Vogue

She takes a picture of me; I take one of her.  We're pretending to be Vogue models. She won't let me post the picture of her.  I'm brave; we post mine.  We're giggling.  Her shoulder rubs against mine and the ends of her hair are tickling my arm.  I don't want her to grow another inch. 

Swine Flu

The threat of swine flu has sent me into a worried tizzy. I check the news updates every 5 minutes. I've started coughing and my throat feels scratchy. I google swine flu symptoms. Then I google hypochondriac. I decide that I need to put my energy somewhere constructive, so I go to Costco to stock-up on emergency supplies. I call mi madre while I'm there.

"Hi. This is Katy. May I please speak with mi madre?"

"This is she."

"This is your daughter."

"I know."

"Have you heard about the swine flu? Mexico City has been shut down. The end is near. I've started looking for real estate in Independence, Missouri. I'm at Costco buying water, bleach, and plastic so I can quarantine my house."

There's a long pause and sigh, "Last night we listened to the most beautiful pipe organ concert. You'd of been so proud of your brother."

"Have you been listening to NPR?" I say.

"No."

"It's bad, Madre."

I know she doesn't want to hear my litany of worries. Heaven knows she's endured them for 35 years. Like when I was 12, I made her take me to the doctor because I thought, from the depths of my soul, that I had breast cancer. The lumps in my chest turned out to be breast buds. (I'm still waiting for them to bloom.)

Then there was the Night Stalker, a serial killer who would break into homes at night and kill women. I refused to sleep in my room. I hid in a tent in our family room and watched the news 24/7. I don't think I slept for six months. I really thought I was his next victim.

Then I was balding, as in going bald like an 80 year old man. She took me to the doctor; I wasn't balding.

I tell mi madre goodbye and try to put my swine flu worries on hold. I traipse over to the medicine isle, scanning the shelves: Motrin, Tylenol, Gas-X. Where's the Valium? I need a double dose.

p.s.--This morning I found this cup on the counter. She makes a good point.

Jean Kate

This is the latest and greatest Jean Kate creation.  

I mostly wanted a picture with the blue graffiti art for memory's sake.  I'm going to hose and scrub the walls because I'm tired of looking at them.  This morning there were maggots all over the trash can, and that made me grouchy.  I thought to myself, "This place is going to the dumps."  I threw out the sidewalk chalk and told the kids to watch more Sponge Bob.  Who needs outside play anyway? It's too much trouble.

p.s.--I'm waiting for your order, Louise.  I can't get over that you never went to Prom.  I think a red headband would look adorable with your glasses, maybe electric blue?  

Call Me

When I was a girl we didn't have cell phones, caller ID, or a double line. All seven of us shared three phones and one phone number. When the phone would ring, my brothers and I would race answer it. Mi madre would warn, "Don't answer it unless you're going to answer it P-R-O-P-E-R-L-Y!" Here's an ideal phone call reenactment for your enjoyment and education:

Recipient (mi madre): Hello. We didn't have to identify our household using our last name. My grandmother did that, though. A simple hello was fine.

Caller: Hi. This is Jenny Smith. May I please SPEAK with Madre? The caller must identify him or herself. No ID equals no respect from mi madre. Don't ever ever start a phone conversation with, "Is Madre there?" Mi madre may respond, "Yeah, I'm here. What do you want to do about it?" The words that will spark her heart are, "May I SPEAK with..."

Recipient (mi madre): "This is SHE" or "This is Madre." She'd never say, "This is HER." If she ever makes a phone call, and the recipient responds with a "This is HER," the stars fall out of the sky and that recipient is crowned queen of all ignoramuses. I love that word.

Now I'm grown. I have three kids and mi Amor. We have caller ID, a double-line, 2 cell phones, 5 landline phones, and an answering machine. When the phone rings, my homies race to answer it, and I say, "You'd better not answer that phone unless you're going to answer it properly." They answer it just like I did as a girl. We've practiced and practiced because good phone etiquette makes us look fancy, classy, and refined, almost as refined as mi madre. I heart that woman.

Virtue

The Young Women made these gold flower hair clips to wear during girls' camp. Their purpose is to remind the girls to return to virtue (not that any of them have departed from it. Plus, that's none of my business). 

Hopefully we can become famous and have a picture of our YW wearing the clips published in the New Era.  If anyone has connections, please let me know.

Prom

Prom is in the air.  The girls at church have been chattering about it for the last month.  I love to hear about their dresses, where they're going for dinner, and how they were asked.  I always end my questioning with, "Do you think he'll kiss you?" I love asking because it makes the girls so deliciously squeamish.  I know they're thinking a kiss would be the perfect ending to such a magical night. Maybe not.

I didn't have good luck in the Prom department.

1.  Jr. Mid-Winter: I got dumped the week before because my curfew was too early, 12:00--no matter what.  Mi madre bought me a Smiths t-shirt instead of a dress. It was a deeply sympathetic gesture since she hated The Smiths.  "Their music is so depressing."  She'd sing in a mockingly made-up, monotone melody, "I'm going to kill my dog."  I loved The Smiths, still do.

2.  Jr. Prom: I L-O-V-E-D my date.  After we were both graduated from high school, he told me he was more interested in boys than girls.  I always tell mi Madre, "He was the safest Prom date in the deep blue sea." In case you were wondering, he didn't try to kiss me, not even close.

3. Sr. Prom: I went stag. Twice. (That's a story for another post.) 

I always enjoyed getting ready for Prom.  I would dedicate an entire day to Prom sprucing. I would go tanning, get my nails done, and take 3 hours to bangify and curl my hair.  I've always loved hair, especially hair accessories.  Luckily a few girls asked me if I could design something special for their Prom hairdos.  

If I'm wearing one of these when mi Amor comes home from work, do you think he'll ask me to dance?  Maybe I'll even get a kiss.

Sprinkles of Fame

My friend Shawni and su Madre co-authored, A Mother's Book of Secrets.  Heaven knows I could use some freshening-up in that department, so I made a trip to D.B.

to check it out.  This book features Shawni's extraordinary photography and her down-to-earth perspective on mothering. I began flipping through its pages, taking in a big whiff.  I really love the way new books smell.  I continued thumbing through, reading bits and pieces of each chapter. I started wondering if I had enough cash to purchase a copy. Just as I decided that I'd better hold off until my next payday, I recognized one of the pictures. My heart started soaring and twirling as I realized Shawni had sprinkled a few Jean Kate pictures into her new book. I could just kiss you for doing that, Shawni.    

I took the book to the register counter and smacked-down my remaining cash wad. Never mind that my car's gas gage was on empty, or that we were out of toilet paper, I was buying that book.  As luck would have it, I had a 5.00 credit left on my account (the book was more than that but is well worth the C-A-S-H, every cent).  I got into my car and called-up mi Madre.  I told her about the pictures.  She immediately called her local bookstore and placed a copy on hold.  "I'll go down there and take a look.  How exciting," she said.  "It's totally exciting," I said.