Telling Tales

It was chaos. Long lines, screaming kids and sighing parents blanket every corner. One might think we were waiting in line for Jonas Brothers concert tickets. Nope! We are all waiting to get our hands on wide rule paper. It’s back to school and with that comes back to school shopping. The supply list rivals that of an assignment given to the Impossible Mission Force. But even Jim Phelps’ quick improvisational skills couldn’t have helped complete this task.

As I sat in the Dekalb County Community Hospital Emergency Room last weekend, I knew one thing - I was in big trouble! Even the lady behind the admissions desk knew it. She avoided eye contact with me, so I just sat in my chair staring at the EXIT sign above the emergency room door. As I waited, I had this horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I sat at my desk recently and stared at the headlines coming in on the CNN website. “Unemployment rate soars in third quarter”, “Healthcare Crisis Looms over US”, “Professional Athlete victim of Murder/Suicide” and it went on and on. As much as the news of the day was seriously starting to affect my mood, I just couldn’t turn away. As if I didn’t already have enough to worry about, now I had to add the national debt, unemployment rates and swine flu to my list of problems to solve.

Like all classic “Who Done It’s”, this one began on a non-descript Saturday evening. There had been a warm breeze blowing all that day and the smell of imminent rain was now lingering in the evening air. The murmurs of children could be heard in the dark night as they chased lightning bugs oblivious to the foretelling rumblings of thunder. And the adults were comfortably sitting around the back yard listening to classic 80’s music, enjoying the company of friends while debating whether the rain would wash out the fireworks show.  It was a simple Fourth of July cookout that became  - - - not so simple.

Every year millions of women make the pilgrimage to the shopping mall, outlet store or boutique in search of the only item of clothing that can induce tears and anxiety at the mere mention of its name. That’s right, it’s bathing suit season.

A few months ago I realized that my obsession had gotten out of hand. My morning ritual of making coffee and reading the paper had sadly turned into my getting up and checking my phone for emails   - - before even making it to the coffeemaker. Blasphemous – I know!

Everyone thinks their children are the best. I am one of those parents. Although, I will admit there are times when I want to tape their little smart mouths shut, they seem to redeem themselves before I can tear tape from the roll. But there are times when I am so proud of my kids you might see me floating down the isle of your local grocery. Recently I had one of those experiences with my oldest son.

It’s getting to be that time of year again. The time when I catch up on my drinking and praying. You got it, the Kane family will be flying soon.

Something has happened over the past 15 years or so. My dad has developed his own language. Part of the blame goes to the influx of information and gadgetry that has saturated the country. He just can’t keep up. But, I must say he gives it a shot.

Let’s be honest, most of us have quirks. If left untreated, these little quirks can quickly morph into something more serious, like obsessive compulsive disorder or OCD. My OCD takes the shape of hypochondria where the slightest pain, discoloration of skin or cough has me worried that my life expectancy has been cut in half.

So the other day, as my middle child and I were walking into the grocery store – out of nowhere she said, “It was Wear a Sports Shirt to School day and YOU forgot to give me a sports shirt.”

When I had my children I knew that I would be a cool parent. My kids were going to be fully aware that the only thing a stork drops as he flies over our house is something that likely carries the bird flu. When it comes time for “the talk” we-my husband and I- were going to be honest and open for any questions.

Do you guys remember this movie? If you’ve seen it, I’m sure you remember that gut wrenching moment when Meryl Streep was forced to pick between her two children. She was given the choice of deciding which would live and which would die. Her choice led her to madness.

A few years ago, right after the birth of my youngest child I decided to take up a new sport that would help me get back to my pre baby weight. I tried a lot of different activities. There was step aerobics, yoga and racquetball. But I never really developed that “love” athletes talk about when describing why they do what they do. I needed something simple, something that would fit into my busy life and something that would take almost no effort on my part yet yield phenomenal results. I needed a magic wand but instead my husband bought a treadmill.

Mine was a two-door, hatchback, Honda Accord, with red velour seats and tinted windows. The previous owner had been a smoker, so no matter how many air fresheners I hung from the rear view mirror, the car always had a musty smell …with a tinge of vanilla.

There is a problem facing women that has reached epidemic proportions. I’m not talking about a physical ailment, although I’m sure that this problem causes a few. I’m speaking of over extending, over scheduling, overwhelming or more appropriately named “the yes disease.”

I like to joke with my husband, that when he dies I’ll honor his death as they did in ancient Egypt. I’ll bury him with his dogs so that they can all go into the afterlife together.

My children, like most I suppose, do not know how to whisper. They demonstrate this best while in church. This is why we -- along with other parents whose children lack the ability to control their volume -- choose to sit in the balcony, where we can at least contain the noise.

I was lucky to be raised in an equal opportunity household. My brother and I were treated exactly the same. If he helped Dad change the oil in the car, I was doing it the next time. If he mowed the lawn one week, I mowed it the following. (Right about now, my husband is wondering how this is even remotely possible considering I don’t even know where he keeps our mower.) But, I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that my parents were big proponents of  - - anything a boy can do, a girl can do better!

I knew it when I married him. I knew that when it came to romance he was more Ralph Kramden than Casanova. Truth be told, my husband has never changed. He is who he is and that’s what I love about him. While I can be a bit wishy washy, he makes his mind up and never questions the decision made. So why am I surprised that he’s STILL not a hopeless romantic and just “hopeless?”