Ready, Aim, Plant!

            Hold onto your holsters, folks.  I have another brilliant idea.  Remember the last one?  I suggested putting Beano in dog food and tell me that would not make someone into an instant millionaire. (See that post here: http://bit.ly/12zTJzm)

            Well, now I have another one.  Bob says I think so far outside the box that I can’t even see the box,

but I choose to take that as a compliment (and you should do this with all evaluations, positive or negative). 

            First you must remember that the land in Rocklin, where I live,  is a former granite quarry and hard to plant.  Literally.  I have a slope in my back yard that you can pound all day with a garden spade and not even make a dent.  Except in the spade.

 

            So two days ago we’re driving along and I see a police car.  “Hey, flip a U-ee and go back there!” I shout.  “I have a question for that cop!”

            “Oh, I can only imagine the outcome of that conversation,” Bob says, refusing to go back.  “Is this one of your hare-brained schemes?”

            “Why do you assume the worst?” I ask.  “I have a fantastic idea I want to run by him.”

            Bob insists I tell him the idea before he will go back.  Fine.  I tell him I want to know if a person can make their own bullets, and if so, can I stuff them with seeds and shoot them into the slope in our back yard.  And also can I buy a silencer so as not to alarm the neighbors. 

            “You want to shoot seeds out of a gun?” Bob refuses to go back.  Total party pooper. 

I call my eldest son, Richie, because he cannot see the box, either.  He tells me it is perfectly legal to make bullets, but that firing them might denaturize the proteins in the seeds, because of the heat.

            “What heat?” I ask.

            “Well, the gun powder ignites and heats the bullet.”

            “What? Are you telling me that when someone gets shot they also get burned by the hot bullet?”

            “Well,” he says, “that’s usually a secondary concern.”  

            Maybe so, but it is never mentioned on the cop shows I watch.  Richie recommends a pellet gun or an Airsoft BB gun that would not only keep from cooking the seeds, but would not require a silencer, either. And, from close range, would sink the pellets about an inch into the ground.

            I figure I can buy empty medicine capsules online somewhere, fill them with seeds and a pinch of fertilizer, and have that whole hillside planted in 15 minutes.  I won’t even get my hands dirty!  Suddenly kneeling down and digging with a spade seems so archaic, right?

            Now my wheels are turning and I cannot fathom why some enterprising person has not come up with Planting Pellets filled with jasmine, vinca, rosemary, spearmint seeds, whatever groundcover you choose

—or vegetables, for that matter. 

 

         Perfect for rock-hard soil that takes a jackhammer to penetrate (I’m not making this up; this is how we planted a tree).  You package up the gun in a bright yellow box, let’s say, then put “seed pellets sold separately” on the cover.  And then you sell dozens of little packets of 15 pellets for every plant that has a small enough seed. Acorns would obviously not be under consideration.  If you want to take this idea and run with it, be my guest.  I will be your best customer.

            Until then, I’m going to check out those BB guns at the local Big Box stores.  At least that’s a box I can see.

Come and live outside the box with me—but first type your email address INTO the little box on the right. Then you’ll be a subscriber and I’ll shoot these great ideas right into your inbox! 

Well, Shoot!

Get ready for the best (worst?) auto-correct story you’ve heard.  And of course, it happened last week to St. Bob.

          First, the setting.  At our church’s recent semi-annual General Conference, it was announced that, in every congregation, the two main men’s groups would now be combined, with a new presidency.  That meant releasing both previous presidents, their counselors, and secretaries.  And much of this task fell to men like Bob, who serve on the High Council.

          So he began contacting the various men to let them know he’d like to meet with them to do this. As part of his text, he dictated into his phone, “I’ll release you this week,” before requesting a convenient time.

          I was across the room, not really listening, when I heard him shout, “No! No!”  Yep. Yep.  He had already pressed “send” before checking his message, and it went out as “I’ll really shoot you this week.”

          And we can all see how “release you” can become “release-shoo” to an iphone’s ears, right? Soon “really shoot” becomes its choice and away you go.

          Bob called the guy right away and they both cracked up over his gaff.  But then the guy said, “Do you know what line of work I’m in?”

          Bob did not.

          “I’m in law enforcement,” he said.  But of course.

Have you seen my YouTube Mom videos?  Check ‘em out here.  There’s even one for how to apologize.

Bullseye

 St. Bob just came home with this:

          Yes, it’s a target from a gun range, and those little holes will tighten up next time because he just had shoulder surgery and had to hold his pistol with one hand. He was actually not happy with this result.

          He was a sharpshooter in the military, so of course I told the kids he was the sharpshooter of ALL the military branches. But, in my defense, this could have been true. Had he not been so handsome and engaging, he could have ended up as a sniper instead of a game show host.

          And then he married me. Have you ever seen me throw darts?

          No, you have not. It looks as though I couldn’t even see the target, and aimed at the surrounding wall instead.

          But I’m consistent. If I throw a wad of paper towards a garbage can, it will miss the can every time.

          It’s the same with basketballs, baseballs-- basically any ball-- but especially guns. It’s a complete waste of ammunition to let me try shooting. But don’t worry—I have wasp spray in case someone breaks into the house. It can shoot 20 feet, sprays out like a shotgun, and drops an intruder to his knees.  Not only that, but it saves getting multiple holes in the walls.

         Aren’t you glad I’m not into hatchet throwing?

          Take a shot at my Youtube Mom videos—you’ll hit something great every time!

Talk About Going on Your Permanent Record

          Folks, I just got three tattoos. Yessir, I have now joined the ranks of other radiation patients who have a connect-the-dots deal on their bodies, so death rays can be lined up correctly.  Okay, they’re probably called something else, but the idea is that their machinery can shoot a laser beam in exactly the right place to kill cancer. So… killer rays?  Same idea.

          The tattoos look like a little pen dot. One on my chest, and one on each side. So you’re probably wondering why I’m such a whiner about this. But here’s what I did not know: Tattoos hurt like crazy!

I thought a little needle would go in for just a split second. It would be almost painless, just a tiny pinch. WRONG. Granted I have extremely sensitive skin and possibly a second set of nerves (this is the case with my daughter, so I’m just assuming??), but HOLY MOLEY, it was worse than a bee or a wasp sting, two things I have experienced multiple times. 

I asked the guy doing it how on earth people have giant dragons and tigers all over their bodies. Do they not have nerve endings?

I tell you, the next time I see someone with a bunch of tattoos I’m going to ask them if they had to take pain meds or just what, before and after the procedure.

Or, maybe I’m just a big baby. It’s probably that. Nevermind.

Hey, have you checked out my Youtube Mom channel lately? One of the most popular ones is about 10 uses for cream of tartar. Although I don’t think it can help with tattooing pain.

Have Your Ever Ruined Your Child's Christmas?

This is a Christmas story.  It is not, however, intended for anyone under the age of ten.  IF you have met this height requirement, please proceed.

            This is also a true story that I’ve shared with many of my readers, and even wrote a short play about it, which was performed in New York last year.  This is honestly what happened:

            Nicole was seven years old, and came home from school furious.  She had just finished reading a Goosebumps book by R. L. Stein, in which he made it clear that Santa does not exist.  Now she was standing in front of me, hands on her hips, demanding to know the truth.  And I could just strangle R. L. Stein. 

I took a deep breath, and that one pause was enough to confirm her worst fears.  I rushed in to console her, to remind her that Christmas is about love, and that giving is better than receiving, and I knew all she was hearing was “blah blah blah” because her innocence was shattered, and no jolly elf was reading her letters or eating the cookies she so carefully arranged each year.  And he certainly wasn’t coming down the chimney to bring her presents. 

Of course, it was Christmastime, and Nicole was devastated.  She wanted no mention of Santa, no Santa decorations, no songs about Santa— as far as she was concerned, life was over and Christmas was a sham.  I held her in my arms, and reminded her that Christmas is really about the birth of Christ… hellooo?... and that’s joyous enough, right there.  Then I talked with her about the fun it is to be Santa, to fill the stockings, to carry on the tradition, but she was unmoved. 

She gasped.  “So this means the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy are fake, too, right?”  

 

“Well, I certainly believe in them,” I said. 

But she saw right through me.  A triple whammy!  “My life is ruined,” she repeated, and stormed off to her room. 

All afternoon and evening I tried to comfort her, and remind her of the happy events of the season and the blessings she enjoyed. Nothing worked.

Finally it was bedtime and I lay down beside her, wishing there was some magical way I could restore the enchanting fantasy.  I glanced around her dimly-lit room and, suddenly, there it was: The answer!  In the shadows on a bookshelf was a magic kit.

            I turned to my little girl.  “Honey,” I whispered, “It’s like watching a magician.  Even though you know there’s a trick to everything he does, it’s still fun to watch him.”

Now she whipped around to face me.  “You mean there’s no magic, either??!”

I wanted to roll off the bed and fall into a bottomless pit where all bad mothers go.   Yes, Dear Readers, this is the story of how I am the worst mother in the universe.  A meteor could have fallen through the roof and right through my heart, and it couldn’t have been worse.  Just shoot me now was zinging through my brain, and I fully expect to see a videotape of this hideous moment, after I die and the scales are being weighed in the hereafter.

And so I give you a Christmas gift this season, of knowing you are at least a better parent than that Joni Hilton blogger person.  And you’re probably better than R. L. Stein, too.

Tell your friends to subscribe (also to my youtube channel here), and feelings of superiority can be yours forever.

Bumber? Shoot!

          I don’t think husbands should be allowed to read minds.  St. Bob probably knows I am thinking this, but it’s still my position.

          Here is the latest example of an infraction.  For Christmas he gave me a FABULOUS McKenzie Childs umbrella. 

You know how crazy I am about this design line, because you read here about my painting my grandfather clock in that style.

This umbrella folds up neatly into a travel sized sleeve,

so I’ve been keeping it in my car for a rainy day.

The problem is that in March we get a lot of rainy days where I live.  So St. Bob decided to ask if I’ve tried out my gift, yet.

I paused.

“Let me guess,” he said. “You’re afraid to get it wet.”

And here is where I clamp my hands over my forehead and say, “Get out of there!  That's private property.” 

And yes, that is exactly the situation. I love my umbrella too much to use it.  Like those women (and you know who you are) who never use the good china or the expensive perfume.  I am now in your club.  So we have to agree to stop meeting and overcome our craziness.

This week I’m going to Seattle.  And I am USING my umbrella.

And while I’m gone you can surprise me by ordering one of my books! 

The Patience Patient

          I have a patience problem.  I’ve had it my whole life, as pointed out by my first grade teacher when she wrote on my report card, “Joanie has a hard time being patient with her peers.”

          I changed the spelling to Joni as soon as I realized it would save time.  Sigh. 

          Just today I called my doctor’s office and heard the recording say, “If you’re impatient, press One.”  Are you kidding me?  A doctor’s office is finally learning to streamline the callers and get us right through before we shoot somebody?  Wow!  I pressed one immediately.

          Turns out the recording said, “If you’re a patient.”  Oh, good grief. Think how much better life would be if you could select the personality traits causing you problems.  If you’re impatient, press One to get right through.  If you’re insecure, press Two for compliments. If you’re angry, press Three for some calming spa music.  If you’re a tightwad, Press Four to hear about local bargains.

          I did some research and it turns out there’s a name for what I have.  It’s called Hurry Up Syndrome.  I thought, “Wait—that’s a thing?”  Yes, apparently some of us feel pressed to rush through life at breakneck pace, which explains my driving, my inability to watch a parade, and my sprinkling Miracle Gro directly on my plants.

         There’s plenty of expert online advice for folks who have this.  Slow down.  Nap.  Take deep breaths.  Ha!  You can tell the experts don’t have this disorder because all their suggestions only exacerbate the situation, making us feel we have to run even faster to make up for the “helper” who tried to slow us down.

And anyway, why can’t we stay revved up and productive?  So what if we’re predisposed to push ourselves?  If you can make stress work in your favor, then why tinker with a good thing?  Maybe the articles should be offering advice to others about how they can get a move on.

Or we just need to marry people with a sense of humor.  When I told St. Bob about an infuriating phone recording that said, “You must wait ten seconds,” he said, “You just heard them wrong.  It probably said, ‘You’re a ten and you’re sexy.’”  Okay, for that I will stop and listen.

Hurry on up to the “subscribe” box on this page, and make sure you get these posts twice a week.  Or, do it at your leisure.  Who am I to say?

Lights! Camera! Action!

          Last Friday a real-life chase scene tore through the streets of Hollywood, and most folks just took selfies.

          Here’s what happened.  Two guys in a blue Mustang led police on a wild chase, doing donuts and pumping their fists in the air.  It started with the report of a burglary, but ended with sudden fans hugging and high-fiving the suspects as they arrived in their own neighborhood. TV news helicopters followed the action until sheriffs finally arrived and arrested the two men.

          This is the problem with living in L.A.  Years ago when I lived there, I recall driving down a street not far from Universal Studios, and seeing two policemen with guns drawn, crouching behind the open door of a cop car, with other police cars nearby.  A crowd was standing around, apparently doing nothing exactly as crowds look on a movie set, so I – and everybody in my car—assumed it was a movie shoot.  Or a television episode. 

          We all muttered about the pain-in-the-neck these events are, trying to maneuver through streets crowded with props, catering trucks, lighting cables and the like.  And we turned around to go another way.

          About an hour later I learned this was an actual standoff between police and someone holding a hostage in a house.  Good gravy!  I was literally living in a movie set of sorts, and like these folks in Hollywood who cheer as suspects provide drama and entertainment, we forget that real crime also happens, not just scripted crime.

          Just one more reason to leave La La Land, along with my reason several years ago. I knew it was time to go when I was driving on the Ventura Freeway and heard my two young boys in the back seat, arguing about whether a passing limo was a stretch or not.

          Sometimes it’s just better to shout, “Cut” and change to a new scene.

But I did host a daily TV talk show there for four years, and much of that plays out in my comedy novel, Sisters in the Mix, which you can find here.