Can't Buy Me Love

During the Easter holidays, we took the kids bowling on base.

Bowling is not cheap anymore, is it? I found myself echoing my grandmother, "When I was young, bowling was only 50¢ per game and my shoes were free!".
I was totally making it up, I can't remember how much I used to pay to bowl, but I do remember doing random yard clean up jobs to get the 25¢ required for an afternoon swim in the city pool.

Anyway, everything is now electronic at the bowling alley.

Turkeys run across the score screen (why don't we keep score manually anymore? Kids already don't know how to read a clock, but now we're taking away the opportunity to do math in a fun setting?), music plays at high volume over tinny speakers as disco lights flash.

It was in that setting that my youngest son, (nearly 7) asked, "Mum, what was that...uh, ...that...uh...thing with the bird on it?"

"The what?" I ask while looking around at all of the possibilities.

He stutters through the question again, clearly unable to pull the word free from his mouth that best described his object, "The....uh, it had a bird on it" and points to the counter that is now empty.

I realized then that he was referring to my change that had been sitting on the counter (what little of it was left after four shoe rentals, slushies and a few games). I had slipped it into my pocket before the oldest got any bright ideas with a candy machine staring him down...

The poor little boy wanted to me to tell him the name for the coin with a bird on it...




a quarter.




How sad is that? He has no idea what this coin is, poor little American boy growing up in Great Britain.



When I was little, the Tooth Fairy would leave me a quarter for my tooth... what's this kid getting?

Pound coins.



I'm not that sad for him anymore.

Things are how they are...

My friend Tara gently hinted that she had to cut back on some of her church volunteer work... it was kind of her to be gentle with me since she was listening to my list of things I don't manage to accomplish every day, but it made me realize that some people don't know how my church works.

It begins with a seemingly innocent engagement of eyes across the chapel. The connection that is very quickly broken by anybody who knows never to make eye contact with anyone from the Bishopric. Eye contact could get you a talk next Sunday, or worse, a calling other than Sunday School Door Holder.

The intimidating person in suit and tie will ask you if you could come have a chat with him in his office... and if you give the Bishop a chat, he'll want an acceptance speech to go with it...

If he leans back comfortably and asks, "Sister Molly, how are you doing?" That's never a good sign. The more concerned he is with your children, husband, dog that died two years ago etc., the worse the calling is going to be.


He may lead in with all the reasons why he feels you're good for the position. He may not. He may leave you to squirm in your seat and wish you had worn Depends that day.


However it happens, it happens and you stumble out of the building with a plastered-on smile in stunned silence.


I didn't volunteer. I still don't volunteer if you want to know the truth. I can't cut back my volunteer time (well I could by disconnecting my phone, but someone always could find me).
On a regular basis I give this kind man an opening in case he's the one squirming now--realizing he's made a huge mistake. I've even suggested some great ladies who would step into my calling quite well.
I'm blatantly dropping hints about previously being a camp director, activities chairperson, Nursery Leader (that's the first clue that I'm desperate. I lead nursery at home, do I really want to do it again at church?) but it all seems to fall on broccoli ears.

It's been a year. He's not budging-- stubborn man.

A year as Relief Society President.

A year of constant reminders that I can't do everything right.

Reminders that I am unbelievably flawed as a human.

Reminders that some people who bear brilliant testimonies of following Christ refuse to do service for many reasons and that other people who have many reasons to be very self-absorbed, serve many silently.


I'd like to think that one day I will fall into the latter category- some future Relief Society President will never know to what extent I am serving.


I'm also hoping that day isn't too far off in the future. I make eye contact all of the time now.

The Bishopric is starting to look a little nervous about the tired, disheveled woman wearing two different coloured shoes (surrounded by wiggly children) staring at them throughout the service.


I wonder if a white flag would be too much...

"Whatever you do will be insignificant, but it is very important that you do it."

--Mahatma Gandhi

"Things are how they are, and complaining doesn't help." John H. Groberg


"Nobody cares how much you know until they know how much you care." Fred Babbel

The Only Time...

...it's appropriate to tell someone their Grandma has nice buns.



I haven't spoken a lot about my "In Search of Mr. Darcy" trip. To sum it up, I saw a lot of great places I would've missed on my own, but I would never travel with this organization again.


We were rushed everywhere. The van drivers often got lost and then would be adamant about us being prompt. They didn't allow us enough time to really experience the sites they took us to, which was sad because they had really planned a great itinerary.

If I were to do a critique (and you know I'll never pass up an opportunity to critique someone), I would suggest that they remember that even though they (the guides) have been there before and have seen it all, this is our first time and if there is going to be a place that closes early it should be left to see the following morning-- not cut everything else short to get there and rush through that place as well.

But I'm not doing a critique.

Before leaving for the trip, I received an email from a bloggy friend telling me I had to have a Sally Lunn bun while in Bath. So I researched it. I told the guides about it. I was very up front that I would skip what I had to to get to Sally Lunn's. I left a walking tour early to stand in the queue to get my buns.
By this time, about 9 other people wanted buns too.
The volunteer guide that I had grown to hate was his most annoying here. He kept pointing at his watch reminding us of the time.
I told him off. He had it coming.
I did sulk back to the van with my buns in tow.

They rushed us out of Bath to Steventon, Jane Austen's birthplace, to see the parish church where Jane's father was a minister.

The irony here was that an hour away from Steventon someone pointed out the name of the church. They had taken us to the wrong one!

Nevermind. I got some lovely photos of yet another beautiful church building in England, and some great jumping off points for a future trip with the whole family.

Now for that giveaway I spoke of...

I can't send you a Bun, sorry.
I can send you some little trinkets picked up just for my lucky reader while in the Jane Austen Center in Bath.

All you have to do is comment.

Tell me how much you love Jane Austen, or Mr. Darcy, or your favourite character/actor/book. Anything Jane Austen and you're entered.

Last comment considered will be 11.59 pm Sunday, April 11th (your time). Now go do something productive like read Emma again.

Benefit from My Inability to Learn From Past Mistakes

Remember when you found that great doctor who took the time to sit and listen to you? Remember how he knew your name, your children's names and the last ailment you saw him for?
In your excitement, you told everyone about him and now have your name on a waiting list to get in sometime in the year 2015.


Remember the first time you went to the hairstylist that actually cut only what you asked? Remember how she didn't give in when in a chocolate-induce mania you told her to cut it all off and that yes, you were quite sure?
Remember how her cuts would last beyond 6 weeks and still fell right into place even while traipsing around in Florida's humidity?

You're a slow learner, so you told a few ladies... next appointment available is June.

You've probably guessed it by now, I'm not really talking about you and in true form, I'm going to tell you about a blog that I have been rolling around in like our dog, Dorkenheimer, when he would find a dead snake.

Ok, maybe that's not the best metaphor.

The Blog O' Cheese.

This is one of those finely-aged, non-stinky blogs that if you appreciate the humor, you will find yourself eagerly reading past posts and wondering how it was kept secret for so long.
Cheeseboy, I'll probably never hear from you again after all six of my readers switch to your place, but as long as you keep writing, I'll keep rolling. Do NOT do to me what my last highly recommended blog did and close up shop. That's just wrong.


In 2005 I was lucky enough to be graced by the weight loss program called Giardia. Nasty, horrible stuff that if one survives the burst appendix-like cramps and rapid loss of all bodily fluids, one will be cautious of everything for the rest of one's life.

My love for milk? Tempered by the fact that my body has never been able to tolerate it well since that illness. Giardia "reduces lactase production, so your body may not be able to break down and absorb the lactose in the dairy products".
It was recommended that I allow 6 weeks to pass before consuming dairy. I didn't.

When I finally started feeling like I would live, I became pregnant with Miss Ky and the sickness (different kind) and tiredness started all over again.

You would think that the lesson was not only learned but stamped on every molecule that is me.

Do you know that people drink thermal water at the Roman Baths (in Bath)?



Facts (thank you Wiki):



"The water that flows through the Roman Baths is considered unsafe for bathing, partly due to its having passed through the still-functioning original lead pipes (blah blah blah) on the basis of the radioactivity it contained. However the more significant danger is now considered to be infectious diseases. In 1979 a girl swimming in the restored bath swallowed some of the source water, and died five days later from amoebic meningitis."

"In 1983 a new spa water bore-hole was sunk, providing a clean and safe supply of spa water for drinking in the Pump Room."



Yes I did.

Without hesitation.



It wasn't yummy, that's all I'm saying.



The sad thing is, this post very nearly became the rant about how
certain children in my home can't seem to retain information...

apparently it's in their genes.

I'm a Snob...

...I never realized it before now and am quite shocked at the discovery.


Yesterday I was standing in the commissary when a lady in front of me turned to talk.

She had a tiiiiny baby in a carrier and a not-that-much-bigger toddler in the cart. She and toddler were wolfing down fruit snacks right out of the un-purchased box.
I thought about how tired she must be and was uncomfortably aware of her brightly dyed hair and dark roots looking a little unkempt.

Toddler was making all sorts of screeching noises for each fruit snack. Like a trained monkey, mom just rewarded the screeching with the bite-sized treasures.
She turned to me, laughed and said something like she "might be willing to give some kids away today".
I nodded to the baby and remarked on how little sleep she must be getting, to which she replied, "Oh, no. He sleeps through the night".

Oh dear. Older Mom-Alarm goes off. Newborns aren't really supposed to sleep through the night, they need food (don't agree? Wait until I start telling you to rub Vick's all over your feet to fight a cold).

That's when I noticed she was missing her front teeth and was wearing sweat pants. She animatedly began to tell me Husband & Baby stories. The highlight of her day was when Daddy and baby were asleep together in a chair and the diaper failed. She mock-shouted, "Get me a diaper wipe! I have poo all over me!" that led into a husband-doing-poopy-laundry story.

The louder her voice got, the more I began to squirm. I didn't know her. I didn't want anyone else to think she and I hung out and told baby-poop-on-Daddy stories over coffee.
I wanted to slip out of the queue but I was bound by ropes. Dang Commissary.
What if tacky was contagious and I couldn't extricate myself from the contamination?

And then something happened. It was as if a voice over the loud speaker (that only I could hear) said, "Hey, you're being a snobby jerk, knock it off".

So I did.

I looked her in the eyes, took a deep breath and smiled warmly. She offered Miss Ky some fruit snacks and let her dig her own germy little hand into the box. Her voice softened and I noticed she had perfect, porcelain skin and a very petite build.


This young mother with her young military husband plus two very young children--living overseas away from family-- probably has enough things to deal with on a daily basis. I imagine she doesn't have a lot of adult contact other than a brief chat in the queue of the commissary.

Considering the "Everybody Has a Story" view,

how often do we gesture from our cars,
scowl in the supermarket,
roll our eyes in the doctor's office,
sigh loudly behind a slow walking couple
and never take into consideration what is happening in our innocent targets' lives?

I'm sorry young mother. Thank you for not being prejudiced against a self-centered and slightly proud woman, because I apparently needed an experience that only you could give me.

Thank you for choosing to talk to me today.