*When The Mice Are Away, The Cats Like To Play… And Sleep*

This week my mother-in-law Toni took Zoe and Parker, along with Toni’s niece and nephew, camping on the Oregon Coast. Last week she took Zoe, Parker and Nathan to Victoria for 3 days. I’ve been looking forward to this week ever since she told me of the summer trips she had booked this past spring.

Sunday she arrived around 10AM with a U-Haul trailer towing behind her minivan. Parker chose that moment to start looking for the plastic suction cup arrows that go with his slingshot. (Not an item I had purchased.) I asked him what he thought he was going to shoot with the arrows, but never got a straight answer. I told him to give up the hunt, and he got in the car, but still brought the slingshot.

“What are you going to slingshot without the arrows?” I asked, not sure I wanted to know the answer.

Zoe piped up from the far back seat, “You could use rocks.”

“No. Listen to me. You may not sling shot rocks. Pinecones MAYBE. No rocks.”

The look on his face told me it had never occurred to him before that very minute that he could use anything other than the arrows that came with the slingshot.

I’m sure for many parents, this would be the moment that they tearfully said goodbyes to their children, running alongside the car waving as they drove off.

I am not that parent.

I turned and waved over my shoulder without looking and said, “See ya! Have fun!” I think that’s the difference between the average parent and me, who has kids coming out of my ears, and  who has been parenting for 20 years.

I walked in the door and said out loud to no one in particular, “Oops, I forgot to send her with  a consent note in case of emergency. Oh well. I’m sure it will be fine.”

I wandered the kitchen and living room, processing that unfamiliar feeling of sudden freedom without any idea what to do with it.

Jeff came in and said, “You wanna go to the auto parts store with me?”

I weighed my options. I was about to say no, when he informed me that he was unable to locate his wallet (story to follow) so I had to go with him to pay.

Just what every mom who has found herself with kid-free time wants to do: Hang out in an auto parts store.

Being the smart man he is, he suggested we go out to lunch afterwards.

We decided to try the new Chinese restaurant that just opened in the town center near our house. It used to be a Calico Corners fabric store. I have a feeling it will be more successful as a Chinese restaurant.

The restaurant has a very chic, urban vibe- no calico in sight as far as I could see. After getting seated at a table outside, Jeff looked around and said, “they have a good hiring plan.”

That’s code for “the waitresses are attractive.” He had said that at dinner the night before as well.

“But not a single person in here is Asian,” I said. “You don’t find that odd?”

“What about the kid who brought us our water?”

“He’s not Asian. He’s Hispanic.”

I’m not saying you have to be Chinese to own and operate a Chinese restaurant. I mean, I can cook spaghetti even though I’m not Italian, but I wouldn’t open an Olive Garden, that’s all. Well, maybe Olive Garden is a poor example.

Monday I took full advantage of my open schedule to make a coffee date with my friend Lisa. We like to go to a place called “The Spotted Cow” which is like the “Central Perk” for people who go to our church. Really, it’s more like the “Cheers” of our church, because pretty much everybody knows your name, but with lattes and gelato instead of beer.

(I think Lisa is Rachel, so I suppose that would mean I’m  Monica Gellar or Cliff Claven. I’d probably have to go with Cliff, because I too have a brain filled with all sorts of useless facts that no one really wants to hear.)

We went to the counter to place our order and the young man working the register looked at Lisa and said, “Looks like trouble just showed up.”

Have I mentioned how much I adore my friend Lisa?

I ordered my coffee in a to-go cup, which means I missed out on the latte art, but probably saved myself the grief of spilling on myself. I ordered the oatmeal, and Lisa said, “Make it two.”

He said, “Do you want everything on that? Fruit? Brown Sugar? Almonds?”

“Yes please.”

“Raisins?”

“Eww. No. Who wants raisins with fresh fruit?” I scowled.

Lisa nodded in agreement. “Nobody wants raisins. Nobody.”

He said, “Nobody wants raisins- except those who do.”

Two hours of laughter and great conversation, mixed with occasional breaks to greet other church members who had sauntered in, we headed out.

I drove to my parents’ house to pick up my mom and go see the new Michael Douglas/Diane Keaton movie, “And so it goes.”

I enjoyed the movie. It was poignant and funny. I didn’t particularly enjoy the woman a few rows back to our left who cackled uproariously at nearly every line of the movie, as if it were the funniest thing she had ever heard. EVER. Sometimes she’d laugh at something that wasn’t really even funny, but more sardonic.

I kept reminding myself not to resent someone finding unmitigated delight in this film, even if it was a little annoying. There aren’t a lot of people these days who have given themselves permission to so completely enjoy life.

After the movie I dropped my mom at home and went down the street to meet some old high school friends for dinner. What I had anticipated being only an hour or so turned into 4. What a gift to be able to reconnect and laugh with these amazing women. We can go months or years without seeing each other, and it’s always as if no time has passed at all. We can be real with each other because we’ve got history.

Why no, that’s not a Bartles and James wine cooler in my 18 year old hand. I think it must be some sort of fancy ginger ale. Or something.

This morning I slept in. I had no place to be and nothing to do. My husband came in around 830 and said, “The sun’s coming up, but I don’t see cakes on the griddle.”

I pretended not to hear him and went back to sleep for another 30 minutes.

My mice come back tomorrow. I’m sure I’ll be happy to see them, but I have had a great time playing without them.

As mentioned earlier, my husband lost his wallet. As of this moment, it has yet to be located.

While it doesn’t come as a surprise to me that he has lost his wallet… again… we are now in day 5 of the hunt with no end in sight. This is unusual, even for him.

Last Saturday night, as a thank you for volunteering at the Richard Sherman celebrity softball charity game pre- and post game events, we were invited to go bowling at Lucky Strike.

Because my mom had also volunteered, she brought along my dad, who showed up with his 60 year old antique bowling ball in a paper grocery sack. The funny thing is, I think I have not ever seen my parents bowl in my lifetime.

My parents bowling-Like spotting a unicorn

I don’t wanna brag, but… okay maybe I do. I WON THE GAME! (The first one, anyways) My husband thinks the fact that I took multiple pics of the scoreboard and posted them to Facebook and instagram makes me a poor sport. I would have to agree- if I ever won at ANYTHING! When you’re a perennial loser, you’ve gotta celebrate the wins when you can get them.

The second game didn’t go quite as well. I guess I’m a one hit wonder. Someone told me that just means I gave my all the first time. I like her take on it better.

The bowling crew. I don’t think any of us are going on the tour any time soon.

After we left at about 1030, Jeff said that he was craving a Dairy Queen blizzard. I told him I knew where there were DQ’s near our house, but when I looked up their hours, they were already closed. We found one about 15 minutes away from where we were that was open until 11. We screamed into the drive-thru at about 1045. He got a blizzard, I got a peanut buster parfait. We ate them on the way home in case our kids were still awake when we got there.

That was the last time anyone saw his wallet.

We’ve looked in all the regular places. We’ve looked in all the places that don’t make sense, but have previously been the location of his missing wallet.

We sent a text to Grandma Toni asking if Parker knew where it might be. Her response was that he gave an indignant denial.

As a result of him having no credit cards, ID or cash, I have become his sugar momma. Of course, all the money I’m spending he earned, but every time the check comes, he shoves it towards me and says, “She’s buying.” He appears to get great pleasure out of doing this.

Last night I said, “I’ve gone over all the regular stupid places that make no sense for your wallet to be that you’ve put it in the past. No luck. I don’t even know where else to look.”

He said, “A while back I hid it and lost it for a day. I was too embarrassed to tell anyone.”

“You forgot where you hid it?”

“No. I forgot THAT I hid it. I kept trying to figure out where it could be, and then I remembered that I purposely hid it. When you have a bad memory every day is an adventure.”

“You shouldn’t do stuff like that.”

“When you have a bad memory, you can’t remember that you shouldn’t do stuff like that.”

The ironic thing is that his memory issues don’t extend to numbers. He can still tell you his own childhood phone number, many of his childhood friends’ numbers, and even the amount he spent on airfare for our honeymoon to Cabo. In 1997.

This morning he said, “I know you’ve hidden it. You can tell me where it is now.”

I responded, “Right. Because I wanted to spend my kid-free week ferrying you around and running errands for you instead of sitting in the sun reading a book.”

The truth is we are too old and senile to be clever when it comes to putting things away. We need to be obvious, or we will spend 3/4 of our days hunting down necessities like car keys and wallets.

Apparently the entire 8% deficiency is  his propensity for losing his wallet.

Sometimes, as you drift off to sleep, you get an idea. In the still of the night, with your brain in that place where reality begins to commingle with dreamland, thoughts flow through your mind and, occasionally, inspiration strikes.

Usually, in the light of day, those ideas are revealed for what they are- nonsensical workings of a tired brain.

There are times, though, when those thoughts stick with you long after the rooster crows (or in my case, long after the crows begin cackling outside my bedroom window.)

The new title and look of my blog is the result of one of those near-slumber moments: Welcome to Burnt Ends.

Last Friday night I was the kind of tired that, even as a busy wife and mom of 4, I rarely experience.

Zoe had a three day tournament in a city 38 miles to the south of our home. On a light, no-traffic day the drive can be made in around 45 minutes. However, her first game required her to be on the pitch at 9:30am, which meant driving through morning rush hour.

It took over an hour to get to the field, and as we made the last turn I told her to put on her cleats.

It was at this moment she discovered that she had left her cleats at home. Because, of COURSE she did.

I dropped her off at the field and the very nice man directing the parking lot traffic gave me directions to a  store nearby that carried soccer shoes.  Parker and I made it back with her new shoes just 10 minutes before her first game.

We are currently experiencing unusually warm weather for our area, and by game time (just after 10am) the temperature had already reached 80 degrees.

There was a significant gap between her first and second game, but not one that justified going home and coming back. We set up camp in the corner of the field. There was talk of going across the road to the river, but all those years of hearing about the Green River serial killer killed any desire I have to put my toe in the water there. (While I’m sure the likelihood of a body part floating into my leg is extremely slim, I just don’t think I want to take that chance. )

With still 3-plus hours until her next game, and the sun beating down on us, my mother-in-law and I decided to take the kids into town for the street fair. Zoe chose to stay behind with her team, so we took Parker and two of his cousins.

Thankfully there was a fountain in the center of the festival area, so the kids were able to cool off and burn off some of the energy that had built up sitting around at the soccer field.

We walked around the fair and their clothes were dry in mere minutes. It was a scorcher.

Ice cold lemonade, elephant ears, fresh roasted and glazed cinnamon nuts, cotton candy- we had it all.

We made our way back to the fountain where the kids soaked themselves again and then walked back to the car.

By the time we got back to the soccer tournament, it was only 20 minutes or so to the next game.  I hauled our sport tent over to the sideline, opened up a chair and sat down.

I noticed that my eyes began to water, and I feared that in the heat, sweat from my forehead was dripping sunscreen into my eyes. I attempted to wipe them, but the stinging was getting worse. Soon tears were streaming down my face, and it wasn’t from the 7-0 walloping we were taking in the game.

And then it occurred to me- my eyeballs were sunburned.

The sunglasses I was wearing, while quite pretty, do not have UV protection.

Me with my mother at a concert the night before the tournament, wearing the lovely, yet virtually ineffective sunglasses.

Her second game ended just in time for the evening commute. I was virtually blind, and, as often happens when your eyes are injured, they kept trying to shut involuntarily.

I attempted to take Zoe and Parker to 7-11 for free Slurpee day, but the closest store’s Slurpee machines were “broken.” (They made a miraculous recovery on 7/12)

I drove further down the street and located a Burger King, because I knew they had Icees which are basically Slurpees. As my kids sucked down their drinks, I sat with my eyes closed praying that the burning would stop and I’d survive the drive home.

We loaded into the car and I closed both sunroofs to make it as dark as possible. I moved my sun visor to my side window, but because it was evening and I was headed north, the sun managed to shine directly beneath the visor into my left eye.

I am not proud of the fact that I drove for nearly 90 minutes in traffic with the partial use of one eye. I white knuckled it the whole way, praying that no one would change lanes or make sudden movements that required fast reflexes from me. Zoe said a prayer for safety, but both kids were so exhausted they passed out on the drive home and I was left to silence other than the radio.

I stumbled into the front door of my house 11 hours after having left,  in near zombie mode; my sclera the color of the geraniums dying from dehydration on the porch.

I sat down on the couch and my husband asked if I wanted a hot dog. I think I mumbled something incoherently in return. He made a snarky comment and my response was to utter some profanity at his back and then climb the steps to my bedroom. I flopped onto the bed, semi-consciously devising angry retorts to any further provocation, should it come.

I woke up about an hour later to find him sitting on the end of the bed staring at me.

“You’re lucky I feel better. The things I was thinking about you before I fell asleep weren’t nice.”

He wisely left that statement alone.

As I started dozing off again later that night, my stream of consciousness began with thinking about how tired I was, and how burnt my eyeballs were. For some reason burnt eyeballs, combined with the episode I had just watched of “Diners Drive-ins and Dives” and a near-comatose state kept producing the same phrase in my mind over and over: Burnt Ends. Burnt Ends. Burnt Ends.

I thought about how I felt like I was burning the candle at both ends. I tried to imagine how that phrase ever came to be. And then I thought about the burnt ends you can buy at Famous Dave’s because I had fallen asleep without eating dinner and was super hungry.

Burnt ends. Those charred, overcooked chunks of goodness that most with a discerning palate would probably throw away. My guess is that burnt ends became a menu item the same way popcorn chicken did at KFC- someone was sitting around trying to figure out what to do with the leftover tidbits.

In my dreamy haze it occurred to me that burnt ends are a pretty good metaphor for my life. Sometimes burnt ends aren’t just a metaphor for my life, but the stark reality of my cooking. In the case of this past weekend, they are the metaphoric reality of my poor choices in eyewear.

And while I am typically a creature of habit, resistant to change and reinvention, Burnt Ends feels like the most natural next step for this blog; A newsletter- style recap of a week in the life of a wife and mother burning the candle at both ends, burning her dinners and burning her eyeballs while sitting for hours on the sidelines of her kids’ sporting events.

I like to think of it as the mom-blogger version of Garrison Keillor’s “A Prairie Home Companion” and “Lake Woebegone Days.”

It’s still being formulated in my mind, but starting tomorrow I will publish my first weekly edition of “Burnt Ends.” I hope you like the new format and thanks for being patient with my somnolence-inspired experiment.

Huntington Beach, circa 1977.

My mother is riding her bike, and I’m in the seat on the back. I’ve spent a lot of time in this position, seeing the streets and the beach from the back of my mom’s bike. She doesn’t drive a car, so this is how we get around.

I recall thinking to myself, “I wonder what would happen if I leaned this way.”

What happened was an epic crash. It was totally my fault.

This one incident is an accurate metaphor of what being my mother has been like.

I could say that I have no idea how my mother survived parenting me, but the truth is, I know exactly how- she laughed her way through it. How do I know this? Because I have a daughter just like me and I have found that’s the only way. I also have 3 other kids who are not like me. Laughing helps with them as well.

8 year old me: Why do they have all those tanks? Who are they guarding against?

My mom: I dunno

Me: Idaho?

Now, you and I both know I heard what she said. In my 8 year old mind, though, the idea that the local national guard armory was keeping tanks in case of an attack from Idaho seemed much funnier.

She could have rolled her eyes. She didn’t, she laughed. And every time she laughed at my antics (there were many) she taught me an important life skill. Laughter makes everything better. The greatest gifts I ever received from my mom, and there have been some great ones (she always knows how to find the most interesting, most applicable stuff), are not material. They are the legacies she has passed on to me.

Let me paint a picture of me as a kid.

Stubborn.

Precocious.

A little bit of an attention hog.

Yet one of the greatest gifts my mother ever gave to me was the freedom to be me.

Even if being “me” meant dressing in my Wonder Woman bathing suit, putting a yellow plastic headband across my forehead with a red star sticker in the center, covering up in my pink polyester robe and then spinning around in circles in my living room, all the while stripping off my robe in transformation.

Even if being “me” meant dressing up in the Native American dress that she hand made for me, begging her to cut slits in all my clothes so people might think my towhead pale self belonged to a local tribe, and sitting around playing “10 little Indians” over and over on my fisher price record player.

Even if being “Me” meant converting my sister’s pilgrim dress (also handmade by my mother) into a raggedy pre- Daddy Warbucks Little Orphan Annie costume and wandering the house singing the entire soundtrack at the top of my lungs.

Another gift that my mom passed on to me was the tradition of making every holiday a special day. I read a blog not too long ago, where a mom lamented the trend towards elaborate holiday tables. For me, this isn’t new. Every holiday I would wake up to discover the table decorated, and I have done this for my kids as well. Zoe has already told me she plans to do this for her kids.

I remember one year I came down on Valentine’s Day to find handmade lace doily valentines and a handmade Valentine’s Day outfit. She had worked on this outfit after I went to bed, creating a vest and skirt combo with hearts all over it. She. Sewed. Me. An. Outfit. I can barely comprehend it.

I love the opportunity to make those days extra-special. I remember the feelings I had when I came downstairs to find the table transformed, and I enjoy doing that for my own kids. I figure this somehow makes up for all the other ways I fail as a parent, just a little.

I also inherited my love of reading from my mom. I remember reading Erma Bombeck to her as she cooked dinner and we both laughed until we couldn’t breathe. She introduced me to her favorite mystery authors, J.A. Jance and Sue Grafton, getting me hooked on them and the mystery genre in general. She bought me Bill Bryson and Molly Ivins, both of whom inspired me to write what I observed.

She brought music into our home. Many weekends growing up there was no TV on, just a never-ending rotation of records playing John Denver, the Eagles, Linda Ronstadt. She gave me the confidence to sing out loud.

My mom has modeled compassion for others, a social conscience, and a desire to serve.

She gave me a voice and a platform to express my oh-so-many opinions.

She has been my cheerleader, my sounding board, and a soft place to land in a sometimes hard world.

She stood by me as I dealt with consequences of bad choices. She taught me put on my big girl pants and face problems head on. She’s given me boosts when I need them and she’s let me pull myself up by the bootstraps all on my own. She’s shown me that a contrite heart and being willing to admit your mistakes as a parent is the key to gaining the trust of your kids. I have called her crying saying I understand why she lost it sometimes over the years. She has told me those moments are her greatest regrets. I’ve been able to real with her about my struggles and failings and I know that she will be real back with me.

I would say she’s been my friend, but that word doesn’t suffice. In the end, the only word that truly tells the story of who she is to me is simply MOM. It’s all encompassing.

She’s cool, freshly washed sheets on a sick day, hands in the dirt replacing weeds with flowers, freshly baked chocolate chip oatmeal cookies when no other comfort can be found.

Thank you, mom, for all of this and so much more.

Love is a many splendored thing. Love makes the world go ’round. Love will keep us together. (Tell that to the Captain…Tenille just dumped his ass.)

I would never claim to be an expert on love, even after 21 years together and 17 years of marriage. I think love is like that green goo they used to sell at the toy store- it’s hard to pin down and it can get pretty messy. It can also be a whole lot of fun.

Love can bring pain, especially when the other factors that make a successful relationship are missing, and love can bring joy.

And while I am no expert, I have had enough experiences to have learned a few valuable lessons.

Here, in no particular order, are my thoughts and advice on love, dating and relationships (heavily influenced by the movie “He’s Just Not That Into You” which should be required viewing for all women):

1.Men and women are different. We think different, we feel different, we see the world differently. We’re physically and physiologically different. Not better or worse, just different. Expecting a man to view things the same way you do, to perceive things the way you do, or to respond to things the way you do, will lead to nothing but misunderstanding, frustration, and pain.

2. Allow a man to be a man. Do not try to feminize him. You will not like the result.

3. Adam and Eve were the first humans to fall in love. When Adam saw Eve for the very first time, he exclaimed, “At last!”

The man you choose to love should look at you and say “At last!”

Not “You’ll do.”

Do not manipulate or cajole a man into a relationship with you. You may get him to marry you, but you’ll always know how you got there, and that’s not a good feeling. While you will tell yourself you’ve won because you got the ring on your finger, you’ll know you will never completely have his heart.

4. Communication is the key to any good relationship. Communication is not only words. Many men don’t like to use words, they use their actions to communicate. If the man’s words and his actions do not match, listen to his actions- they always tell the truth.

Believe what he’s not saying. He’s telling you everything you need to know by what he does and does not do.

5. Men are pursuers by nature. If they want you, they will pursue you. You don’t have to pursue them. That is not to say that you should sit by the phone like some 16 year old girl in 1955, never being assertive or asking for what you want. It just means that if you are doing ALL the pursuing,

6. Before entering into any serious relationship, you should be educated and be in touch with who you are, what your values are, what your passions are and where you want your life to end up. That way, he will know who he is entering into the relationship with, and won’t feel blindsided by your sudden desire to be true to yourself, and you won’t feel like you’ve compromised yourself to be in the relationship.

Which brings me to…

7. Compromise. Compromise and the ability to do so is integral in any relationship. There are no winners when someone always tries to be right or to get their way. It’s okay to give in and let the other person have their way, and it’s okay to stand firm on your principles when you feel they’re being violated. Otherwise, there will always be middle ground to be found.

Compromise DOES mean: Listening to the other person’s perspective on an issue, validating their feelings and working towards a solution where everyone feels respected.

Compromise DOESN’T mean: One person makes all the concessions.

8. Be yourself. Any time you feel you have to be someone other than who you are for a man to like you, you are involving yourself with the wrong man. You cannot pretend forever, and it never feels good to know that the person you are with only likes you for who they THINK you are. That is not to say that you should not try to improve yourself, expand your interests because you want to support his interests, or try to put your best foot forward. I sat through more subtitled kung fu movies than I can count, but I never claimed to love them. I endured listening to Morrissey, but made my feelings crystal clear about his inability to sing on key. But you should listen to the music you like, watch the movies you like, eat the foods you like, and not feel the need to hide them.

9.There’s no such thing as a happy ending, unless you count two people dying at the age of 100 holding hands side by side after 80 years of adventures, babies, kissing and companionship. An ending, by definition, is a moment. A wedding is not a happy ending. It is the beginning of a committed life together. A divorce may be a happy ending if you have chosen poorly. A marriage is not a happy ending, it is a series of choices that you make every day. Happiness is a fleeting emotion, but you must choose to be content, regardless of circumstances.

10. A good man is not necessarily the right man for YOU.

Somehow we as women have convinced ourselves that if a man is a good man, we shouldn’t let him get away. The reality is, there are a lot of good men who we are not compatible with. Being a good man, with character, is the starting point of determining viability of a relationship, not the ending point. Some GOOD  people just aren’t good TOGETHER. It isn’t a commentary on them or on you, it’s just the way life works. If you are self-critical, dating or marrying a man prone to inflexibility or criticism isn’t a good fit, even if he is a great guy- he can go be a great husband to someone who won’t let his criticism get to her. If you have a strong, intense personality, probably a nice man who hates drama or conflict isn’t a good match. He is better suited for a more easy going woman, while you need someone who will not be easily pushed around and will keep your respect.

11. If it’s not working as a dating relationship, it certainly won’t get easier once you’re married, with a baby depriving you of sleep and a mortgage to pay. People tend to become MORE of who they are over time, not less. Incompatibility or discord will not improve with A) a diamond ring or B) a baby.

12. A man worthy of you will always want the best for you, not the best for you as long as it doesn’t interfere with HIS needs, HIS desires, HIS ideas of the way things should be. He will encourage you to pursue your dreams because he knows a fulfilled YOU will be a better partner.

13. A man worthy of you will appreciate you for who you are, not only what you do for him.

14. If he doesn’t make you laugh, the tough times are really gonna suck. Same goes for if he takes himself too seriously.

15. Don’t ever let a man make you feel desperate for his love or affection. If you find yourself doing things that are out of character, unhealthy, degrading, pathetic or otherwise humiliating, you need to pick yourself up, brush off your knees, and start walking.

16.

17. You teach people how to treat you.

18.

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19. Each relationship is an opportunity to learn. Learn about yourself, learn how you want to be treated, learn where you need personal growth, learn about how to love others the way they need to be loved, not the way you want to love them. And if that relationship ends, take all of those lessons to make the next one better.

20. People are unique, and each relationship is unique, but there are some things that are universally true-

A successful relationship is based on two people with similar values who are working towards one common goal, treating each other along the way with a mutual respect.