Elbow-Elbow-Wrist-Wrist

When I was a teenager, I used to spend part of my summers studying at the Ashland, Oregon Shakespeare Festival. Sometime during the June that I turned fifteen, I was in line waiting for a show to open at the Elizabethan Theater when my grandfather appeared and handed me a box of Hot Tamales. “I thought you might want these,” he said, and then he was gone. He lived (as do I) in California. That means he drove across two states to hand me a box of candy. ‘Cause he just rolled like that.

Grampy taught me how to fire an antique Civil War rifle and drive a stick shift, well before I turned twelve. Things that he used to say became a fundamental part of who I am, such as: “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again,” and “Don’t  worry about deciding what you want to be when you grow up until you’re thirty.” That last one threw my husband for a loop. When I reached that milestone birthday, I informed him that my chosen vocation was Stay at Home Mom.

Around the time of the Interstate Candy Drop, I decided that I wanted to be a beauty queen. I convinced Grampy that I deserved a crown and sash, so he signed me up for The Santa Clara Miss pageant. I think I should explain that where I am from, we don’t do this kind of thing. I realize that there are states in the US of A where beauty pageants are an important part of life, like brushing your teeth. Or breathing. That’s just not how I was raised: Between Kindergarten and college graduation, I knew of four girls who had participated in a pageant – and one of them was a dancer for the numbers when the actual competitors were changing into their ball gowns, or swimsuits, or whatever.

The rest of the contestants had their gowns designed and constructed specifically for that pageant. Mine was not new, nor was it a custom job. Somehow, the other girls knew that they were supposed to sing “Stand by Your Man” or “Sixteen Going on Seventeen.” I did a stand up comedy routine. I wish I could grab Fifteen-Year-Old-Me’s shoulders, shake really hard and yell, “Nononono! Turn away from the light! Don’t do this!” I think it was during the Personal Introductions that I finally realized (with a horrible, panicky discovery) that I did not belong there.

Here’s how it went down:

Announcer: Joining us now is Gardenia McFlowerson! She loves her kitten, Marshmallow. She was sponsored for the pageant today, by Pretty Pettunia’s Florist. Welcome Gardenia!

And next we have Bunny Fuzzipants! She likes to practice perfect posture. Bunny was sponsored by Getterdone Hardware Store! Beautiful smile, Bunny!

And now… we have Shauna. Shauna enjoys writing “biting satirical One Acts”. She was…uhm…sponsored by her grandfather, Paul. Get…up here…You!

It was a disaster, but I did win the award for “Best Personal Interview.” They thought I had an OK personality. Grampy thought I was robbed. He really believed that I should have received the title, to the bitter end.

He passed away before my sixteen year old’s first birthday. He never got to meet my daughter. From time to time, the sorrow of his passing still hits me in the chest like a hammer. One of those giant ones at carnivals, that you use to whack the post and try to activate as many lights as your strength allows. The impact of my mournful hammer is powerful enough to ignite the bulb at the top. Sometimes I feel like he was just here, yesterday.
I was filled with a fuzzy kind of comfort when I read my journal entry from September 26th, 1985, and found that Ten-Year-Old-Me had literally seen him, just the day before.



September, 1985

Yesterday I didn’t play much just got picked up by grampy. I got new earings and a necklace. I got a tea cup, a small one and a tiny house. And a unicorn key chain. I also got a new shirt with a unicorn fighting a pegasis. And my mom gave me her shirt with a unicorn on it. Aaron got a Hulk Hogan shirt and my dad got a shirt that says something about being fed up about morning. I did my speaking assignment about ancestors today, I couldn’t find Germany until the last minute. I like school. Guess what L was giving out packages of stickers. I think other people like him just because of his stickers but I like him (for a friend) so does K.



I wish I still had those Unicorn t-shirts, I think they're coming back in style...

Putting Some Back Back into It

Tomorrow I’m having back surgery to replace some hardware, and fix some other stuff. I’m looking forward to not feeling like I’m one hundred and twelve years old. One can dream.

I’m understandably a little anxious, but whatever happens tomorrow will invariably beat my last back surgery.

My former spine surgeon is a talented guy. He builds things out of titanium and plants them in your body and you're able to walk, when once you might have had a lot of trouble getting around. But he wanted to do my most recent surgery in a hospital that was about to shut down and change hands. In fact, I was the last living patient in the entire facility.

Okay, there was one Other Guy — but his family was just waiting for the doors to close so they could unplug him. I'm not being funny: This was actually the case.

The surgery was scheduled to be completed by mid-morning, and I was supposed to be able to leave before dinner.

Didn't happen that way.

I ended up staying for FIVE DAYS.

The place was completely deserted. There was yellow caution tape criss-crossed over the doors of the offices and rooms that had already been cleaned and sanitized. There weren't any doctors there, except one that was under contract to watch over me and the Other Guy. My own doc had left the country on vacation with his family, because he hadn't expected me to be hanging out there for so long.

The hallways were always dark, except directly in front of the room in which I was enjoying my stay. The same three nurses were always somewhere nearby, and two physical therapists would visit daily and make me hobble around the eerie, shadowed halls with my walker.

The only people who visited were the Other Guy's wife, my family, and our pastor. Everyone always looked very uncomfortable to be paying a visit, during my time at Casa de Creepy.

The night before I was able to leave I had to sleep in a different room — because they were scheduled to renovate mine.

In the morning, there was yellow tape over my former door. Needless to say, I was thrilled to be given my walking papers. As I limped toward the exit, I passed the Other Guy's room. His family was saying goodbye.

If that hospital wasn't haunted when I got there, it surely is now.


Here’s to a less exciting stay!

Rockin’ Christmas

The Christmas Rock
Shauna McGuiness

As Christmas draws nearer, I am reminded of holidays past. I think about my grandmother's famous rice dish (delicious, unless she uses low-fat cheese – then it's actually kind of gross), my brother (who brought nothing but a very large beer for himself one year, complete with foil wrapping paper and bow) and lovely sister, and  hundreds of gifts – some which are still in use today, and some which have retired into the world of yard sales and thrift store donations. Most of all, I allow myself the luxury of remembering people who once shared our warm family gatherings, but who are no longer with us. My beloved grandfather is one of those people.

In early December of 2000 (a year earlier we were all dreading the collapse of the internet and possibly the planet; this year, Jesus' birthday was a much calmer event), I was in a hazy state of panic, because I couldn't think of a thing to put under the tree for my grandfather. Grampy was never one of those people who "already have everything", but rather one of those people who didn't want anything. I don't know if he was trying to make things easier for us, but his request (or rather, lack thereof) threw the entire family into a tizzy.  Every year. What to get for the man who wants nothing? I pestered and cajoled, until he finally caved and said, "Fine, then. Get me a rock."

A rock.

Lucky for him, I knew of just the rock. I quickly did a web search (in 2000 it was still cool to call it "the web") and typed up an email to a man who didn't know me from Adam, but whom I hoped would respond. Soon. Like, that day. Christmas was only two weeks away and Grampy still had squat.

Dear Colonel Ackman,

Please take a moment to review this email – I know you take care of far more pressing matters each day, but I am working on limited time and would love to have just a moment of  yours.

My grandfather, Major Paul A. Weakland, loved the military and was not only a decorated soldier, but is an exceptional human being. He was stationed in Fort Hunter Liggett, in the 1960's, fell in love with it, and more than forty years later continues to bring his grandchildren (of which I am one) to visit every year. We have camped, stayed at the Hacienda, and roomed at the Officer's Quarters. He taught his children, grandchildren, and various neighbor children to shoot firearms, swim, and respect nature on the base – not to mention the hundreds of times that we visited the mission and the surrounding property. When we were very young, we often pretended that we were in the Army and came dressed head to toe in camouflage!

Here is where I begin to sound a bit strange:  Sometime during his station, my grandfather ended up in the Indians with a private and a jeep. He found a rock there, that looks like God put a paint can down on it. It has a white circle on the top, with what looks like white paint running down the sides. He liked the rock so much that he and the private loaded it into the jeep and brought it back to his quarters. The rock was too heavy to bring home, so he had to leave it behind. It still sits, nearly fifty years later, across the parking lot from the Fort Hunter Ligget PX and the movie theater, by the road (it sits in the cactus and rock display). Whenever he brings us for a visit (we are nearly all adults, now) we still stop by to take a look at The Rock on our way home, and he laughs to see it standing there after so many years.

My grandfather is going to be eighty years old in the coming months and has begun to talk about how he won't be able to make the trip to Fort Hunter Liggett, very much longer. My brother, sister, and I would very much like to show him how much he means to us and how much we appreciate all he has taught us – by bringing that rock home to him, for Christmas. We didn't think it would be wise to steal from a military property, so I am writing to ask for clearance to pick it up in time for the holidays.

Please let me know how I can obtain permission to bring this piece of our family history home.

With utmost respect,

Shauna McGuiness

Four days later, I received his response:

Ms. McGuiness,

I have attempted to contact you by phone several times, but I have failed.

Your request to take possession of this rock is approved.  We did discuss the wisdom of granting this request, we do not want to be in the business of providing the public large mementos, of any kind, of the post. However, your grandfather's service to this post and the Army, his continuing interest in both Ft Hunter Liggett and the Army can move even the most hard core.

I ask that you contact [name and phone number]. You will need to schedule a time to make contact with them and identify the rock. You will need to ensure you have the means to safely transport it. Once the rock is identified it becomes your possession and you become responsible for transfer to your vehicle, and you become responsible for anything that may occur. Ensure you have the means to secure the rock for transport. We are not adverse to assisting you, but this is under your direction, since the rock becomes yours and the means of transport is yours. We are not sure which rock you refer to, so please ensure you have an understanding of the weight of this object and what will be required to make safe transfer and transport.

I salute your love and respect for your grandfather. Under normal circumstances such a request would not be granted, but the love of a granddaughter for a man of service cannot be ignored.

Respectfully,  LTC Stephen M. Ackman


Three days later, my husband, my sister, and I left our home in the dark of early morning to make the two hour drive to the base. We arrived as the sun became a pinkish purple smear in the sky, still dotted with stars. Showing our I.D. cards to the uniformed man huddled in the guard shack at the entrance, we were cleared for admittance.  

Passing olive green tanks and Humvees, we finally reached our destination. The Rock. Surrounded by dirt and cacti, it was part of a flower box of sorts on the outskirts of the PX/movie theater parking lot.  It was there, as it had been for decades: round white paint splotch on the top. A tractor rolled up next to us and a giant, friendly man, named George, helped us load the heavy gift into the bed of our El Camino (where it lived until Christmas eve – we probably didn't get the best gas mileage for the following week and a half). The rear of the car was considerably lower, as we thanked him and drove away.

December 24th arrived. My siblings met my husband and I at Grampy and Lulu's house at midnight. It was very much a cloak and dagger affair (in hindsight, we were probably very lucky that my grandfather didn't hear us and come out with a BB gun to order us off his property). That rock was so heavy that it almost didn't make it out of the truck bed, onto the dolly that we brought. It took all four of us to hoist it, and it still threw my poor hubby's back out(he managed to limp through the rest of our Top Secret assignment, thank goodness).  Rolling and dumping The Rock into the front yard, we admired our handiwork and promised to reconvene in the morning.

Hours later, we all giggled as we passed our surprise on the way to the front door, trying not to look in its direction. We also made sure to push our grandparents into the house, as we kissed and hugged and wished a "Merry Christmas." Grampy was dressed for the day, in red pants and an impossibly shiny green shirt – complete with Christmas tie. When everyone finally arrived, we lead him out into the yard.  

Of course, he was confused. "What're we doing out here?" Then he saw it. It was as if he was being reunited with a long lost friend. No:  A long lost love. "My ROCK!" He bellowed in unhidden glee. He knelt to touch the spot where God's paint can had once been. "My rock...", tears came to his eyes and he ran a shaky hand through white hair.

"You said to get you a rock for Christmas." I kissed him on the cheek.

"Well, you got me just what I wanted."  

How often can someone say that and really, truly mean it?

Grampy visited Ft. Hunter Liggett in the spring and visited Lieutenant Stephen Ackman, bringing a photo that he asked me to find for him online, so he could ask for an autograph. He got one. It reads:  

Major (ret) Weakland,

I am so glad that the rock is where it belongs – with those who know and love it. May it energize your memories and those of your family of Fort Hunter Liggett – visit us often!

LTC Steve Ackman

Summertime

I can’t believe another summer has passed. I’m totally relieved, of course:  Anything that brings me closer to Halloween is A-OK, in my book! 

Anyway, this weekend, I had a discussion with a dear friend, regarding a vital piece of the child-rearing puzzle. Something sacred and integral to creating long-lasting summer memories:

Otter Pops.

More specifically, blue Otter Pops. Because, you know, they make you have to cough. Something about them gives you a tickle in your throat, which cannot be ignored. If you eat a blue Otter Pop, you will have to cough — It's one of those great mysteries of life. And yet, if you ask me which color I'd like I'll pick the blue one, every time. Ten-Year-Old Me would have made the same choice, I am sure of it.

Ahhh summer... Being a kid during the summer months was pretty magical, wasn't it? Although, if I could have spoken to Just-Graduated-From-Fifth-Grade Me, I would have told her to make sure to wear lots of sunblock, since this would be the summer that she would burn her face so badly that the tip of her nose would swell up and almost fall off. I'm sure she would have raised her right eyebrow (I still do that, when I think someone is saying something, well, nutty) and said, "Uhm, like, yeahsure and what is sunblock, anyway?" Remember when parents thought that getting that first really good burn was the best way to prepare a child's tender skin for the next few months of exposure to UVA rays?

I also would have warned her that letting her friend's sixteen-year-old sister cut her hair in July would be an unwise choice, even if the budding stylist says that she just wants to give Eleven-Year-Old Me a "trim".

That was the same summer that I began seriously crushing on the boys from the cast of Stand By Me. Okay, maybe not Jerry O'Connell — he didn't really get cute until at least 1991 —but I spent a lot of time looking through issues of Teen Beat and Tiger Beat, trying to find photos of River Phoenix.

HE WAS SUCH A FRIGGIN' CUTIE!

My BFF and I would ride our bikes to the movie theater down the street while our parents were at work, because tickets were only fifty cents and nobody cared if you hopped from screen to screen, all day long. The movies were a few years past their prime, but it didn't matter: We saw Purple Rain enough times to have memorized the lines — though most of what we were quoting was way, way over our heads.

(Yes, I really did just tell you that two eleven-year-old girls were allowed to ride their bikes to a discount movie theater and sit in the dark with strangers watching Rated R movies, for hours and hours at a time. It was a long time ago. If the internet had been around, I'm sure we would have in the house, chatting with strangers, for hours at a time.)

We had MTV (at least my BFF did), but you can only sit through so many dozens of hours of Wang Chung's "Everybody Have Fun Tonight", before you have to move on to the next activity.

Funny, but those are the memories that make me smile. Sunburns, bad haircuts, movies: All of those things were —and are— part of being a kid during summertime.

And blue Otter Pops. Don't forget the Otter Pops

Got My Eye(lash) On You

NOTE:  I dunno why I can't seem to keep up with this blog. I love to write. My head is crazy-full of weird stuff to say. I just can't seem to buckle down and keep it up. It's my the first week of summer break for my kids, and I'll be home with them for the next several weeks (gasp) so I guess this is a good time to work on blog upkeep.


Anyway, I'll be forty-three this month, and I'm finding myself wallowing in that place where my head is telling me I should be trying a little bit harder. My head isn't always as kind or quiet as I wish it could be. 

It also really, really likes Groupon. 

It convinced me to buy a spray tan, a while back. The problem is that it was a freakishly rainy day and I couldn't get out to the car without my skin looking like I was melting candles on it. The Groupon was for a tanning studio kind of far away so by the time I got home I felt worse than my head had me believing I looked when I bought the damn thing. I stood, nearly nude and totally self-conscious, while a tiny, gorgeous, blonde teenager sprayed me like an awkward, apologetic canvas -- and I had nothing to show for it but a lost couple of hours and uneven skin tone.

This is not actually me, but this is exactly what my arms and face looked like

You might think I'd find a life lesson in there, somewhere, but of course not.

My head was wandering around Groupon again, only this time it bought eyelash extensions.

I've wanted to try eyelash extensions for a while, now (don't ask me why -- I honestly have no idea). They're really expensive, though, and that's something my head and I agreed on. We found a good deal and decided to give it a try.

The studio was adorable, all pink feathers and black and white damask. The woman assigned to me was personable and spunky. She spent an hour and a half gluing eyelashes to my face, while narrating the process and telling amusing anecdotes. Her music selection evoked the relaxation of being at a spa. Lots of Enya and Celine Dion. It was actually pretty enjoyable. 

I might be digging this eyelash extension thing.

"All done!" She handed me a mirror.

I loved the results:  Very natural, but still glamorous! Yes!

This actually is me! 

Then she told me the rules:

1.  You must buy this special lash cleanser for $21.75 
2.  You have to sleep on your back from now on
3.  Don't touch your eyes
4.  Don't wear eye makeup
5.  Don't get your face wet
6.  Don't do anything that will make you sweat (did I mention that I'm 43? And it's June?)
7.  Schedule a "refresher" appointment for two weeks from today. That'll be another $60 

Also, have I considered having my eyebrows tattooed for $500?!?!

By rule #3 I realized I wasn't an eyelash extension kind of girl. 

For some reason I booked the refresher appointment, anyway.

It's been exactly one week, and already my lashes are starting to look weird. I've lost more hairs on the left side than the right. I'm not sleeping well because I'm a die-hard, hug-your-extra-pillow-to-your-chest-and-lay-on-your-side kind of sleeper. And I have an almost constant headache because those suckers are heavy.

You'll have to excuse me, while I cancel next week's appointment and tell my traitorous brain that if it feels compelled to do any Grouponing it's got to stick to restaurants for the rest of the summer.

The We Don'ts

I totally made all sorts of Mom Code violations, the other day.

I want to stand in solidarity with other mothers, I really do. I want to be that supportive sister that every woman with kids needs.

But on Saturday I failed. Miserably.

It might have something to do with the age of my own children. I honestly prefer having them around to shipping them off, these days. Sort of like that weird neurological defense mechanism, which makes you forget how friggin' horrible childbirth is (otherwise we'd have a world full of "only children"), I have somehow conveniently misplaced all the memories of "we don'ts."

If you haven't said a "we don't" in a while, you might not know what I'm talking about. Let me remind you with a little story.

There was this adorable young mother standing behind me at Safeway, the other day. She was perfect and blonde and wearing a sweater set and pearls. AND PEARLS, PEOPLE.

"She's probably on her way home from the yacht club," I surmised.
(Does Mountain View even have a yacht club?)

"No, she's also wearing sensible flats -- wait, are those Tory Burch? Probably the country club, I mean, look at that perfect hair. No way that hair's been on a boat, today..."

The conversation continued like this in my head. A head, which BTW, had a really messy (and not in a cute college-age, studying for finals kind of way) bun balancing on top of it.

I should mention that this woman had two little mini-me's with her in line. A girl and a boy in matching, gender-appropriate Gymboree outfits.

I totally judged this woman. She didn't even stand a chance. Mostly because I was sporting misshapen yoga pants and flip-flops (showcasing toes that really needed a pedicure).

One of her kids asked about the Monopoly game Safeway is promoting. You get stickers, or something, for your purchases.

"Sweetheart," Perfect, Tory Burch-sensible-flats-wearing mom said, the endearment dripping with unconcealed frustration, "We aren't asking questions while we're waiting in line, remember?"

"Remember"?! Did they have a conversation in the car before entering, in which they specifically discussed not asking questions while in line at Safeway? 'Cause that would be just plain weird. And kind of psychic.

Then the other one of her children asked if they could add some gum to their purchases.

"Sweetheart," She began ("Sweetheart" was obviously her annoyed name for her kids -- we all have one, amIright? Mine is "Pumpkin"), "We don't buy gum when we're in a hurry."

We don't? Was that another weird agreement they made in the car on their way inside?

I turned to this woman and lifted one delicately arched eyebrow in her direction, letting her know that she was being judged. Okay, maybe it wasn't a "delicately" arched eyebrow. I'm sort of having trouble mastering this "natural brow" look. It was probably more like one Groucho Marx-like eyebrow, but whatever. The bigger the brow, the better. My bushy eyebrow left no doubt about what I was saying.

"Damn, lady," I thought. "Chill out, already!" I sighed because some people.

I didn't actually feel guilty until the next day, when all of my "we don'ts came flooding back":

"We don't crawl around under the pews during the church service!"
Obviously we do -- because we are, in fact, doing just that. Me in nylons and a skirt, trying to grab tiny ankles to draw them back up into their seats.

"We don't use snorkles inside!"
Yeah, we do. Otherwise I wouldn't be losing my mind over the whale-like spouting of water exploding all over the bathroom walls and ceiling.

"We don't eat pickle and butter sandwiches!"
Okay, we didn't eat them, but my kid did make them (for the whole family) when I asked him to pack sandwiches for a trip to the park.

The thing is, the "we don'ts" always happen when we're already doing them. And we say it when we're trying not to sound annoyed, but we already are. And I'm pretty sure most of us say it at some point during parenthood.

There have been countless "we don'ts" during the raising of my children. Who knows, maybe "we didn't" buy gum when we were in a hurry at Safeway, at some point in the last 15 years.

I am sorry for judging you, exasperated mom.

Except maybe for your outfit, but that's only because I'm a little jealous.

("They're just jealous," is another good one we moms like to say...)

Not a Tortilla

I really wanted the Keto tortilla recipe I found online to be good.

It wasn't.

I've been craving quesadillas and although I recently used the low-carb Mission tortillas with success I decided to attempt making my own. 

At first I was hopeful because when I poured them onto the griddle they looked pretty tortilla-like:

I imagined my tastebuds would say, "Wow! These are so delicious! Where have you been all my life, you low-carb wonders, you?" 

What my tastebuds actually said was:

"My poor, poor child! What happened to you during your mostly sheltered life to make you think it's a good idea to squeeze cheddar cheese and taco-seasoned chicken between two pancakes, like this?"

Well, tastebuds, you nailed it. The "tortillas" looked and tasted pretty much exactly like the Keto pancakes I made a coupe of weeks ago. 

This Chicken Would Have Been Really Good in a Tortilla

This is Not a Damn Tortilla

I Could Have Lied and Said That Dinner Was Delicious. I Mean, It Looks Pretty Good, Right?

I'm not going to post the link for this recipe because:

A)  That would be kind of mean.

and 

B) I think part of the problem was that the recipe called for coconut flour -- and some of us are simply more sensitive to coconutiness, than others.  Tonight I found out that I am one of those people. If you don't mind coconut-favored Mexican food I suggest you google "Coconut Flour Keto Tortillas" and you'll end up with something like I made tonight.

If I need a good crepe recipe I'll be sure to use this one, again!

 This is Definitely Not a Tortilla, But Maybe It's a Crepe