Why isn't shopping considered a sport?

I don't think shopping gets the respect it deserves. Instead of being considered an errand or chore, I think it should be considered a sport. It sounds more appropriate to say you are going to an iron man cart-a-thon, than to say you are going grocery shopping. Or, for those who are exercise enthusiasts, maybe they would prefer to say they are going to acquisition calisthenics?

Just as football, basketball, soccer, and many other sports activities are very physically demanding, shopping requires the shopper to not only be a quick decision maker and agile, but strong as well. I know, you're probably rolling your eyes and scoffing in disdain at the mere thought of grouping something as simple as shopping together with world class athletes, but hear me out.

Have you ever tried lifting the last 35 pack of 16.9 oz bottles of water from the back of the grocery store rack, without bouncing your head off the store's steel racking, while simultaneously trying to place the giant case pack on the bottom of a grocery store shopping cart?  This is weight lifting and wrestling combined.

The really hard part of this task is trying to set the case pack on the shopping cart without having the cart scoot away from you. It's as though the water has some kind of reverse magnetic field which pushes the cart a few inches away from you every time you get close enough to load it onto the shopping cart.

Ever encountered an elderly person when they are on an electric shopping cart? As soon as a store attendant unplugs the cart from the charging station, you'd better step lively as the elderly person takes off at full throttle. Watching these silver foxes traverse the store aisles is akin to the running of the bulls in Spain as patrons flee in panic or try to climb to higher ground on store shelving to avoid being gored in the Achilles tendon or flattened in the meat department.

How about Black Friday shopping in the electronics department? You had better be able to throw a block as well as a Super Bowl defensive lineman if you want to get your hands on an electronic item at a rock bottom price.

Have you ever been to a 50% off women's shoe sale at a department store? If you haven't, before heading out you might consider donning a helmet and shoulder pads. Shopping at one of these sales is like being in a Roller Derby match, complete with body slams and take downs for that pair of killer Christian Louboutin pumps.

The threat of ice or snow in the South sends people in droves to the grocery store to quickly stock up on milk, bread, and batteries. When the stores' supplies start to run low, customers channel their inner Rocky Balboa and will box 12 rounds for a loaf of Mrs. Baird's bread.

Once the shopping trip is complete and all of the shopping bags have been loaded into the car, the sport of shopping doesn't end. It's now time to drive home. Shoppers revving their car engines in the parking lot sound akin to NASCAR drivers preparing to speed off at the first wave of the starting flags. And, if you've ever been in a parking lot crosswalk when one of these speed racers is bent on breaking the land-speed record, you would probably agree they are ready for their race car driving debut.

As you can see, shopping isn't for the faint of heart. It requires the shopper to be physically and mentally prepared for any obstacle they may incur. It also requires them to have a game plan, so their victory can be celebrated when the shopping list is complete.

The only difference between sports and shopping is in the awards ceremony. In sports, a metal trophy symbolizing the sport is awarded to the top finisher. In shopping, a glass of wine in a crystal goblet and a few bites of chocolate are the coveted award. 

Yes, shopping is indeed a sport.

The Fish That Got Away

When I was growing up, my parents and grandparents spun many a yarn about their lives. One of my all-time favorites was from a time when my maternal grandparents went deep sea fishing. Living near the coast, they would go fishing as often as they could.

My maternal grandparents

One day back in the 1950's, they decided to make their fishing trip a little more interesting by turning it into a friendly competition. The competition rules were: whoever "boated" the biggest fish that day, won. To "boat" the fish meant neither could help the other reel in, or bring on board, their catch. They had to do it all by themselves.

My grandfather stood about 6'1" tall, while my grandmother was a petite 5'4" tall. My grandfather's size gave him a bit of confidence with his ability to cast further, and reel fish in faster, than my grandmother.

The prize for this competition? Bragging rights. 

Little did they know how far, or for how many years, the bragging rights from this friendly competition would continue.

The fishing competition commenced with each of them using a cane fishing pole to catch bait fish. A cane pole is a piece of bamboo which was fashioned into a fishing pole. Once they caught a small fish on the cane pole, they would transfer that fish to their "good" fishing poles, in hopes of catching bigger fish.

All was going well when my grandmother's cane pole began to dance around. Thrilled she had caught a bait fish, my grandmother quickly grabbed the cane pole and began to bring it in.

The harder she pulled on that cane pole, the harder the fish fought back. Within minutes, she realized she had something larger than just a bait fish and started hollering for my grandfather.

"Help! Help me!" she cried.

When my grandfather turned toward my grandmother, he was greeted with a view of just her elbows and fanny, and both wiggling around frantically. The rest of her body was bent over the side of boat fighting against whatever was on the other end of her fishing pole.

A second later, she stood upright, causing her cane pole to bend nearly in half. The weight and fight of the fish on the other end of the pole pulled my grandmother so she was bent over the side of the boat. 

Back and forth she went as she fought to gain the upper-hand. Just as she would stand upright, the fish would fight back and cause her to be bent in half again.

Again she cried out "Help! Help me!".

Being that this was a friendly fishing competition between the two, and my grandmother was holding her own in this battle of fish vs. human, my grandfather took a moment and asked "Is this fish going to count?". 

"Yes!", she exclaimed.

He chuckled as he replied "Well, then no ma'am I won't help. You have to boat that fish yourself, if you want it to count.".

Her reply was lost as she was, yet again, bent in half when the big fish fought against being a trophy. My grandmother may have been petite, but she came from a lineage of strong women and was every bit as feisty as the ancestors before her. She dug in her heels and pulled, and tugged, and pulled some more. 

Back and forth she went with this fish for a good bit of time. Finally gaining the advantage, she pulled the fish in close to the boat and yelled for my grandfather to grab the fishing net to lift her prize into the boat.

Eagerly, my grandfather moved close to my grandmother as she brought the fish to the surface, ready to see what size fish had caused such an epic battle. Just as he leaned down, the fish surfaced, only it wasn't just any old fish. 

Photo Courtesy of Wikipedia Public Commons

It was a shark! 

Ok, so it wasn't the 20 foot great white shark pictured above, but when you're the one hanging over the side of a boat with their hands in the path of a mouth full of razor-sharp teeth, it probably looked like Jaws. It was, however, a good four to five foot very displeased shark, to be more exact.

My grandfather shrieked and jumped back. After making sure all of his digits were still intact, he declared my grandmother the winner of their contest and made the wise decision she did not need to boat her catch. Grabbing a tool from his tackle box, he carefully cut the fishing line and set the shark free.

You may wonder what happened to the cane pole that stood strong throughout this competition. It was permanently bent in an arc from that legendary battle of wills and would be brought out of the storage closet whenever anyone asked to hear the story of how my grandmother caught a shark.

My grandparents had planned on keeping that fishing pole indefinitely, unfortunately, their home was burglarized a number of years later and the burglars made off with all of their fishing equipment, including the bent cane pole.

So, if you ever come across someone with a bent cane pole from ca. 1950's, it could very well be from an epic battle where my grandmother caught a fish "this big"......... but it got away.

Written by Christie Bielss

The Winningest Loser

As the clock strikes midnight at the start of a new year, I usually make a list of things I want to accomplish in the new year. Rarely does anything from that list come to fruition because I either: a) lose interest; b) am not committed enough; or c) I am too chicken.

This year I made a pact with myself that I was going to do at least one thing outside of my comfort zone. One thing which would not only make me cringe at the mere thought of doing it, but quite possibly make shake in my boots too.

Just after I made that pact, the gurus who select what you see on Facebook plopped an advertisement for a writing contest into my newsfeed. I clicked on the link and began reading the entry requirements....... and the butterflies started fluttering around in my tummy and the self-doubts crept in. 

The competition was for the Erma Bombeck Writing Competition. The doubts of "who am I to be writing anything for a competition named after one of the greatest humor writers of all time" and "Ha! You don't even know the difference between an adjective and a participle!".

With some encouragement from family and friends, I stuck to my plan and wrote an essay for the contest....... and even submitted it. Knowing that I never win anything, my expectations to win were pretty much non-existent, but, by having submitted the essay, I had already won. I had conquered one battle over my fear.

The results were announced a couple of weeks ago and, as usual, I won no awards or accolades for my essay; however, I feel like I won an Academy Award for having the gumption to have actually submitted it.

As part of the rest of that pact I made with myself, I am posting the essay I wrote. So here it is in all of its "must be less than 450 words" winningest loser glory: 

The Lawn Mower Man

It begins with a few wispy clouds scattered across a beautiful blue sky.  Within minutes, the sky is covered in dark, ominous storm clouds.  The bright flash of lightning and sharp crack of thunder permeate the stillness of the afternoon.

The sound of an approaching storm causes normal people to seek shelter, but my husband is not like “normal people”.  When thunder starts rolling, he steps outside, sniffing the wind like any good bloodhound trying to catch the scent of its target.  At the first whiff of dust settling in the air, he transforms into a superhero. His work clothes go sailing through the air as he dons his superhero costume. With a wife-beater tank top, cut-off shorts, and a towel as his cape, he becomes “The Lawnmower Man”!

Faster than a speeding bullet, he runs and grabs the weedeater out of the garage.  As the storm gets closer and the thunder grows louder, he deftly edges around the yard and levels the grass next to the flowerbed.  With lightning flying around like fireworks on Independence Day, The Lawnmower Man realizes the time is perfect to unleash “The Turfinator”.

The roar of the lawn mower challenges the god of thunder for supremacy.  Zeus hurls lightning bolts while our superhero raises his fist in defiance.  Other men may duck and run for cover, but The Lawnmower Man just snorts and continues to mow as though he’s on a leisurely stroll through a botanic garden.  Lightning blinds the average man, but The Lawnmower Man is able guide his mower through the blazing brightness in perfectly straight lines within his predetermined directional mowing plan.

As rain begins to fall, he summons the next weapon in his arsenal, the fertilizer spreader.  Sprinting back and forth across the yard faster than an Olympic gold medalist, he rushes to get the grass fed in the rain.  In a torrential downpour, The Lawnmower Man will wrap the top opening of the spreader with kitchen plastic wrap, like a prized Thanksgiving dinner leftover, to prevent the fertilizer from dissolving before he is able to spread it across the lawn.

If he finishes spreading the fertilizer before the thunderstorm ends, he steps up on the porch as though it were an Olympic platform, to receive the gold medal before an imagined stadium packed with cheering fans.  If the thunderstorm dies off before he finishes, he hangs his head and repeats the defeated athlete’s pledge to be in better shape and better prepared for the next match-up. As the storm clouds clear, The Lawnmower Man realizes the neighbors are watching closely, wondering if they should record his heroism ………or dial 911.

The Escalator Escapade

One day while shopping at the mall, I observed a very attractive and well dressed woman step onto the grooved platform of the store escalator. She carried herself with a regalness rarely seen outside of Buckingham Palace. As I made my store purchase, I watched as the escalator carried her up to the next floor.

She stood on the conveyor step and surveyed the harried shoppers much as a queen looks down upon the peasants in her kingdom.  As she neared the crest of the escalator mountain, she prepared to disembark. In the process of shifting her position on the steps, one of her expensive high heeled pumps became lodged in the grooves of the people moving contraption. This well coiffed and fashionably dressed woman tried, to no avail, to daintily wiggle her foot in order to dislodge the stuck shoe. 

She was lifted ever closer to the peak when the sound of the stair steps collapsing into the metallic jaws of death caused the fashionista to panic.  Abandoning all sense of propriety, she grabbed her shoe with both hands in an effort to pry it loose from the vise-like grip the escalator had on it.

My jaw fell open as I watched the drama unfold. The words in my mind must have spilled out of my mouth, causing the sales associate I was working with to turn and view the spectacle. Before the sales associate could react, a young male sales associate jumped into action. He quickly pressed a button, stopping the escalator's movement while rushing to assist her.

When the escalator finally stopped, the heel of the costly shoe was wedged into the metal teeth of the landing platform. The young man wiggled the shoe back and forth as he tried to free the stiletto heel. Putting a little more muscle into his efforts, the shoe finally popped free........... minus the stiletto heel. Horrified, he reached down and plucked the heel from between the step's grooves. 

As the young man handed the mangled shoe and heel to the beautiful woman, she looked sadly upon the damage which had been wrought and began to laugh. She thanked the associate profusely for his chivalry. After plopping the detached heel into her handbag, she put the mauled shoe upon her foot and attempted to walk away.

The three inch height disparity between the two shoes made walking with any semblance of dignity utterly impossible. With unmatched confidence and majesty, she kicked off both shoes, flung them over her shoulder like a pair of flip flops, and walked through the store barefoot, as though she were a queen walking on a private beach.

As the sales associate and I watched the woman disappear into the racks of clothing, the sales associate leaned over and said "I would much rather walk up ten flights of stairs than trust my good shoes to a contraption that is similar to what the recycling plant uses to crush beer cans.". And with that comment, I realized all of the grace and majesty had left the building and just us commoners remained.

What Parent Type Are You?

When I was growing up, there were only 2 parenting styles: strict and lenient.  It did not matter whether you were that parent's own child or someone else's. If you got into trouble or did something wrong, you received an immediate correction by whoever's parent was closest to the center of activity.

Growing up, my brothers and I learned the hard way never to misbehave in the car. We were sure that during childbirth, God gave our mother a second set of eyes which were located in the back of her head. When she napped, we would pick at her hair trying to find those eyes.

We knew they had to be hidden behind somewhere in that giant 1970's beehive of a hairdo, but we never could find them. No person, without a set of eyes in the back of their head, could see the way she could.  She always knew which child was instigating trouble. She could drive the car perfectly while backhanding any misbehaving kids in the backseat faster than Superman could change clothes in a phone booth.

Between our mother and the other mothers in the neighborhood, all the kids in the neighborhood were watched to see what we were doing. This scrutiny meant we learned right from wrong at a very early age.

Things have changed dramatically since I grew up.  One of the biggest changes has been the creation of so many different parenting labels. There are so many different labels used to describe how a mother chooses to rear her child(ren), it could confuse Dr. Spock.

Tiger, Helicopter, Free-Range, Elephant, Little-Emperor, and Lighthouse Moms are just to name a few. The labels all seem to have a defining characteristic: you are either an animal or a machine.

Personally, I don't want to be known as an Elephant Mom. The older I get, the more I battle ankle wrinkles. I've also heard as you age, your ears and nose never stop growing. Put these issues together and Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus may send me an invitation to join the circus.

While I may be a redhead with a fiery temper, calling me a Tiger Mom might get you a close-up view of my retractable claws.

Since I grew up believing I was a princess, raising my child like a Little-Emperor would totally be a conflict of interest. I'm really not prepared to share my tiara.

When I hear people discussing the Free-Range label, I don't imagine kids playing outside on their own and growing through self-exploration. I see a bunch of hens pecking for feed around a chicken coup. It takes me back to the 1970's Saturday morning television shows featuring the Looney Tunes cartoon character Foghorn Leghorn, who is always playing pranks on the Barnyard Dawg, and is usually on the losing end of his own prank.

If parenting labels had more flair, I might be more inclined to associate my style with them.  There could be the Audrey Hepburn Mom - one who not only teaches their children to have a classic personal style and speak 5 different languages, but to be gracious and give of themselves to help others. I could definitely get into wearing chic sunglasses and big hats, but am thinking the mismatched hodgepodge clothing style of my son may exclude us from this label.

There is also the June Cleaver Mom. She not only keeps her house perfectly clean with two sons tracking heavens knows what into it, she would shoo her boys out of the house daily for exercise and sunshine.  Dinner was served promptly in the dining room where no electronic devices interrupted the dinner conversation, and she always wore pearls.

The children's homework would always be complete ahead of the due date and their rooms would be clean.  They may even get their children to shower daily without begging and pleading. Considering my children's penchant for waiting until the last minute to do 3 weeks worth of homework projects the night before they are due, and that the only way my kids' rooms will be clean is if the empty snack pouches are carried away by the Godzilla size dust bunnies, I'm thinking our admission application for this parenting label will be denied.

In reality, I probably fall into the Slacker Mom label. I don't create a schedule for my children's projects because I require them to do it. I am not very creative or inventive and never made sandwiches into animals or pancakes shaped like Disney characters. I slapped food on a paper plate, said "Mmmm.... Yum! Eat up!", and they ate....... usually.

My children aren't overscheduled. I sign them up for one sport at a time and I'm doing good to remember what days/times to get them to their activity. If I'm really on the ball, my kids will have finished eating dinner before we are in the car on the way to their sporting event.

I would love to be the mom who is ultra-organized and has everyone's schedule entered into the calendar on her phone, which is synced to her computer, laptop, and tablet. I admire the woman who sorts her children's daily school paperwork and immediately addresses each item, versus letting it pile up until it becomes a fire hazard.

When it comes down to it though, does it really matter what kind of parenting style you have, so long as you are actually involved and parenting your children? Do we really need one more label in this world?

Christie Bielss

If You Ask A Grandmother Her Age......

Clipart Courtesy of Clipartlord.com

Back in the 1990's, my husband and I were visiting with his grandmother discussing technology. As we were discussing the latest advancements like in-home Dolby surround sound, home computers, and cell phones, she began to tell us about her latest doctor's appointment.

"The nurse asked me how old I am and I told her 'I am old enough to be your grandmother.' The nurse laughed, wrote down something, and then put me in a room to wait on the doctor to arrive.

After a few minutes of waiting, the doctor came in and sat down and looked at my chart. He asked me how old I am. I don't understand why everyone at the doctor's office is always so interested in my age. I quit keeping up with how old I am when I hit 85.

I looked at the doctor and told him 'I was born in double-aught'. You figure it out.' He replied with a 'Wow! You must have experienced a lot over the course of your life.'

I told him I was born in a time when candles and kerosene lamps were used to light our homes. I grew up with an outhouse as a bathroom and watched as indoor plumbing and electricity were brought into our homes.

When I was young, we got around by either walking, riding on horseback, or via horse and carriage. As I got older, we marveled as cars took over the roads. If we needed to go far away, we took the train....... and we put on our best Sunday clothes for the trip. Now we have airplanes that will get us there in a fraction of the time and people look like they have on their pajamas.

When we cooked, we made everything from scratch. And by scratch I mean we either went to the butcher, or we slaughtered our own livestock or chickens, or we hunted for our wild game. Our milk was fresh, since we had to milk the cow every morning. We churned what we weren't going to drink to get our butter and cream, we couldn't buy it off a store shelf.

In my years, I have watched as hemlines inched up from touching the floor to barely covering the derriere'. I have listened to music grow from a one-man fiddler, to big bands, to songs being played on the radio.

I've experienced world wars and watched as men walked on the moon. Buildings went from being a few stories tall to skyscrapers."

As my husband and I reflect on this memory, it brings to mind all of the change and growth we have seen in our own lifetimes.  40+ years ago, we could have never imagined this world we live in, or the technological growth which happens almost daily.  This growth and change we have experienced makes us wonder what our children will have to look forward to and endure in their lifetimes.  I don’t believe I can imagine that world……… and I’m not sure I really want to either.

Christie Bielss

Who is the Better Driver?

Why is it every time we get in the car to drive anywhere, my husband and son start talking smack about how men are better drivers than women.  "You know, most NASCAR drivers are men.  In the movies, they use male stunt drivers..... even for scenes when females are driving.  Evel Knievel was a man and there has not been a She-vel Knievel", and on they go to ad nauseam.

I listen to this nonsense even though national statistics prove women are the safer drivers.  As proof of that data, I have only had one car wrecked since I have been driving.  Who totaled it?  My husband. And yet he is still convinced he is the better driver.

A number of years ago, I made the executive decision that I would do all of the driving in our household. Why?
A) Because my husband does not like to drive;
B) When he looks around while he is driving, his hands turn the steering wheel in whichever direction his eyes move.  Being in the car while he is driving is like being in a lifeboat in the middle of an apocalyptic, your-life-is-flashing-before-your-eyes hurricane.

The last time he drove on a long car trip was in 1999.  He had taken over driving after we stopped for a leg-stretching break at a rest stop.  We were about 20 minutes down the road, when he started looking around at the scenery. 

The car began to sway back and forth. First we went left, then we went right. Within a few minutes of this rollercoaster ride, I got motion sick.  After I made him pull off the highway (so I could get sick on the side of the road), I took over the driving......... and have not given him the opportunity to drive me anywhere since.  He contends it was not his driving but that I got ahold of some bad chocolate.  There is no such thing as "bad" chocolate.

Recently while we were in the grocery store, I discovered my husband drives the shopping cart the same way he drives a car.  This discovery was a rather rude eye-opener when he took out an endcap of potted meat while he was perusing the macaroni and cheese on the other side of the aisle.

After we put all of the cans back on the shelf and I was muttering under my breath about what "fantastic" drivers men are, we turned the corner onto the cereal aisle.  We hadn't taken 5 steps down the aisle when we encountered a husband pushing a shopping cart behind his wife.  As the man pointed to a box of Pop-Tarts to his right, he pushed the shopping cart left.  He took out an entire shelf of Fruit Loops.

In a show of solidarity, my husband called out to the man and told him it was a combination of the uneven floor and the shopping cart's propensity to make a hard left turn which caused the destruction.  I looked at my husband and asked if he had used his Spidey-vision to get the level of the floor.

This Spring, my dad began been teaching our son to play golf.  Because we have hit the dog days of summer, my parents decided to take our son to a golf superstore and let him practice putting in an air-conditioned environment.

After he and my dad were finished putting, my son took over pushing the shopping cart from my mom.  As my dad was showing him another teenager putting, my son ran the shopping cart into a bank of 50+ putters.  Much to their horror, the putters fell down one after another like a bunch of lined up dominoes.  He apparently got the driving gene from his father.

But men are better drivers than women..........

Christie Bielss

Three of the Scariest Words

There are three words which strike fear in the hearts and souls of men and women alike. Three words which know no boundaries and affect people from every walk of life.  It does not matter what language you speak or your socio-economic status, those three words stop mankind in his tracks.

What are the three words that cause such genuine fear?

 

"Some Assembly Required"

I am betting those words just caused an uncontrollable shiver of revulsion to run down your spine. Seeing those three words may have even triggered a flashback to pulling an all-nighter trying to assemble a special gift so it was ready when your child or loved one woke up the next morning.  Or maybe you have one of those nightmarish memories of trying to assemble a baby crib or other baby paraphernalia.

My flashback is from when I was a teenager. My parents decided I did not have enough storage and bought me a new wall bookcase unit.  It was one of those fancy all-in-one units that looked really neat in the store. 

The store's merchandiser had neatly organized the books on the bookshelves, the desk section had been equipped with the perfect desk set organizer, and precisely folded clothing was beautifully arrayed inside the drawers.  When my parents saw this behemoth, they swore they could hear the angels in heaven sing as they imagined all of my belongings neatly stored and displayed......... instead of being stacked or strewn across the floor of my bedroom.

This white six foot high and ten foot long laminated particle board wall unit was not sold fully assembly, but for an extra fee, the store delivery personnel could assemble the unit for us.  My dad puffed up and said he was not paying extra for something he was perfectly capable of handling.  He had all of the necessary tools at home, and after all, if he could fly jumbo jets around the world, he could certainly follow some simple directions on where to put a few nuts and bolts.

We brought the thirteen boxes of various parts home and carefully piled them up in my bedroom according to the number labelled on the outside of each box, which was printed right next to the label which stated "Some Assembly Required".  We opened box #1 and quickly dug around for the book of instructions.

My dad leafed through the booklet and discovered all of the instructions were written in a foreign language.  He and my brothers looked through the box together to see if there was another set of instructions.  There had to be another booklet! 

My mom quickly called the store. Nope.  There was only one booklet of instructions. They informed her to "just follow the pictures".

The realization of what my dad had gotten himself into hit full force.  He politely excused himself and went to the garage.  For several minutes we heard things being banged and slammed around in the garage.

My mom stood at the doorway to my room with one hand on her hip and an exasperated look on her face as she listened to the chaos in the garage.  After a few minutes she announced "Well, I think your dad may need a minute or two to himself.".

A little while later my dad came back inside. He was ready to get to work and had a hammer in one hand and a set of screwdrivers in the other.

As one of my brothers and I looked at the directions together, we discovered the main language was German.  He was in his second year of German and I was in my first, so we started reading the instructions together while my dad used the pictures to figure out the parts we could not translate.  This was the blind leading the helpless.

It took us 2 days to assemble that enormous wall unit with all of its drawers, doors, and the drop-down desk.  When the assembly was complete and we were all standing back admiring our work, my dad calmly announced "This unit will never be moved.  If we sell this house and move, it gets sold with the house.  Oh, and just so everyone knows:  no more "Some Assembly Required" furniture will ever cross the threshold into a house I own.  Ever.".

It was a nice announcement and it certainly held up for a number of years, until his first grandchild arrived.  Then he got tasked with assembling cribs, pack n' plays, baby bouncers and toys of all kinds.  But, as he has said each time since then, at least all of these directions have been in English.

Christie Bielss

 

Ditch the Duck

Just like saddle shoes and poodle skirts, mood rings, and Cabbage Patch kids, fads come and fads go. Some fads were goofy and entertaining, like pet rocks and jelly shoes.  Some are just plain dumb, like the Magic 8 ball and The Macarena.  Other fads, like having pants so saggy you have to wear 2 pairs of underwear, have caused so much embarrassment for parents, they have forced department stores and city councils to enact rules and city ordinances barring people from wearing droopy drawers.

Mona Lisa Public Domain image

The latest fad is one I am not really looking forward to revisiting a few years down the road.  This craze is not only goofy, but it's leaving a highly visible trail of photographic proof (aka extortion material) of our friends succumbing to this craze. 

Which fad am I talking about?  This crazy trend of posing with a duck face - which also resembles a fish face.  This truly unattractive pose is sure to be one for the "What in the name of all things holy were they thinking?!" record books.

Every single day my Facebook newsfeed displays evidence of another victim who has fallen prey to thinking this is a sexy and glamorous look. I would love to know who told women that looking like a cross between Daisy Duck and a big-mouthed bass hooked on the end of a fishing pole is attractive.  

Ben Stiller - Public Domain image

Ben Stiller started this goofy look in the movie "Zoolander".  A comedy film whose character is a fashion model and a complete dim-wit.  Someone, somewhere, saw this movie and thought 'this is the look I want to show to the world'.... and another fad was born.

A fad whose look is more reminiscent of the mounted Big Mouth Billy Bass singing "Take Me To The River" than  Marilyn Monroe in some sexy pose.  When I see a casualty of this fad, I don't see a beautiful woman.  Nope.  At best, I see Dori from the movie 'Finding Nemo'.  While Dori is cute, women posed like this look as though they are experiencing a serious medical event.

Dori from Disney/Pixar Pictures movie "Finding Nemo"

When I see moms duck-face posing in pictures with their kids, all I can think of is how sad it will be when their children look back on these photos in 20, 30, or 40 years and wonder what in the world was wrong with their mother's face, or what did they do that was so bad their mother chose not to smile in a single photo with them.

Duck face posing is a fad whose 15 minutes of fame needs to be up.  Do yourself, your family, and history a favor.  The next time you take a picture, smile.  The look of joy is so much more appealing and powerful than any forced fish or duck face pose.

Christie Bielss

The Trade Off

My apologies for the long pause in writing.  Our son was recently diagnosed with a substantial injury which necessitated a lot of doctor visits and physical therapy.  My "free" time turned into a job as a physical therapist, drill sergeant, and chauffeur, shuttling him from one appointment to another.  He is now on the upswing and I am getting used to my new "normal".  Thanks for sticking with me and for your kind words of encouragement during this time!

After having our first child, we stumbled around, utterly sleep-deprived, not knowing which way was up for months.  It was during this time when we were assured by friends and family the infant stage was the hardest part of raising a child.  Everyone told us as our children grew older, things would become easier.  We clung to that hope through the sleepless nights, countless ear infections, teething, fighting croupy coughs, and the more-than-I-can-count fights over food.

We held on tight to that ray of hope like a castaway bopping along in a lifeboat in the middle of the ocean.  For the first couple of years we waited anxiously for the day when our boat would hit dry land and we would be "rescued".  During the long wait, we were so sure we were approaching our smooth sailing days, we even had another baby.

As we clung to our sanity, we made a most unexpected discovery.  Our family and friends, who loved us dearly, were all a pack of liars!  Raising children does not get easier as they get older, you just trade off what you are currently doing for something different, but equally as difficult.

Yes, gone are the days of struggling to strap an infant carseat into a vehicle at just the right angle so it locks into the vehicle's restraint system.  These days I'm trying to get a pack of giggling tween girls into the different rows of my car, without anyone losing part of their toes to a falling backpack which is weighted down with more school supplies than Grizzly Adams would dare pack onto the back of a mule. 

I no longer hear the annoyed cry of a baby who is frustrated over a dropped pacifier or treasured toy just out of their reach.  These days I am bombarded with a teenager screeching "Mom! He/she is touching me!" or "STOP!  You're on my side!  Don't cross that line!".  

I thought having to hear Barney singing "I Love You" five hundred times a day was more tortuous than what some third world countries use as interrogation techniques........ until my children discovered and downloaded the Clash of Clans and Talking Tom apps on all of our electronic devices.  The gutteral grunts of cavemen and of enemies attacking bases has surpassed that dinosaur.  Being awakened in the middle of the night to a weird sounding voice coming from my cell phone telling me he is lonely and misses me, is more disturbing than a purple dinosaur singing and dancing.

I also almost miss the days of changing a baby's dirty diaper in the backseat of a car on a 100° day.  The odor back then was definitely a lot less pungent than what wafts from my son's gym bag these days.

But, even with all of the trade-offs, we would still do it all over again.  Yes, our friends and family definitely lied to us.  Whether it was in order to ensure the procreation of our species or so that we could sing the Dora the Explorer song along with them has yet to be determined.  We have gotten even though.  We told them that there is nothing quite like seeing your children take care of their very own puppy...... and fish ......... and guinea pigs.

Christie Bielss

No Bark, No Bite, No Problem

It was nearly 30 years ago and I was bringing dinner to my (then) boyfriend (now husband).  My parents were out of town and I was dog sitting my childhood pet, a wonderful male toy french poodle named Pepi (short for Pierre), so I brought him along for the ride.  Pepi loved going for rides in the car and it was time to introduce him to the young man I was dating.

Pepi, the coolest poodle on the planet

While I was just starting to experience life, Pepi, at 17 years old, was experiencing his twilight years.  Every time I looked at him, I didn't see the aging pooch with silvered fur.  I saw a cute little black ball of fluffy puppy fur who could perform circus tricks, who loved sticking his head out of the car window on road trips, and who slept next to me at night and was my protector.

Yes, it was time for Pepi to meet my boyfriend.

Because my boyfriend only had 30 minutes for dinner, I would bring his meal to him and we would eat in the car together.  This night's meal was grabbed after picking up the dog, so it was a Wendy's cheeseburger and fries, both of which were Pepi's favorites.

Keeping the dog's head from burrowing into the bag and gnoshing on the french fries wasn't so difficult since he was captivated by the drive down the highway.  He even waited patiently for my boyfriend to walk out to the car and to be introduced.

My boyfriend took a liking to the dog immediately.......... but apparently the feeling was not mutual.  Maybe it was because my boyfriend wasn't sharing his fries or a tiny bite of meat from his burger.  Pepi became perturbed enough he started to make his presence known.

It started out as a cough here and there from the dog.  Within a minute or two, the little cough turned into the sound of the dog coughing up his toenails.  As the coughs became more and more gross sounding, we noticed they were perfectly timed with my boyfriend's bites of the burger or fries.

"Geez!  Is the dog ok?", he asked after being grossed out by a particularly nasty coughing fit from the dog.

The tone of that question was not lost on the dog.  It apparently irritated him that this man was usurping his time with me, and he wasn't willing to share his fries either.  The dog decided it was time to launch a full assault.

Within seconds the aroma in the car took on a much more pungent scent.  As I quickly rolled down the windows, my boyfriend gave me a questioning look.

I smiled as I said "it was the dog."

"Yeah, right.", he replied.

Just as I was about to deny that the source of the smell came from me, the dog coughed and quite loudly passed gas.

"Oh my GOSH! What have you been feeding that dog?!" he cried as he hopped out of the car in search of fresh air.

Between fits of laughter and with tears running down my face, I reminded him of how old the dog was.

"Are you sure he's not dead already.  From the smell of things I think your parents had him stuffed and filled with robotics to make it look and sound like he's still alive." he asked.

After the aired had cleared a bit, he got back in the car and finished eating.  With his lunch break over, he leaned over to give me a kiss before he got out of the car.  The dog gave him one last parting shot with a particularly gross cough as he simultaneously passed gas.

"Dear lord!  I can actually taste that one!" he yelled as he scrambled for the door handle.

Laughing hysterically again, I called out to him "I don't think the dog likes you because you wouldn't share your fries........."

"I will make sure to buy him his own order next time so I can breathe." he said.

After I got home and settled for the night, my sweet little dog snuggled up next to me, just like when I was younger.  About that is when I had a realization: the dog had not coughed or passed gas once since my boyfriend got out of the car.  With that I laughed myself to sleep.

Pepi may have been too old to back full grown man up in a corner in a show of protection, but he figured out a way to get him out of the car faster than a speeding bullet.  He was one very cool dog and friend.

The Battle of the Bulge

A few months ago I went to the doctor for a physical.  I put as much thought and preparation into this appointment as I did for a family vacation.  Just like for our vacations, a couple of weeks beforehand, I started going through my wardrobe to find the perfect outfit.  I was positive that the right clothing choice would start this visit off on the right foot.

My nemesis

The perfect clothing items were not chosen for design, color, fit, or which accessories could be worn with them. No, function far outweighed form for this visit.  This was important and I knew I had to make a strong impression.

When the day of my appointment arrived, I dressed with great attention to detail.  My appearance had been carefully planned down to the most finite detail.

As the nurse called me back, I went through the checklist in my head to make sure I hadn't missed anything:

Lightest weight clothing - check.
Remove all undergarments - check.
No unnecessary use of hair products or makeup - check.
All rings and necklaces removed - check.
Bathroom - check.
Slip off shoes - check.
No food or water consumed since the night before - check.

And with all of the items on my list checked off, I stepped on
the doctor's scale.............. and had lost precisely 1 pound since last year. 

"I did it!" I exclaimed.

With a raised eyebrow, the nurse led me to an exam room while I thanked everyone who helped me achieve this great and wondrous accomplishment.  My victory speech was so poignant, it was worthy of an Academy Award.

I was sitting on the doctor's examining table when she came in.  I held my breath as she perused the vital statistics the nurse had written down.  Anxiously I waited for the pat on the back and exclamations of a job well done.

She looked up from the paperwork, "Last year we discussed your weight and why it's important for you to lose 15 pounds."

I smiled broadly as I replied "Yes!  And look! I lost 1 pound!"

With a look of disapproval she said "Last year you wore sweats.  This year you have on a bikini.  The only thing you lost was some cotton fiber.  Have you been exercising?".

"Does walking to the refrigerator and pantry count? I have walked through the grocery store!" I offered.

"The refrigerator and pantry only count if you didn't get anything out to eat.  How many days a week did you walk through the grocery store?  Was it a grocery 'super store' or a 7-eleven?" she replied.

She knew me too well.  "Does walking to get the newspaper count?" I questioned.
"Is it in your driveway?", she asked.
"Yes." I replied.
"No." she said.

"I have to take the dog out several times a day." I offered.
"Do you take the dog for a walk or just open the back door to the house and let it out?", she queried.

"Hmmm...... I thought about swimming laps at the natatorium." I said.
"How many laps did you swim?" she asked.

"Ummm........ what about chewing?  Chewing uses muscles so shouldn't that count as exercise?" I replied.

The doctor handed me a packet of information on calorie counting, a list of websites for reduced calorie recipes, a food pyramid chart, and another chart which listed how many calories are burned doing different forms of exercise.

"Pick from the activities and do it 5 days a week. You need to lose 15 real pounds by your next yearly physical." she ordered.

After looking at the list of exercises and the short list of edible foods on the diet, maybe for my next physical I'll cut my hair short and see if that will help me lose some real pounds.

Written by Christie Bielss

Then and Now

Sitting on the sofa one night, I looked back at the day I'd just had versus the life my husband and I led before having children.  Our life before kids was filled with fun parties, I could shop with my girlfriends all day with no problem, saw movies on opening day, had romantic dinners with candle light and table cloths, was able to accomplish the things on my "to do" list in one day, spent all day reading a book cover-to-cover without interruption, and indulged myself in mani/pedis, facials, massages, and long soaks in the bathtub with my favorite scented candles.

Before kids, sort of.  I was pregnant in this photo

Those were the days when I vacuumed the house and it stayed clean for an entire week.  Picking up the house simply meant putting my husband's shoes in the closet.  Doing laundry was accomplished in just a few hours from start to finish.

Not much has changed since we've had children.  We still go to parties, they just happen to have a Disney character as the theme and doing the limbo requires you beginning on your knees due to the pint-sized holders of the limbo bar.

I still go shopping all day, grocery shopping that is.  That's because it takes hitting three grocery stores to find the one package of my children's favorite flavored snack crackers.  With those crackers on-hand, the earth can continue to spin.

We see movies on opening day, the opening day they come out on DVD.

Romantic dinners are meals where no one spills their milk, drops their plate of food on the floor, or passes gas.

If I'm able to accomplish one thing on my "to do" list, then I consider that a successful day.  If I can accomplish two things on my "to do" list, I feel like I am the queen of organization.  If I can accomplish three or more things on that blasted "to do" list....... who am I kidding? That never happens.

I still read lots of books.  Though these days, instead of reading a romantic comedy to myself, my daughter reads "Dork Diaries" or "Diary of a Wimpy Kid" out loud to me.

Long soaks in the bathtub have changed a bit.  They usually begin with me submerging my arms in my son's fish tank to scrape the algae from the tank's walls and end with vacuuming the uneaten fish food and scum from the decorative rocks on the bottom.  Not quite as relaxing but at least the fish tank has a heater to keep the water at a comfortable temperature.

Yes, I still get mani/pedis. They are happily performed by both of my children.  The nail polish may cover my fingers or toes halfway to my knuckles and each one may be a different color, but I am pampered in a way that can only come from the heart.

We only bought 1 pair of purple socks and we are up to a pair and a half

Laundry, however, has become my nemesis.  I am pretty sure when my kids throw their dirty clothes in the hamper, the clothing breeds.  This was confirmed the other day when my daughter was putting her freshly laundered clothes in the closet and exclaimed "Mom?  I don't remember these jeans.  Where did they come from?".  I'm pretty sure this out-of-control breeding situation began when we started pairing up the socks to keep them from getting eaten by the dryer........

Looking back, yes, life is far different than it was years ago.  And yet I wouldn't change a thing........... ok, maybe I'd change pairing the socks up in the hamper.

Worst haircut of my life but I still love this photo

Written by Christie Bielss