Harrisenism...

My kids take gummy bear vitamins. Hell, I take gummy bear vitamins. They rock. But since they are indeed medication and are cunningly like candy, I keep them high in the cabinet, and instill a haunting fear of overdose in my children about them. So much so that I got a text from Kelly during the Taylor Swift concert, which looked something like this:

H n E want gummy vite. H says 1x day. can't remember if he had with bfast. Need clarification. Respond STAT.

So yesterday evening, Harrisen comes into the kitchen, with a serious look on his face.

H: I wish my taste buds could talk.
K: Why is that, buddy?
H: So they could help me remember if I had a gummy bear today.

It was so precious, I convinced him I could hear them, and he was "all clear" for a dose of the good stuff.

I don't think he bought for a minute that I could hear his taste buds, but he was sure happy to get his vitamin.

The view from here.

Sometimes small things happen to us that unexpectedly shake up our perception of the world around us. It happened to me the other day, and I still can't shake the feeling of being shaken.

I am about to start my first healthcare related job. It's been two full months since I was hired, and I am getting a bit anxious to get started. I was called in for a physical that included several things, including being fitted for a space suit that would protect me in the event of some sort of bioterrorism attack, but that was not the perspective changing moment of the physical by any means. (though, just in case I ever pass out from a biochemical weapon and can't inform you and my HR chart is not handy, I need a size small mask and white spaceman helmet. You know. Just in case.)

The astounding part of the physical came not from the color blind test (I passed. That wasn't hard to self-diagnose.) ...or from the vision test, which, oddly enough, I had to cheat on a bit, cause I can't tolerate less than perfect or almost perfect, and it seems my right eye is a little sluggish these days on the 20-20 line...but it came from the height and weight portion of my assesment. Seriously.

Now, anyone who knows me very well at all knows that I have an accurate assesment of my weight at any given moment. I can pretty much calculate the weight of my clothing and the combined sum and difference of the number of times I visited the ladies room and the number of diet cokes yet consumed, at least until lunch. All this, based on my first thing in the morning daily weigh-in, within a half of a pound. You know you are jealous of that mad skill, huh?

So, I had purposefully worn lightweight linen and no chunky jewelry, knowing a physical usually entails standing on those horrifying doctor's scales that look not unlike a turn of the century torture device. I was not in any way shocked by the number the nurse called out. I was kinda proud it was exactly (well, within the requisite half-pound cushion) what I predicted. Then the question came.

N: How tall are you?
K: Five seven and a half. Or maybe five eight. I'm not really sure.
N: Well, why don't we measure you and see?

(Now is when you should pay attention.)

N: Um, honey, not quite.
K: Whatareyoutalkingabout?
N: You are five six. And barely a half.
K: That can't be right. I've been at least five-seven since high school.
N: I can measure you again.
K: Please.

I stood up straight. I stretched. I imagined that thread from the top of my head suspending me from the ceiling, you know, the one the yoga instructors tell you to imagine?

N: Five six. And barely 1/2.
K: I think that thing is broken. Look at it. It's all disconnected and floppy looking and...
N: It's not broken. It's supposed to be like that.
K: BARELY 1/2?
N: Not even close to 3/4.
K: shit.
N: *laughs*
K: Do you know how this is going to impact my BMI?!!? I always say five-EIGHT on those things!
N: How tall is your mom?
K: Five feet. Just barely.
N: Her mother?
K: She was four ten.
N: Girl, you oughtta be glad you are five-six.
K: AND A HALF!

It was a good thing that the nurse had a sense of humor. She was also, as all good nurses should be, packed full of empathy. She asked me when was the last time I was actually measured. It was then that I realized I probably had never, ever been measured in my adult life. I just thought I was five seven and a half, maybe five eight if I really streched, and had accepted that as fact. The fact is, I am either:

1. Already shrinking.
2. Incredibly good at believing what it is I want to believe instead of what is true.

I know, from past experience and a carefully posed question at my doctor's office two days later, that it is most likely number 2.

You know, I'm not a liar. At least not to other people. I'm actually known as a straight shooter who tends to point out what other people don't necessarily want to accept as fact, no matter how boldly that fact is staring them in the face. Many of my friends (the real ones) appreciate this about me. But it seems to me that I am pretty proficient at lying to myself. Looking back on it, I have a long history of telling myself what I want to hear, and ignoring all signs and indications to the contrary. If I'm ever in one of those Barbara Walters interviews, now I know what I can say is my principle character flaw. Of course, I suppose I could just tell myself that refusing to bow down to the truth has kept me from being resigned and limited. That telling myself what I want to hear has kept me persevering until what I wanted something to be becomes what I envisioned in the first place. I know for a fact this has happened.

However, there are times when what is, simply...is. And no amount of spin or justification or rationalization or wanting it to be different can make it any other way. Sometimes we have to listen to that still, quiet voice that is telling the truth.

So, the view from five-feet-six-and-a-half-inches turns out not to be a different as I thought it would be, now that I have wrapped my mind around it. No amount of stretching will make me 5'-7''. Ever. It simply is what it is...and better to deal with it than go on pretending.

But...don't expect to run into me wearing flat shoes.

The State We're In...

You know, unlike most people I know, I'm darned proud to be from Louisiana. I think our state, while short on morals and political righteousness, is long on culture, and that goes a long way with me. In fact, I think some of the dark and dirty episodes in our political history could probably be traced back to the cayenne pepper-laced culture we are steeped in. 

All that said...There are times when I do have to just shake my head at the unabashed redneck culture of North Louisiana. I think it's being a little too close to Arkansas. But the Ark-La-Tex, and Louisiana's Other Side is just a leeetle bit too diluted for me sometimes.  There are days I wish my grandmother had stayed put down in Lafayette and not wandered up here to water down the Acadian gene pool with some of that Yankee blood. (Yankee here being used very liberally. I don't think I have an ounce of blood in me that originates from a latitude higher than Little Rock.) 

That being said, I wonder if people in Washington or California, or New York, or even Iowa put up with bad grammar on road signs?  There has been threatened construction on a major interstate I use daily.  They have installed those big obnoxious signs that flash updates on the road conditions scattered along the side of the road for miles.  Somewhere there has been a disconnect in the Louisiana Department of Transportation and Development, because the signs are ready, but the construction obviously isn't.  For weeks, the signs have urged Louisiana motorists to "Drive Safe".  Ugh.  My eyes! My eyes!

There are some things I am a snob about. I admit it.  In my own defense, there are lots of things I am NOT a snob about. (I eat cheese tater tots and drink screw-top wine. Seriously. I think I have a good sense of balance with my snobbery.) Grammar is one of the things I am a snob about. I come from a long line of teachers, readers and writers, who, for whatever reason, managed to escape living in the boondocks in the South without horrible hick accents or pock-marked grammar. Those signs drive me everloving nuts.  But who do you call? Seriously? Can you imagine that conversation?

K: Hello. I'd like to file a complaint.

DOTD: Yeah?

K: The signs on I-49 have unspeakably bad grammar. It should be, "Drive Safe-Leee. Safe-Leee." 

DOTD: Uh, we'll get right on that ma'am. 

*click*

Yeah, that would be a waste of time. These are the days when I wish Tell the Times was still in existence. You could always find someone to give a shit on Tell the Times. 

Then, there are moments when the lunacy of Louisiana is just comical.  Shake your head, embarrassed for them comical, but comical nonetheless. Days like yesterday, when I went to the DMV, and caught a glimpse of this before I pulled into the parking

 lot. 

Looking at it now, I can see how people might misconstrue this sign to be offering a very formalized and legally binding version of the sno-cone. At the time, though I obviously picked up on the absurd, (hence the photograph), it was perfectly clear why this enterprising Louisianian was offering a one-stop-shop for more than one incongruous product. And why not? Got your cash for clunkers deal, need the paperwork done, it's hot, have a grape sno-cone.(notice, that's hypenated, and without the W, thankyouverymuch.) Makes perfect sense to me.

And, exhibit B. The signage on the building itself was even more captivating. No words from me. Just look and enjoy.

I did manage to get out of the DMV with a new license and my sanity. In seven minutes. Seriously.  The woman at the desk asked me if I wanted to go ahead and renew since it was almost my birthday anyway.  I was 4 dollars in cash short of the renewal amount so I declined. I was so awed that my number was called after three minutes I wasn't about to risk losing the mojo to go to the ATM.  I also had a fleeting moment of, "Wow...Louisiana must be doing something right. At least at the DMV!"  Then, on the way home, the same or surely related governmental agency bid me, "Drive Safe".  Welcome to Looziana.

Who knew?

I love to mow. Call it genetically inspired, maybe. My dad is an uber grass-cutting phenom. He always said he didn't like to mow, but living on 5 1/2 acres necessitated it. Often. And obsessively. In a certain pattern. Nobody could ever convince us he didn't enjoy it. I still think he likes to mow. And he'll still argue with me that it's just a necessary evil. We agree to disagree in this twenty five year argument.

I have figured out, however, that a woman mowing a yard opens herself up to all sorts of commentary from passers by. Onlookers. I don't really believe that men have onlookers when they mow. But women do. Or, should I say, I seem to.

Years ago when we were living on Centenary Boulevard, I decided I was going to mow the front yard. I got out there and started the job, and quickly got the eerie feeling someone was watching me. How did I get this little feeling? Might have been the binoculars that gave them away, but a herd of college frat boys in the apartment complex across the street thought my playing yard boy was quite the afternoon entertainment. They actually had folding chairs. And beer. In a styrofoam cooler...(in addition to the aforementioned binoculars.) I was banned from front-yard grass duty from then on.

Fast forward to today. We have gone through two yard men in the past six months. The last one was let go because he had the knack for breaking every single piece of yard equipment he laid his hands on. It was an epidemic. We finally had enough of his sacrifices to the Poulan gods, and said enough was enough. Hubby and I decided that we could handle the yard work, at least for the time being. So, today, I was determined to get the lot next to the house cut before Scot got home. I couldn't get to the gym today, so this was to be my exercise. Little did I know it was to be , above all, an exercise in patience and humility.

Got the ipod screaming, the mower revved up, and I was enjoying the annihilation of the grass and the workout. I felt pretty safe. We live at the dead end of a quiet street in a gated community vaguely reminiscent of Stepford. No college kids across the street. Nobody drinks beer on their porch in folding chairs. It was all going according to plan.

What I failed to take into consideration are the other annoyances of a nice little cookie cutter community: the helpful neighbors.

Our neighborhood is fraught with walkers. Dog walkers, power walkers, stroller walkers...Our dead end is the turn around point for every.single.walker. Period.

During the hour and a half it took me to cut the grass in that stupid lot, I got those funny little half amused looks from the flipping walkers. A cross between, "Awwww, isn't that cute. A little lady, mowing the grass." and "Awwww, poor pitiful woman. Pushing that heavy mower. In this heat, bless her heart."

Now, anyone who knows me knows that the only thing I hate worse than being thought of as a cute little anything is being thought of as a weak, pitiful anything. It's a lawnmower, people, not an ancient torture device! I am strong and tough, and frankly was enjoying kicking the grass' butt before your condescending little looks started, thankyouverymuch.

But no, it didn't stop there. If it had, I'm not sure it would have made adequate blog fodder. I guess I looked so darned cute and so darned pitiful that some of the walkers decided they would actually engage me in conversation during my mowing. Somehow the fierce-sweaty face, dark glasses and earbuds didn't give off the leave-me-the-hell-alone vibe I was hoping for. Evidentally, a woman cutting grass has to wear leather and weapons to avoid being a spectacle. Who knew?

The first walker to smile and slow their pace for input on my agronomy skills was a nice older gentleman, pulling a wagon with smiling grandkids. His comment:
G: "You mowing that grass wet?"
K: "Ummm...yeah. It's a little wet."

I was kinda digging weaving in and out of the sprinklers as I mowed. Avoiding the little pop up heads like a whack-a-mole game. The refreshing burst of cool water as I got a little too close...It was all part of the enjoyment of the experience for me. Evidently, men don't mow wet grass. Who knew?

Luckily Mr. Nice Older Gentleman with the wagon was content to simply comment on the obvious and cluck his tongue. Not so for neighbor number two.

With him, I saw the grin coming from down the street. Uppers and lowers. Bared completely. Evidently, in India, women don't mow grass, because he looked at me like I had six arms and a trunk.

I: "You mowing your grass!"
It was a statement, not a question so I tried to nod and continue on. No dice.
I: "Why you not mowing in a straight line?"
K: "Because I like carving my initials in the grass with the mower. And then chopping them up. And you see, there are these popped up sprinkler heads I am avoiding. And fire ants. The poison I put on them hasn't killed them yet. And straight lines are boring. And since the grass is wet, going in swirls and circles is hopefully going to mask the ruts in the yard that will divulge to my husband that I mowed the grass wet. And I am, frankly, just not a straight line type gal."

I didn't actually say all of that. I nodded and smiled, and tried to look grateful for his input. I mowed in a straight line until he rounded the corner. Then I made a large swoop just to spite him.

Final straw was the guy who simply laughed his ass off at me. Unabashedly. I at least admired his honesty. You see, I did mention that this was to substitute for my workout today? Well, the typical workout is a 3-4 mile run at a pretty good pace. So, I had some work to do to get my heart rate up. Yes...in addition to the ipod and dark shades, I was also wearing my heart rate monitor. No way I was going to sweat that much and not know how many 100 calorie snack packs I had burned! So, by the end of the mowing, I wanted to get my heart rate up a little above the target zone, kinda like a few minutes of sprinting at the end of the run. So I was, ummm, sort of, jogging the mower. Ok, ok. So I deserved the laughs, perhaps. But isn't there some unspoken rule that you have sanctuary from ridicule in your own front yard? Or does that only apply to the back yard?

Oh well. I got the grass cut. I stayed in the target zone for over 90 minutes. I earned enough negative calories for a few glasses of wine to help numb the humiliation.

Anyone know of a good yard man? Yes, I said man. No woman deserves to be made a spectacle of just cause she wants to cut some grass.

Slow learners...

Our summer thus far has been pretty jammed with responsibility and commitment, with precious little laid-back family time. We decided Sunday would be a good opportunity to change that.

Way back in October, at the Louisiana State Fair (one of my favorite places on earth...perhaps the foot long corn dogs and red dye number 3 from the candy apples clouded my judgment) we signed up for a day at a brand new, indoor waterpark in East Texas. Free passes for our family of four, $50 worth of gift cards, $40 in gas money, $40 cash...can you see where this is going? The catch, of course was that we had to attend a "presentation" about vacation home ownership at the resort where this alluring water wonderland is located. Eh, no biggie, we say. We can sit through an hour of anything. Like I said, I blame it on the midway food.

Since October, a very persistent fellow named Rudy has been calling our home at least twice a month, trying to get us to commit to our day of leisure at his resort. He is always very polite, not pushy, and understanding as to why, months later, we still haven't booked an appointment for the experience. Finally, he reachs us on Saturday, with both of us home, and no really good reason to say no. Besides, the forecast was for rain, and the waterpark is indoors. So, we make an appointment for 10:00 the next morning. We are to bring ourselves and picture ID. Mmmmmkay. Wouldn't want us to pass our opportunity on to another unsuspecting victim...errrr....recipient.

So, we pack up the car and the kids and head West. It takes quite a bit of gear for a family of four to enjoy water activities. Suits, towels, sunscreen, dry clothes, swim diapers, xanax.... But by 7:45 AM, we were on our way. I try very hard to prep the children for the fact that we had a wee bit of business to take care of before we actually got wet.

"Remember, kids. We have a meeting to go to before the waterpark. Ok? It might take a long time. But after we are done if you are reeeeeeallly good, we'll go to the waterpark. So.... Meeting first. Swim after. Got it? And you have to mind. Really mind. If you don't mind Mommy and Daddy, we'll come home and not go to the waterpark. Does everyone understand?"

I swore I would never make crazy, empty threats to my children. Swore. I also swore I would never dose them with Benedryl for my own convenience and utter the words, "Because I SAID SO, that's WHY!" Well, two out of three ain't bad. Benedryl turns my kids into hyperactive primates...so that helps keep me honest.

We arrive at the gated entrance of the resort and announce ourselves to the uniformed attendant. So far, so good. We pull up to the log cabin-looking structure tagged "Membership". It is hard to miss. There are at least a dozen brightly colored helium balloons bobbing in the rain. Harrisen is delighted. Anything that is announced by helium balloons is worth checking out in his opinion.

We run everyone in out of the rain and Scot signs us in at the desk. I am immediately struck by how many other people seemed to be taking advantage of their opportunity at exactly the same time as we were. It is quite the organizational maelstrom. Once you are signed in with the front desk, you are ushered to partake of hot coffee, fresh popcorn and Grandma's cookies, in the package, being offered by a lovely uniformed hostess. Next to the popcorn popper is a plastic dispenser full of pink lemonade and styrofoam cups.

Looking around at my fellow victims, errr...opportunists, I am very glad I chose to dress my family as if we were NOT headed straight to the waterpark. I purposefully and carefully accessorized and did NOT underdress swimwear. I mean, sure, we were all about the waterpark, but I wasn't about to advertise that fact before our obligation was met. It seems like I was the only human who gave two flips about appearing cooly disinterested in the free stuff. Everyone else seems to flaunt their swim trunks and bathing suit straps in a show of rebellious "I'm just here for the tickets" mob mentality. Some people even have their beach towels draped over their necks! The nerve.

We sit for about 20 minutes. The kids gobble oatmeal raisin cookies, popcorn and slurp lemonade, getting only a marginal amount on the pleather sofa and low-pile industrial carpet.

Finally, our name is called by a chipper young fellow named Wesley. He is smartly dressed in a striped shirt, jaunty black suspenders and trousers. He introduces himself and leads us out the side doors to another building a little bit down the way. As he maneuvers us across the manicured lawns to another suspiciously modular-looking building, I notice the skoal ring on the back pocket of his polyester pants. The bells start going off...but I help corral my little family into Level II of the opportunity.

We walk through the double french doors and are thrust into a virtual cacophony of people and activity. There are at least a hundred rough-hewn wooden tables where at least a hundred versions of Wesley are seated with a least a hundred versions of the Smith family. The chairs are hard-backed made of twigs and look like they were whittled from East Texas Pine. On each rough pine table, there sits a three-ring binder full of glossy, four-color-process propaganda for your viewing pleasure. The sheer noise and excitement of that many people in such a small space, the looming white board on the wall, and the bank of "managers" behind the counter in the back who oversaw the entire spectacle like vacation-real-estate-pit bosses, combined with the faux-rustic, deep in the heart of East Texas decor, leads me to whisper to Scot..."Oh hell...it's the redneck stock exchange." We sit on our whittled twig chairs.

Wesley is woefully poor at small talk, which suits me fine. My fight or flight instincts are starting to kick in at this point, and my bullshit sensors are firing on all cylinders.

The first thing Wesley tries to comment on from our application was Scot's profession.

W: "So...you're a faux-tographer?"
S: "Yes, I'm a professional photographer."
W: "So.....how long have you been into faux-tography?"
S: "About 30 years now."
W: "Whoa." (did I neglect to mention that Wesley appears to be about 19 years old? And that's being generous.)

It takes him only about 4 more times butchering the pronunciation of my husband's industry and occupation before I change the subject:

K: "Ok, Wesley....please do tell us about your resort."

Well, I should have known that there was a method to the madness. Skipping ahead in the script is not in the cards for a three-week veteran of vacation resort sales like Wesley. He quickly produces a "worksheet" that will, after a series of questions about our travel preferences and vacation history, delineate very clearly how purchasing a unit at this vacation resort will save us at least $90,000 in our lifetime alone. (that's not counting the lifetimes of our children and grandchildren, to whom we would be able to bequeath our vacation property and all its benefits.)

The question and answer section includes the ubiquitous, "Would you say spending quality time with your family is important to you?" I should have stopped him right there. It is the perfect opportunity to cut to the chase and get to the real reason of our trip into the state of Texas on a Sunday. The quality time. The waterpark. I begin to realize that the guy with the beach towel around his neck is probably getting a considerably shorter presentation than we were. Score one for the rednecks.

Now, you will remember that our children are present at this little "meeting". The empty threats have not worked. They never do. That' s why we parents swear never to use them. The kids do as they please anyway, and mommy ends up looking like a schmoe, because she either needs copious amounts of alcohol or a trip down the lazy river herself after enduring this opportunity. So...the kids. Harrisen alternates between crawling around under Wesley's legs beneath the pine top table, rolling around on the carpet, and fiddling with the crutches of the amputee at the pine table next to us. He and his sister both take turns at the double french doors, as the unofficial greeters. At one point, Evangeline comes out of the foyer of the building with someone's dripping golf umbrella like an oversized and inappropriate parasol. Throughout the presentation, they weave in and out of the tables as if it were a hall of mirrors.

I have just returned from retrieving the girl-child from the far end of the room for the third time, when a booming voice comes over the PA system. "It is a tradition here at our resort to welcome the newest owners into the flock! Sitting right over there is Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, aaaaaaaalllll the way from Beauuuuuuumont Texas! For their first vacation, they will be visiting our sister property is LAS VEGAS, Neeeeeevaaaada! Give em a hand!" All of the Wesleys of the room break into mad applause, and the lucky Wesley gets to write his name and the names of his victims/clients on the massive white board. I lean over to Scot:

K: "Dammit. The kids already drank the Kool-aid."

Shortly after that, Wesley gets to the part of the day when we have our official tour. We follow him out of the log cabin stock exchange building to the parking lot. He produces a door remote and went to un-lock the doors of his small, black, sports car.

K: "Where are we going...?"
W: "We are going to drive around for the tour of the property..."
K: "Do you have carseats?"
W: "Nah. We'll stay on property. We don't even have to wear seatbelts."
K: "Um...there are hundreds of other cars on the roads of this resort."
W: "We won't go over 25 mph or so..."

HOLEEE CRAP! Has he not seen those public safety commercials where they put a kid unrestrained on a downhill sled at JUST 25 mph? Has he not seen their little fiberglass crash test dummy heads explode like ripe fruit? A year's worth of waterpark tickets wouldn't have been worth turning my kids into statistics.

K: "Well, we'll just have to go in our car."
W: "No problem."

We all retrace our steps back to our car. I can read Scot's mind...

S: "GREAT, Katie. Show him the Mercedes. Make it reeeallly hard to let him down easy."

Sure enough, during the tour, Scot manages to mention the age of my car at least twice. Teamwork. He's the cleanup.

We take a very tepid tour of the property, which is nice, but crowded and full of gangs of people not unlike the ones at the membership building. White tank tops, tattoos, cigarettes rolled up in their sleeves, un-earned spandex...We live in the deep south. We happily co-exist, work and are even related to southern redneck Bubbas. We don't, however, typically choose to vacation with them. I kept track of the beach towels hanging over the balcony railings:
*Harley Davidson
*AC-DC
*Rebel Flags
*Bass Pro Shops

lather, rinse, repeat.

After getting the kids in and out of the car about 15 times to view yet another modular condo unit, we make our way back to the stock exchange. Our original pine table is waiting on us. We have finally made our way to the pitch portion of the day. The bottom line. Dollars and cents. I can almost smell the chlorine.

But, we don't get the bottom line until AFTER we have to produce an answer to the question, "So, how much do you think all of this would cost? Don't you think it would be worth, I don't know? Maybe, twenty thousand dollars?"

I am really proud of Scot. He isn't going to play. Period. He's the consummate southern gentleman, but he knows real estate. Poor Wesley doesn't really know how to proceed with his script when the suckers won't pony up even a perfunctory answer to his question. Since our non-commital answer throws him, he just kinda spit it out. $15,500. For the vacation of your dreams. For the rest of your life. And they only want $1,200 down. Today.

W: "What do you think?"
K: "I think there is absolutely no way we would pay that."
W: "Didn't you like the property?"
K: "It was very nice. But I'm unemployed and in school, and we have no way of spending that at this time."

Whew. Done. There. Now, pony up the tickets, bud.

Wesley informs us that it "Always comes down to money..." and he is "at the end of what he could do for us, but that we now had to wait for his manager to come over before we could go to gifting. "

We are entering Phase II of the opportunity, and don't even know it.

About this point in time, my blood sugar starts to bottom out. I'm a grazer, and have been really careful about my food intake this summer. I had 3/4 cup of kix cereal, 1/2 cup skim milk, and 1/2 cup of fresh blueberries at SEVEN in the morning. That's roughly 185 calories that were surely already expended in nervous energy and chasing the kids in the first 3o minutes in the stock exchange. As anyone who has ever seen me hungry before can attest, I start to get hostile.

K: "How long is it going to take to get a manager over here?"
W: "Oh, it' won't be long. People are starting to get up."

At least he doesn't try to make any more small talk about faux-tography.

Ten minutes pass.

K: "The kids are surely getting hungry. Are there any snacks?"
W: "There are vending machines over there."
K: "Sure, yeah. Once we say 'no' the free popcorn and cookies are off the table, right?" (ok, I didn't really say this, but I sure as hell thought it.)

Finally, the manager leaves the pit and comes over. He introduces himself as Raul. Raul is a self proclaimed straight shooter who doesn't have any agenda at all but to help us out in any way he can. He wants to know what the problem is. What is preventing us from being up there on that big white board?

I tell him the same story. Just not financially in the cards for us at this time. Raul excuses himself. He goes back to the pit.

He comes back with a huge grin on his face. He HAS the deal for us. You see, he's not really a manager. He is in titles and deeds. Someone JUST NOW has upgraded their property, and the deed has not been repriced. The equity they have paid over the years is still on file. We can have their deed for HALF PRICE! The other suckers have paid for years on it and knocked the price down into what is surely in the range of a professional faux-tographer and his unemployed nursing student wife! It's our lucky day! He gives us a few minutes to talk it over, and retreats to the pit, where he grins at us with his bonded toilet-bowl teeth. We do, indeed talk it over.

S: "Well, it' s a much better deal."
K: "Yes, it is. Wonder which of the people we have clapped for on that white board bit on Phase I?"
S: "No telling. We could get free camping."
K: "For eight grand we could buy a campground. NOT in East Texas."
S: "You are so right. We could go to Europe a lot of times for that kind of money. It's taken us half a year to come here once for free. Would we really come here?"
K: "Why are we still discussing this? Get Raul over here."

I tell Raul that we have decided not to take advantage of this opportunity. He seems perplexed. Wesley is on the edge of his chair. He's still thinking about the ride in the Mercedes. He's probably also needing a dip as badly as I'm needing a snack.

I'm a pretty good bad cop. I gently but firmly tell him we need to get on to the waterpark and feed the children. That's right. The kids.

He thanks us, shakes our hand, and tells us that Colin from gifting will be with us shortly. Frickin finally.

But this story doesn't end there. We are unknowingly being led straight into Phase III. Blindly, and without the benefit of a snack.

Colin from gifting shows up. But not before we have a revelation.

K: "Honey, we have DONE this before."
S: "I think we have."
K: "Grand Mayan Resort. Puerto Vallarta. I don't think we even got prizes."
S: "Nope. We swore we would never do this again."
K: "Well, next time....surely we will remember."

Colin from gifting asks us if the downpayment is standing in our way today. I tell him that we are unprepared to put any amount of money down today. Big mistake. These guys are professionals. I am a slow learner whose brain desperately needs a shot of glucose, and who thinks she can play with the vacation sales boys on their turf. I'm toast.

Colin offers to HOLD the amazing deal Raul has proposed for 18 months. A whole year and a half to enjoy the Redneck Riviera, unlimited, while only paying $70 a month! At the end of that time period, our monthly fees will apply towards our down payment, because we will certainly be ready to hand over the eight grand after 18 months of enjoying the facilities. Surely, we won't be able to imagine life without our membership after the trial offer!

Colin's approach is different from Wesley's fumbling newbie awkwardness and Raul's polished-creepy straight shooter tactic. Colin is cool. Steely. He knows we are no fools. He is the cleanup person. He gives us a minute to talk it over.

K: "I have no intention of paying $750 for 18 months of this crap."
S: "We have done this before."
K: "I know. Mayan Palace."
S: "No. Before that."
K: "Oh hell. You are so right."
S: "Where was it?"
K: "Hot Springs Village. To get a free condo to visit with your daughter."
S: "We are really slow learners."
K: "Get Colin over here."

He takes it well. Colin shakes our hands and sends us to gifting. Another modular building. Another form. Another wait. We are almost FOUR hours into our opportunity at this point. I ask Scot to look in the cabinets for snacks.

Luckily, gifting moves pretty quickly. Bridgett is no-nonsense and her office is quiet with no whittled wood furniture. By the time you migrate through all the phases to gifting, they've dropped the ruse. It's plain old office chairs, and Bridgett seems like a real person.

The waterpark was ok. Harrisen has marginally more fun than he does in our backyard pool. Evangeline has marginally less fun, as she is too short to go down any slides. The one I sneak her on gets us whistled at by a bored lifeguard who probably would not have saved our lives if we were drowning, but was big on enforcing the rules on the water flume . I eat an entire personal pepperoni pizza, a bag of M&M cookies, and a Three Musketeers bar. I run into 2 other women wearing my Target bathing suit.

On the ride home, we swear we are going to remember this adventure, and avoid opportunities of this kind in the future. Seems like we have said that before. But this time I mean it. When it comes time to bequeath property to the kids and grandkids, it is highly unlikely that vacation resort property will be on the list. We have decided to stick to the kind that pays US each month, and buy our own waterpark tickets from now on.

Harrisenism...

With school having crunched into my hang-around-the-house time in the mornings, many times over the past two months, I have been on the road to class before Harrisen climbed out of bed. I've shouldered my fair share of mommy-guilt over my absence, but it's all worked out pretty well. Daddy rocks the breakfast. He uses a lot more syrup than I do.

This morning, Harrisen rolls out of bed (our bed. At some point each night, he ends up between us. Co-sleeping really stuck with that kid.) He, with his mess of tousled curls and flushed sheet-lined cheeks, bee-lines to me standing in the kitchen and gleefully says:

H: "Mommy! I am so happy you are here this morning!"
M: "I'm so happy you are here this morning, Harrisen!"
H: "Are you kidding me? I'm always here when I wake up."

Life as I know it.

I was talking to a new friend tonight about life, and most particularly, family life...about the absolute power of the love of a child, and how it transforms your whole existance, and how there really aren't words to describe the love you feel when you create a human being of your own (with a little help from God, of course.) It's all consuming.

I have loved the newness of mommyhood so very much. I have dedicated my life to being a mother, from the moment we threw the birth control pills away, almost seven years ago. It seemed like such a small, natural step. One that millions of people take every year, when they hitch up their big girl panties and decide to take the plunge into parenthood. I couldn't know. How could I have known? That that small act of faith would turn into a more than two year odyssey through infertility, surgery, needles, tests, and the rollercoaster of hope and tragedy, far to close on each other's heels.

Sitting amist the chaos of family life, with scattered toys and piled laundry, with my one high- tech baby and my wonderfully "free" baby (neither more a miracle than the other), sleeping blissfully in their beds, that rollercoaster seems to belong to someone else's life. It seem so very far away, and doesn't even seem to make much sense when one sees the fecundity of our present. But just touching on the story with someone who doesn't know reminds me of the unseen part. Nothing is as it appears. If you get to know someone well enough, you will see that very little is how it seems.

Just as I hesitated before jumping into parenting (almost 7 months...past when my dear husband was ready-to-go....so arbitrary, looking back...) I hesitate to let it the intensity of baby-parenting go. I realize that my children are separating from me. Their independence grows each day, and I am reminded of Scot's mantra: "Our only job is to make them independent." Now, there are tons of cliches, (some even written on t-shirts) that deal with parents letting go. I'm sure they all have merit. But when you are loosening your grip on what has defined you for almost a decade, cliches ring a bit hollow. I wouldn't have made it through infertility if it hadn't been for my tenacity. Now, I battle that same tenacity as I try to pry the "me" out of mommy.

I want to find out who I am again, outside of being defined by my role as a parent. Just lately, I am remembering that I am a performer. A singer. An actress, and some might even say, a bit of a diva. That feels good. Familiar. Comfortable. Like putting on an old coat and finding that it still fits. I'm also a student. And, as in the past, still a darned good one.

As I grow along with my children, I marvel at my ability to wear different hats, and how liberating that feels. To stay up late rehearsing a show, but come home just a little too fast down the interstate, hoping to make it in time for tucking in. Is this what is meant by balance? I always scoffed at the idea. I guess I wasn't ready. I wanted and needed to do nothing but mommy my children after fighting so hard for them. But, as they grow and life adapts, I embrace balance. It's ok. It's healthy. Keep reminding me of that, ok?