'Tis the Season to be Falling

          I told you that St. Bob is recovering from a complete knee replacement, right?  Well, the whole reason he had to have it was due to a skiing accident 20 years ago.

           Turns out you should take your own skiis and adjust your own bindings. Instead, we had rented skiis and the doofus (yes, doofus) kid who tightened them for him gave it one or two cranks too many, and Bob’s skiis wouldn’t release.

          This wouldn’t have been a problem, except for Doofus #2 on a snowboard, who cut Bob off and caused him to fall.  Two doofuses are one too many, and Bob heard the snap! as he went down, his ski going one way and his leg going the other.

          I was at the top of the hill resting (some would say oblivious), completely unaware of the situation.  But soon I was heading toward a guy crumpled on the snow who looked an awful lot like my husband.  As I got closer I did the only sensible thing—I screamed.  And it wasn’t long before the ski patrol zipped up to us to assess the situation.

          Sure enough, his knee was out of commission (turned out to be a torn minuscus).  So the guys radioed for a toboggan, and began filling out paperwork, right there on the slope.

          “What do you do for a living?” one guy asked.

          “I play for the 49ers,” Bob said.  I just stared at him.  Seriously?  You’re going the macho route so you won’t look like a wimp?  Good grief.

          “Can you tell me what happened?” the fellow said.

          “Just write O.F.T.T.H.,” Bob said.  And when the fellow didn’t understand Bob just sighed, “Old Fart Trying Too Hard.”  Okay.  He’s back.

         Snowed in or snowed under, you need a good book. And you can do all your Christmas shopping in one place—find all my books right here.

And to All a Good Night...

          If ever you need to feel better as a parent, look no further than this blog.  It is loaded—loaded, I tell you—with my own examples of major parenting blunders.  In fact, if you scroll through Joniopolis and you are a publisher, you will consider compiling these into quite a comprehensive collection.

          And now, because this is the time for Christmas choirs around the world, I shall share yet another of my mothering mistakes.  Have your kids ever been in a school choir?  Of course they have. And we all love to gather in auditoriums and watch our little punkins in elf hats and reindeer noses, singing their hearts out.

          Well, when our eldest boys were in grade school, they attended Viewpoint School in a Los Angeles suburb. 

          And every December the kids climbed onto risers onstage, and sang beautiful songs about Christmas, Hanukah, Kwanzaa, and all the rest. 

          Except one year Richie had bronchitis.  What to do? I knew he was no longer contagious, but that lingering cough would surely disrupt the program.  The teachers wanted every child to perform, Richie enjoyed it, and we were just young enough as parents, that we didn’t realize how many more opportunities there would be.  (You know how it is when they’re in grade school—you think you need to save every spelling test, attend every assembly, teach them to be reliable…)

          So I figured a spoonful of cough medicine would be the perfect way to quiet the storm for a couple of hours, right?  There’s just one problem: Benadryl Cough Syrup makes you sleepy.  Really sleepy.

          So there they were, all the kids standing in rows on the bleachers, singing about having a Merry Christmas when suddenly one boy got shorter and shorter, then finally slumped down, sat on his step, and fell fast asleep. Yikes—the first comatose performer in Viewpoint’s history.

          Yes, we had to pull him off stage, wake him up and take him home.  No, I did not sit by the phone awaiting a call from the Mother of the Year people awarding me my medal. And I apologized to the music director, and every other parent who mentioned it to me thereafter. Of which there were more than one or two.

          On the other hand, maybe he was the only one acting out a Christmas lyric: “Sleep in heavenly peace…”

          You can also Christmas shop in heavenly peace by clicking here for any number of my books!

Thanksgiving Gone Haywire

          You already know our family does this holiday, shall we say, a bit differently.  Yes, we love a grand feast, and here is a photo of last year’s:

          But remember, we have a family of comedians, so they always tweak it a bit.  One treasured tradition is going around the table and saying what you’re thankful for, but when you do it alphabetically as we do, you end up with “Asiatic Flu,” “hot rods,” and “urinals,” which you can read about here. 

          This year Cassidy contributed “criminals” and “unlicensed obstetricians of illegitimate children.” When I chose Gulliver’s Travels because of its creative adventure I was nearly run out of town as a heretic and a huge argument about the merits of classic literature ensued.

          But this year, with Bob under ice packs, still healing from a knee replacement (and a broken femur which happened during the procedure), I was a tad distracted.  The turkey was done an hour and half before everything else, the cheesecake—which Nicole topped with her pomegranate-honey glaze was gorgeous:

          But was a little underdone in the center.  The smoke alarm went off three times, windows and doors were flung open, and the dog went running down the street. 

          We finally got everything on the table (except the dog), and I realized I am grateful for this crazy bunch whom I love, who pitch in to cook and clean, and even the one who forbade me from posting our group photo.  Whatever.  Gratitude abounds.

          And now that that’s over with, dive into Christmas shopping here, where there’s a book for everyone!

The Grinch is Writing Fortune Cookies

          Those of you who know me, know that I shop all year for Christmas.  I keep a list and tuck things away, spreading that gift-giving joy throughout the year.

          But, of course, it ramps up at this time of year as kids share their wish lists and more goodies entice us. Occasionally I’ll share an idea with St. Budget—I mean St. Bob—whose response is usually, “How much is that going to cost?”

          Which casts a Grinchlike gloom over the merriment of the season, and I scowl, trying to figure out how to justify the sudden expense.

          So I was NOT AT ALL AMUSED when St. Bob and I went out for a Chinese meal recently, and he opened this fortune:

          right before I opened mine, which said:

          “Wow!” Bob said.  “Looks like my fortune came true immediately!” He said it was the best Chinese meal he’s ever had.

          I am still pouting, but I might pull out of it if you purchase one of my books or watch one of my YouTube Mom videos here.

Patience, Patience

          Yesterday Bob sent me this photo he snapped at the grocery store, along with the caption: A place where Joni will never be found.

          Of course, he means it as a service center for people who can be patient, not the medical way they mean it.

          I honestly thought I would grow more patient as I got older, and realized how few things are worth stressing over.  But, as it turns out, my realization that time is running out has only made me feel more rushed, more pressed to get things done before the sand falls through the hourglass. Or life-glass, whatever’s running.

          When I was in first grade I came home with a report card that said, “Joni has a hard time being patient with her peers.”  I didn’t even know what a peer was. But if it’s defined as someone who is your equal, why were they doing everything so slowly?

          You know the Department of Motor Vehicle scene in Zootopia?  It’s where two sloths are running things, and talking so slowly it could make you jump out of your seat, screaming.  That’s how my whole life seems at times.

          I did have one moment of progress.  I think.  It’s when my mother, who had Alzheimers’ for eight years, was in a care facility (she had also broken her back, hip, and shoulder).  I was helping her and chatting with her when a nurse, who had been watching, said, “You have such patience.”

          It was literally a jaw-dropping moment for me.  “I do?” I said.  No one had ever given me that compliment before.  But it’s one of my favorites.

          And then, of course, I went back to my hurrying.  A couple of weeks ago I called my doctor and got the recordings we all know:  If you’re a doctor, press 1.  If you’re a pharmacy, press 2.  If you’re a patient, press 3.

          “WHAT?” I thought.  If I’m impatient I can press 3?  This is fantastic!  This means someone will pick right up, be super efficient, and become my new best friend.  But it was not to be. Maybe they should have had another one: If you didn’t hear this right, press 4 for a hearing test.

Great news for fellow hurriers: You can order my books with the click of a button!  Check ‘em out here.

Are You Dead in a Ditch?

          This is probably my most-used text message and it is sent, not surprisingly, to my four children who are far flung and don’t always respond when I call.  I give them two or three messages and then I ask what any good detective would ask: Are you dead in a ditch?

          But I have recently learned of several new devices that could virtually beam me into their lives, something I’ll bet they would love.

          We all know there are medic alert buttons and call devices for seniors so they can access paramedics or even remember to take medications. Some even look like sleek wristwatches.

          But my idea goes further.  It would go right into the devices of one’s child.  I think “Beam Me Up” might be a phrase that’s already taken, but you get the idea.

          Your kid is at college or at work, and suddenly his phone lights up like a slot machine.  Wow-wow-wow sirens could be optional, but he would definitely know there was an incoming message from Mom, right?

He glances at his smart phone or Android, and there would be a lovely photo of his parent, waving their arms along with audio reminding them to take their vitamins.  Or get enough rest.  Or call home.

          Better yet, we could appear as a hologram, hovering in the air like Princess Leia, only life size.  Now that would be a welcome greeting, right?  And we could appear in a board meeting, a classroom, while they’re on a date, pretty much anywhere.

          I'll bet they'll have this new technology in no time. Every few minutes our phones become obsolete anyway, because smarty pants kids (who probably want to hear from their moms) are inventing new technology to replace the old stuff.  This is just the brave new world that’s next up.  And then we can be sure you’re not dead in a ditch.

          I actually have the perfect thing for you to do while waiting for your grown child to call back.  Check out my website—buy my books and watch my YouTube Mom videos. 

True Crime Confession

          Do you know anyone who has stolen something from the LDS Conference Center DURING a church General Conference?  Yes you do—me. 

For my non-Mormon readers, let me explain that twice a year there’s a huge gathering of Latter-day Saints in Salt Lake City at the gigantic Conference Center (which seats 21,000), for several sessions of talks from our leaders along with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir performing throughout.  It’s quite a big deal and standing in line earlier this month, we met a man from Angola who had flown 36 hours just to attend it. Here’s how big it is:

So, to process thousands of people through a security check, it’s a bit of a mob scene.  Organized, but still a mob.  It was raining, so we all put our purses, umbrellas, whatnot, on a long series of tables, then picked them up at the end of the long assembly line.

Only my umbrella was missing.  Great.  Someone with a similar one must have picked mine up.  So I grabbed the one that most resembled mine, and took off for our seats.  But I was disappointed.  The one I had to settle for was not as nice as the one I was borrowing from my daughter.

After the session, we headed out.  And as I reached into my purse to turn my cell phone back on, what should I find but MY UMBRELLA! This meant I had stolen someone else’s—someone who is now going to get drenched, thanks to me.  I cannot tell you how terrible I felt.  I had obviously forgotten that I had collapsed my umbrella and stuffed it into my purse. I left the other one at the scene of the crime, but doubt very much that it found its owner.

And so I am confessing to this dastardly deed and hoping that someone out there can forgive the dingdong who made off with their umbrella. If only there were a LOST & FOUND for our brains.

I’d love to make a YouTube Mom video about how to remember you’ve already stowed your umbrella, but I fear not many of you really need the help I do!