Maim, Destroy, Do Popcorn Balls

With a laid up mother, Aidan was set free to smash cities and maim skate boarders today. We are surely the epicenter of all the horrible statistics on big time screen time and dead brain cells. Lord help us. With a zingy back, I pretty much let video games rule Aidan's entire day.

ATACHEWA! I don't know if that's really Japanese but that's what Aidan says to the cats. It's the Manga game.

Listen, I may be flat down but I will not allow my son to destroy for 12 hours straight. I have standards. My solution: create popcorn balls.

I, mother of the year, enticed him to take 15 minutes out from his free video spree to make a batch of popcorn balls.

He did great! A natural candy man. Ate almost all of them as soon as he made them. Hint: substitute honey for corn syrup. It's tasty and

healthy.

Thanks for your expressions of empathy on the occasion of my out-of-whack back. Chiropractor appointment tomorrow.

Thanks to my husband for taking over my volunteer gig today; sorry to our youth director that I did not come through for today. [Presently, I am listening to nursing home

stories from Amanda who went there today to play bingo, which evidently was rather competitive. Nursing home service project seemed to make a positive impression.]

Take care and thanks for coming over to the Charmer Blog.

With love, T

P.S. Aidan would be proud to inform you that he is on day four of his present clothing selection which doubles as his pajamas. Not that we're endorsing this, instead just too distracted to monitor daily dressing. But don't worry, I did make him wash his hands before making the balls. As I said before, I do have standards.

Valley of Fire

Imagine if you will, a bluer sky and redder rocks, and you will then be envisioning the Valley of Fire. It was our detour upon return from Zion to Vegas. A detour to Mars. After this, we did not get out of the vehicle because it was just too dog gone hot. Packin' heat for sure.

The two lady detectives and me. Can you pick out the oddball who could not shoot a gun or open a refreshment with handcuffs even if there is no bottle opener?

I don't know if this means anything, but I just wanted to convey an unusual series of events that includes this picture.

Monday -- Hike Angel's Landing. I get vertigo.

Tuesday -- Return to Vegas via Valley of Fire.

Friday -- Des Moines. Lightning strikes front yard tree. Orange fireball. Loud like a bomb.

Saturday -- Mama taxi driver gets dizzy on the freeway. Probably shouldn't be driving, but we won't go into that.

Sunday -- Go to a spirituality class and pick this Bible verse out of the hat: For love is strong as death, passion fierce as the grave. Its flashes are flashes of fire, a raging flame. Song of Solomon 8:6

Monday -- Mama taxi driver still dizzy. Drat, thinking on calling a doc. Drive slowly and hold head. Hear a report on how to treat vertigo on the radio. Treat my own vertigo with the Epley Maneauver, a 90 second head turning exersize. It works. For what it's worth, I think my ear rocks moved during the lightning strike, not the cliffside hike.

Tuesday: Still cured.

I don't know what that all means but you will be relieved to know that I am now back to ethical mama taxi driving.

Thanks so much for coming over!

Cheers, T

Washing in Virgin Waters

Thanks to the Mormon's, most of the natural wonders at Zion National Park are named for religious themes. Virgin River. Angel's Landing. The Three Patriarchs. Temple of Sinawa. Cathedral Mountain. Great White Throne. And such.

The most omnipresent is the Virgin River because it runs all the way through. You see it on top of mountains as well as in the valley. You see it even in the car drive back to Vegas. Virgin River. Virgin River. Virgin River. You sit by it and rest your feet in its icy waters. But you will not chat with your travel companions because you cannot. The Virgin River is too loud. Transfixed by the Virgin River, your mind, body, and soul go somewhere else for about a half an hour.

Personal brain cleanse courtesy of the Virgin River rapids.

The cool thing about the Virgin River is that it evolved from a prehistoric stream, according to the visitor center film. Have you ever heard of something prehistoric that transformed into something virgin? Indeed, that is religious.

I hope you think this picture is awesome. As awesome as it is, sadly it doesn't even come close to the vivid color and depth of the real thing. This photo is taken from the point in which I backed out of the Angel's Landing hike. Keeping with the religious themes, I think they should call it the You-Might-Go-to-Hell hike. Call me vertigo lady. I thought it was scary beautiful. If I got my facts and figures right those mountain sides are about a mile high, from Virgin River up.

Laters. Thanks for coming over.

With love, T

#1 Lady's Hiking Agency

Hello, is anybody out there?

You may or may not have noticed that I was gone. I tricked my kids and told them I was gambling in Vegas. The truth is much more interesting and my sore muscles are here to prove it. I hiked canyons with two NYPD Lady Detectives who really know how to put up with a softy gringo gal. I got vertigo. They didn't. The mountain did not actually cave in from under me and yet it was awesome. What ever you do, don't look over the cliff edges and hang onto the chains. Could someone please tell those Japanese tourists to get away from the edge? I'm getting dizzy.

Ok, I didn't really tell the children that I was gambling. They were just hoping that I was. Instead we hit the trails. I'll post some pictures later.

Red Rock Canyon, Nevada
Zion Canyon, Utah
Valley of Fire, Nevada
Batista's Hole in the Wall, Las Vegas

Of course, as always, I really really missed my three rascals and now it's off to total taxi mom duties.

Thanks for coming over to the Charmer Blog!

With love, T

Get Ready for New York City!

The Charmer Blog is doing spring break in NYC and you’re all coming! So pack your pretend bags and get ready for your virtual vacation to the Big Apple. March 16-23 or so.

As pre-trip orientation the Charmer Blog is requiring the reading assignment below to familiarize with your local hosts, the inlaws, the Speirs-O-Brooklyn. To quote Bob, "We may be crazy, but we’re not dangerous."
THE FEEDING OF THE IN LAWSTrue story. New York City blackout. 2003.

Put my brother-in-law, Ragaey, an appliance, and edible raw materials together and you get a miracle in your mouth. Great tasting food. No electricity needed. Even when a power grid outage in Ohio shuts down the entire eastern seaboard.

The in laws who Ragaey and I share, the Speirs-O-Brooklyn, realized the gravity of this emergency when their favorite neighborhood eateries could not serve. How would they get dinner? Even fast food had no power. The Speirs-O-Brooklyn knew they had one and only one chance at a good meal. Ragaey. And so the in laws, their friends, and their neighbors all made way to the homestead on 45th Street (photo). Hitching rides or walking. Everyone wondering if this was another 911 event. Picking up others along the way. In the dark. They just came.

Meanwhile, Ragaey returned from a day's work as general manager of Newark airport. On this day, generally managing the most congested airspace in the world during a blackout. But he knew that his most important mission was yet to come. He had to feed the in laws, and their friends and neighbors.

And feed he did. Ragaey neither cared nor counted how many people were there. He just fired up the grill and started cooking. Beef, lamb, chicken, fish, peppers, zucchini, carrots. He even whipped up a big pot of fluffy, buttery rice in the backyard night. Yes, fluffy rice cooked on a grill. Topping off with home-brewed Egyptian tea. (Sister-in-law Carol gets the credit for that.) It was a feast. And Bob was right in there, eating as much and as fast as Ragaey could cook. And all the Speirs survived the blackout. As did their friends and neighbors.

When the Charmer Blog goes to NYC, we will eat our way through Brooklyn. And so will you.

Get ready!

Take care, Terri

Note: This archived story was written when Bob had lost 50 pounds to anorexia, courtesy of the liver black out of 2006-07.

My Little Paris

This is what I call Des Moines because of all the artists, musicians and writers.

I was trying to explain this to the guy next to me at the wifi wine bar yesterday in St. Paul. He didn't believe me.

No really I say. People in Des Moines are not just musicians, they're in 2-3 bands. They're not just artists, they have studios. They're not just writers, they earn a living.

The guy wasn't buying it. Gave me a huge crumpled face look as though I was crazy.

Seriously, I further explain. And all the grocery stores have full liquor sections inside. It's very cultured and civilized.

And then there's the Iowa caucuses system.

I don't think he knew what those were. That's OK, I didn't either before I went to one.

Why is it that where ever you live you believe it's superior to other places? And why do I always want to be somewhere else even when I like where I am? I'm thinking about my frequent flier miles even as I happily return home to get all my ears full of simultaneous updates in stereo from Amanda and Aidan.

dress up day at school
who wore what
the best dress ups
lets go to the vintage store
new piano teacher
finger exercises
rollerskating
play date
what did I buy them
the basketball game
the youth group meeting
can we go to the movie
the Indian buffet

It's great to be home! And it's fantastic to open up your life.

photo: Cafe di Scala, This is where the St. John's call committee suggested for me and Bob when we came down for his final interview. The night we went there was a woman crooning torchy songs over the piano. Have you ever met a church who would send their prospective new pastor to a place like this? Only in Des Moines. My little Paris. (Ed and Mari, If you're out there, thanks again for this.)

Take care everyone!

With love, T

Too Much Information

Friends, I'm telling you right now. Don't read this blog dispatch. You will regret it. I know I should not even write it except for that I have to. There are some stories that must be told. Dignity be damned.

There is an imaginary family who live in a midwestern suburb. An ordinary family. Mom, Dad, Sister, and Brother. And two kittens who are living on the edge. 

One member of the ordinary family who will not be named. . .well, Ok, let's just say that member of the family needed some immediate emergency attention by both Mom and Dad. In the bathroom. With the assistance of head lice shampoo and fine toothed combs. They say it takes up to three hours for this process. Especially if that un-mentioned family member has long and thick hair. 

Anywho, so it's a real family affair. The three of us in a small bathroom combing and picking and disguarding tiny little nasties. Search and destroy over the vanity sink.

Wait. 

Not three of us. Four. 

Because the more agresssive of the two cats has decided to do its yoga routine at the feet of the unmentionable lice victim. Languidly sprawling out on his furry little back on her feet, on the tiles in front of the heat vent. 

O no, not four. There are five of us. 

Because now the lice victim's brother has to pee and he's too scared to use the bathroom downstairs because his entire family and pets are in this bathroom. What can they do? He crawls past everyone and. . .you know. Make your own sound effect.

CRASH.

Darn. The ordinary suburban mother's wine glass just shattered all over the bathroom floor. That's right folks. This was the perfect setting for a smooth Friday night merlot. Wash the week away. Down the drain. Flush the toilet. Brush the comb. Disinfest the scalp. Sweep the floor. 

Human bonding, people. 

And if you actually did read this dispatch, I am very sorry for the truths you have just learned about this imaginary ordinary midwestern suburban family. And yet I'm so grateful that you came over because as you can imagine these people need all the friends they can muster.

Take care, T