James Bond pulled it off, but good luck guys

Sometimes between 2 and 3 a.m., when I can’t sleep and my mind fires one bizarre question after another, I occasionally wonder whatever happened to my old high school gym suit.

It was a hideous thing— a one-piece contraption gathered at the waist with short sleeves with a shirt collar, and ill-fitting short legs. The whole shebang snapped up the front. Every girl who wore one looked like a jumbo marshmallow waiting to be shoved into a giant s’more.

Imagine my shock to open my computer browser and find my old gym suit reincarnated as a romper for men. It’s called RompHim—a man-size romper which is a one-piece contraption, gathered at the waist with short sleeves with a shirt collar, and ill-fitting short legs in pastels and prints.

I was so upset. We never had a choice in color. All we wore was white. Before my eyes were a dozen striking young men in pastel pink, baby blue, soft apricot, dainty print and Wonder bread polka dot girls’ gym suits. I mean onesies. I mean rompers.

I can’t help but wonder what the unveiling of the prototype went like. Were there men standing around in rompers asking women, “Does this make my backside look big?”

Or, “Do you think I have the legs for this? I’ve never been all that happy with my knees. They’re sort of dimpled, don’t you think?”

Some question whether a romper for men calls masculinity into question. Sean Connery wore a very short terry cloth romper as James Bond in “Goldfinger.” Personally, I think it comes down to leg hair. If you’ve got it—flaunt it. That said, not just anybody can look manly in what is nearly a pair of Daisy Dukes gathered at the waist.

But listen, whose business is it if you want to wear a pastel pink or baby blue romper? It’s a free country. Well, at least outside of college campuses.

And it’s not like guys in rompers hasn’t been done before. We have a picture of our 35-year-old son in a romper. Of course, he was six months old at the time. Someone gave us a onesie with a clown face on it and big orange clown hands attached to the sides. We actually had him wear it and took pictures. He’s still mad.

In one sense, rompers for men aren’t that different from Carhartt overalls turned into cutoffs—country boy meets urban chic.

It’s too early to say if rompers for men will have staying power. Before you write them off, you should know there was a time people said leisure suits for men wouldn’t hang around for long. Were they ever wrong. It was a long and painful decade.

Then again, remember last year? The new trend that was sure to take off was men wearing shorts with a shirt and tie and a blazer. The trend took off all right – like the Titanic.

If you do decide to wear a RompHim, just a mother’s word of caution: Stay with your group.

Search for armadillos takes a wild turn

Concerned the grands don’t get enough exposure to wildlife, I announce we would be looking for armadillos on a recent road trip.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” I say. “Armadillos have come up from the southwest and are frequent visitors here.”

“What’s a marmadillo?”

“An armadillo.”

“Yeah. What is it?”

“Well, an armadillo is the size of a small dog with short legs, has a pointy nose and a shell over its body like a turtle.”

They look at me like I am out of my mind.

“Seriously—and the shell has ridges on it and little itty bitty bumps.”

I might as well have said that I was going to grow a third ear.

“Start looking and I think you’ll see—“

“I see one!”

“Yes! I saw it, too!”
“It wasn’t moving, Grandma.”

“No, not today it wasn’t.” (And not tomorrow or the next day either.)

“There’s another! And another!”

“Why are they all on their backs, Grandma?”

Each and every armadillo has been incapacitated. I search armadillos on my phone and see that they are also called “hillbilly speedbumps.” Great. I’ve been encouraging the grands to scout roadkill. Maybe seeing a few pictures of armadillos upright will provide a distraction. “Look, I have a picture of an armadillo on my phone,” I say.

“Let me see,” one says. She enlarges the photo and screams, “What’s that hair under its chin? Ooooh gross! Take it away!”

I used to believe a baby bat was the ugliest creature in the world—a face only a mother could love. Armadillos with bad chin hair outrank them.

“Look, girls, it says there is a pink fairy armadillo. Let’s have a look.”

Picture a baby bunny with long curled toenails in dire need of a pedicure. Add a slab of raw pork ribs to its back and you have a pink fairy armadillo.

A southern three-banded armadillo (Tolypeutes matacus) at the Lincoln Children’s Zoo.

“Gross, Grandma! Now we’re gonna have bad dreams.”

Aren’t we all? I’m about to divert attention to a word game when the husband exclaims, “I just saw a bald eagle.”

Silence. The skepticism that was once malleable has now hardened.

“Really—it’s gone now, but I did.”

The next morning, we’re cutting through a large city, cruising along four lanes of interstate with heavy traffic, when I spot a wild turkey emerge from underbrush and begin strutting on the shoulder of the road.

My claim is met with palpable doubt.

One of the grands takes pity and whispers, “It’s OK, Grandma, I believe you. I believe Grandpa, too. Did you know I saw an animal?”

“What was it?” I ask.

“A penguin. It was back under those trees.”

Money earned not as important as lessons learned on first jobs

Question: What was your first job and how old were you?

The husband’s “first job” was selling fortune eggs. He hollowed out raw eggs and inserted a tiny folded paper with “fortunes” he copied out of the horoscope section of the newspaper, took them to school and sold them to classmates. Well, at least until his fourth-grade teacher told him he couldn’t sell fortune eggs anymore.

From there he sold Burpee seed packets door to door. He also sold tomato plants and night crawlers by the dozen. At 15, he began shooting sports for a local newspaper. That was the job that never ended. He worked his entire career in newspapers.

My first job, after babysitting and accidentally flushing numerous cloth diapers down toilets, was at Smaks. It was a fast food joint in Kansas City that offered burgers, shakes and fries. Smakie girls worked the front line, wore orange sailor dresses with white ties, white sailor hats, white tennis shoes—and made change without a computer.

During college, I worked at an insurance company doing data entry for motorcycle policies (the most boring job in the universe), in several law firms (where I learned the basics of accounting), and the 6 a.m. shift in the dorm cafeteria sorting dirty dishes on a conveyor belt.

When I got a speeding ticket driving home from college and didn’t have money to pay it, I worked at a Dairy Queen until I earned the money. Yep, I know how to make a dip cone.

Our son’s first job was at a small outdoor outfitter that specialized in fly fishing. He was “let go” for not chit chatting with the customers. Never been a big talker. After that he started mowing yards and had 31 customers by the time he went to college. Both of our girls babysat and one worked at a big box store; she can tell you all about sheets and linens.

I got to thinking about all those first jobs after hearing a wise and thoughtful man speak recently. He talked about growing up in Newton, Iowa, which was the headquarters for Maytag. He said no Maytag executive lived in a 15,000 square-foot house or drove a Cadillac. It would have been proof they were too big for their britches.

Kids he grew up with, like the kids we grew up with, worked in restaurants, retail stores, grocery stores and gas stations.

Then he asked a question every parent who has achieved any measure of success in life should ask of themselves: “Are you systematically depriving your children of the things that made you who you are?”

We stand to lose a lot when we turn our backs on the experiences and values that got us where we are. As they would have cautioned in Dubuque, “Don’t get too big for your britches.”


Welcome to the Garden of Weedin’

There has been so much confusion in the garden this spring that I have fallen into a state of wisteria.

Here in the Garden of Weedin’ we learn by trowel and error, mostly error – and an endless flow of bad gardening puns. Yes, as you may have suspected, we are a few plants shy of a full flat.

Most of the seeds have been planted and are starting to sprout, but I can’t exactly remember what I put where.

“It looks like Daisy and wild William are the same bed,” I sigh.

“Do all gardeners talk dirty?” the husband asks.

I give him the look.

“Well, if they are, at least they’re near the taters—they’ll keep their eyes on them.”

Another look and I shake my head.

“Still having problems with your impatiens, I see.”

“Only because you keep giving me flax,” I say. “I’m trying to concentrate. Peas stop.”

He then asks, “What kind of socks does a gardener wear?”

“I haven’t given it mulch thought,” I say.

“Garden hose.”

I ignore him, as I am studying three rows of lettuce, trying to remember which is green leaf, which is red leaf and which is butter. I guess thyme will tell.

The important thing is to romaine calm.

“Well, this will depress you,” the husband says, digging around the trellis for the pole beans.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Global worming.”

“Funny,” I say. “Could you toss that hose over here?”

“Sure,” he says. “But I think it leeks.”

“It’s time to quit joking around,” I say. “If you carrot all, you’ll help me.”

“Heard about the iceberg lettuce?” he asks.

“Yes. He was tossed in prison.”

I ignore him again. “What in carnation is this?” I ask, uncovering a toy truck buried under the soil as I prepare to plant another pack of seeds. “It’s windy,” I say.

“No, it’s Thursday,” he counters.

“Are you working weed me or against me?” I ask.

“I’m rootin’ for you!”

“Thanks,” I say. “I always knew we were mint to be. Hey, where are you going?”

“Inside for a snack. Hosta la vista.”

“Is that your fennel word?”

“It’dill do for now.”

Something fishy about attention spans

Our attention spans are now believed to be the same as that of goldfish, which is to say, roughly eight seconds.

I was surprised to read that and was going to read the article all the way to the end, but then I saw a link on the side of the screen to pictures of “Celebrities Who Have Not Aged Well.” Click, right?

I do remember it said – the article, not the aging celebrities – that we can’t sustain – hold on, my cell is ringing.

Well, I can hear it, but I can’t find it. Where’s that coming from? Is it upstairs? Why are these shoes still sitting here? I’ll just run them up to the closet.

The phone stopped ringing. But now the dryer is buzzing. Oh there’s my purse, sitting on the washing machine.

Got it. Whoa. I can’t believe this. That load of white clothes still isn’t dry.

Two missed calls. Three texts.

Anyway, the article says that by flitting from one thing to another, we develop a chronic sense of boredom – do we have anything for dinner? Maybe we have leftovers. Nope, not much in here. Looks like we need milk. Hmm—I started a list somewhere.

I’ll just add milk to notes on my phone. More texts. Not sure about this one. I could be free on Tuesday, I need to check the desk calendar.

Where is that calendar? Maybe it’s with that old address book. I really ought to check to make sure I’ve transferred all those addresses to my computer.

What a cute “Thinking of You” card. Wonder who I was thinking of?

We need a card for our daughter-in-law who is having a birthday soon. Is it the 14th or the 9th? If hers is the 14th, our son-in-law’s is the 9th. Or is it the other way around? The husband sent a picture of a chart he made of all the family birthdays to my cell. Where is that picture? Scrolling, scrolling, scrolling.

Hold on. News alert. Interstate closing due to a semi-truck rollover.

I should hit Twitter for a second, see if I’m missing anything. Maybe I could find something that looks good for dinner on Pinterest.

What’s this? I’ve been invited to pin on a Baby Shower board. Oh, I forgot I said I’d help with that one. Fun game ideas. Look at that adorable table setting!

Table setting. Dinner. I wonder about fish. Not fish for dinner, although we really should eat more fish. I wonder about the attention span of fish. How did they determine fish have an attention span of 8 seconds?  That’s not even long enough to update their status on Fishbook. (Social media humor.)

I have a hard time believing we have 8-second attention spans. Personally, I think there are days when I can focus on something as long as 10 or 12.






Know thy neighbor as thyself

Every week it seems there is a new way to check out your neighbors online. It’s a lot easier than walking over and talking to them. Besides, talking requires personal communication skills and who has those anymore?

Not that I’d look up my neighbors online, but — hey, I can see our house, too!  There’s our front yard! Our garage door is open!

In any case, if you are so inclined, you can enter an address and find out the name and age of everybody who lives at a particular residence, cities where they previously lived and, if you’re an exceptionally dedicated sleuth, you can set up an account and find out if the neighbors have ever filed bankruptcy or had a lien or court charges filed against them.

Yet another website will tell you if your neighbor is a Democrat or a Republican. (As if their yard sign wasn’t indicator enough.)  You can also see which political candidates they’ve supported financially.

Please. I’d rather not. I’m happier thinking we’re all on the same team. Sure, it’s delusional, but life is sweeter that way.

Of course, everything you can find out about your neighbor, your neighbor can find out about you.

Yes. Let’s just pause a moment and let that sink in.


If I want to know neighborhood news, I get it from my walking buddy around the corner who belongs to our neighborhood Facebook page. She’s faster than a website and more detailed.

Last week she informed me that multiple neighbors continue to have problems with stink bugs. Precisely the sort of news inquiring minds want to know. Oh, and complaints are still flying about a somewhat eclectic house on a corner that leads into the subdivision.

Personally, I believe the more yard ornaments they collect and the more vehicles they have for sale, the greater chance the house may serve as a deterrent to crime for the whole subdivision. People should stop complaining and thank them. Or at least drop off an old lawn chair or two.

Maybe it’s inevitable that we will one day all be virtual neighbors spying on one another in cyberspace and greeting one another with clever emojis on social media.

But a virtual neighbor will never watch two of your kids at 3 a.m. while you race a third one with appendicitis to the hospital.

A virtual neighbor won’t lend you a car, take in your mail, water your hanging baskets, or bust into your place with a spare key because you think you left the iron on.

No website will tell you that the elderly man at the end of the block who lost his wife to cancer got that big hairy dog to ease the loneliness.

Nor will a website tell you that the young gal helping do yardwork alongside your neighbor across the street is her 25-year-old granddaughter. Or that they’re all eating less meat (no beef or pork, just chicken and fish). Like the internet could tell you any of that.

There’s something about the word neighbor that implies personal—both for better and for worse. Virtual neighbors offering virtual banana bread will never replace the real thing.

Easter breathes new life

A friend asked for prayer for an extended family member who was about to undergo a lung transplant. While such things now happen with some frequency, and even a measure of predictability, they are nonetheless mind-boggling. It is nearly impossible to comprehend the entire picture and the complexity of all the elements converging—from the death of one that yields life to another, to the messy array of grief and joy, the magnitude of the gift and the phenomenal skills of the medical team.

Contemplating the marvels and dimensions of a lung transplant, I remembered a paper I wrote for a biology class in college, which is about the only thing I remember from college biology.

The paper was about the first breath a baby draws upon birth. We talk about the miracle of birth, yet often overlook the miracle of breath.

The first breath a baby takes within seconds of birth may be the most difficult breath of a child’s entire life. A baby’s lungs are filled with fluid during pregnancy and upon delivery the lungs must fill with air. Millions of alveoli, microscopic air sacs in the lungs, must inflate for the first time. Like the ignition of a jet engine that readies an aircraft for flight, that first breath ignites the entire cardio-pulmonary system. Inhale, exhale, buckle up and prepare for takeoff.

The lung transplant surgery went well for the woman. She shows no signs of rejection and is on the long road to recovery. Mornings begin with a cocktail of several dozen pills for breakfast. Oh, the many wonders we take for granted—the very act and gift of drawing breath.

The woman with the new lungs described her delight upon being wheeled into a garden adjoining the hospital a few days after surgery and seeing the first signs of spring. It is easy to picture a woman with new life enjoying the new life of creation.

It is no coincidence that Easter nestles in the cradle of spring. The remains of winter, all that has died and decayed, sleeping beneath soil, layers of thatch and crusts of bark, stretches, yawns big and awakens, signaling the long-awaited arrival of new life and new breath.

For Christians around the world, Holy Week culminates in the celebration of new life. Just like an organ transplant, the death of one has given life to others.  Those who recognize that the life systems of their hearts and souls were on the critical care list celebrate Christ as the one who sacrificed to give new life and new breath.

Tiny grape hyacinth sway in the wind. Pink blooms on the crabapple sprinkle the sidewalk like flower petals lining the way for a bride about to walk down the aisle. The promise of life and newness permeates the air.

On Easter morning, Christians in sprawling suburban churches, inner-city buildings with leaky ceilings and hard wooden pews, as well as those around the world whose houses of worship have been bombed and are littered with rubble, will again breathe deep and hold tight to the promise of transplant—despair in exchange for hope, grief in exchange for joy, death in exchange for life.

Inhale, exhale.


Fans scramble to the “grand” attraction

For years now, experts have been saying that career-minded people should plan on having more than one career in a lifetime. Good thing I listened to the experts, otherwise I might have been caught off guard to find myself suddenly married to a rock star.

The husband didn’t start out as a rock star. Oh sure, he played drums for a band in high school, but they mostly played in a friend’s garage. He has been a journalist all his working years and did not become a rock star until about seven years ago.

These days, fans yell and scream and jump out from behind doorways, bushes and even furniture whenever they spot him. They run at him, charge him and nearly knock him down. If ever a man needed a security detail, it is this one.

To be clear, the husband doesn’t have millions of fans (more like nine), but they are loyal fans. They don’t follow his every move on Facebook or Twitter, but they do follow him through the house, the backyard and a nearby park. His fans also tend to be short—and young (ages 7, 6, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 18 months and 15 months).

Like the other celebrities and stars that get so big they go by one name, he does, too – Grandpa (scream it like his fans do!). What his fans lack in number, they more than make up for in volume.

How does one shoot to rock star sensation level overnight? You become a human jungle gym. You let one kid ride on your back and carry one in each arm. You give horsey rides to two and three fans at a time. You let fans play with your reading glasses. Sure, you may have to buy them in packs of three, but such is the price of fame. You let your fans sit in your lap when they eat dinner (to their parents’ chagrin). You let them play with the comb in your back pocket (and lose it). You let them take pictures on your smart phone (hundreds at a time).

You become an overnight rock star by sheer charm and personality. You hold mini-pretzels in front of your eyes like they are glasses. You achieve hero status with a foray into the thicket to retrieve the ball. You courageously declare that anytime is a good time for ice cream.

You become a rock star by drawing funny pictures and reading books. Book after book, sometimes the same book after book—books about crocodiles, birds, bears, mice, machinery and talking vegetables.

Being married to a rock star has its challenges. Somedays the fans pass me right by as they sprint to the main attraction. But it’s OK, because somebody has to stay grounded. Somebody has to be responsible, pay attention to safety, nutrition and assess what bones might break if a small fan were to fall from a particular height.

The fans are gone now. The rock star is recovering on the couch in a deep sleep. He’ll probably want dinner when he regains consciousness.

Mine may not be a glamorous job, but somebody has to manage the talent.






Talking mirror is a scream

Remember the magic mirror in Snow White that talked back to the queen and told her she’d been eclipsed by a younger beauty with firmer skin?  Well, you can now buy one of your own talking mirrors.

It’s called the HiMirror; depending on your age and skin condition, you’ll either love it or loathe it.

The mirror will scan your face and tell you in real time what’s wrong with it. Oh, joy. It looks for wrinkles (are we having fun yet?) red spots (check), pores, fine lines (did I miss a few hundred?), dark circles (check) and brightness levels. The mirror rates each part of your skin on a scale of 100 with 100 being skin perfection.

The idea is to track your skin so you can see if the beauty products you are using are helpful and worth the cost or if you would have been better off applying Crisco.

As they say on TV—but wait! – there’s more! The mirror also enables you to watch yourself slowly age. Would somebody please stop this fun train?

Some really do regard this as a fun train – like the 30-something reviewer who scanned her face, noting that she didn’t mean to brag or anything, but every test zone on her face scored in the high 90s. I’m happy for you, dear. No really. Go have some french fries. Or one of those blooming onions.

Naturally one of the most convenient places to hang the mirror, with the built-in internet-connected camera that can store thousands of images, is on the bathroom mirror. A mirror in the bathroom with a camera connected to the internet and a companion phone app. What could possibly go wrong?

Personally, I think the bathroom would be a great place for the smart mirror. After I received the results of my face scan and then watched myself slowly age, it would be a short walk back to the bed, where I would collapse in a tech-induced depression.

It’s probably just me, but I can think of other things I’d rather spend money on than a mirror that talks to me about every flaw on my face and charts my progress or lack of progress in making improvements.

I am quite content with low lights, thank you —and living in delusion.

If the talking mirror sounds appealing to you, hold on to your age-defying anti-wrinkle cream, because there’s more good news where this came from. The same company also makes a smart scale. It looks like a plush bath mat and measures not only weight but body fat percentage, body mass index, total body water, skeletal muscle mass, bone mass and basal metabolic rate.

Welcome to the hi-tech bathroom –  now known in some quarters as the new house of horrors.




Here’s the dirt on paying kids for chores

A lot of depressing press releases fill my inbox, but the one announcing that spring cleaning is around the corner is among the worst. As if the husband writing “Feed Me” in the dust on the coffee table isn’t reminder enough.

This particular press release was littered with awful phrases like “dusting baseboards, washing windows, cleaning behind and under appliances, vacuuming air vents, freshening up the yard.”  Who are these people?

And then I saw something intriguing. “These people” was a man by the name of Gregg Murset who advocates children help do chores, especially spring cleaning. Murset references the claim that science shows children who do chores are more likely to be successful at, well, pretty much everything.

Being that this was a man after my own heart, I picked up the phone and called him.

“Gregg, does science say anything about men doing chores?”

“Hmmm,” he said. “Science says we’re supposed to do more than we do.”

Smart guy. We had a connection. Sure, it was a connection born of furniture polish, brooms and toilet cleaners, but it was a connection.

“Are you a pretty helpful guy around the house?” I asked.

“I’m a breakfast guy. I mix it up; we never have cold cereal. I do French toast, eggs, bacon, pancakes, waffles, cream of rice and—what’s the other one?”


“Yeah, cream of wheat.”

The man has serious cred – and a wife and six kids.

“Let me get to the heart of things, Gregg. Do you find a lot of men are afraid of vacuum cleaners?”

“Yes, and they’re stupid. The best way to make your wife happy is to vacuum.”

I agreed. But then we disagreed. It’s a disagreement parents have had for ages – paying kids for chores or not paying kids for chores.

Murset believes you should pay kids for doing chores, while I am of the “I’ll Pay Kids for Chores When I See a Twenty Dollar Bill at the Bottom of the Ironing Basket” school.

He said he understood the school I was coming from (and graduated from), but thinks paying kids for chores motivates them, instills a work ethic and is a great way to teach about money and investing. He’s even developed BusyKid, an online system that helps families chart chores and sends parents a text reminding them it’s time to transfer money from their account into the kids’ accounts.

When our son turned 18, he had nearly 30 lawn-mowing clients and knew the money in his bank account would soon flow to our bank account to help pay for college. Same transfer of money, different directions.

Yet, Murset’s system works, too. When one of his sons turned 18 and was asked what he wanted for his birthday, he said an IRA. I am warming to Murset’s school of thought. It has possibilities we may have missed.

He also suggests that after kids have reached a work or savings goal, the family should have a celebratory meal. Good idea, but one more question — who’s on cleanup?