Volcanic Laundry

After Rick had washed, dried, folded, and ironed 10 plus loads of laundry, I thought I would contribute to the household duties. I had spent so much time trying to complete unfinished projects that the family laundry had risen beyond a normal load or basketful of laundry. (I felt overwhelming grateful and guilty at the same time.)

I placed the white items in our frontload washer. I made sure this batch was only white (referring to another post). I made doubly sure that I did not put anything in that mass of clothing that was bound to shrink (also referring to another post). I was absolutely sure to use laundry soap rather than bleach (once again, referring to another post). I measured the soap while the dialogue check list bombarded my thoughts..."hmmm there doesn't seem to be enough soap...oh well, it is a small enough load...I am sure it will be clean in the hot water and at the least, give the items a fragrant scent (you know, the one that you see on all the commercials)."

Then off to my other tasks: organizing the projects, scanning photos, filing bills and Noah's school work and yatta yatta yatta...I was rather pleased with my multi tasking.

Noah, passed by the laundry room exclaimed,

"Mom, why are there white bubbles coming out of the washer?"

In a questioning tone and completely bambazzled I replied, "What?"

He reapeated, "There are bubbles coming out of the washing machine."

Immediately, a Brady Bunch episode came into focus. Bobby Brady did not want to get in trouble for soiled clothing and so he attempted to do the laundry in order to hide the mishap. Unexperienced, Bobby put too much soap into the machine, when he returned to check on his clothing, it had been overtaken by lava monsters of soap. As I rounded the corner, I saw the bubbles spewing out of our machine like a science experiment gone bad.

I pulled down the washer door to see white rolling magma...I mean soap (and me)... just ready to explode. "Unbelievable!!! When will I get this right?" I stopped the washer, 

wiped up the bubbles on the floor and went to dinner wth my family. I had hoped that the foaming, froth would go away while I was gone.

Naturally, the one negative event caused the numerous positive events to suffer...I had to produce a total mind shift as I was determined not to let it ruin my evening. I laughed instead because I knew one day it would be funny.

I guess I will be doing more laundry...
This image and quote posted on facebook informed me, I still have a great deal more to learn.

And I Speak Spanish...

I am what some would call a “people person.” 
I just plain love people and of every age, race, and background. I believe I learned that skill from my parents. 

If there is an opportunity to visit...I will. If I can find a way to make someone feel happy or do something meaningful for them, I do. If I can be clever and use my creativity in 
some way...hooray!

Working in the Concierge at the Marriott was the ideal job for me. I was to make the surroundings were pleasant, display a beautiful array of food and snacks for the guests, provide them with helpful information, answer questions about the area, fill the coffee maker, make dinner reservations, listen and visit... take a real interest in them, schedule appointments, smile, smile and smile some more. I enjoyed the job and the amazing people that I worked with each day.

One particular woman that I worked with was engaged...soon to be married to a handsome Hispanic man. He had come to spend a bit of time with her at the Marriott Concierge. I was introduced to him and then invited him to sit down and enjoy some of the evening’s hors d’ oeuvres. I was going to provide a 5 star hospitality to him. I felt that it was important to leave a good impression on others and so I would try to find a way to connect. I saw that the young man’s plate was empty. 

“Is there anything else that I can get for you...seconds of anything?” 

He was grateful and expressed his appreciation in a compliment towards me. “You are very kind and good at what you do.” 

 “How sweet” I thought, “Here is my chance to connect. I will return the gratitude for his kindness in his language rather than just a simple thank you. Then he will feel at ease and comfortable being in the lounge. My friend will be pleased that I have gone above and beyond to give quality service to her beau.” 

So with batting eyelashes and blushing cheeks, I replied, “Garcia.” He looked at me with questioning eyes and so I repeated even louder...”Garcia,” He was still puzzled and so I exclaimed,”You know Garcia...thank you.” His eyes opened wide and with a chuckle said, “You mean Gracias.” Oh my heck...of course I meant Gracias. Duh. I knew that. Gracias. Gracias. I say it all the time. How could I make this mistake?” Rather than laugh it off with the gentleman, I stood there in a stupor while my thoughts continued the dialogue that was playing out in my head,

 “Well, Garcia is close...almost the same letters and Garcia is also a wonderful Mexican Restaurant that my family frequents...so I can see the confusion...nope, not a good enough excuse for this blunder...Gracias...everyone in the whole wide world knows the word Gracias. Geez...I go out of my way to make a situation better, only to create a disaster on my part.”

I click back into reality to find that the heat in my face is now flushed with embarrassment. As I turn to walk away, my thoughts whisper in a rather mocking tone, “So much for making a great first impression thank you very much, or should I say Gracias very much or was it Garcia very much?” Maybe that is why I quiver to think of learning a second language... 

Wooden Roses

I have the most wonderful Grandmother. We have been dear friends for quite some time. We like to call ourselves the “Odd Couple” after the old sitcom with Felix and Oscar. . .two polar opposites. She is elegant and classy, where I am loud and clumsy. She entertains with fine china and gourmet meals, where I eat on paper towels and whatever can be heated in a microwave oven. She practically lives in the Garden of Eden, where the only green thumb I have is when I color with a leaky green marker. She has a house of order and beauty, where mine is creatively ordered chaos. She was a dignified hostess for the Church Office Building, where I played in the Nursery and boisterously sang songs with puppets in the Primary. Though we are oh so very different, we have grown to appreciate the diversity in each other as it gives us reason to rejoice and to laugh.

My Grandmother is the youngest 93 year old woman a person could ever meet--driving in her sleek, silver jaguar, regular bouts to the Temple, a calendar dotted with engagements and appointments, keeping her mind sharp with Forbes and Stocks, thrice weekly jaunts to rehab to maintain her strong and vibrant body. . .there is nothing holding her back.

(visits to Grandma's House for Halloween)

(Three Generations of Wmoen)

My Grandmother and I have been meeting once a month for dinner over the last 11 years. I have missed that as of recent. Finally, the opportunity presented itself and it just so happened to be the Monday previous to her 93rd Birthday. One should know, she mingles in high places with famous people and so I was thrilled to have the occasion to celebrate this special evening with her. 

President Monson and Sister Haight at Grandpa's 90th Birthday

(Tonight, Howard excorted her to the dance floor at Maddie's Wedding Reception)

My Father was her escort to the Red Butte Cafe.

My Grandmother’s Birthday, surely a celebration deserving a touch of class and elegance. . . set my mind in motion. I stopped for a card with just the right wording, a balloon to emphasize the event and the most beautifully, perfectly shaped red roses. I could scarcely believe that nature could produce such perfection. Out the door I went with my gifts in hand and a smile in my heart.

My Grandmother and Father were patiently waiting at the table where good food and fantastic company were only moments away. I presented her with the gifts and she was a gracious receiver, even a few tears in her eyes. She expressed her love and appreciation most tenderly. My perception was, that she had been emotionally touched. For a moment, my head began to swell. . .that even I could pull off an act of class.

We ordered. We ate. We laughed. We visited. We reminisced over the “pink keds” that my dad had given my mom decades ago. We indulged in rich memories, company and food. It was a celebration.

My Father reached over for the tiny, red roses. He put the roses to his nose to breathe in the glorious scent that only perfect roses could bring. I watched closely for that look of approval. . .Rebecca. . . well done. Instead, I saw the “one eyebrow rise” which was the gaze of confusion and question. “What was he doing?” I thought. His next move was bold and revealing. He gently reached  down to touch the roses. The facial expression shouted what was evident now. . . those roses were NOT REAL! ! !  Not only were the roses not real, they were WOODEN ! ! !  

My mind set about on it’s own private conversation, “Are you kidding me? Did I really just select WOODEN ROSES for the most quintesscential woman I know? Oh crap ! How will I get myself out of this one? My dignified, elegant Grandmother deserves the very finest and I have just given her WOODEN ROSES. . . in which she would probably get a sliver trying to put them in one of her vases.”

I wanted to run away and hide. I wanted to carry the roses to the car for her and then accidentally take them home with me . . . anything to keep her from discovering that they were not real. She had made such a fuss over them. . . as did I in recounting the story of how  I very carefully selected the “cream of the crop” Well, this cream of the crop just got whipped and soured. I thought “Ding Dong. . .Rebecca . . .you classy?” No. I couldn’t even do that. I felt it would have been better to have done nothing at all.”

Dad carefully placed the flowers back by the card. Our eyes met and I couldn’t read whether he was thinking, “Oops . . . I can see how you were misled,” or “Why on earth would you buy WOODEN FLOWERS?” Either way, I came out appearing much like the Scarecrow in the Wizard of OZ. . .”if I only had a brain.”

As we were getting ready to go, I knew that honesty would be the safest way out (I couldn’t even buy, let alone remember any of the scenarios that I had concocted in my head.) She made a comment about how lovely the roses were and I retorted rather spirited, “Lovely ? ? ? Just let me tell you how lovely they are. . .have you ever heard of any such thing as WOODEN ROSES amidst real roses in a florist?. . . neither have I? “ She  was utterly amazed, shocked, and absolutely speechless and then the awkward pause followed with laughing hysterically. Sometimes it is just plain old good to have a reason to laugh and laugh we did. . .and then laughed some more.

We parted ways and my negative self talk kept me company the rest of the way home. . .but my Grandmother on the other hand did the most marvelous thing. She took those WOODEN ROSES and with her class and elegance, made them something special. She took them home and put them in with the most beautiful bouquets of REAL FLOWERS the others had sent. She didn’t hide them or throw them away. She displayed them amongst the best. Yep . . . that is my Grandmother. Even in my disaster, she brought out their beauty.

Over the next couple of weeks, my dad told me that of all the bouquets received, mine were the only ones remaining. Pure symbolism embraced my mind:

   My Grandmother is a woman of strength and character. Like the  WOODEN ROSES, she stands firm and steadfast, in perfect form and beauty, in principle, the gospel, and elegance. Like the WOODEN  ROSES so  carefully carved, she has carved a life of generosity and set

an example of truth, knowledge, and a zest for life. Like those WOODEN ROSES, whose petals won’t drop and colors won’t fade, her life is eternal.

I thank my Grandma for bringing Life and Beauty to the WOODEN ROSES.

(Grandma celebrates the Christmas Season Opening at the Lion House 2012)

Lice Comes Head to Head with a New Do

. . . and so off to the salon I went. I needed pampering in the worst and the best way possible and everything inbetween. I needed to feel beautiful after such an ugly experience with lice. Though my pocketbook already felt significantly lighter, this was an emergency...the last straw. I explained my situation to the beautician. The look of compassion was evident in her facial expression. She was about to become the hero of this pathetic story. She wanted to be the means of restoring joy and so she took the time to truly understand the look I was hoping to obtain. The problem... I did not have an idea and so the two of us walked next door to the bookstore in search of the magazine store to look at some of Hollywood's Best. As I gleaned the publications of pretty people with perfect hair and radiant skin, my envy and pity increased ten fold.

finally, I found the image of how I wanted to look upon leaving her salon. The stylist proceeded to tell the steps required in obtaining that look. I heard the word "perm" which had been bad from my vocabulary long ago...as the curls quickly faded while the damage and frizz seemed to be unending. I had the dialogue in my head convincing me that this time it would be different and if there were any lice eggs clinging to life, the chemicals of the perm would end that worry.

The rolling began. I had almost reached the appearance of a strange alien with foils, colorful rods, cotton strips around the edges and a bright cape that covered in sight of human limbs. I could hardly stand to look at this hideous sight in the mirror. She turned me away from the mirror just in time for me to see a gentleman that I had dated, walk for a haircut. "MIRROR! MIRROR! BACK TO THE MIRROR!" I pled.  I kept my head down in hopes that he would not see me and recognize me.  It was too late. "Rebecca...is that you?" The expression on his face was restraining laughter. I should have said "Rebecca who?" in my British accent...but I didn't have one. He continued to talk with me until another stylist called his name which must have been about...oh...five years. Traumatic...the story continues.

While removing the rods from my head, I began calculaing the cost...not just emotionally. but financially:
   * three days off work
   * two $7 Rid Kits
   * four $ 5 cans of  lice spray
   * $200 to have walls and ceiling cleaned and touched up
   * a huge dry cleaning bill ($200 plus) and one ruined $200 dress
   * $90 perm
   * $20 cut
   * $20 shampoo and style
   * $10 tip
   * $30 dollars in parking (almost 5 hours in the stylist's chair)

AND

I hated. despised. cringed at my new look. I pasted on that smile and faked my joy in gratitude..."I love it! Thank you...thank you...thank you!" It did not come close...not even a smidgen close to resembling the woman in the magazine.

Interesting to note...the blow dryer has an expanding effect on a perm. I felt like Clifford the Dog as my hair grew and grew and GREW!

As soon as I exited the salon, I ran past the shoppers. I ran past the doors. I ran past security cameras. I ran to my bedroom. I cried.

In a very unpleasant way, I learned a great deal about the rippling effect of one insignificant decision...not locking my purse with all it's contents up in the classroom closet

*I am not an artist by any stretch of anyone's imagination, but I can say that I did not have the skill to draw my hair as bad as it looked, nor could I capture the shock on my face.

Lice Meets Up with Favorite Yellow Dress

. . .for the most part, I laundered my lice infested clothing after it had met "the being secluded in a garbage bag for a certain amount of time." The clothes would then be returned to the stench in my closet as a result of being sprayed. I had a favorite Nancy Johnson Dress that was a pretty yellow with pink and purple flowers and green and blue swirls. Around the neck was white lace. I loved that dress and it had a great deal of sentimentality AND it was no small fortune. It was so worth it for how I felt in that dress. It fit like a glove and was very feminine. It flowed when I walked. Sadly, this dress had been exposed to the little critters. No way, no how was I going to try to launder my absolute favorite dress, and so I made a trip to the Dry Cleaners. I crossed my fingers that lice would not multiply on the public's dry cleaning :)

The days would be spent scrubbing smoke off the walls. It was evident, that my domestic skills for cleaning were also taking it's toll on my emotional state, especially since I was not seeing much progress. I finally broke down and called the Disaster Relief. It was another unnecessary expense that added to the already existing burden. . .but at least it would be done. I left the young woman to her duties of beautifying my smoke darkened walls. There were errands to be had and my dress at the dry cleaners. I pulled through the drive up window and gave the attendant my ticket. A few minutes later she came to the window with a white dress. I made the correction, "my dress is yellow. . .not white." The attendant replied, "This has your name attached to it. Are you sure this is not your dress?" "Yes I am sure. . ." This was my absolute favorite dress. I ought to know. As I studied the dress, the lace collar did look familiar and there just happen to be s a few light pattern swirls but this dress was white! Where was the yellow? I pulled it closer. The tag read Nancy Johnson, size 4 and the buttons were the same. It was my dress. I could not believe this on top of the previous mishaps. My dress was ruined. I felt ruined and the only compensation was $50.00 for my $200 dress. Wow.

Trying to be positive was more than difficult. I was receiving constant encouragement from my parents, but that just didn't seem to do. I needed a pick me up to my downtrodden spirits. I needed my own personal disaster relief and no one could do it better than a beauty salon but my wallet was losing weight fast with all the extra expenses. . . and so the story does not end here . . Darn the lice!

*I am still searching for a photograph of my precious yellow dress, but for now this sketch will have to suffice.

Lice and Fire

. . . I had the good fortune of living downtown Salt Lake City in a high rise apartment...American Towers.The security was outstanding. There were Security Guards in the other tower, key cards for parking, door codes for guests or a call up to see if permission to enter is granted, security cameras and the like. What I did not know was that the door to my apartment was self locking. Whenever I left...I locked the door and carried my key. I dumped trash on my way out the door to work or run errands. I was under the assumption that I was the one locking the door and had never had an incident to prove otherwise.

I had completed the RID treatment check off list. I felt disheartened somewhat. It was an overwhelming process. I needed a distration and food sometimes did the trick. It was close to dinnertime and stir fry was on the menu. (I am not a great cook. period) As  I stood their waitning for the oil to heat...I glanced over to see numerous garbage sacks...some with clothes...some with garbage. I had concern that I might accidentally throw away my clothing and that now was the time to take out the garbage while it was fresh on my mind. I checked the contents of each sack. The garbage shute was directly across my apartment behind a white door that appeared to look like another apartment. It literally took seconds to throw my garbage away. So, I did just that...walked across the hall and voila. As I turned to return to my apartment, I heard a loud beeping. My thought..."Wow someone must be holding the elevator door open again." I placed my hand on the doorknob... strangely, it would not open. It was locked and I did not remember locking it.  The beeping noise seemed to be louder by my door...like from the other side of the door..."THAT IS MY FIRE ALARM!"

(image added only for effect. this is not my photo)

Panic coursed through my body...no cell phone in those days, no key to unlock my door and so I ran down the hall knocking on doors. Not a single person opened in my desparation. My only hope was security, but that would be an obstacle in and of itself:
   *wait for the elevator (I lived on th16th floor so stairs did not seem to be the first option)
   *hope no one else would stop the elevator on the way down
   *get out on the second floor and run like a mad woman to the other tower
   *wait for the North Tower elevator
   *arrive at the street level
   *recount the events to Security.
"My apartment is on FIRE! I am locked out! Help! One Security Guard called the Fire Department. I remember feeling so embarrassed. The other Security Guard ran back with me through the reverse order of the elevator process. By the time we returned to the apartment, the fire had burned out. The ceiling and walls were black. The apartment was smokey and gloom filled my being. It was then that I was informed about the self locking doors. With the key, I could move the lock so that it would not self lock. Yea for me!

The fireman still had to check out the place for sparks and things. One fireman saw that my bed was without sheets and bedding...just a towel at the head of my bed. He looked at me with questioning eyes..."The flu?" My downtrodden responce..."No...head lice." He was sorry he asked and I am sure wanted the quick exit.

The RID process was completed but now, I had walls and ceilings to wash and maybe paint. It was too much to bear for now. I went to my bed without sheets and fell asleep...but the story does not end here either...

Lice, Lice, Baby

My first experience in the teaching profession was at an old three story building. It was rather quaint and did not appear to be a school in the least. The children were loving and sweet, but they were also very needy. It was a lower income, underprivileged area. One little boy saw my toothbrush in my purse and said, "Hey, that is what I use to clean my toilets." Surely it was not being used on his teeth. There were some that looked as if they had not had a bath in weeks. For others, they wore the same dingey clothing day after day. I wondered if the students had ever been properly instructed on being well- groomed. I had heard that the health department would take children from their home until things were cleaned up in their household. That was a harsh reality for me and the desire to care for them increased a hundredfold.

There was one adorable girl with long straight hair. She would love to stay in at recess and visit. She saw my brush sticking out of my purse and said, "Miss Hart, can I brush your hair?"(an absolutely unthinkable request and answer in this day and age.)  I thought, what the heck? I knew it would feel wonderful...and it was just that and more. I felt rejeuvenated. The bell rang and so I went to bring my students in from outside. When I returned with the students, the young girl was brushing her hair with my brush. EEeegads I thought in the moment...but that thought was fleeting into oblivion...

A couple days later, our principal  put a memo out to all teachers for a head lice check. Can you even believe I had an inservice on how to check for head lice? They didn't teach that in college...(May I clear up one very important myth... lice does not discriminate. You do not have to be impoverished, living in dastardly conditions, or unkempt. Lice can effect every background and anyone.) It made me feel itchy all over the moment I learned head lice was on the loose.  I felt especially concerned to know that I had the older sibling in my vicinity, my class, in which the younger sibling brought about this extracurricular activity. I donned my gloves and chopsticks in hand to accomplish the tedious task of searching 30 heads for the culprit...lice.

This turned out to be a humbling and disparaging activity. Clearly, these students did not have the same grooming standards in which I had as a child. There were sores and smells that made me quiver. How I longed to take these children home, wash their clothes, have them shower with soap and shampoo, and provide them with the means to maintain this level of cleanliness.

I was nearing the end of my search. Here I was, nose to head in this young girl's beautiful long hair. I saw what appeared to be little white eggs attached to strands of her hair. I excused her from class to be checked by the experts in the field. Sure enough, I was given a bag to put her things into and off she went to proceed with an at home treatment.

The realization hit as I removed my gloves...this is the same young girl that brushed my hair...that brushed her hair...that I have since used! The itching (power of suggestion) went rampid all over my body. I hurried down to the experts...Yeparooni... guilty as charged. I had lice AND their eggs. I was given a bag to gather my things, excused to go home and perform the lice treatment...not to return until the RID had done it's job...kill the lice and eggs. As I made that long drive to the pharmacy, I knew what was aHEAD (throw in a play on words):

   *wash with RID again and again, and with each wash take the Barbie comb and comb through my hair
   *remove and wash the bedding,
   *spray the furniture, the phone, hair devices and the car,
   *throw away old brushes and purchase new ones,
   *put my clothes in a plastic bag for the length it took for a lice's demise,
   *provide a substitute with lesson plans and on and on...
   *avoid personal contact and interaction
CHECK I completed all of the above, but that was not the end to this story...

Old Age

Noah was in the car with me and I could see from my rear view mirror, that he was deep in thought. A few minutes later and again in a somber voice, he says, "Mom, do you know what I really wish?" I think, "Here it goes--a game boy, a horse, a trip to Disneyland..."I say,"What do you wish, son?"and he said, "I just wish...well I wish dad could bend over."It was all I could do to contain my surprise and my laughter.   Rick is a wonderful father. He will throw baseball after baseball to Noah and he will take him golfing.  Rick has two hip replacements, sore knees, sore shoulders, sore everything--I'm sure Noah has seen how hard it is for Rick to bend over and collect the balls.

I am a Choirister in the Primary.We are talking about building Eternal Families. Sister Harris brings a picture of a "Grandma" to discuss how she is part of the family and can contribute in many ways. "What things does your Grandma do?"and there cute Camden says it direct and plain, "Grandma's have to color their hair." Well, I have been coloring my hair for a lottta years now--so does that put me in the "Old Category?"

So just when does one make that transition into "Old Agedom" (is it when you start making up your own words:) ) Is it when you iron shirts with windex instead of the spray starch? Is it when you cook the rolls with the saran wrap still covering them? Is it when the streaks in your hair are more silver than gold? Is it when you water your plants with a glass of milk instead of water? Is it when Noah's friend's parents, have parents younger than you? Is it when you qualify for the Senior Discount (or when someone asks you, will that be 2 seniors and 1 child?)  Is it when you lose more things than you find and some of those things are the rest of your sentences? Is it when the remote in your hand does not seem to "select" the item you are pushing on until it starts ringing and you realize, you are trying to use the phone to do the remote's job? Is it when you prefer Raisin Bran to Fruit Loops? Is it when  CNN becomes the new Prime Time TV show? Is it when you are tempted to cleanse your face with Downy Wrinkle Releaser instead of Sea Breeze? Is it when you do not recognize a single Name Brand of clothing, or any of the Popular Singing Groups? Is it when the students you taught, are now teachers?  Is it when you eat more Rolaids than M&M's? Is it when you start asking too many questions? If any of the previous are qualification for "Old Age," then I am definitely old.

For the sake of Noah and my own fears, I am going to color my hair and have blonde streaks put in and attribute the above to "Blondeom."