Category: irony (page 1 of 2)

Preparation

I’ve been thinking about all the preparing we humans tend to do in order to be Super Ready for All the Things. My Kid 2 is overseas right now, teaching English to small Lithuanian children and eating her body weight in beautiful European cheeses. Before she left, she did everything right, including notifying her bank that she’d be using a card in that region.

They cancelled her card this week.

Like, it’s blocked. She can’t use it. (“Our fraud detection software noticed you’ve been using your card in Poland, and we’re pretty sure your permanent address is not in Poland. So, no card for you. You’re welcome.”)

She didn’t take a phone to Vilnius, because hello? She doesn’t need it. So she can’t call them and ask them to fix their mistake. I’m happy to call them and ask them to fix it, but that’s no guarantee, since I’m not Kid 2, and she’s a technical adult, and blah, blah, blah.

I’m going to get this fixed for her, but that’s only a little piece of the point. We do Things to ready ourselves for other Things, and it completely baffles me when my Things get unfixed.

I’m a believer in preparation. I’m for it, one hundred percent. But even with my full commitment, I find it weird. I know that half the things I prepare against (from the Apocalypse to Gum Recession to Running out of Gas) are unlikely (for the record — running out of gas is unlikely, and gum recession is half unlikely — that’s half the things, right?). I prepare for them anyway.

I have a basement full of wheat, dry beans, and bottled tomatoes and fruits. This will feed us for many months, in the event that we choose to live on whole wheat breads, bean soup, and smoothies. I also have a container of coconut gelato that will never see next week. Because I’m going to need it. See? Prepared.

But the mini-fiasco at the bank has caused me to wonder what other preparations we make that don’t actually Take. That will have to be Fixed, involving much Chasing About. And the list grows long in my head. Long and tiring. And even as I scroll through this long mental list, I find comfort in the preparation. And some smug self-satisfaction that I can say to bankers or to the universe at large, “See, we totally took care of this months ago. Can you please deal with it on your end?”

I’m prepared to get a little demanding.

How to Get it to Rain

(A Drought-Year User’s Guide)

1. Stare at wilting plants and withering grasses for a month.

2. Gasp in shock, every day, when you somehow forget what 90+ degrees feels like in your yard.

3. Sleep with the AC on, even though you live in the high mountain desert, and everyone knows it gets very cold every night (except when it doesn’t) so you should always sleep with the windows open (except when you can’t, because SWEATY).

4. Plan a river float trip for the 4th of July, including talking your Totally Adult, University-Attending Daughter into joining you.

5. Wake up on said Independence Day holiday to sheets of gorgeous rain.

Any questions?

Life is Funny.

Funny as in ha-ha-ha, sometimes.

Funny as in hmm, that’s odd, more times.

Funny as in IRONIC, most times.

Why is it, do you think, that we (me, my family, like that) keep having the same struggles over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over? Have we really not gotten gracious under the fire of this particular trial? Because we look pretty gracious to me. And we think we’ve learned what we need to know. But look. Funny, ironic life is giving us that same test AGAIN.

Hilarious. Life is hilarious. Life, you should get your own cable TV talk show. You’re *that* funny. I’d watch it. If I had access to cable channels. At very least I’d watch it on YouTube. Because, funny.

Totally.

Truly Bad Poetry (Mine)

 

–It Kind of Rhymes–

Yesterday was a sick day.
That’s not very nice.
I lay in bed all day long
Not even eating rice.
Ice cream sounded painful,
Cookies are a crock.
I’d pay someone some money
To bash in my head with a rock.

–Sub Haiku–

Taught first grade today.
How many tears can they shed?
Can’t blame their hormones.

–It Doesn’t Rhyme, But it’s True–

Gas costs $4/gallon,
So I think I’ll just stay home
Forever and watch Jimmy Fallon
Sing TV theme songs on YouTube
.

–Grooming Haiku–

All my fingernails
Were the same length for nine days.
Then I did dishes.

–Time, She’s a’Slipping (FreeForm)–

The baby boy is only eight.
But still, he was assigned
To watch the presidential debate
And write down what color tie everyone wore.

The Homework piles up higher and higher
But not as high as the university catalogs that keep filling
Our mailbox and Kid 1’s bedroom floor.

Leaves are falling and yellowing and crunching
And I like October, okay?

–Stress–

We have some,
around here,
and it’s kind of hard
to deal with it
sometimes.

Satisfaction

You know the most interesting books to read are the ones with interesting characters experiencing all manner of tension?

When I teach writing classes, especially to kids and teens, we talk a lot about tension and conflict and how we really want lots of it in out books. But want to know something? It’s not really something I look for in my life.

Ever.

Conflict makes good story, and satisfaction does not.

I just want to tell you that I’m very satisfied right now.

So if my posts are boring and “meh” and not terribly clever, that’s only because I’m at my most clever when something is making me crazy. Like SKUNKS or CANCER or MISSING MY MOM.

Satisfaction does not a great story make. And that is Perfectly All Right with me. I don’t need a good story. I have a good life.

(But I’ll be back when things turn sideways, and YOU WILL HEAR ABOUT IT.)

We Have a WINNER, and Greatest Hits vol. 1

And the winner of the hardcover copy of Ally Condie’s CROSSED is…

CHARETTE! I’ve sent her an email to tell her about it, and then I’ll send the copy, and then there’s about to be much rejoicing at the Charette household.

And now, for your reading pleasure, I’d like to give you one of Becca’s Greatest Hits [1]

From April 15, 2010, for your edification or for to fill my page with words:

So I’m going to go ahead and blog about clothes.

Stop laughing.

I mean it. Stop.

I like clothes. I do. They certainly beat the alternative. (I know, right?) But fashion? I don’t get it. Even little-kid fashion. In fact, I was in Macy’s yesterday with all four Kids, and I had gag-reflex issues with the little girl shirts. Not all of them, just the ones in neon colors with what looked like paint splattered over a silk-screened animal head.* Hellllllooooooo, 1984. The fashion flashbacks were appalling. Skin-crawlingly so. (And not only because I wore that shirt, but because I probably had the whole themed set.)

Kid 3 was entranced. “Look at all these cute clothes,” she crooned. She really did. Maybe it’s because we don’t live within normal daily driving distance of a mall, and she’s very seldom been inside one. Maybe because she’s the poster child for hand-me-downs. Maybe because her new clothes all get picked for her (by me) in an effort at the beauty of “cheap and reusable.” Maybe she’s showing (heaven forbid) an innate sense of style. But she was in heaven and not at all amused when we went to the old lady section to look at dresses. (Which was a bust, by the way. No such luck.)

So here’s what I’ve discovered about me, you know, fashionwise. I need time to get on a bandwagon. Years, maybe. Part of that is my cheapness – I don’t want to invest in a trend that won’t last past this season (and how do I know this? I don’t. Also, I’m learning not to care, too much). But a bigger part is just not knowing how I feel about _____ until I’ve had some time to digest it a little. I read books several times, to be sure which parts I love best. I re-make (and edit) recipes over and over and over to find the just-perfect blend. Also with books, the really popular series ones, I often wait for several volumes before I’ll go ahead and read, not just so I don’t have to wait for the next installment, but so I can hear the buzz and decide if the second, fourth, sixth books stand up to the hype. So it is with clothes: I need to see if I’m going to still like it in a month or next spring.

Next, I know my limitations, figurewise. Fashion is about waiflike tall women without hips. I am not those women. I think I hit thirty about the same time I realized that no matter how cute the fashion, if it doesn’t work on my body, it’s a large waste of dollars. I am not a girl who can wear a drop-waist shirt or dress. Ever. The end. And anything made to highlight cleavage? Not for me. Pleats? Of the devil. And don’t even get me started on skinny jeans.

Color may be my friend, but I’m shy around it. Do you have friends that make you feel like this? My closet is strangely imbalanced in the direction of brown, black and gray. But I’m trying. I am.

Patterns? Shudder. Love them on other people. I do. Bright, patterny clothes are excellent. On you. My face isn’t interesting enough to compete. The patterny clothes in my closet get worn most often by Kid 1.

But do you know what I do well? Accessorize. I love me some earrings. And long, dangly necklaces. And scarves. And jackets. And shoes. Oh, shoes. Not that I give in to that particular love very often – because I don’t. But the love is there.

Are we done here? Because what I’m saying, really, is that I don’t know anything about Fashion, but I’m finding my Style. It’s a work in progress (one that’s a little jeans-and-T-shirts heavy most days), but it’s coming. And I’m not in a hurry.

*A horse’s head, covered in splatters of neon paint? “The Godfather,” anyone? Seriously? Go to the mattresses. (Disclaimer: I read the book. A long time ago. I do not recommend it. Also, I’ve seen this scene, and a few others, not the whole film. Again, do not recommend it. “I knew it was you.” Okay, maybe I recommend it, if you can get an edited version, one they’d show on an airplane. Ooooh. Another blog post is brewing…)

[1] We’ll do this periodically throughout the month, because I am lazy. And revising. And occasionally funny, at least in the past.

New! New! New!

I know, right? It’s a new year, and I’m already trampling all over my Exclamation Point Embargo. Hey, you know what? If a girl can’t throw down a few exclamation points, what’s the point of anything?

Okay. Sorry. I got carried away.

But it IS, in fact, the sort-of-beginning of a new year, the Kids are back at school, the Fat Loss Program is two weeks underway, the halls are bare of vinyl-pine needles, and we don’t have a lick of snow on the ground. In fact, the average afternoon temps from the last week hover right around 50 degrees. So, what I’m telling you is, Spring is Coming.

Oh, wait. That’s not what I’m telling you.

It’s the New Year. That’s what I’m telling you. And new things are good things.

Also, I am a terrible resolution-keeper. I think some of you knew that. But this year, I decided not to wait for January to set goals which I probably could not keep. So I started in December, and so far, so good.

Pound a week. Check. (Only through April. Not forever. Neither of us needs to worry.)

Speak and behave more kindly to my Kids (and other people, but somehow that’s just naturally easier, because I am wicked or something). Check.

Remember how to Get Over It. Check-ish.

Write. Wellllll… Um. It will come. I’ve been on vacation, remember? Vacation from my PROBLEMS.

Also, I’m Taking Back the Budget. I’ve always been a pretty good budgeter, but lately, I’ve been lazy with the grocery budget in particular. So, starting today, the weekly Wilhite grocery budget is $60. Plus a once-a-month trip to Costco, coming in under $150. Look at me go, putting it all in writing and stuff.

So, what’s new with you?

They’re Baaaack…

I’ve heard.

Rumors, you know.
I chose not to believe them.

But I saw it today.

With my own eyes.

Pleated jeans. In the store. On a hanger, facing front, for all the world to see. As if there was no shame in it.

Oh, the humanity.

Don’t do it, people.

Trust me. I was alive in the 80s. I know.
I know this can only end in tears.
Fashion designers are PLAYING WITH YOU.

Together we can stand strong.

We need not give in.

Unite against the pleated jeans.

Who’s with me?