"Everybody Must Get Stoned"

Slogans. Sometime when you have a lot of better things to do, sit down and try to brainstorm a slogan that sums up what you do and who you are and what you stand for. Be sure that it's short and catchy and respectable. Be sure that it's credible, easy to understand, and memorable. Oh--and try to keep it free of tedious cliches (and redundancies like "tedious cliches"). And, unfortunately, in this business, it cannot be funny. At all.

Here are a few slogans culled from various monument companies across our great nation:

Experience. Trust. Artistry. (Boring. Robotic.)
Every life deserves a tribute. (Michael Vick? Manson?)
A tribute that lasts forever. (Straightforward is good...but dull.)
Standing the test of time. (See above)
Personal service...at a personal time. (Too Kotex for me somehow)
Quality goes in before your name goes on. (Ugh!)
Monuments of distinction. (I don't mind this one, but is it too haughty?)
Let us help you express your loving memories. (Too long)
A reflection of life.
For timeless memories.
To honor a lifetime.
Where memories live on.
(In forgettable slogan land.)

Do we go with the "River" in our title and build on that? It's tough to reconcile loosey-goosey flowing rivers with carving things in stone for everlasting eternity. And the "River" is more a nod to our area of service than our philosophy of monument making.

So I'm floundering here.

Suggestions?

"It's a Davis thing."

The other night I had a conversation with my 7-year old son that went something like this:

Stevie (somewhat weepily): "I'm going to need braces."
Me: "Why?"
Stevie: "Because Grandma said I have the McClary teeth and the Davis mouth."
Me: "That's ridiculous. You know whose teeth and mouth you have? Stevie's." (Fume.)

One of the many things I was uptight about when I contemplated our inevitable move back to Missery was this obsession my mother-in-law (surprise! she's back) has with her dad. He died in 1988 but that doesn't mean that she can't worm him into every single conversation or situation. For instance, take the Fourth of July. My mom was in town (thank the lord!) and we were having what I thought was a small family dinner to mark the occasion of her visit and of Stevie's birthday. They had invited the neighbors over, a couple our age with a little girl. To get the conversation going with the interlopers, I asked them how long they had lived in their house. "Oh, about 5 years." To which Beth immediately replied, "That long? My dad's been gone since '88. It doesn't seem like it's been nearly 20 years."

Pause.

I'm not a completely insensitive ass. (I am a Jacobus, after all.) She misses her dad and 20 years obviously hasn't dulled that emotion. She takes so much pride in his--her dad's--family, her two brothers, all of their kids, etc. I try to remember that she loves her dad and misses her dad and her mom died when Beth was in her early 20s and so her reliance on her dad was probably stronger than normal and so on.

Still, this is my blog. And, in my blog, I can be as annoyed and pissy as I want to. (Just like a Walker.) And incredulous. In her hallway, she has a very large display of family photos. In the top center of these photos are large pictures of the two grandpas--the Davis and McClary men, from whose loins sprung Stevie's grossly misshapen mouth and teeth, respectively--and little tiny pictures of their wives, from whose loins sprung the whole brood. Not just teeth. Perhaps it's a result of her mom dying years ago, but Beth hardly ever talks about her. Besides the pictures, every family tree-based craft (T-shirts, aprons) she creates states the descendants of her DAD, with her mom relegated to "wife of" status. "It's a Davis thing" has been uttered so much that it has become a joke between my husband and me.

But still, I find this disturbing. I don't know what kind of insecurity-based psychosis led to our culture tracing everything back through the dad, but it did. Must we sustain it?

OK, sure, I may be part of the problem. I finally got around to changing my surname to my husband's after about 4 years of marriage. There are several reasons, all based on convenience with maybe a little bit of "Oh, what the hell--Day is a man's name, too" thrown in. And, really, where would I find the woman's name? (This pragmatism is a Day thing.) But my children have the surnames of both of us on their birth certificate. We did that to ensure that they don't forget that they have two sides of their family tree. And with a paternal grandmother who attributes 90% of their traits, looks, and personality to one great-grandparent (and herself), with 10% thrown to the McClarys (but only, I think, because Stevie's resemblance to his dad, who strongly resembles his own dad, is undeniable), I had to. I was and am not going to allow 1/2 of my childrens' family tree to be carelessly topped.

I'm telling you that it goes beyond sharing stories with the kids about their great-grandparents and beyond. I'm all about that, and I'm glad that their paternal grandfather's mother's family still gets together once a year to share their past and present (see the "Casserole" post). My paternal grandmother, Bee, wrote a book called "Day By Day" wherein she recollects her life and writes a little about her parents and grandparents and we treasure it. But when one great-grandparent is placed on a pedestal high above the other seven and, because of the proximity of the pedestal holder, one great-grandparent becomes the spring from which all mighty rivers flow, that just can't be tolerated. I'm sure the Gerhardts and Murrays, the Days and Davidsons, the Jacobuses and even the Walkers, would be gratified to know that their genes weren't being tossed aside like so much flotsam. (I get my resolve from the Davidsons.)

How to approach it? Why...through Kevin, of course! I've asked him and he readily agrees to say something when it comes up, which shouldn't take too long. No, not about this whole big thing, but definitely starting with the teeth. Which are straight and white and just the right size.

Just like his mom's.

We are those people.

Last night Kevin and I attended a Meet and Greet-type thing hosted by the Chamber of Commerce. As we stood there, chatting up the local business owners and sucking down goat cheese wrapped in prosciutto, I realized it--we are those people. We are the Grand Opening ribbon-cutters, the little league shirt-buyers, the Halloween parade float-makers. We will be among those who create all of that boring (unless it's you!) fodder that fills small town newspapers from coast-to-coast: hosts of the salad portion of the Progressive Dinner, donators of new-books-for-tots at the depressingly underused local library, sitters on Youth Fair boards. Woo!

It was actually pretty fun. It was held at a beautifully restored hotel and restaurant in a great neighboring town saved from the brink of death-by-modern-transportation-routes by one man: my sister-in-law's best friend and young mayor extraordinaire...Bobby. Bobby had the ideas and the money, and transformed what was a town much like the one described in "What is in this casserole?" to a sleepily charming and surreal little antique and lunch stop, the kind of place that will surprise you and make you wonder how and why it's here. It's the kind of town that sustains the Sunday drive. And there's even a real, working train track that runs right beside the restaurant--last night there were two trains within two hours.

Kevin and I just walked right up to people and started chatting. As we chatted, it became more and more obvious just how entrenched we already were. Did you know that I was a server at this very hotel, back in 2002? That Kevin's sister was married in this little town? That we are doing the bricks for the local fundraiser to restore the depot and turn it into a community center/museum? Oh, you know this/that/the other relative? Kevin dated your daughter? We're looking for a little rock to place by this tree in memory of.... On and on!

In Moab I was a sorta-active part of an active community. I worked at the radio station, was a teacher and, thus, attended a lot of youth-oriented events, attended local art shows, and was married in the community center. But this time around we have a chance to really be the kind of people who pump the life into these little towns, promoting just causes, sponsoring just events, and encouraging just (and fresh) happenings. It's energizing and exciting. Really!

Dang it! I just found the other one!

Still going through my file of scrap, and I found the second ad! Go down one post and read it first, then come back. I'll wait.

Are you back? Here's the first ad I placed (the one you should have just read is the second).

(In bold) SPLENDID, STRAIGHT-FORWARD WOMAN
27, 5'8", into tough hikes, hot springs, off-the-grid, books, beer, hilarious company. Seeking modern mountain man, older/taller for stimulating LTR. Brains, balance, bravery. Bad habits welcome.

It was the very first ad under "Women seeking men" and, I think, a pretty good one. I tried to be descriptive--notice the elaboration on the boring ol' "dinners and walks" theme. And the "bad habits welcome" was like a code in this moralistic Mormonic world that screamed "I am sick of you prudes and your 'No smokers, drinkers, drugs, freaks, or weirdos' requirements!"

Oh. The "Splendid" was more of an attempt to grab attention with a different sort of word. It worked. The guy I fell in love with was a newspaper editor and commented on the attention-grabbing power of that word.

So...what can be surmised from these two ads? My perfect life would consist of sitting in hot water with tall, funny men? Yep. Sounds about right.

An old-fashioned personal ad

I am still filing, ever filing. I am down to the dregs--the stuff thrown into a random "Scrapbook" file. These things, if they survive the shredder, will now go into a copy paper box--one for each member of the family. Yes, I typed and printed "Lisa scrap" and taped it to the top--and side--of a box. And I did it for Kevin, Mark, and Stevie, too.

Anyway, I came across one of the two personal ads that I placed in the SLC newspaper back when I was a single career gal in Moab. At the risk of great personal humiliation, I reprint it here in honor of Flip's refreshingly revealing dating posts:

(In bold) COOL, STRAIGHT-UP WOMAN...
28, 5'8", athletic, into balance, wilderness, work, Moab, music, hedonism, and hot tubs. You are 28-40, very tall, happy, intelligent, competent, brave, and hilarious.

I haven't come across the other one yet. I think I may have put it into a post already? I met a few really cool people through these ads, including my buddy Nate and a guy I fell in love with. I met one guy whose loneliness had turned him into maybe half a freak, but that was my only lame brush with the "dangers" of personal ads.

Do I believe in ghosts?

In this morning's email string, I mentioned this dream I had about a haunted house. I've had several dreams about this house (which varies slightly from dream to dream, the way dream things do) and they are all pretty freaky.

This morning's, set in the late 19th-century in what is always a Victorian era house, dealt with a woman who apparently murdered her own unborn fetus before taking her own life. I know! When other women (mama?) come to pick up the pieces, it turns out the mom is a wee child--I mean a WEE child, maybe 4--and still alive. Again, I know! Why does the mind contort so? So mom and someone else (me?), after briefly pondering the viability of a 4-year old's eggs and her ability to carry a child and deciding it's all evil so go with it, realize that this child must be taken out of this monstrous environment. As in most such fables, the house is not eager to be served in this way and you've got to get beyond the property line to be free. I (now it's me) run at the door with the intention of BUSTING! through it and succeed. Now we're outside and there are two horse-drawn carriages careening wildly (do they ever careen "mildly"?) around the corner. I realize that we must get on these carriages but, if they come onto the expansive front grounds of the house, something really nasty is going to happen to those horses and it's morning so I wake up.

So...what's the motivation, brain? I've been hearing way too many stories about horrific child sexual torture (I refuse to call it "abuse" anymore--do you "abuse" prisoners in a POW camp?) thanks to the regular media these days, thus the 4-year old mother in an evil situation who needs saved.

And as for the haunted house in particular, there are two likely sources:

1. Stevie's YMCA camp counselor took the campers on a "ghost hunt" this week. The Y is in an old building that belonged to the now defunct Kemper Military Academy. There are many other old, vacant, kinda spooky looking buildings on the grounds. As the campers tramped through them (an exercise I thought was really cool) older kids and, I'm assuming, counselors, told stories about the lost souls of the military school. Stevie has been asking to sleep in our room for the past few days. I just put it all together this morning--duh!

He said that there was a girl who ran around the football field 99 times and, because some man didn't want anyone to run around the football field 100 times, she was kidnapped and, apparently, murdered. I told Stevie that that was a made-up ghost story--and a pretty lame one, too. But he said, "Well, why did I hear a girl's scream?" Um...excited neighborhood kids? This conversation was a lot like one I had with Stevie just a day or two ago, about whether or not robots and other machines were alive. I said no--they are human-made machines, not born of parents, and not able to sustain themselves. He really challenged me on this! I wracked my flimsy human brain for the golden nugget that would lead to his "Ah-HA!" moment but failed to find it. So, now, Stevie believes in ghosts and Christine.

2. Kevin's aunt, Kathy, died in our house. She lived there for a year or two. She was an alcoholic who drank herself to death last year. When I first stayed in the house I must admit to being a little spooked. If there are ghosts, what would make them mean, angry ghosts bent on inflicting harm? Kathy was a very sweet woman who loved children. She died in what is now my children's room. But she died estranged from her own grown son. You can guess what I thought of next. I'm too embarrassed to write it!

A few nights ago, I was awakened by a VERY loud "Thud!thud!thud!thud! thud! thud! Thud!thud!thud! (repeat)" sound--as if someone without any rhythm was falling down the stairs. I got up, cautiously, and took a look around. It was 2:44 in the morning. Ghost? I couldn't find any obvious appliance sources, and it was definitely an inside sound and, so, not an animal in the trash. Kids OK? Check. OK, freaky. I went back to bed, but left the light on like a real idiot.

I told Kevin about the sound and even admitted my ghostly thought. An the next night...

it happened again.

I was almost afraid to look at the clock. If it was 2:44, I would have been freaked. Luckily, it was 1:45. Do ghosts have their own version of daylight savings time?

Again, I could find no source.

You all know that I don't tend to believe a lot of things. I don't believe in God, I don't believe that politicians mean what they say, I hesitate in the face of new medical studies. But I've heard enough freaky stories about ghosts to think maybe...just maybe. My brother has a really scary story and (this ex-Marine non-believer) doesn't even like to talk about it (but he will). And so I wonder. I don't shun the possibility that some sort of energy is released when people die, or that that dead person might be pissed, or that the living might see something "beyond". You know, there are a lot of colors outside of our limited human range--just because we can't see them doesn't mean that they are not there. And, by the way, when a tree falls in the forest and no human is within earshot it DOES still make noise! What a stupid humancentric "riddle" that is.

Oh. The sound.

It wasn't a ghost (this time).

It was Stevie's errant hydrogen-filled Mylar birthday balloon from Toys R Us, venturing on the air currents...into one of two ceiling fans.

Kevin just happened to be sleeping upstairs that second night (freaked out Stevie was in bed with me) and it gave him quite a start! That thing has been free-floating for 4 days and only hits the fan in the middle of the night. Until Wednesday, anyway, when it took a trip in the morning.

Are balloons alive? If so, this one was an asshole. So I killed it.

Update

I did get the receipts in order yesterday. God, that was bo-ring. But with the help of all the free folders I scored at M-H, the job was much easier--and pleasingly color-coordinated! I can't believe the stuff people were throwing out during the big office move. I scored a bunch of sky blue box-bottomed hanging folders. I used 12 of these to set up my receipt files by the month. Inside each file are two folders--one yellow (work), one green (home). Receipts are now placed in the correct month and separated by home stuff and work stuff. We've never had enough money to do this before. We might not make enough to justify it this year, either. It's all so new.

We also went to the bank and opened a personal checking account. So now we have two--one for work (yellow) and one for home (green).

I also set up files for all our bills and medical records and business plans and crap. Yellow files for work stuff, green files for home stuff, and burgundy files for bills, to symbolize the spilling of blood.

Quickbooks will have to wait a couple more days, but the medical records are getting sent today. Oh, and I chose to spend this particular flex day at the shop, finishing the files. But only until lunchtime or so, when I'll go home and make this fabulous marinade and meatballs that I made last week. I used a lot of a really good wine that my friends got me--I'm writing down the best ones (I'm more than halfway through my cache) and I'll let ya'll know what they are. One was the Mapema Sauv Blanc, 2006. Delicious!

Oh, and I went to my Pilates class last night, preceded by an hour of step aerobics. Fun! Though I hate Pilates--all that straightening and squeezing. But hating it means I should probably do it more.

Wow. I have nothing really interesting to write about. Let's see...I went to a quilt club meeting the other night. Bo-ring. I'm not a fan of parliamentary procedure, but it might have helped move it along. A simple agenda might be a good thing. As I suspected, I was the youngest person there, but not by more than 10 years. Most of them like Thimbleberries type crap--the quilting world's equivalent to country blue goose kitchen decorations. This whole town could use a little fresh blood. And if nothing exciting happens soon, they just might get it. Ha.

The Daily Grind

No, this isn't a post about obnoxious coffee shop names. Or coffee. I am still not a coffee achiever. However, I remain an achiever.

No, this is a post to provide basic information on my day-to-day these days.

I get up around 6:30, lay in bed as long as possible. The kids get dressed, fed, organized. So do Kevin and I. Mark needs nothing more than clean clothes, a clean diaper, a belly full of milk and whatever food we're having that morning, and--OF COURSE!!!--his blankie. That kid is a Linus fo sho. He's having some problems with separation anxiety--the babysitter says that 18 months is the worst time to change a kid's routine. Oh well! Sorry baby.

Stevie needs a big breakfast--the one meal he will eat without a fuss, clean clothes (yellow shirt this week for soccer camp--he's part of team Brazil), clean teeth, a Camelbak filled with water, a huge water bottle filled with ice (to provide cold water during camp, which is 1-4 on a sun-drenched soccer field), a lunch that doesn't require refrigeration (PB and honey on whole wheat, a cheese stick, and a small sugary snack, every day), his bathing suit and a towel, sunscreen, various small toys and Yu-Gi-Oh! cards, and other misc. items depending on field trips, crazy hat day, etc.

Kevin needs coffee and clothes. He wears Carhartt shorts and a nice T-shirt or polo shirt and boots to work. I need breakfast and clothes. I wear almost exactly what I wore to McGraw-Hill, only a shorter version--V-neck T, clogs, and chino-type SHORTS. Somehow it feels much more comfortable!

After dropping off the kids at their convenient locations, Kevin and I head to the office (in separate cars). He to make monuments, and he's been making a good amount lately! I can see how the money will add up one day. Oh, we get paid now, but until we turn that first dollar of profit it doesn't impress me. And that's a ways away.

I will be working at the shop 3 days per week. On the 4th day I'll clean the house and do the shopping and some cooking sans children bugging me. The 5th day is a flex day. Go to the shop? Do something fun with the kids? Freelance? It's flexible.

Well, my husband is standing over me now, bitching about me not working on receipts. That is one of my goals for today--get the receipts in order and start on Quickbooks. We're meeting with our new accountant next week, so I need to work on QB to begin generating the long list of questions I'm sure I'll have. The day after meeting with her, we're meeting with our lawyer to set up our company entity in a legal fashion and to change our will. If we die, Kevin's sister gets the kids AND any money. My brother did get control of the money, but now the money will logically follow the kids.

My other goal is to get our old insurance info to our new insurance people. I also need to get medical records switched over. And I need to open a personal checking account.

I paid $300 today for childcare--Stevie for 3 weeks, Mark for 1. Tonight I'll start a Pilates class at the Y. Kevin will babysit Mark while Stevie has his swim lesson. Then we'll eat dinner--I think chicken with black beans and salad. Kids go to bed by 8:30 at the latest. We'll probably watch The Office.

Still awake?

Mood Swings

I was in such a pissy mood yesterday. Kevin came in and started cuddling at 6 in the morning. This turned into the all-but-inevitable quest for sex, and I said No Thanks. It was 6 in the morning! In general, I don't like first-thing-in-the-morning sex as I have too much on my mind and it's only a matter of time before a kid wakes up. Question: Why are men so damn horny in the morning? Really! I couldn't feel less attractive or into it. Unless I had a sex dream. Which I hadn't.

Anyway, after I said no he immediately retreated to his side of the bed. Cuddle time over! If I can't get into your pants, what's the point? Grrrr. I called him on it last night and he fessed up to this rather obnoxious behavior. Problem over? Not sure! Too much to go into now. Seems like pretty typical relationship stuff. I don't need dinner and roses and all that crap, but a little effort, a little actual seduction wouldn't hurt every now and then.

The other person that pissed me off was Stevie. He pulled one of his little tantrums. I asked him "What's your problem?" and, with a really bratty look on his face he wordlessly and pointedly pointed at ME. What the hell did I do? I didn't make him boxed mac and cheese; I made him delicious homemade mac and cheese--and not the dry casserole type, but really awesome and "loose" mac and cheese. And I occasionally forget to roll the windows up when we start driving fast. What a bitch I am!

I could have reacted two ways: blow it off and work him through his morning routine, or get pissed and let him have it. I chose the latter and then was disappointed in both him and me and it irritated me most of the day.

Then, as I was painting-endlessly-painting I started to get into fights with people in my head. It started with the new neo-con line on Ann Coulter. Did you know that she is actually just "funny" now? What--you whiny liberals don't get the joke? I think it started with the hyper-obnoxious new neo-con Dennis Miller. She was a guest on his show and he said that her hate speech was funny--she's got "chops". And he should know because he's as funny and clever and some obscure-ass reference that only about 1% of people would get and you'd hate those people anyway. That was over a month ago. The other day on daytime TV, they did a story about Elizabeth Edwards calling in to a show where Ann was the guest and calling her out for all the smack she keeps saying about John Edwards. Pat Buchanan, a talking head asked for his brilliant fucking take on the situation, said that Ann was just "funny". Yeah. It's hilarious to say that Edwards should have been killed in a terrorist attack. I'm apparently an idiot when it comes to the subtle humor of this evil hack. So anyway, that's what was in my head. Fun, huh?

Then I get home and am just aching to have an evening free of kids and husband. I don't have those feelings very often. Most of the time I am happy to spend time with them and can hold out until 8 when the kids are in bed to do my thing. But last night I just wanted to go home, take a MUCH needed shower, get myself some food and wine, and chill out. It was not to be. I cooked dinner in between cleaning up the messes that Mark was constantly making (why aren't babies interested in actual toys? Why Sharpies and my thread and the pepper grinder? WHY?!), oh, and I was sans husband's help because he had to go back to the shop and wait while the air conditioner guy finished up and then talked his ear off for an additional HALF HOUR. I decided to give the kids a bath and Mark chose to freak out about not having his blanket so he was screaming and squirming the whole time. This is unusual--he's obviously reacting to his new gig at the babysitter's house and this is how his separation anxiety is manifesting.

Finally, kids are in bed. I make myself a bowl of ice cream with toasted walnuts and am two seconds from leaving the kitchen when my mother-in-law, passing by outside, sees me through the window and turns to come in the house. Fuck! She "needs" to talk to Stevie--who is in bed but not asleep, and right across the room from his little brother who is in his crib but not asleep--about their plans for today. Then she comes downstairs and tells me what was just said upstairs. All the while, my ice cream sits. She didn't do anything wrong. It's just that I didn't want even one more person in my house. The house is a fishbowl--it's at ground level and there are always people coming and going--workers, mowers, neighbors, aunts and uncles walking across the yard to get to the horse, people all the time. Curtains are a necessity in this house unless I suddenly learn to like peeing and dressing in front of whomever walks by at that moment.

Today is better. Much better, actually. But I had to get that out.