I'm okay... really.

This morning I yelled at a computer...

Actually, SCREAMED(!) would be more like it...

And I learned something new. Apparently, my insurance company’s computer-aided answering device has been programmed to detect intense, rage-like anger.

Ha ha.

The story goes something like this.

We pay hundreds of dollars every-single-freaking-paycheck into an insurance plan. For our respectable purchase of their services, they cover a fraction of our medical expenses. For instance, we have an exorbitant $1,000 out of pocket co-pay for diagnostic testing, after which, they will cover 40% of the expense... as long as it is an "in-network" provider.

Crazy, yeah?

Another totally ridiculous rule our insurance carrier has is that, at the first of EVERY single year, we have to call them, or send in some other form of confirmation, stating that we aren't covered by any other additional insurance.

If we fail to do this in a timely manner (as in, say - January 2^nd), then they promptly reject any and all claims made to them. In short, they try to make it as difficult as possible to use the "product" that we've just purchased.

My husband has made 3 attempts since the first of the year to send them the electronic verification for which they’ve asked, but this year they've taken their obnoxiousness to an all new level by not acknowledging his emails.

Just to top off their atrociously awful service, instead of sending medical ID cards for each person in the family, they sent only 1(one) card for the entire family… which my husband promptly put into his pocket.

Wow. In any other industry, those sorts of practices combined would put the business under. However, in the insurance trade, they seem to feel it their right and responsibility to make it as difficult as possible for the common guy to reclaim even 1/20th of the product for which they have paid.

After receiving yet another unpaid billing notice, I got on the phone this morning and called the insurance so that I could work the problem out, civilly, with a real, live person.

Ring, ring, ring:

"Hello, you have reached blah, blah, blah..." the computerized voice tells me. "Please enter your identification number."

Unfortunately, I don't have the ID number, because they only sent out 1(one) card and it happens to be in my husband's wallet, in his pocket... out of state, in California. So, I tell the computer:

"Operator".

This magical word is a cue to the computer that I need something other than what a computer can provide. It is supposed to patch me through to a real person.

Unfortunately, the computer wanted more information first.

"I understand that you want to speak to an assistant. Please state your identification number."

Sheesh, like I said, I don't have that information so, once again, I say:

"Operator".

The computer responds in kind:

"I understand that you want to speak to an assistant. Please state your identification number."

I figure the third time is a charm. Surely, it will realize that by three times, I need the help of a human, so once again I say those magic words:

"Operator".

"I understand that you want to speak to an assistant. Please state your identification number."

I’m starting to get mildly irritated.

"I don't have my number," I say. "Let me talk to an operator."

Apparently, the computer recognized the slightly elevated stress levels in my voice. It changed its voice recorded message ever so slightly.

"I understand that you want to speak to an assistant. Please state your identification number, so I can forward it to an assistant."

By this point, I'd had enough. I wasn’t really angry, but I was irritated enough to want to hang up. Figuring I’d get one up on the computer(and also figuring I couldn't hurt the feelings of a mere machine), I gathered all of the power in me, drew a breath, and SCREAMED into the phone, as LOUD as I could possibly manage:

"O P E R A T O R ! ! ! ! ! ! !"

It was loud enough that Kamaron - who was in the shower... upstairs...- turned off the water and asked if I was okay! The computer instantly, and humbly I might add, replied:

"May I transfer you to an assistant."

Amused by a different response, I maniacally screamed back:

"Y E E E E E E S S S S S S S !!!!!"

Apparently, it is also programed to identify Rage. I must take note of this for the future…

Almost immediately, I got an operator, who said:

“Don't get upset with me.”

Apparently, it also transfers voice recordings.

Ha ha ha!

Duly noted.

My Very Own "Costume Malfuntion".

We all remember it, right... Super Bowl XXXVIII half time. Honestly, I can't even remember who was playing in it that year, but I do remember that Justin Timberlake and Janet Jackson were the half time show.

At the end of their performance, JT reaches over and tears off a piece of JJ's costume, revealing (for about one nanosecond) a little "shield" of circling lights underneath her clothes... oh yeah, and over a certain part of her body not considered decent for showing on tv. Ahem... We'll leave it at that... mostly.

The "malfunction" which many people thought to be mostly in JJ & JT's brains, immediately resulted in a widespread debate called "Nipplegate". (Thank you Richard Nixon for providing the fodder for every future conspiracy since your wiretapping at the Watergate Hotel.)

Y'all know how this heavily debated issue turned out, right?

CBS was fined $550,000 for an indecency penalty (a veritable tap on the wrist for CBS), which they had the nerve to challenge since, apparently, there was this little clause in their contracts allowing for "fleeting indecency on the airwaves". They claimed that the wardrobe "malfunction" was "unintentional"... because, you know, Janet Jackson always just happens to wear flashing nipple rings under her clothes... because it makes her feel confident in public or something. It must be one of those: "Ha ha on you; I know something that you don't know!" sort of issues... (kind of like picturing your audience in their underwear so that they’re the ones who should be self-conscious and not you).

Eventually, (after paying court costs roughly ten thousand times the amount of the penalty) the entire fine was dismissed... But I digress!

So, today we had our first ever Stake Conference in our brand new stake building, which just happens to be in the proverbial shadow of our brand new Kansas City Temple! Are we excited about that?

Oh Yeah!

We arrived very early so that we could claim the best seats in the house (Um, that would be the ones at the extreme back of the gym up on the stage... right behind the curtain!). Being the mother in the family, that was the chair I set claim to... right behind the edge of the curtain.

I did this because I believe in setting a stellar good example for my children. Ahem…

So, we sat through half an hour of waiting for the meeting to begin and then the first half hour services for the building dedication, after which they, mercifully, let us stand up and stretch for 3 or 4 nanoseconds before starting the actual stake conference.

Now, anyone who knows me at all, knows that I can't sit still for more than about 5 minutes. I think I have adult onset ADHD or something. Maybe it's autism, or maybe I'm just mentally retarded, like my older brothers used to "affectionately" try to convince me during my tender growing up years.

Whatever the case, I can not sit still! Threaten me with death, go ahead, it doesn't matter. I will never be able to sit still. From their earliest days, little LDS children are taught to fold their arms and walk reverently in and out of church.

Pashaw! I don't think so! I've always encourage my children to skip merrily through the halls of church, mainly because it gives me the excuse of running after them, looking as though I'm sort of, kind of, at least trying to slow them down.

Sitting still just isn't one of my talents.

I do, however, have a few tricks up my sleeve to help out with the incessant wiggling and constant struggle of trying not to stand up in church and start jumping over the benches, yelling “yee haw!”

These tricks generally involve crossword puzzles or a book of Sudoku. I don't care if anyone really believes it or not, but it does actually help me to sit – relatively - still... and even listen (the mission prez and stake prez's talks were my favorites).

So, after THREE SOLID HOURS of torturous sitting up on the stage, not even mildly trying to hide my book of crossword puzzles... or my new phone which has these utterly awesome Sudoku puzzles that light up in red if you get the number wrong, which is great... because if you just happen to be in the mood for a totally brain dead game, you can just go through each number on each empty square until you get it right...

Oh, but I digress, again...

So, after THREE SOLID HOURS of TORTUROUS sitting, I stood to leave, tugged on my dress to pull it into the general vicinity of where it should be and...

“Rrrrrriiiiiiiiiipppppp”!!!

Oh my gosh!

Yep, Janet Jackson style, my dress ripped open right across my chest, baring my white under glory for all to see.

Thankfully, I had a few more layers of clothing between the top of my "costume malfunction" and the bottom... and no, no flashing rings of light to draw attention to it. Not today anyway. Still, I was pretty horrified.

I showed it to Kam, trying to underscore the reasoning behind fleeing the premises as quickly as possible but, being the teenager he is, he wanted to stay and “socialize… just a little bit”.

“No. We need to leave, now.”

“Pahleeeeeaaaaazzzzzeeeee,” he pleads. “Just a teeny little bit?” [holds up fingers with three eighths inch of space between them, hopeful smile spread across his face].

“No; um… in case you didn’t notice, my dress is all ripped. I’m kind of exposed here. We need to go, now!”

“Pahllleeeeeaaaaazzzzzeeeee,” he pleads again.

Oh geeze, I swear, I’m the words easiest pushover.

“Fine! ONE minute and no more.”

There was nothing left to do. My body shield was insisting on flirting with the girls instead of hiding my shame, and I still had to make it out to the truck.

So, I did something I don’t think I’ve ever done in my entire life…

There, in the shadow of the new temple spires, I folded my arms across my chest and walked “reverently” out of church.

My bishop would have been so proud.

And that, my friends, is the story of my very own Sabbath “costume malfunction”.

And the demise of my second favorite dress… which bit the dust just months after my first favorite dress.

Why do the best clothes have to wear out? Blast! I just don't get it. I only had that dress for maybe ten years... that's all... well, maybe twelve... but no more. Sheesh!

Lacey things!

My mother got married in the 1940's and had this incredible wedding gown made out of hand embroidered lace, a satin underdress and a pair of matching lace fingerless gloves with a dozen satin buttons running down the back side of them. *Sigh* Beautiful.

She said that as soon as she saw the material in the store, she immediately knew it was what she wanted... and no wonder. This dress is AMAZING! Soon, my grandmother was sewing away, shaping that amazing lace into a gorgeous Victorian wedding dress.

But that was nearly 70 years ago... and this dress has had a LOT of mileage put on it.

2 years after mom's wedding, Aunt Marian wore the dress to marry Uncle Jack. It looked LOVELY on her as well.

Some years later, I saw the dress and fell in love with it, wanting to wear it for my wedding. The only problem was that I stood nearly half a foot taller than my mother and easily 30 lbs heavier. I tried to starve myself several times, hoping to fit into that beautiful thing.

At one point, it worked! I weighed less than my dear petite mother, but even then, at 123 lbs, my shoulders and bust still wouldn't fit into the dress. Though I tried... HARD... I could never get all of the 30+ satin buttons attached across the back span of my shoulder blades. Grrr!

Maybe if I starved myself to 110 it would work!

Or not...

I forgot that, while the bottom of the back had lots of sweeping lace and satin to spare in its train, the front hit somewhere well above my ankles... barefooted. No matter how hard I tried, the dress was just never going to fit me!

Wah!

All through my young adult years, I hung that dress on my wall and admired it. Unfortunately, my body never shrunk to it's size...

So, it was used for school plays and put through the wringer of abuse. Still, I remained in love with it. When my mom retired from teaching, she gave it to me!! I'm not sure why, but I didn't stop to ask any questions. I repaired the gaping holes in it (thank you school plays) and lovingly re-hung it on my wall where I could ogle at and admire it... thinking that maybe, just MAYBE, I could fit in it if I were resurrected.

Nah... I keep forgetting about the height thing.

In 1988 I got a phone call from my mom. Did I still have the dress [duh, of course] because my sister wanted to wear it for her wedding. Dang! Why was it that everyone else was going to get to wear this dress but me? I made a new satin under dress for it, fitted it to my sister and she was a glowing bride in the most beautiful wedding dress in the world.

I selfishly recovered the dress after the wedding (well, it WAS my dress still) and took it home, hanging it up, once again, to admire in all its frilly beauty.

So PRETTY! *sigh*

In 1989 I began photographing models in it and drawing the pictures into Victorian note cards. They were pretty, and at least someone was wearing my beautiful lace dress. Then in 1997, while working with the young women, we made a deal with the girls that as soon as they finished their personal progress, we would do Victorian Photo sessions. Talk about motivation!

I had several costumes for it, including my own wedding dress, but those whom God had blessed with a naturally petite body got the added bonus of posing in the lace dress.

Wow. Some of them were stunning!

In 2000 we held a road show in our ward. Not only was I involved in writing and producing it, I was also in charge of furnishing all the costumes for our cast of 75+ people! Fortunately, it was a Victorian theme ["Hey, if we write it in a Victorian theme then I already have several costumes, blah blah blah..."].

I did too. I had probably 4 or 5 entire costumes.

I think our costume budget was $75, so I started buying striped sheets and collecting old church shirts and pulled out my trusty sewing machine. There was talk that our costumes were too spectacular (we won best costume!), that there was no way we had stayed within budget, but it wasn't true. We actually had money left over. Sheets go a LONG way! They were amazing... if I may say so myself. Ahem...

Front and center in the production was the lace wedding dress, lace gloves and a lace parasol on yet another beauty that God had blessed with a tiny and petite frame.

Unfortunately, the dress didn't fare so well this time and sustained several gaping tears. But that wasn't the end...

I used it on a model for a series of "Victorian Days of the Week" cards, showing a card for "Wash Day", "Baking Day", "Sewing Day", "Market Day" and so forth. That was a fun project!

In between all of these uses, the dress has hung on my wall, where I could continuously look at it and dream that someday, I will magically shrink in all directions so as to fit into the beautiful lace gown... complete with amazing lace gloves!

Lately, it has really starting to show its age and this past week I decided that it was time to take it off the wall, ever so gently wash it once again and then begin the arduous task of sewing up all those holes. They ranged in size from 1/8 of an inch to gaping disasters of 10" or more in all directions.

I'm here to tell you that repairing antique lace is a very time consuming thing. Often I had to remake the very lace itself with my needle and thread. However, tonight I finished it! And it is beautiful once again.

Perhaps its greatest mission is still ahead...

This past week, Savannah photographed a new model who was accepted by my publisher to represent "Hannah" on my new book covers! [Yay! No more evil looking lady!]. It was a mad dash to get the pictures taken, edited and submitted all in time (with plenty of frustration that my costumes were all here, 1,000 miles away from the project).

The book goes to press on October 11th and the cover designer still needed time to figure out her part of the artwork, but by some very great miracle, it all came together and happened.

I was overjoyed!

Then I realized...

In 3 months, the cover for volume 2 goes to press!

Our Hannah model is very thin and petite... and we actually have time to get model and costumes into the same place as the camera.

Voila!

In the end, we will be able to immortalize my beautiful lace dress on the very front cover of a book... my book even! And that was almost as good as wearing it myself... almost.

I think this will be the final mission of my beautiful Victorian dress. I may even retire it to the realms of my cedar hope chest. Maybe one of my granddaughters will be petite enough to wear it one day... (not likely; they're all in the 99th% of height and weight for their age...) or maybe they'll marry someone small and one of their daughters can wear it... or maybe one of my kids will have a genetic throwback someday... something along the size of my mother.

Somewhere, someday, in another world and lifetime... I'm certain that I will wear it too... with 6 more inches of embroidered lace magically and seamlessly added to the bottom.

And the world will then be a perfect place!

My Many Hats

Everyone knows that mom's wear many different hats. I'm not much of an exception, except that perhaps a couple of them are less conventional.

For instance, today I took my author hat off and put my farmer hat on... quite literally. I parked the truck under the biggest maple tree in the front yard where, despite the 88 degrees outside, it was nice and cool, with a pleasant north east breeze wafting over the farm.

Here in the glorious comfort of that awesome shade, Kamaron and I mixed 400 lbs of grass seed together, a little at a time, and loaded it all into 3 large barrels. We had 150 lbs of Brome, 150 lbs of Bluegrass (my personal favorite) and 100 lbs of Timothy. It was a lovely mix.

Finally, we hitched the spreader to the truck and drove around and around and around the pastures, spreading all that wonderful (and very expensive) seed where it will grow into more lovely hay for next year's harvest.

After that, I put on my "Molly Mormon/Susie Homemaker/Little Red Hen hat and went to the poultry yard to check out all the pears that blew off the tree last night in that amazing storm. As I stood there contemplating what to do with all that fruit (200+ pears) half of me considered picking them all up, taking them to the kitchen and spending the rest of the night peeling, coring and canning them for the winter.

The other half of me, won out. I walked to the chicken pen and let ALL of the chickens out to feast on them, then (realizing they could never finish such a meal) I called all the horses in from the back pasture and turned them loose on the windfalls as well.

I never saw horses slobber so much in my life!

Figuring that 5 minutes of this drool fest was probably more than enough for their good health, I then put on my Annie Oakley hat and chased them all away from the tree and back into the yard... NOT an easy task... where they re-commenced mowing the lawn for me.

My life is so tough!

Anyway, after that, I put my Author hat back on and printed out the latest chapter I'm working on, then I put my Photographer hat on, edited some pictures of Sophie and printed them out for extra pages in my journal because, face it, they will never make journals with enough pages in them!

There are always way too many interesting things going on in life to write about. I can't understand people who feel they never have anything to write about in their journal.

My husband falls into this category. I bought him a journal somewhere around 1990 and dated it from 1990 to the Millennium. It was a mistake, though, as I’ve since realized it will last far longer than that.

Thinking of things to write about is never a problem for me. Heck, if there's nothing exciting enough to write about, then it's time to make something exciting. Journals are just a good time and I love writing in mine.

Let's see... other hats. There is the Chef hat... and I did cook a couple of times this week, at least 3, in fact... 4, if you count clear back to last Saturday!

Then there's my "Nervous Nellie" hat, which I wore during 3 anxious bouts of insomnia over the past few days.

There's my Teacher hat, which I've worn for 23 years now... going on 24… if Kamaron doesn't finish his last three high school courses soon.

Oh, and I can't forget my Patient Mother hat. I wore this like a badge of courage yesterday when Barry took out the paddock gate with the front loader on the John Deere. It would have been more tragic, except that he was able to fix it... except for the loose gate post... and the hole in the pipe of my semi-new gate. All was forgiven however, being that he was moving bales for me... and because he completely missed the truck! Go Barry!

There was my Agri-Business Manager hat I had to wear this week, as I compared crop prices, negotiated hay deals and stuck to my guns over land lease debates.

I still have a lot of other hats: The Nursery Leader hat, the Musician hat, the Artist hat, and the ever important Ice Cream Police hat, etc...

They are all a part of my life... and all of which I'm happy to wear!

Usually.

Clearly, you've been misled...

Today I posted on my facebook status that I have the most adorable granddaughters in the world. After this declaration, several people posted back, begging to differ.

Seriously though, it's true.

Case in point.

Today, despite staying up WAY too late into the wee hours of the morning last night, then hearing said adorable grandchildren running around the house, long before I was truly rested, I utterly couldn't resist DRAGGING myself out of the sack, CRAWLING down the stairs and shaking myself from a catatonic state, just to see their beautiful and cherubic little faces.

I was immediately greeted with an enthusiastic: "NANA!!!" from Sophie!

Her face bathed in a euphoric smile, she ran to me, jumped into my arms, threw her arms around my shoulders and gave me the toddler version of a death squeeze of love!

Honestly, WHO can resist such a thing?

Surely, not me.

Most of the day long she followed me around, hoping to be carried here and there... and for that matter, everywhere... all the while, I marvel at her innocent love. She couldn't care less that I might be a flawed human being.

At times, she takes my face into her hands and looks deep into my soul with those incredible Gerber baby eyes.

Blink.

Blink.

Smile.

Blink.

Wow!

Despite my utter exhaustion by the end of the day... I find myself behaving like a helpless slave, reading the same books over and over and over again, smothering her face in kisses, and taking her (on my hip) where ever she wants to go.

We swing on the tree swing.

We feed bread to the chickens...

and carrots to the horses...

and milk to the kitties.

We rock in the hammock.

We splash in the whirlpool.

We clap and cheer together.

Which brings up another point.

Is there anything more precious than the look on a toddler's face when they've learned something new for the first time?

I clap for her and say: "Yay, Sophie!"

She looks at me with those giant eyes and that cupid smile, claps and says: "Yay, Nana!"

Oh my gosh!

Irresistible!!!

So, despite what anyone else thinks, I know it is true. I have the cutest grandchildren in the world, in the universe... even to infinity... and BEYOND!

Almost nothing can compare to their little angel kisses, the happy joy on their faces, the sound of their laughter and the innocence of their wonder!

Once again, I feel an incredible sensation, one that I have missed for so long.

It starts like a little whisper of joy and quickly increases in intensity to a sublime and perfect euphoria.

Brief as it may be, I feel as though I am once again the center of a little person's universe, and they are the center of mine.

It may only last a few days during their all too short and fleeting visits but...

It is always AWESOME!!!

*Sigh*

At the end of the day, they reluctantly go to sleep with tears and tantrums (...I let their parents deal with this), after which I crawl back to my beautiful, soft and lovely bed... where I drop off... into a deep coma... and dream happy dreams until the next day...

when we start it all over again.

And life is, once again, grand.

It's a Blinking Cursor sort of day

Blink... blink... blink...

I have 2 days to finish my book, and my mind is a wall. It seems all I can do is stare at that little cursor blinking on my lonely, half empty page and wonder where my imagination has gone.

I really have no excuses.

I've already eaten a package of fruit snacks, avacado toast, a ripe apricot and an entire bowl of chocolate covered popcorn... all in a vain attempt to summon enough endorphins to get my creativity functioning.

Alas, it hasn't worked.

Gone are the days when I truly had an excuse… four little children, constantly interrupting and wanting my attention, as I tried to finish yet another book, attempting to meet the publisher's onerous deadline.

Back then, to even make such an attempt, I had to be thoroughly prepared, trying to make "writing days" a thing that my children would look forward to.

Ha!

The very memory makes me smile at the absurdity of such an idea.

It went something like this:

1.) Drive 20 miles to the store and buy the most tempting looking frozen kids meals I can find... times that by 4 and then by as many days as I was planning to attempt to work.

2.) Next, stop by the junk food aisle and stock up on plenty of utterly unhealthy sugar treats in the form of cakes, fruit snacks, chocolate covered Ho-Hos and whatever else looks completely irresistible!

3.) After that, I hit the drink aisle and fill my cart with multiple boxes of Carpis Suns in whatever flavors my darling children chose.

At this point, their eyes are popping out of their heads in delight. They join arms and sing songs of supreme joy as they skip all the way to the check-out stand, cheerfully helping me load the coveted goods into the car.

4.) Finally, we stop by the video store where I'd let my adorable offspring check out no less than 8 - 10 movies of their own choosing.

All of this results in the desired outcome that they are deliriously happy with the prospect that Mommy is going to have a writing day!!!

We had this agreement, my children and I, that if they would let me write, then I would let them eat fat, sugar and gooey preservative cakes, watching tv until their brains turned to mush or they went into corn syrup induced comas, or went crazy and ate each other… as long as they did it quietly, it was all good!

Only it never quite worked out the way I had planned.

Oh, they LOVED all the crazy TV dinners AND the movies AND the snack cakes, and gobbled them up… happily so. That part was never a problem. The detail that never seemed to quite work out came afterward… as I was attempting to escape to a quiet corner within the house, protective ear-wear in place, trying my absolute best to block out whatever noises were raging on the tv, all in a very difficult effort to concentrate.

Any authors out there know that it takes some work to get into "the zone", that amazing place where the cursor no longer blinks on an empty page, but rather where the story has finally congealed in your mind and you are writing your heart out, as fast as your fingers can fly across the keys. It’s a magical place where you can laugh at your own jokes, unashamed, cry at the imagined tragedies you've written or smugly languish in pleasure at whatever clever plot twist you’ve dreamed up.

It's not really something you can just flip off and on. You're either in there, or you're not.

At my house, all those years ago, I would get my children settled, sneak upstairs to my room and almost make it into "the zone", before it would start... Not the writing... the other stuff.

"Mommy! Barry just pulled my hair!"

"Mommy! I have to go to the bathroom and Kamaron has the door locked!"

"Mommy! Clarke won't let me watch the movie I want!"

"Mommy! Savannah keeps tattling on me!"

"Mommy! The cat just barfed all over the couch!"

“Mommy, are you done yet?”

“Mommy! How much longer?”

“Mommy! Barry let the dog in the house and she’s eating all the Ho-Ho’s!”

And then, after semi-successfully blocking all the cacophony out, then comes the one that makes your blood run cold:

"Mommy! Fire! Fire! Fire!"

To this, I finally throw the computer aside and run down the stairs so recklessly fast that I break my big toe half way down... only to find that the "Fire" is a piece of raisin toast stuck in a toaster, turned all the way up to the highest setting.

Limping into the kitchen, I retrieve the burnt toast, ban the kids from the toaster for the next 6 months and walk to a wall, where I begin banging my head against it in utter futility!

"Come on, you guys! Really!?!"

Take this scene, repeat it dozens of times and you have a fairly accurate idea of my attempts at being a writer while my children were young. I'm sure it's why I haven't written much for a while.

Fast forward twelve years:

I now have only one "child" left at home and he is 17. Gone are the distractions... there is absolutely no one to fight with, to complain about, to have to share the t.v. with or to lock out of the bathroom. In fact, he's really pretty good about the whole thing.

So, why does the cursor continue to blink at me?

Blink...

Blink...

Blink...

Is it trying to taunt me?

Or is it actually just laughing at me?

*Sigh*

I then realize… I’m just missing my kids!

Putting my computer aside, I walk to the wall...

Bang my head against it a few times…

Just for old time’s sake...

And - Voile la!

I'm back on track!

... works every time!