it until I hear about it on NPR. I said it OK, I get my pop culture from NPR. I can remember a very liberating moment in high school when I just decided to sing along in the car to some top 40. I got the side eye from some curious but silently supportive friends; but there were also sneers, and I was mocked. (There were a lot of people in the car, my parents had a mini van and no one else ever drove.) Regardless, it was a victory for me. Yes, I like pop. The sweet freedom of a hot summer night where I could stop pretending I didn’t know all the words to the song on the radio, and I could drive my friends somewhere and then be home by curfew. Sweet, sweet freedom. And my friends, or Hüsker Düfuses as I like to think of them in retrospect, were very cool. And they did not listen to pop music. Don’t get me wrong, I checked to see if Bob Mould was playing in Denver and was sad that he wasn’t. But I didn’t hear about his tour from whatever the first source of music information is. I read about the facebook pages of my cool high school friends. So what I am saying here, is that I still feel the occasional shame at my lack of music snobbery. But I am enjoying this short slice of time before Luke discovers a world beyond pop music.

Where was I going with this? Luke flew to Ohio by himself this week to see Grandma and Grandpa. Talk about burying the lede, right!? I wanted him to call me so I made up a mnemonic device to remind him:

I’m your mama,
You’re still my baby.
When you’re at Grandma’s
Call Me Maybe!
Luke isn’t much of a phone talker, so I have had the great pleasure to overhear some conversations from Jack’s side. They go like this.

What are you doing?
What is Grandma doing?
What is Grandpa doing?
What is the dog doing?
Ask me about my day.
Ask me who I played with.
I played with Conner and we taught some kids how to break dance.
Ask me what I am doing now.
I’m talking to you on the phone!
What are you doing?
Still?
What did you talk about while I was gone?
Didn’t you hear me say that I needed to go potty when you were talking to daddy?
Well, what were you talking about while I was in the bathroom?

I said WHAT WERE YOU TALKING ABOUT TO DADDY WHEN I WAS OUT OF THE ROOM?!
Hello?

And scene.

;

Here is Jack waiting to facetime his brother.

Good Eye

Yes, I started this blog post with a title of “Good Eye” and it’s not even going to be about baseball. We have been living and breathing baseball these days, and so last night, on a rare night off, I was able to walk around the block with Jack, as he practiced riding his bike. (With training wheels.) When we turned the first corner, I saw that the clouds were a slightly faded pink, we had missed the best of the sunset, but it was still very pretty.

Me: Jack, look at those clouds.

Jack: Wow! Those are beautiful! I want to touch them! I bet they feel squishy. I want to taste them.

Me: What do you think they taste like? Cotton Candy? (So cliche! So unhealthy! Try again.) Um, or maybe strawberries?

Jack: I bet they taste like rain.

Then he looked up at me and said, “Good eye Mama. Really great job, noticing those clouds.”

I thanked him.

Summer Reading

Tuesday, I signed the boys up for the summer reading program at the library. I have always loved summer reading, even, and especially when I was going to be tested on the books at the beginning of the next school year. I always read more than I needed to from the list, and my non-nerd reason was so that I could answer the easier questions. But I love to read, and I love lists. So, a summer reading list is pretty much the best thing ever. I can remember turning a summer reading list into the library with so many books on it, that I was sure I would win a prize, even though I had been repeatedly assured that there was no prize and I should get off the couch and go outside for the LOVE OF GOD. There was no prize, not even a “Hey, that’s a lot of books, great job.”

Luke has always had a one track mind when it comes to books. Right now he is reading the 39 Clues series, and he has zero interest in anything else. Last summer it was Harry Potter, before that, Percy Jackson. When we started going to the library, he would only pick out Curious George books. For at least two years, he never picked a non-Curious George book. And it may have gone on longer, but I eventually just stopped taking him to the library for a couple years when he would correct me for saying “an” instead of “the” in the middle of 60 pages of Curious George goes to the Hospital. So, fine, he likes to stick to one thing. Well, we got the sheets for keeping track of your summer reading, and Luke got the next 39 Clues book, and Jack started making his stack of books, and I could see the wheels turning in Luke’s head. Jack was going to have a lot more books to write down on that list. And then Luke did something I have never seen before. He chose a bunch of different books. At first I almost teased him for picking shorter books with lots of pictures and then I realized, this is what I have been hoping for all along. Branching out! Reading different things! Thanks summer reading program!

And what am I going to read this summer? I started Nanjing Requiem, by Ha Jin. I didn’t know much about the history of that particular horrible atrocity, and I really enjoyed War Trash, but hated Waiting. So I figured, I would try to read Nanjing Requiem. It didn’t go well. I guess I don’t know what to hope for when reading about something horrible. I supposed I expected to be drawn into the story and to care about the characters, which would have made it a more difficult and emotional read. But it seemed very choppy, and as far as I got into the atrocities, which wasn’t very far, it read like a factual account. So I just read the Wikipedia article about it and returned the book. Not summer reading. Ever since IQ84, I have been getting really liberal with my “not finishing a book” policy. I also read one page of The Visible Man, and rolled my eyes and returned that too. I am currently enjoying The Old Reliable, and I am open to suggestions for my summer reading list.

**In the picture above, Jack is writing the first book of the summer on his list. I was pretty impressed that he copied the letters off the cover of the book, even if it does looks like he is using laser vision.

Post Mortem

I made a mistake last week. For the period of about 1 hour, there were some people who could not access some information. It wasn’t the worst mistake in my career, but it may have been the dumbest. I made the mistake and then I left the house, and I found out about it about half an hour later at the grocery store. There is now a checkout clerk, and a bagger who have heard me swear, and seen me panic. As I rushed home to fix the problem, I imagined myself getting fired. I imagined crying, and then coming to understand the situation, then slowly feeling a sense of liberation and happiness. I realized I was wasting my life, and if I could make this kind of mistake, then all this work has been for nothing. It’s all over, I need to return the piano*, and become poor, but fulfilled in some other career.

I got home, put the ice cream away and fixed the problem. Then I cried and cried. Boo hoo hoo. I made a mistake.

Monday I talked to my boss and suggested that he fire me. He said no, and that people make mistakes.

He also said that I have some sort of crazy guilt thing, and that when I say I am a recovering Catholic, I should maybe focus more on the recovery. Long story short, this is my confession. I made a mistake, people. I am sure I don’t need to point out that I haven’t quite gotten to the point where I see the humor in all of this, or else this blog post would be a lot funnier. I mean, it’s not like the time I thought I was going to get fired because I accidentally told my boss he was “the worst” because I got my IM chat windows confused.

Remember when you used to watch E.R. and someone accidentally killed a patient and then they had to sit through an inquisition where they relived the terrible nightmare, second by second, and explained all their actions? I had to do that. I was glad that I had the worst allergies in 10 years, or possibly a terrible cold because if I started crying, I could cover it up with a sneeze. After I wrote up the postmortem, I had a talk with another co-worker about how to explain what happened because all that came to mind was, “I am so dumb, and I totally screwed up.” The correct thing to say is, “The cause of this problem was human error.” I compromised with, “I made a typo.” The customer said, “Mistakes happen, I get it.”

So, I survived. And not only did I survive, but the mistake that I made did not lead directly, or indirectly to anyone’s death. So maybe this career has some things going for it after all.

* We bought a piano.