Growing up as the youngest of five kids, funny was the only way to survive.
As the baby and the youngest girl, I was constantly scheming with my family members on pranks we would pull on each other.
There was the puppy chow in the cereal trick – hidden secretly beneath the Cheerios. Or the flour bowl perched over the door – messy but good. My personal favorite was the ice cold pitcher of water tossed on whoever happened to be showering at the moment. Naked and screaming – the victim could never retaliate, making it the best prank of all.
I think my family loved huckstering tricks on each other because we had nothing better to do with our time. We had no computers or VCRs. We didn’t even have cable in those days – our small Midwestern town was lucky enough to get three channels of TV, four if you count UHF, which didn’t really get any shows anyways.
Those were the days where we would spend hours at the park (by ourselves), built forts in the backyard and rode bikes endlessly up and down main street. We lived on a lake and would sometimes take our small rowboat out to a nearby island or explore the secret cemetery directly across from it. I can recall entire afternoons doing nothing at all but skipping rocks, pulling apart cattails, and collecting piles of snapdragons. I guess that’s why we loved pranks – it was pure, simple fun that we could invent ourselves.
We were the typical small town family where there was literally nothing to do but watch the grass grow. In desperation for fun, I can actually remember making up entire songs out of the contents of the bathroom cupboards. I would hum a little ditty called “Lysol, Listermint, Dial, Shout!” until my family would beg me to stop. I wish I was making this up.
That’s what got me started on dumb jokes. As another way to pass the time, we would make up jokes filled with ridiculous nonsense. I loved making up my own funnies with punchlines that sometimes made sense and often times would not. We would tell jokes late into the night where we made popcorn the real way, with Jiffy Pop from a long handled popcorn popper over a fire. Telling jokes wasn’t to be funny, it was something to fill the endless spaces of boredom in our lives.
Now I recycle jokes from my childhood by sharing them with my six year-old son. Every day he insists that a joke is put on a post-it note in his lunch for school. I oblige because I desperately want him to appreciate the plain funny things in life. To know that everything doesn’t have to be loaded with graphics, music, technology and pizzazz to be great. Some things are sweet and funny all by themselves.
Dumb jokes have a simple, easy humor about them that I adore. They don’t require any sort of high-minded intellect or even much thinking at all. They are a great equalizer of people – no matter whether they come from the Ivy League or a small farm town. If they are 6 or 60 years old, everyone appreciates a good joke that is meant solely for delight.
The thing that I like best is that jokes remind me of the days when we had to invent our own fun. Where we couldn’t simply look up a website for a thought, we had to actually create it. All we had was our imagination and endless hours to fill.
Despite the fact that I am now past pulling pranks on my family members – sometimes I still can’t resist a good trick. My childish dark ways come out at inappropriate times – like cocktail parties. I cannot resist a friend’s purse sitting innocently by itself at a table. While the unsuspecting gal is off filling her plate at the buffet, I load it up with silverware, salt and pepper shakers and whatever else I can find. Girlfriends have discovered entire menus and vases (depending on the purse) after an evening out with me. I hug them goodbye with my wicked smile and they wonder curiously how their purse got so much heavier than they remember. The pure pleasure of a good practical joke is a sweet devilish thing.
Funny started for me as a way to get through my childhood. And now I find it as the best way to keep that spirit of youthful joy alive. With this child-like notion, I wonder if perhaps one of the most treasured parts of life might be a dumb joke and a deep belly laugh.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Monday, April 7, 2008
One Wild and Precious Life
My writing coach recently shared a poem by Mary Oliver called "The Summer Day."
Wait, "my writing coach" -- I love saying that. I love saying it because it means I'm writing and by the very action statement of it makes me, uh huh, a writer. Okay, I digress.
Back to "The Summer Day" -- I have been playing around with this neat book about summer idea and she shared this lovely poem with me in that same notion. The very best part of the poem and not to spoil the ending, but Mary asks "what is your plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"
I love that. Wild and precious. I love the fact that my (yes MY) life could be WILD and PRECIOUS. It's a daunting and delicious question that I want to dive down deep into and ponder for days at a time.
That line says to me -- hey! it's not too late. You can still savor up your dreams, you can still do anything you want. You haven't missed it, yet. If I were to get into Mary Oliver's head, I'm wondering if she was trying to encourage her readers to know that your life is like a summer day. It's gorgeous and wild and precious and right now. So chop chop, get to it!
Here it is for your own personal thinking and pondering...
The Summer Day
By Mary Oliver
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
Wait, "my writing coach" -- I love saying that. I love saying it because it means I'm writing and by the very action statement of it makes me, uh huh, a writer. Okay, I digress.
Back to "The Summer Day" -- I have been playing around with this neat book about summer idea and she shared this lovely poem with me in that same notion. The very best part of the poem and not to spoil the ending, but Mary asks "what is your plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"
I love that. Wild and precious. I love the fact that my (yes MY) life could be WILD and PRECIOUS. It's a daunting and delicious question that I want to dive down deep into and ponder for days at a time.
That line says to me -- hey! it's not too late. You can still savor up your dreams, you can still do anything you want. You haven't missed it, yet. If I were to get into Mary Oliver's head, I'm wondering if she was trying to encourage her readers to know that your life is like a summer day. It's gorgeous and wild and precious and right now. So chop chop, get to it!
Here it is for your own personal thinking and pondering...
The Summer Day
By Mary Oliver
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Re-Thinking Me
Do you ever keep doing things the same way even though you have no idea why?
I had this realization recently about my son. Every day I pick out his clothes and lay them out on what I call the "road map." It's basically a fun trail of clothes for him to follow to make getting dressed fun. I called it that when he was 3 years old to make it a game. The problem is he's now 6, almost seven. He knows how to get dressed.
Today I asked him if he wanted to pick out his own clothes. He immediately said no. Sensing his underlying fear of the unknown -- I then reviewed the process of where the pants are, where the shirts are and how to make stylish choices. Then he immediately said "Mom, can I pick out my own clothes?" almost as if it was his idea in the first place. But of course.
This mommy has been a bit on auto-pilot. Doing the same things over and over, even though they make no sense, even though my son can do many of these things on his own perfectly well and without me. Ouch. Maybe that's why change is hard -- having to admit he needs me a bit less each day.
Last night he cooked for me and we made Thai Stir Fry -- I'm not sure if Thai people actually use woks, but my son was so fascinated by the cool cooking equipment and stirring up everything with his wok tools that we went with it.
Picking out your own clothes yesterday, making Thai food today -- what will he learn to do on his own tomorrow...I guess we'll have to wait and see.
I had this realization recently about my son. Every day I pick out his clothes and lay them out on what I call the "road map." It's basically a fun trail of clothes for him to follow to make getting dressed fun. I called it that when he was 3 years old to make it a game. The problem is he's now 6, almost seven. He knows how to get dressed.
Today I asked him if he wanted to pick out his own clothes. He immediately said no. Sensing his underlying fear of the unknown -- I then reviewed the process of where the pants are, where the shirts are and how to make stylish choices. Then he immediately said "Mom, can I pick out my own clothes?" almost as if it was his idea in the first place. But of course.
This mommy has been a bit on auto-pilot. Doing the same things over and over, even though they make no sense, even though my son can do many of these things on his own perfectly well and without me. Ouch. Maybe that's why change is hard -- having to admit he needs me a bit less each day.
Last night he cooked for me and we made Thai Stir Fry -- I'm not sure if Thai people actually use woks, but my son was so fascinated by the cool cooking equipment and stirring up everything with his wok tools that we went with it.
Picking out your own clothes yesterday, making Thai food today -- what will he learn to do on his own tomorrow...I guess we'll have to wait and see.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
The Smell of Grass
What does grass smell like?
I'm not talking about the smell of freshly cut lawns, or happening to drive by and getting a casual whiff of that green tangy smell. I'm talking about nose in the earth, fully body face down in the green stuff.
Recently, I was doing something that required me to lay face down in the grass. I forgot my mat for stretching, I didn't have a picnic blanket, towel, chair, nothing. There I was, face planted in the grass, body stretched out, tummy side down.
I started laughing at the idea of it -- it had been a long long time ago that I actually layed in the grass. Usually if I am in the grass, it has to be with 15 modern day conveniences like a lawn chair, a sheet, a blanket on top of that, bug spray, wipes, etc. None of that was in play and it was wonderful.
I was instantly transported back to the days of college when we didn't travel around with gobs of gear for safety and hygiene purposes. If it was a nice day, we plunked ourselves down on the spot. We made out in the grass, we ate our lunch in the grass. Backpacks tucked behind our head for support, the grassy lawns of my college campus were perfect places to stretch out in between classes, get a tan, smooch with a boyfriend or savor life on a sunny day. Grassy was good.
With warm weather here, the grass is looking that fresh color of baby green. So the next time you see a lonely little patch, plant yourself in it and see what happens. You are guaranteed a trip to someplace else from a simpler time in your life.
Come on in, the grass is fine.
I'm not talking about the smell of freshly cut lawns, or happening to drive by and getting a casual whiff of that green tangy smell. I'm talking about nose in the earth, fully body face down in the green stuff.
Recently, I was doing something that required me to lay face down in the grass. I forgot my mat for stretching, I didn't have a picnic blanket, towel, chair, nothing. There I was, face planted in the grass, body stretched out, tummy side down.
I started laughing at the idea of it -- it had been a long long time ago that I actually layed in the grass. Usually if I am in the grass, it has to be with 15 modern day conveniences like a lawn chair, a sheet, a blanket on top of that, bug spray, wipes, etc. None of that was in play and it was wonderful.
I was instantly transported back to the days of college when we didn't travel around with gobs of gear for safety and hygiene purposes. If it was a nice day, we plunked ourselves down on the spot. We made out in the grass, we ate our lunch in the grass. Backpacks tucked behind our head for support, the grassy lawns of my college campus were perfect places to stretch out in between classes, get a tan, smooch with a boyfriend or savor life on a sunny day. Grassy was good.
With warm weather here, the grass is looking that fresh color of baby green. So the next time you see a lonely little patch, plant yourself in it and see what happens. You are guaranteed a trip to someplace else from a simpler time in your life.
Come on in, the grass is fine.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
You Never Know
Sometimes writing feels like tossing a pebble into a pond.
Instantly gratifying with the good flip of the arm and the all-satisfying "plunk" as it lands in the water. Watching the ripples even provides curious interest to see how long it takes for the ripples to reach the shore.
Writing is like that for me. I love the thrill of creating something that I conjured up. The twinkle of an idea, the laying it down on paper. The toe-curling feeling of having it done and hitting the send button on your e-mail. Then waiting with heartfelt anticipation of having the ripples come back to you with good news.
Only sometimes it takes forever for the ripples to come back. Or sometimes not at all. Usually in unexpected ways.
Last fall, I wrote an article for a network of websites for mommies. They were nice enough to say, thanks and we'll put it in our database of articles. Pretty soon I found it on one local website, then another, then yet another. Today I found it on a website in Hawaii. The ripples keep coming.
And the article wasn't earth-shattering -- it was about ending the morning crazy time. You can see it at www.honolulumommies.com. But it was a pebble that people liked and I love to see how it keeps showing up in unexected ways. You never know.
Instantly gratifying with the good flip of the arm and the all-satisfying "plunk" as it lands in the water. Watching the ripples even provides curious interest to see how long it takes for the ripples to reach the shore.
Writing is like that for me. I love the thrill of creating something that I conjured up. The twinkle of an idea, the laying it down on paper. The toe-curling feeling of having it done and hitting the send button on your e-mail. Then waiting with heartfelt anticipation of having the ripples come back to you with good news.
Only sometimes it takes forever for the ripples to come back. Or sometimes not at all. Usually in unexpected ways.
Last fall, I wrote an article for a network of websites for mommies. They were nice enough to say, thanks and we'll put it in our database of articles. Pretty soon I found it on one local website, then another, then yet another. Today I found it on a website in Hawaii. The ripples keep coming.
And the article wasn't earth-shattering -- it was about ending the morning crazy time. You can see it at www.honolulumommies.com. But it was a pebble that people liked and I love to see how it keeps showing up in unexected ways. You never know.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Un-Inspiration
I am feeling un-inspired lately.
If I could describe my mental state it would be gray, blobular cardboard. My head feels like its have been transformed into an accountant brain, looking at numbers all day and feeling overwhelmed at the thought of picking up a sock.
I can't blame it on the weather -- it's been gorgeous 60 and 70 degree weather here every day. I can't blame it on my spouse, my dog or my health or anything else. It is just me, feeling un-inspired.
I know mostly it's because I have been really productive with my writing and really productive with receiving rejection letters. Nothing deflates my energy like a good rejection or two. I morph into that familiar awkward feeling of being in high school and the dorky girl who hopes someone will like her. But they don't.
When I am struggling, it feels like everyone is getting along great in the world, except me. Have you ever felt like that? Like everyone is living a fabulous life, wildly successful at their job, having deeper and more meaningful experiences every day -- and then there's me -- getting rejection letters all day long.
I guess the best way to work out of un-inspired is to surround yourself in change. I picked myself up from my desk in the darkest part of the house and moved outside. So as I write this, I sit with bare feet on the deck in a shorts and a t-shirt. My hope is that I will be transformed by new surroundings.
Who knows if it will inspire me...at least I am surrounded by beauty instead of darkness.
If I could describe my mental state it would be gray, blobular cardboard. My head feels like its have been transformed into an accountant brain, looking at numbers all day and feeling overwhelmed at the thought of picking up a sock.
I can't blame it on the weather -- it's been gorgeous 60 and 70 degree weather here every day. I can't blame it on my spouse, my dog or my health or anything else. It is just me, feeling un-inspired.
I know mostly it's because I have been really productive with my writing and really productive with receiving rejection letters. Nothing deflates my energy like a good rejection or two. I morph into that familiar awkward feeling of being in high school and the dorky girl who hopes someone will like her. But they don't.
When I am struggling, it feels like everyone is getting along great in the world, except me. Have you ever felt like that? Like everyone is living a fabulous life, wildly successful at their job, having deeper and more meaningful experiences every day -- and then there's me -- getting rejection letters all day long.
I guess the best way to work out of un-inspired is to surround yourself in change. I picked myself up from my desk in the darkest part of the house and moved outside. So as I write this, I sit with bare feet on the deck in a shorts and a t-shirt. My hope is that I will be transformed by new surroundings.
Who knows if it will inspire me...at least I am surrounded by beauty instead of darkness.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Making Jesus Smile
It was an ordinary Tuesday, that ended in a not-so-ordinary way.
I was tucking my 6 year old son in as usual. We read our three books, we said our prayers. I said goodnight to him, he said goodnight to me. I usually like to lay there with him for a few minutes and rub his back to help him relax and smooth the way to dreamland. We were silent for about five minutes. I thought I was done with my mommy-ness and was enjoying the relaxing moment before I headed down to clean up the kitchen.
Out of the dark silence came "mom, what does acting with character mean?"
Time to put my game face back on.
When a six year old asks you this sort of question, this is the time to not screw it up. I felt like I was on one of those game shows where it is absolutely important for me to get it right. I paused to gather my thoughts, usually asking more questions to buy some time.
"Where did you learn about that?"
"I don't know" he said, usually to mean he didn't want to tell me in case it was a bad thing.
Then I proceeded to put together my best response I could gather. I flustered my way through examples of when someone hurts you on the playground or cuts in front of you in line, how to choose the high road. But I gave him my failsafe test of acting with character -- asking if what you are doing makes your mom and dad smile. And also if it makes God smile.
I borrowed that one from his teacher. It was so good that I thought I would recycle it. When given the rare special day at his Christian school to wear their favorite out of dress code clothes, the teacher's only rule is that their outfit has to "make Jesus smile." I think that's a pretty good test for acting with character and just about everything else in life.
I hope my son got it. He said he understood. I felt like I wanted to keep talking and talking to make sure he got my point. But my son prompted, "mom, I got it. Can I go to sleep now?"
I lay there next to him five minutes more enjoying this rare proud moment when my son asked a good life stuff question. Even better, I was basking in the fact that I actually had a great answer.
I was tucking my 6 year old son in as usual. We read our three books, we said our prayers. I said goodnight to him, he said goodnight to me. I usually like to lay there with him for a few minutes and rub his back to help him relax and smooth the way to dreamland. We were silent for about five minutes. I thought I was done with my mommy-ness and was enjoying the relaxing moment before I headed down to clean up the kitchen.
Out of the dark silence came "mom, what does acting with character mean?"
Time to put my game face back on.
When a six year old asks you this sort of question, this is the time to not screw it up. I felt like I was on one of those game shows where it is absolutely important for me to get it right. I paused to gather my thoughts, usually asking more questions to buy some time.
"Where did you learn about that?"
"I don't know" he said, usually to mean he didn't want to tell me in case it was a bad thing.
Then I proceeded to put together my best response I could gather. I flustered my way through examples of when someone hurts you on the playground or cuts in front of you in line, how to choose the high road. But I gave him my failsafe test of acting with character -- asking if what you are doing makes your mom and dad smile. And also if it makes God smile.
I borrowed that one from his teacher. It was so good that I thought I would recycle it. When given the rare special day at his Christian school to wear their favorite out of dress code clothes, the teacher's only rule is that their outfit has to "make Jesus smile." I think that's a pretty good test for acting with character and just about everything else in life.
I hope my son got it. He said he understood. I felt like I wanted to keep talking and talking to make sure he got my point. But my son prompted, "mom, I got it. Can I go to sleep now?"
I lay there next to him five minutes more enjoying this rare proud moment when my son asked a good life stuff question. Even better, I was basking in the fact that I actually had a great answer.
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