Automatic

Being the germaphobic I can be at times, I love the whole automatic movement. Motion-sensor faucets, paper towels, and toilets keep my public bathroom visits low-stress. So when I discovered a clean, automatic bathroom in the restaurant my husband and I had enjoyed dinner at the other night, I was appreciative. "I won't be long," I told Gary as I handed him my scarf and coat. I went inside, picked the tidiest stall, and did my deed. Well, not before I had put down 3 seat liners of course. Reaching for the toilet paper I shifted my weight ever so slightly and WHOOOOOSH! Oh yes, it did. THAT OVER-ZEALOUS PIECE OF PORCELAIN DID. I hadn't even had time to grab any paper before that toilet sucked away any evidence of a need for paper and in doing so sent cool air swirling beneath me and water spray all over my rear. Did I mention that I loathe the sensation of a toilet flushing while I'm still mounted on it? So I cleaned myself up and dried my bowl-watered bottom. The task at hand was almost complete when I shifted again and WHOOOOOSH! Holy guacamole, YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME! Once is bad enough, but TWICE in one sitting! I decided that this automatic bowl and I were no longer friends. Clean-up resumed very carefully so as not to alert the ever watchful motion police. When I was finally dry enough to pull up my pants without them sticking to my tush, I leaped off the seat thinking I was escaping another water spraying flush, but was only met with silence. Ok so let me get this straight john. The slightest shift of weight sends you into a flushing frenzy, but the amount of movement required to throw my body away does nothing for you?! I proceeded to brush the seat liners into the water to join the now soggy toilet paper hoping the sensor would pick up my movement and take the paper away. Nothing. I waved my hands in front of the black box with the red light. Nothing. I squatted, hovering just above the seat, then stood back up a moment later. Nothing. This was no automatic toilet, this was a taunting, selective toilet who was having a good laugh at my expense. I really wanted to abandon the stall, but I couldn't bring myself to join the ranks of ill-mannered public bathroom users, so I . . . um . . . pushed the manual flush button on the supposedly automatic toilet. And then the toilet laughed an evil laugh and demanded he* be named the victor.

Demoralized at having been beat by a toilet, I stepped up to the large sink which had a long, tall faucet in the shape of a candy cane extending out to the middle of the sink. Since this was also automatic, I stuck my hands under the faucet and waited for the water. Nothing. I tried again. Nothing. I moved my hands closer to the sensor at the base of the faucet. Water shot out, but when I moved my hands back towards the stream it immediately shut off again leaving my hands just as dry as when I started. Ooooook. I'll just have to be quicker. And boy was I, but not quick enough. Hands forward. Water on. Hands back. Water off. Hands forward. Water on. Hands back super fast. Water still off. Yeah, this sink and I argued for a good minute. Thank goodness the public restroom wasn't very public during my stay. Pretty soon I'm waving one hand in front of the sensor and wetting the other and I have to switch off like this for the remainder of the hand washing. Hands dripping wet and a little frazzled, I eyed the automatic paper towel dispenser. NOT WORTH IT. So I wiped my hands on my jeans and walked out.

GARY: What took you so long?

ME: I don't want to talk about it.


*Yes the toilet is a he because, while that may sound inappropriate following the thought that we expose ourselves to toilets everyday, I prefer to think of a man swallowing all our crap rather than a woman.

"Oh, How Awful!"

It's a tradition in Gary's family to decorate gingerbread houses each year. His mother bakes and assembles 15 to 20 houses and hands them out to family, friends and various children to decorate. My mother-in-law amazes me with the amount of food and goodies her kitchen produces, there is always enough to feed a small army. This year was no different and Gary and I spent an evening making a hugenormous* mess with candy, pretzels and frosting. Since I'm my mother's daughter, I spent time agonizing over the perfection and traditional design of my house. My dear husband on the other hand, while very detail-oriented, is anything but traditional. Needless to say, the gingerbread house Gary created received this kind of reaction from his sister Shyla.

GARY (showing the back of his house): Do you like my gingerbread house Shyla?

SHYLA: Oh how cute!

GARY (flipping the house around): What about the front?

SHYLA (with horror): Oh, how awful!

Since Shyla liked it so much, I thought I would share Gary's "awful" creation, one of his sources of inspiration and I'll even throw my house into the mix for extra holiday cheer. Enjoy!

I adore Calvin & Hobbes and hope you enjoy these wintery strips. Notice the similarities of these comics and Gary's house. You might as well paste Gary's face over Calvin's.

Merry Christmas!

Gary would like to thank his wife and mother, but most of all Mr. Jim Oden for their ideas and support of his 2008 gingerbread house.

.

P.S. My husband really is a mentally stable individual, he's just been playing too many video games and working at the hospital for too long.

.

*an original Gary word, or a hybrid of huge & enormous.

What Are The Odds?

Excerpt of a conversation that took place back in July.


ME: So I finally picked a OB/GYN and scheduled an appointment.

MOM: Oh good, it's about time. Who's your doctor?

ME: His name is Jenks, Dr. Jenks.*

MOM: Oh really, I know that name. I wonder if this Dr. Jenks is his son?

ME: Uh? What are you talking about?

MOM: I used to know an OB/GYN named Dr. Jenks so I'm thinking that maybe this Dr. Jenks you're going to is his son.

ME: Um, I don't think so his name is Joseph Jenks and he's pretty old.

MOM: Joseph Jenks!? Are you serious? Brittany, I used to see Dr. Jenks for a short time when I was having babies and he was no spring chicken then!

ME: . . . . . . . .

MOM: He used to sing funny songs.

ME: Wow . . . . ok, that's just creepy.


*Name changed because a girl's gotta retain something.

Give Me Reality. I'll Deal.

Wow, it's been awhile. Anybody else wondering what in the heck happened to November?! I truly don't remember it coming or going. I woke up the other morning, looked at the calendar and saw DECEMBER staring back at me. <insert stress overload here> Yeah, I'm feeling it baby.

So how 'bout that long awaited Quirk #3? I know you've all been sleeping next to your computers and it's starting to get uncomfortable, but I can explain. In my book, November never even happened, remember? So that much time hasn't really passed. And second, I wasn't completely aware of Quirk #3 until the other week so the point of writing Quirk #3 weeks ago is mute. So there. Ok, ok so secretly November did happen, but it was spent trying to unravel the mystery that is my body. Doctor appointments, tests, more doctor appointments, more tests. There wasn't much time to ponder on the passing month or focus on much else besides work (which got incredibly crazy) and feeling like a lab rat.

When Gary and I started seeing a doctor 6 months ago, I thought I was prepared for this process (and believe me it is a process). I had a lot of time before-hand in the many failed months to think about the possibilities and what I could deal with. I thought I was ready and willing to accept whatever master plan my Heavenly Father had put in place for me. My first doctor visit was a success and left me feeling understood and more confident than I had felt in some time. The following appointments . . . . . . not so much . . . on the confidence part that is. Now before you hit comment and tell me all about the personable doctor you know that can simply mumble some gibberish and a baby appears, let me tell you that I've been an emotional mess through no fault of my doctor. And yes, he is a man and can't offer me that I-know-what-you're-going-through connection that all your woman doctors can, but he can offer me 40 years of experience and a kooky sense of humor, both of which is infinitely more important to my husband and I than Oh, you have a vagina? So do I! Let's band together! And yes, you read right 40 YEARS. In addition, my doctor has not once made me feel unimportant or diminished my problems in any way, nor has he tried to tell me what to do or force anything on us. I'm always presented with a handful of options and Gary and I can then decide what is best for us. So yes, I like my doctor and we don't want to switch, but I've still been having an emotional melt-down every time we leave his office. I thought I could handle this! Why am I even crying? All we did was blood-work today and I'M CRYING! Needless to say, my husband has been a little confused with all the water works after every single appointment. Frankly, so have I.

After months peppered with appointments and numerous tests that have proved useful, but still haven't given us concrete answers, we finally moved onto a lapraoscopy surgery that took place the beginning of Thanksgiving week. So yeah, anybody who thought I was looking like I had some serious weight gain going on, that wasn't the second helping of turkey and stuffing or the 3 pieces of pie, that was the air the doctors pumped into my body to make MOVING MY INTERNAL ORGANS AROUND easier. Gross, huh? Needless to say, all that extra air really looked & felt like extra pounds which was pretty depressing. More painful than the two incisions and bruising was that AIR getting up into my chest and shoulders so even the tiniest breath would send pain screaming through my torso. IF THEY CAN PUMP THE AIR IN, THEY SHOULD BE ABLE TO PUMP IT OUT!

Two weeks after the surgery, Gary and I showed up for the post-op appointment. This was the appointment that we would discuss what the doctor had found during the surgery. I'd spent two weeks not knowing and I was a little nervous about the outcome. What if there is something seriously wrong? Amazingly, my doctor came right in and spoke with us for a bit, but didn't give us specifics of my surgery because the hospital hadn't sent over my op-report yet and he didn't want to give us misinformation based solely on his memory. What? Are you telling me that I might leave here today still NOT KNOWING WHAT THE HECK IS GOING ON?! So we waited. Gary sat relaxed in the chair while I fidgeted on the table cursing the stupid hospital. They'd only had TWO WEEKS. After another 45 minutes my post-op report was finally retrieved and my doctor sat down to share all the juicy details. The information delivered was indeed serious, but laced with lots of options and hope. I sat gripping the edge of the table, leaned forward and just ate it up. This was the good stuff. We talked options and the steps we wanted to take. Then we left and I felt good. No I felt great, relieved. I was talkative, laughing and in good spirits. Gary was just waiting for the floodgates to open.

ME: Wait, we just found out about the most serious stuff we've had to deal with since we've been married and I'm not crying. Aren't I supposed to be crying? I cry after every other appointment. I may never carry a child! Why am I not crying?

GARY: . . . . . . um, maybe because you actually know what's going on now and you don't have to guess about why you're not getting pregnant. All the previous appointments were just leg-work that never gave us any real answers. Now you know.

ME: Oh . . . . . you're so smart!

GARY: I know.

Thus Quirk #3 presents itself. I cry myself into a sniveling heap when there may not be anything wrong and I feel relief when given bad news. Doesn't that seem backwards to anyone else? I believe my husband had it right though. It takes patience, strength and endurance to battle through trials. I guess I just need to know what I'm battling. Exactly how much patience, strength and endurance am I gonna need?

Give me reality. I'll deal.

Yeah, I think that's my new motto.

Quirk # 2: The Nose Knows

I've always found reading among the plethora of things I thoroughly enjoy. My mother used to catch me still awake under the blankets with a flashlight at 4:00 in the morning, my nose stuck in a book and by golly, IT WAS A SCHOOL NIGHT. When it came to books, I wasn't a casual reader, I was completely and hopelessly addicted. I'd plunge headfirst into a book & the only way to get me to come back up for air was to physically shake me. Yeah, my parents learned real quick that grounding me or sending me to my room wasn't punishment. They finally changed tactics and simply took away the book I was IN THE MIDDLE of reading. That's just cruel.

I don't devour books like I used to and mind you, not for lack of interest. I simply made a commitment to a full-time job, husband and a whole host of additional responsibilities, but I'll tell you what, that commitment weakens when a book steps into the picture. The love affair that ensues is hot, steamy, and completely absorbing.* Books become the other woman in a weird, twisted, backwards sort of way. Once an addict, always an addict I guess. So when I say that at some point I will have a beautiful library full of the books I've come to love, my husband is a little worried. It's like your unfaithful spouse asking for all his/her lovers to move in. That's just awkward.

Now I wouldn't place reading in the category of quirks, maybe of obsessions, but not quirks. That which I place in the category of quirks is the process by which I purchase the books that will one day reside in my beautiful library. So I suppose the above two paragraphs really don't mention Quirk #2 at all, but are simply background info to understanding Quirk #2 more fully. I don't have many requirements to read a book beyond being filled with words and the pages in numerical order, but to actually buy the book, well now, that's a different story (no pun intended). Often times, the same novel is published in a handful of different ways. Hardback, paperback, large, small, abridged, unabridged, various cover art . . . um . . ya get it. When in the market for a new book, I explore all my options. I consider the weight and sturdiness of the book, the texture of the paper and after much deliberation I employ the tried and true method of book selection. I smell it. Yes you read right, I SMELL IT. I open 'em up and take a whiff RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STORE. Needless to say my husband always makes himself scarce at these times. Do you think he's jealous? Maybe he just can't handle seeing me that way with another . . . . .um, novel. The whole sniffing thing seems strange I know, but I LOVE smelling books. I find myself smelling everything I read and have discovered that there are a lot of different scents that accompany their hosts and, to be honest, some are downright terrible. Others have a certain musk that lays hold on my nostrils and all I can think about is how much I want to get that book alone and dive between the sheets of paper. I have been known to buy random books based on scent alone. I told you I was quirky. So if you catch me in a Barnes & Noble with a book plastered to my face, you'll know why. Not only will my beautiful library be full of the books I love, but it's gonna smell AWESOME.
What can I say, I'm head-over-heels for having my nose stuck in a book (ok, ok pun totally intended).


*To clarify in case anybody misunderstood, no, I do not read literary pornography, unless you count The Twilight Series in that class, then I'm totally guilty. So when I talk about my love affair with books, it has nothing to with the content of them.

Quirk Nombre Uno

My friend Esther tagged me with 6 Quirky Things About Me. While I typically don't participate in the whole tagging thing, I decided to give this one a shot, but in my own way. I won't be tagging anybody else (mostly because there is no one left to tag) and I'll deliver one quirk per post. I can't seem to handle doing all six at once, which is due to another quirk of mine that I won't get into now. So I guess if you care just how screwed up I am, you'll have to check back another FIVE TIMES to get the rest.

Quirk #1
My husband works nights and is often gone for work or school. I've become accustomed to being alone and even revel in it because I can watch, read, or do whatever I want without disturbing or being disturbed (mostly I just blare my music and dance around our small space like a gypsy). While I enjoy the freedom of being a single wife, it does have it's downfalls, one of which being that every now and then my imagination punches into overdrive and I effectively freak myself out for NO REASON. My most common mind-induced freak-out occurs when I come home after dark and try to unlock my front door. Having not been home, there are never any lights on. You'd think I'd learn to leave an outside light on before leaving, but I just can't bring myself to willingly turn on a porch light in the middle of the day. I'd worry that my mom would pass by and see how irresponsible and wasteful I was being. Then she'd feel like a failure as a mother. Not wanting to be responsible for doing that to her, I walk alone in the dark to my door. It's about this time that my imagination kicks in and my perfectly safe yard in my perfectly safe neighborhood turns into a dark alley in the city with rapists and murderers lurking in the shadows, waiting for me. Subsequently I walk a little faster and breath a little harder. My mind fills with horrible images of scary men as I fumble with my keys, trying to unlock my stupid door! CURSES! Why did I lock the door? I locked it to keep the scary men out while I was away and now they're gonna get me anyway because I'M SHAKING SO BAD THAT I CAN'T GET MY KEY IN THE LOCK! It takes about another, oh . . . um, 0.5 seconds for my freak-out level to jump off the charts and all I can think is MUST. GET. INSIDE. My rational at that moment is all I need to do is close the door behind me and I'll be safe. It never occurs to me that if there really was a rapist outside my house he'd probably wait until I was inside anyway before inviting himself in and having his way with me. The key finally slips in the lock, I turn the handle and burst inside. I slam the door back shut, turn the dead bolt, flip on every light in the house and then try to compose myself. Everything is ok now. You're inside, the lights are on, the door is locked and you're really just suffering from an over-active imagination. Turn on some tunes, eat some ice cream and calm down. So I take my advice.

Then I go and retrieve my keys from the outside lock.

I Miss . . . .

There are times when I'm suddenly struck with an odd feeling of emptiness. The absence of something or someone that once was is keenly felt and though the space has been vacant for some time, only now do I realize the loss. Only now do I feel appreciation for what was and miss that which can no longer be.

I miss being a kid.

There are certain things that just come with the territory of being a kid. Extravagant forts, playing in the mud, sleep-overs on the trampoline, laying in the grass & finding shapes in the clouds. Things you did because school, chores, and homework were finished. Because Mom turned off the TV. Because you had a big imagination. And by you I mean me. Random ideas would pop into our heads and my siblings and I would say, "That sounds fun!" then promptly run off and put our plan into action. We didn't wait to think every detail through before starting. We didn't look at a calendar to see when we could afford to squeeze the fun in later that week. We simply acted, right then. I miss that. I miss being so impulsive. I miss sleeping on the trampoline. I miss getting dirty and not thinking twice about it. I miss taking the time to enjoy life. There are many reasons that form my desire for children. Having a good excuse to play is one of them. When my kids are going crazy with a hose, I want to be there. When their bodies are plastered with mud and smiles, I hope mine is too. When I find them awake after bedtime laughing and having a pillow fight, I hope I join them. And when their dad builds them a tree-house, it better be big enough for me.

Make-believe, one of my favorite past-times as a little girl. I was different than a lot of other kids in that I tried to create the most tangible world I could. While other children playing cowboys and Indians were satisfied with a feather in their hair and a toy gun, I played outside with separate camps at either end of the yard. The Indians would have tepees of sheets wrapped around trees, stuffed animals scattered around, gathered sticks and string for bows and arrows, faces would be painted. The cowboys would wear button up shirts, hats and had forts built out of various scrap wood we found. Out of my many make-believe worlds, the one I visited most often was pretending to be a grown-up, doing grown-up things. My mom's checkbook was fascinating and it was magic when she would sign her name and hand it to the clerk of the grocery store. My cousin Lora had a playhouse her dad built for her with two rooms, a shingled roof, and curtains in the windows. I was so envious of Lora. Having a house of my own was my strongest childhood desire (it's transformed into an adult desire now). I never did get one, but that didn't stop me from pretending I was a mommy paying the bills or changing a diaper. I sent my brother Bryce to work while I cleaned the house. A plastic hot dog and mashed potatoes would be waiting for him when he returned. As a child I couldn't wait to be a big girl with big girl responsibilities and now that it's happened and I'm there . . . . well, let's just say that pretending to be an adult is much more glamorous than actually being one.

I LOVE vacations. I think most people do. Of the many reasons to love them, I believe the one that tops my list is that a vacation is the closest I come to carefree adventure. Notice I say close to carefree. I don't feel that any responsible adult can be truly carefree, especially poor starving college students trying to eck out a living. Sure we can relax and leave worries at home, but there is still a level of awareness of funds, gas, food, lodging, etc. Unlike a child, who's mind never ventures to those areas. There is always enough money, always enough gas, always enough food, always a place to sleep and when there's not, a child doesn't feel the loss, at least not at that time. Maybe when they're older and the world as it really is comes into focus. Childhood is filled with make-believe, learning, games, discovery, but not worries. A child doesn't ponder on tomorrow, unless it's Christmas or the first day of school. A child doesn't notice the passing of time. Childhood is truly carefree. I miss that.

My parents used to know EVERYTHING and while now they're still extremely knowledgeable, they don't have all the answers. My woes, worries, and wonderings aren't wiped away as cleanly as they used to be, if they're wiped away at all. I'm sure that has something to do with the fact that my trials and challenges have entered an entirely different sphere than that of a 8 year old. The biggest issues my parents had to deal with then were Why are there ugly cockroaches? (I still wonder about that) When will Christmas be here? Bryce is bugging me again! Mom and Dad could handle those. They're much more uncertain on what investments Gary and I should make or why I'm not pregnant. The easy answers are gone, the comfort and security incomplete. It's part of being an adult, I know, never having an absolute knowledge of the why, how, and when. Even though my mom and dad have never actually wielded an all-knowing mind, I miss feeling like they did. I miss saying, "My dad is smarter than your dad."

I miss being a kid.

What do you miss?