Reading for the Illiterate

On Nightly News Brian Williams (or whatever his name is) was talking to this kid who was wearing a pin that said he read 50 books in the school year.  He said that adults definitely don't read that many in a year.
I got a little defensive! Back in the day I used to read tons and tons--a new book every week or two. 
So I logged onto goodreads (the only decent way I can track my "to reads" and "reads" so I don't repeat).  I've only read four books this year...working on five.  Half way through the year and I've only read four books. The sad part is that out of the five, I've only enjoyed about half. How pathetic!
Sitting on a squishy couch, curled up with a book and some tunes playing in the background. Instead, there's Cameron crying or a commercial break at work. Wouldn't it be great, if everyone was granted a reading break? Somewhere in the middle of the day, where you can stop and just lose yourself in a story.

Just in case your wondering, I'm working on "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo". I caught wind of the book and all the whispers of the plot. I love a good murder mystery (Dateline/60 Minutes).  When I was a kid, I used to watch them with my mom, to see if I could figure stuff out before they said it. 
Anyways, I went back and forth on reading this book for a month. It sounded good--then I saw the movie--and it scarred me.  I took it off my list-put it back on-took it off-etc.
I put it back on for the last time; maybe the book will be different. Reading something is a lot different than seeing.
I'm loving the book. I feel like Lisbeth has one pale hand around my wrist, dragging me into the mystery. Even though I know what's going to happen, there's something more meaningful to a plot when read.  The feelings are more personable than seeing it on the big screen. Why am I blogging right now? I should read!

My kid

My baby girl makes me laugh sometimes. This photo would be great to caption.
"Stranger danger"
"Walmart or no, that's not okay!"
"If I stare long enough, will you buy it for me?"

She looks so quiet too...who is this kid?

One Man--Two Years

See look at his smile, so great right?

This week I went to visit one of my favorite men.  He's been there for me for the past two years. His lovely dark hair, bright eyes and nice smile always seems like such a contradiction with his white lab coat. 
People don't talk this way about their dentist--but I do because my dentist is great.
Dr. Robert Staley and my usual dental hygenist, Lori, are with Copper Creek Dental.
Copper Creek Dental looks a little sketchy at first, sitting in a strip mall across from a grocery store and next to a Chinese Buffet. Walking into the office, is almost like walking into a second world with a cute little playground for kids and a television.  The visit starts off with a smile from one of their wonderful receptionists. It's not something I'm used to.
I've had some pretty bad experiences with dentists. My first dentist saw me and got a little crazy with my crowns, a lot of unnecessary ones were put in for precaution--so my mouth looks like pure sheet metal when I open my mouth.  My second dentist lasted just long enough to pull my wisdom teeth, where his "painless" removal was felt and was excrutiating--not to mention getting mono from unsanitary tools.  Okay, that last part might not be true but it's the only way I could see that disease hitting me when it did.
So the first time I met Dr. Staley and Lori, I wasn't at my friendliest and I was feeling a little nervous.  It surprised me--such little pain and such happy faces. Not only were they happy, they were personable.
I had to go to the dentist on Wednesday and I was excited. We talked about my baby's new traits and Lori had even noted her name. As I was on my way out both Dr. Staley and Lori went over to tickle Cameron's feet. It was a proud moment for me,  they took notice of more than my teeth. So here's to two more years Dr. Staley and Lori!

A Hamburger Tale

When I was a kid, my parents were what could be described as "cheap".  (True story: my mom still empties extra ketchup packets into the ketchup bottle.)
Let's just say I didn't get a lot of happy meals when I was growing up. Happy meals were my children's food holy grail.
Delicious happy meals aren't usually a memorable event.  I can still remember almost every time I was given those golden arches and brightly colored bags.  One event always stands out when people start hating on McD's.
The family was going camping.  For reasons I don't remember I went up with my sister and her family-crammed between car seats in the back of their odd colored truck. We ran out of time to eat and stopped at a McDonald's on State Street. 
I got a cheeseburger and some plastic toy was involved.  While finally chomping down on that delicious bun and ketchup covered pickled burger, I felt something was amiss.
This burger was letting me down and I couldn't figure it out.  I mentioned it to my sister and took two more bites before finally opening it to see what was missing.
Between the golden buns were the pickles, ketchup, mustard, mayonaise and no burger.  I had nearly eaten the whole cheeseburger and there wasn't even a burger to be found.
This was probably one of the saddest moments of my childhood.  No burger?! 
My brother-in-law and sister found this very amusing and luckily they had ordered a slew for themselves and there was an extra. 
The damage had been done.  My lost burger had somehow exited my bun and ran away.  It should have been in my mouth among the other wonderful tastes of greasy fast food.  McDonald's had let me down for the first and last time. 
I avoid it still-the image of the empty bun will always remain. It's like the sign for a lost puppy.

Summer Plague

I have a problem. It's a life problem.  I call it a curse. The curse of paleness haunts me all year long but in the summer it creates a much larger problem. When 90 degree weather burns the grass and blacktop, my skin turns a lovely shade of red and a slight constant pain lingers.
Sunburn
Every year I forget that I'm white and every year my back becomes like a lobster. Sunblock is always outside of my memory.  I should remember other tales of burnt skin from my childhood.
When I was about 8 years old, my family went to Bear Lake (this was the same time we ran into Jeff Hornacek).  The family and I spent all day on the lake with some water skimmers. I love swimming and I loved going out in the lake.
As soon as we returned and had changed from our swimming suits, I began to feel the heat building. The worst sunburn of my life had begun a week long torture session.  Pretty soon after, I realized my whole body was burnt and regular clothes hurt very badly. I spent the next 48 hours in just a swimming suit, sitting next to a fan while my mom/sister coated aloe vera on my poor body.
You would think this tragic tale would remind me to put on sunblock.  Nope. I just scratch at my back that's just begun peeling.  Why does it always have to be in the middle of my back where I can't reach?

Hammocks kill small children

My childhood summers were consumed in imagination.  The yard from my parent's old home is the best kind for dreaming.  It was gigantic!
The back yard was big enough to house a fully functional garden with snap peas, grapes, strawberries, raspberries and a giant apple tree, where my dad fashioned a treehouse of sorts--but it was more like a couple of wooden slats nailed together.
The front yard was where my imaginations came alive.  There four or five trees in the yard, a couple of them were perfect for climbing and perching with dreams of conquering dragons or taking flight.  I dreamed a lot in the front yard, books in hand or friends in tow.
Two of these trees were even close enough for a decent hammock. In the summer the rope deathtrap sat between the two trees, unused for the most part.
I noticed that lovely rope swing as a perfect place to read and daydream. The weaving was more stable than a rocking branch and it cuddled me like a bed in the shade of the trees.  Perfect for a hot summer activity when my brothers and I were too loud for my mom's sanity.
During one of my reading adventures, one of my brothers came over to annoy me. He started pushing the hammock while asking me questions about what I was doing...what I was reading...and just being annoying.
Out of the blue he asks, "Hey, Michelle, can I do an underdoggie with the hammock."
"No. I'll fall out." Not to mention, Derrick is a good eight years older and contained more strength in one of his gangly limbs than my entire nine-year-old body.
Almost immediately, he began to back up for a run, "I'm gonna do it anyway."
I didn't even try to get out of the hammock. (Try to do jump out of that rope booby trap fast and the damage could be worse).  I braced myself and hoped the ropes would just wrap around me as a cage. They didn't.
The hammock flipped upside down and I fell face forward--my forehead smacking a one of the roots.
My nine year old logic was solid, but my brother's curiosity and ignorance caused this hammock to nearly kill me.
There's been a lot of talk about injuries from trampolines or playgrounds. Screw those things, stay away from hammocks or older brothers.

Why I Love Strangers

First I'm irritated. My phone is all fail tonight. I can't send pictures to my email so this will just be an ode with a general picture I yanked from the internet. So let's leap into it.
My whole life, life has told me to stay away from strangers. They'll offer you candy that if eaten would likely kill you or they'll kidnap you and take you to Canada. Despite such warnings I love strangers for one reason; their random acts of kindness.
Many years ago I worked at a certain retailer; let's call them Tegrat. I worked until nine, but setting up the store again is long, hard work and I didn't usually exit the store until after midnight. One Saturday night there was a really bad snowstorm, dumping at least four inches in the parking lot and roads. 
I seethed out the window--I really hate snow.  I was not looking forward to scraping all that snow and a layer of ice off my car in sub-zero temperatures at two in the morning.
Around 1:30 a.m. I made my way to the red-framed doors. I didn't even look up as I headed to my car. When I finally did, I was amazed.  It was scraped off.  Not just the front window either. The kind stranger had scraped all my windows. I almost cried in joy, if I could feel my cheeks.

Last Friday was not nearly as beautiful as a scraped car in the middle of the night at the end of a long shift. It was a long shift at work and I won't lie, I was pretty irritated with life in general.
When I got to my car, a single long stemmed carnation lay across my windshield. It was white with the ends died pink; probably left behind by some wedding thrown haphazardly while entering the car next to me.
Regardless of how it got there, it really made my day. I love strangers.
I wish I was a better stranger. I could definitely find more ways to make a positive (random) impact on the strangers around me.