All Keyed Up

The saying goes: You do not know what you have until you lose it.

...well, unless it's your key ring.

The appositeness of car, house, or work keys are evident in the annoyance of upturning an entire residence in pursuit of tiny, errant objects hidden by the devil himself.

However, key relevance lends more to that hypothetical soul who owns time, begs to be fired, relishes walking inhumanly colossal distances in inclement weather, and has an uncanny knack for shimmying through narrow basement windows.

I am now faithfully utilizing a wall-mounted row of key hooks.

~Bee is listening to You Found Me by The Fray

Change Came In Disguise of Revelation

Change. Changing. Mud pies and skinned knees.

Bugs in a jar. Newspaper routes long forgotten.

Love. Family. Children. 10th reunions. 20th reunions.

Surprise encounters. Didn't I know you?

So good to see you.

Didn't you have that bio class?

I still have that old car. A tape deck that eats tapes.

Running on a perpetual ¼ tank of gas. Loud music.

Good times shape personalities. Create character. Provide foundations. One will need them.

The world revolves on change. People change with new ideas. Morals change with proclaimed maturity or in best case scenarios, one possessing a genuine understanding of self. Time constitutes inevitable change and if one is open, the years are a benevolent force. Time, the pseudo-nemesis gaining a bad rap. It only veils, obscuring the view of the spirit of unteachable.

Old dogs learn many tricks but too many believe the status quo.

Lives go through spurts of growth. Stagnate and one will die from the inside out, slowly and uncomfortably although as familiar as the nose on one's self-loathing face. Taking the years in stride is no insurance against growing pains, in fact quite the opposite. But when do we ever know what comes down the pike?

What will we encounter that has a potential to heal. What has a potential to hurt?

Pain is not the enemy though. Pain is uncomfortable but also the way the human mind is taught, "Don't do this again, please." Stagnation is a far more nefarious and formidable enemy, and to refuse a lesson learned. To close ones ears. Unteachable and unwavering. Singularity. It is this I fear.

Revelation of life's ability to teach paves the way for change and ironically, being open to hear it's message...and change brings revelation. The ability to change creates an avenue to make change possible. Life just brings change to our door.

Change. Changing. Stir the soul. Set on fire. Thankful for each day to appreciate. Full of life's loveliness and revelation.

 ~Bee is listening to A Dustland Fairytale by The Killers

Bill Gates Never Had Barney Wallpaper

Shared files can be hazardous to your health. More importantly, to your desktop. You see, my son, Max is 11 and apparently has an incredible aptitude for computers.

Max is a lot like me: logical, methodical, and curious. I'd love to take credit for his brilliance but it's all him...and no doubt, my pregnancy tuna fish cravings that fueled his brain development.

Seriously, though. All my children are brilliant and emotionally intelligent. I'm not biased. Nooooo.

Max wants to know why, how, and when. He's been reading at high school level since 4th grade. Earlier this year, he impressed his music teacher playing the "Colonial Days" song on his recorder. He instructed her on how he reworked the finger placement for transitioning easier between notes and then successfully played the song to her...simultaneously on two recorders, one in each hand. In 3rd grade he attempted to explain to me about the thinatude of the universe due to it's expanding nature and the lasting effect of gravity with centrifugal force. I half expected him to build me a flux-capacitor by now.

We were blessed with a computer a few months back, aptly named "The Kids Computer". I thought it best with the elevated risk of losing 20,000 itunes songs was inevitable with just one malevolent XBox cheat code download.

Simply thinking about it makes my heart palpitate. 

I've never showed Max the ins and outs of the computer or software since he is pretty fearless with technology. Last week I downloaded Gimp (open source photo editing software) to their PC and he's already photo shopping like an OK Magazine art director. Still-frame Lego videos are now in the works.

I set up each one of the kids with their own profile on their computer. Their profiles are password protected but since their passwords are openly shared, it was only a matter of time before the fun started and games of "look what I did to your wallpaper" or newly replaced user names of "boogerhead" started gracing the screen.

This is what happens when you have four cherub-faced kids.

My oldest daughter, Jaina is soon to be 14 and takes great delight in teasing her brothers. She's never deliberately mean but when a chance to poke fun is to be had, it's open season at the sibling range. It's a big sister thing, as I'm sure my younger sisters will also attest.

The only rule I made regarding the kids' shared computer was that they couldn't delete someone elses files or do something irreversibly grevious to a siblings profile. I strongly suggested password-protected user profiles be made after Jaina thought it great fun to change Max's wallpaper from his usual fare of video gaming characters or Star Wars scene.

Preschool appropriate wallpaper was not a hit and passwords were quickly changed and kept private.

Today, Max proudly announced from the computer chair that Jaina should be aware he was still going to get his revenge. My ears picked up immediately.

"Jaina, you DO know that I don't need your password to change your wallpaper." He sounded as smug as he was confident.

Jaina's head popped up from her dining room table doodling. Today it's Manga girl drawings. "Nu-uhh. No you can't!"

"Yep, I ca-an," he taunted her condescendingly, "you have shared files."

Jaina looked confused and quickly referred to me, "He can't...can he? What does shared files mean?"

I stiffled a giggle. "I told you not to start something unless you were willing to wage a computer battle." It would be my 11 year old brainiac to outsmart his sister. Never get involved in a land war in Asia and all that.

Titus, my 10 year old, piped up, no doubt shrinking from the memory of My Little Pony people and rainbows that appeared on his desktop, "No, Maxim, don't! Don't even think..."

Maxim interrupted, "Don't worry, Titus. Ours are protected." Naturally, he anticipated all contingencies. This is war.

Jaina stammered in indignation, "No way. Mom said you couldn't erase files!"

"I didn't erase files. But I can keep the image and switch around the name or..." he grinned at her triumphantly, "...hey, I could change the name to the Chinese food delivery guy and you'll never find those files."

Like the wise Vizzini once said, "You fell victim to one of the classic blunders - The most famous of which is "never get involved in a land war in Asia" - but only slightly less well-known is this: "Never go against a Sicilian when death is on the line"!

Vizzini never met our family. If he had he'd undoubtedly would have added, "...and never change your brother's wallpaper to Barney when you have shared files on the line."

~Bee is listening to Kaiser Chiefs, "I Predict A Riot"

I Didn't Quite Hear Your Head Rattle

"Welcome to See's Candies! Would you like to try our new...."

I don't know why these ladies ask me such frivolities. Free chocolate truffles. Can you imagine turning that down? They might as well be asking if I'd like a guaranteed lottery win or go down in history as the woman to find the answer to world hunger or a cancer cure. Or if I'd prefer to never again pluck errant chin hair.

The answer is yes, yes, and definitely yes.

Today my daughter and I went to See's Candies. That place brings me memories of my Great Aunt taking me to get chocolate suckers when I was just a tot. The heavenly smell brings me to my teen years when I worked in a chocolate factory and bakery. All in all, See's Candies pulls me into some fairly awesome memories while triggering the drool gland. This is win-win all around.

As my daughter and I waited in the roped off line, we drooled, sniffed, drooled some more, and made our best effort to appear like we are not huffing the display cases. We totally were but since this is a common occurrence by all who grace the doors, I'm sure we didn't appear too deranged.

While waiting, two women in sunglasses came up on my left. I immediately noticed that both women were navigating with their hands with seeing eye dogs in tow and further, were feeling their way to find the queue. Their canine companions were also adorned in colorful doggie vests indicating in big white letters that they were service dogs and were currently working.

The two blind women missed the end of the queue entirely, not that I minded. They approached the front of the store and were greeted by a friendly employee by name with assurances from said employee they would be helped shortly. A Mom and daughter duo in front of me were already being helped so I waited patiently. I certainly didn't mind waiting a whole two or three minutes for my much needed chocolate fix, so I let them cut in, thankful that my display case huffing tendencies managed to hold my cravings at bay.

At this point one of the women pulled her dog closer to her and inquired politely toward the mother and daughter, "Excuse me? Is there a line?"

Seriously. I kid you not, the mother looked at the two women, looked down at the dogs, and back up to the woman waiting for someone to answer. I watched as Mom said nothing but nodded her head yes to the question.

She nodded. To a blind woman.

My 13 year old daughter looked over at me with huge eyes and we managed to contain our amusement. Her's directed at her shoes and mine to a very ladylike, chortle-like, nasally snort .

I'm classy like that.

Neither one of us dared look up while secretly hoping to all that is holy that we could pass of our burst of laughter as unrelated banter between us. Or maybe as a reenactment of Babe or Charlotte's Web.

The blind woman asked about the front of the line again and I took mercy on both parties, reassuring the two blind women were indeed at the right place in line.

As I walked back to my van, I couldn't help but giggle at the irony: A place called See's. Blind customers. Nodding in communication. Me snorting like a pig. Eating truffles.

Like I said, I'm just classy like that. 

~Bee is listening to Kaiser Chiefs' - "Ruby"

Silliness, Skydiving, and Summer

It's already July. Seriously.

You have a calendar. Look at it.

I know. JULY. When did that happen?

Next week we're having Thanksgiving dinner. Grab your mittens and coat.

Geez, Louise.

Don't you remember growing up how the time would inch by? The older I get, not that I'm old mind you, I get the eerie feeling time has found warp drive. I often wonder when the grown ups are going to show up and tell me to wash behind my ears and quit drinking so much coffee.

Yeah, not happening. The coffee drinking part, that is.

I don't feel like a grown up. Maybe I'll never feel that way. I'll end up one of those wrinkled, bright eyed, sweet-tempered ladies whose purse is stocked with peppermints, smells like cookies, and is constantly attempting to play matchmaker for my "beautiful granddaughter" and my single, hot, skydiving instructor.

Oh, I'd skydive. I would. My bestie and I have already talked about this, blue hair and all. Although, I would wager my social security check she would pinch the instructor's butt. And her purse would be chock full of mini peanut butter cups. Naturally.

I don't act like a grown up, so I've been told. My daughter and her friends call me "fun Mommy" because they are sure that even though I am a mom and drive a lame mini-van, I'm still fun. Go me.

::pats self on her narcissistic back::

How do grow ups act? I ask.

Serious, they say.

My daughter and company also told me I'm hilarious. (hilarious looking, maybe...) I have about 30 kids at my daughter's school that call me "Mommy" now. I wear my badge with honor. Kind of like being cool in high school. And take it from me, I was anything but cool.

I am thankful to feel this kind of connection with "my kids". Baking cookies at midnight during a girl's night sleepover also helps. So does bribery in the Willy Wonka fashion.

Man, can they devour a bag of caramel apple suckers, or what?

Cool "Mommy" title aside...yes, my inflated head is SO owning that...I've always felt that containing one's self with absolute seriousness is not living when every day is spread out with opportunity for the taking. Sure, I'm fully able to get into scholarly arguments debating Utopian pluralism or engage anyone on the beauties of Neruda's finely honed pen.

For the record, if you haven't read Pablo Neruda, his most famous works are the most amazing lover's poetry. Warm fuzzies and loveliness.

I'd say in contrast, my everyday is more complex. Like quoting silly movies, going Tiger Beat over broody Brit actors/musicians, and dancing around my living room with my seven year old to the likes of  Lady Gaga. There is time for both but don't you get the itch to get silly or break loose sometimes?

Try it. You may find yourself. Or find yourself with a killer blog post...or better yet, find yourself with a hot skydiving instructor. rawr.

~Bee wants to know what silly things you do.

Notes From Third (Grade)

I've been over at my (my son's) new blog: Notes From Third (Grade).

I'm still blogging here but I thought I'd put up my son's home notes from school. He's amazing. If you like reading the inner workings of a third grader, check it out.

~Bee hasn't fallen off the earth.

You Can Google It

I can't wait for the Jr High orchestra to start. It's been a half hour of watching parents and families file in. Some are in business suits. Some are in work duds. The majority are in jeans and tee shirts. Apparel aside, everyone looks mildly bored off their collective noggins and waiting for the program to start.

The kids in attendance are few and far between. They run a muck in the back of the gym while parents talk amongst themselves. School-imposed banter is not my thing. I'm not a hermit and make every attempt to be polite. Sure, I'll smile and say my hellos like the next guy. Its my distaste for plastic smiles and attempts to one up other parents with their golden child's academic progress.

I would bet my Mozart CD collection that this parking lot has a bumper sticker that reads:

My Orchestra Child Can Outplay Your Orchestra Child.

There are probably stick figures involved, too. And maybe one of those half-smashed into the window baseballs. I'm making a mental note to check for it on the way out.

I claim seats for the kids and myself. After I'm settled, I look around. I spot Jaina coming in from a side door. She's a blond head in a sea of white shirts and black trousers. She's surrounded by boys, of course, oblivious to the gravity of her smiles and giggles.

I wish she would stay this way forever. Or at least until she's 30. I want grandkids, just not soon. I'm still dying my hair, wearing chucks, and scoffing at the AARP bulk mail in my postal box.

Jaina carries her violin proudly as she scans the seating section, offering her siblings a shy smile, and blushing only slightly when she sees me across the gym. I'm proud of her for playing the violin, just like my grandfather, and his father, and his father. Stringed instruments are in our blood. Guitars on my dad's side and violins on my mother's side. This reminds me of my sister. I should call her.

Shushing and hovering over the kids is easy when I'm standing across the isle from them. I get comfortable with my back against the wall. The kids are restless. I'm under the distinct impression that Ethan, Aiden, and Lolo have taken bets on who can wiggle most often and create the most amount of noise while everyone is finding seating. If you want to call caterwauling "noise".

I look to my right and left. Why? Because people are so darn fascinating and it's entertaining. And by "entertaining" I mean "me acting shallow by making gross conjectures about their lives and judging them for my assumptions thus staving off boredom."

You should try it.

I'm checking out the bass section now. Or are they cellos? Or violas? I always forget and make a mental note to google it. Not knowing stuff like that irritates me. Why? I haven't a clue. I'm sure Jaina would know because she's been in the orchestra all year. She's a googler like me.

Now I realize it's time for the parental units along the wall to do the "who has the coolest camera with the biggest, most expensive lens."

I lose.

And don't think I'm shallow because I know you're comparing cameras, too. That's what crosses the mind of every parental unit gone photog. Aaaaand that would be me.

I make a mental note to check prices for cameras while I'm googling cello-viola-bass thingies. I'm sure my little 8 MP camera with a 5x lens is child's play and I need an upgrade. It's about two years old.

Two camera years equates to an antique. Kinda like dog years, except technology years boil down to months.

Even Lolo's camera is a technological antique but it was far cheaper than mine but a much better resolution. Her camera we bought for her birthday in February. This year. To add insult to pictorial injury: It's hot pink, can survive a 5000 foot drop into a volcano, and it has farging Barbies on it.

My battery-sucking paperweight is so uncool.

The conductor brings me back to the present and I unglaze my eyeballs. The auditorium begins to quiet. I can hear the tap-tap-tap of his wand. I hear giggle snorts and am giving my kids the hairy eyeball. They somehow manage to continue their loud wiggle chair disco. The wiggle chair disco now looks more like a full-on rain dance and howling songs around a campfire.

We haven't even gotten to the whisper yell, "Moooom, he's touching me!" and the ever classic smile and comment from my youngest daughter, "It stinks right now cause I farted."

Do they stay quiet? No, they are too busy kicking their feet into the backside of the poor souls who made the unfortunate decision to sit in the row in front of the Bee children.

I know I'm gonna win Mother of The Year.

I frown in dissatisfaction at my 8 MP dinosaur that has just sucked the last juice from my only set of batteries. That and my duct tape is still back at the house.

Mr Coffee calls me again. This is the third time today but I don't mind. At all. He doesn't like being 3hrs away but you won't hear him complain about his job. His boss is awesome, he's gainfully employed in the economically volatile field of construction, and our bills are being paid.

Note to self: When praying for a job, always designate a 50 mile radius from home. Amen and pass the lobster.

Mr Coffee wishes again that he were here but I reassure him that Jaina understands the demands of his job. He is lamenting over being out of town and missing Jaina's orchestra thingie tonight.

"Hey, Mattress. Are you at Jaina's orchestra thingie?" He makes himself sound positive but I know he's disappointed.

Before I go further, I am certain you are probably wondering from this pet name that I am a) off my rocker b) trying to be funny, or c) have fat-fingered my keyboard.

None of the above. Or at least not the funny and fat fingered ones. Occasionally, Mr Coffee will call me Mattress. In retort, I will come back with a diddy of my own,

"Heeeey, Lovercorn. I'm here! I think they are going to start soon."

** The story of Mattress and Lovercorn is very long, involves my two boys (naturally), and is funny enough to make you choke on your own spit so I will refrain from the story. In the meantime, you can thank Ethan and Aiden for allowing Mr Coffee and I to use the pet names once reserved between brothers.**

Mr Coffee and I can't hear each other because suddenly, the orchestra is playing. I can feel the vibrations of all five of the bass-cello thingies in my chest. Or is that the war cries from my children? I can't tell.

I don't want to be rude so I duck into the hallway to avoid the eyeball laser beams from Little Future YoYo Ma's parents. It could be worse, at least I'm not yammering on at 130 decibels into a bluetooth about my abscessed tooth. Or embarrassing itch.

It's happened. Safeway checkout line. Not the embarrassing itch, the TMI at 130 decibels. That's the threshold for ear pain. I've googled it.

I'm in the antiseptic smelling hall, "I'm in the clear now. Sooooo," I drag on, "wow, is it loud. And really, it would be a miracle if anyone is in the same key...or playing the same song. How bout an A for effort.Or is that an 'E' for effort...or 'E minor'..."

I giggle at my own joke because I think I'm funny. The floor bleach must be affecting my brain cells. Seriously, I can't even get a solid chord progression on Guitar Hero so who am I to talk?

Mr Coffee snorts, "Yeah, I could hear them. Ouch. I guess it could be worse..."

Princess Bride immediately pops into my head and can't stop my verbal diarrhea, "Do you know what that sound is, Highness? Those are the SHRIEKING EELS!"

When we dry our tears from laughing, Mr Coffee tells me that we are going to music hell for making fun of a Jr. High Orchestra. No Joshua Bell in that place. I would assume orchestra hell is just a giant elevator with piped in muzak. Muskrat Love. Or Lady Gaga's Poker Face.

muh, muh, muh, mah....

Mr Coffee and I said our goodbyes and I steal off back into the gym to catch the rest of the program.  My daughter does a duet with another violinist. Shrieking eels or not, I couldn't be more proud of her.

And for the record, my orchestra student can so kick your orchestra students cello thingie.

~Bee is listening to One Republic's All The Right Moves