Thanksgiving '09

Lately, I've been working on my gratitude. Not for the obvious stuff - it goes without saying that I'm thankful for my health, my family and friends, their health, and, of course, the material abundance that comes with being born in the land of plenty. But I've been working on being thankful for the 'bad' stuff, too - the car accident, a setback on my new house, the moment to moment heartaches that keep life interesting. I do not mean to imply that I am succeeding at this goal, but I'm also working on being grateful for my failings, my ability to recognize them, and the opportunity life affords me to try again.

If I could total up my affection for all other holidays combined, it would still be a distant second to my fondness for the last Thursday in November. Since I posted my all-time favorite Thanksgiving reminder last year, here's one I have on a small card in my wallet that illustrates my current attempts at gratitude...Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.


I asked God for strength that I might achieve.
I was made weak that I might learn humbly to obey.

I asked for health that I might do greater things.
I was given infirmity that I might do better things.

I asked for riches that I might be happy.
I was given poverty that I might be wise.

I asked for power that I might have the praise of men.
I was given weakness that I might feel the need of God.

I asked for all things that I might enjoy life.
I was given life that I might enjoy all things.

I got nothing that I asked for, but everything I hoped for.
Almost despite myself, my unspoken prayers were answered.

I am, among all men, most richly blessed.

Amazing Grace...

I have eight different versions of the song Amazing Grace on my ipod, sung by artists ranging from Johnny Cash to Anne Murray. I do not view myself as a religious person and, even when I did, the religion of my youth emphasized the complimentary concept of good works rather than God's grace. My point is not to start a religious discourse here but simply to explain that, since it wasn't even in the hymn books of my youth, I have no idea where or when I fell in love with this song. That said, it is the song I sang while rocking my babies to sleep, it is the song that rings in my ears in my lowest moments, it is the song I want played at my funeral (bagpipes, please...if I were you, I'd get dibs on this task now so you don't get stuck doing my hair).

While I don't know the when or the where of how I came to love this song, I am clear on the why. When it comes to music, I'm all about the lyrics - if the words speak to me, I'm sold.

Amazing grace
How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost, but now I'm found
Was blind, but now I see

As I see it, this one short verse sums up the desires of us all. Whether it be a friend, a family member, or your God - don't we all simply want to be found and saved and loved, in spite of our shortcomings?

Recently, I had the joy of seeing U2, a contender for my all-time favorite band, perform Amazing Grace in concert. As Penny and I held hands and our eyes welled up with tears (listen, folks...Bono & Company have gotten us through some hard times), I made the very sincere statement that nothing would ever top that night. The funny thing about making those types of proclamations is that the Universe loves showing me who's boss...just two short weeks later, here is Cale, on cello, playing his favorite lullaby and, at least in his Mom's eyes, easily edging out The Edge.



And, if Amazing Grace isn't your thing, here's Coldplay's Viva La Vida:



Some pics from the big night (for the record, Morgan was wearing a dress shirt at some point in the evening):




Peace and the amazing power of grace,
Corbie

Me, Myself, and I...(who can't seem to agree)...

Recently, I wore both camouflage pants and argyle socks. In case you are thinking, "big deal", perhaps I should let you know that I wore them at the same time. That's right - now I have your attention. I've since decided that this fashion statement reads like the script of my life...a script titled "I'm the Moron in Oxymoron". Like Marie Osmond, I'm a little bit country and a little bit rock 'n roll. The problem is, I'm also a little bit folk, and a little bit bluegrass, and, frankly, a little bit showtunes-meets-yodeling...

So, when I made this fashion faux pax (that felt oh so right) I was four-wheeling with some friends.
Yes, I went four-wheeling, in preppy argyle socks and military-issue camo (fine, Old Navy issue), in the mountains, during deer-hunting season. (No need to point out that camouflage is textbook 'what not to wear' during hunting season...it was already brought to my attention by these fellows wearing neon orange).

Anyhow, as we were four-wheeling, it occurred to me that, while everyone else seems to have a well-defined sense of identity, I change with the direction of the wind. I think of myself as a country girl (don't make me prove myself with my mad horse-saddling skills), but, as the dead deer carcasses were carted past us, the city girl in me cringed and craved an organic salad. And I kept accelerating my four-wheeler as I approached mud puddles (that's the adventure-seeker in me), only to then lift up my feet to avoid getting mud on my new leather shoes (and that there is the prude).

And it wasn't just argyle-camo day that brings out my inner Sybil...it seems to extend to every area of my life.

I'm a believer in the public school system who sends her kids to private school and secretly wants to homeschool them.

My idea of the perfect night out is eating lobster at a five-star restaurant followed by a trip to Circle K to pick up my favorite dessert - Hostess Donette Gems.

I love the ballet...and a good old fashioned rodeo.

If I could live anywhere, I'd pick a farm in Hood River, Oregon...or quite possibly the heart of Manhattan.

Most days I'm talking shop in corporate America... but the best way for me to unwind is with a relaxing weekend of knitting.

Sometimes, I'm Molly Ringwald in Breakfast Club. Other times, I'm 100% Ally Sheedy.

I'm a hippie who likes diamonds, a peacemonger with an attitude, a Zennist with a sailor's mouth.

I thought when I grew up, I would finally figure out exactly who I am and what I like and where I stand. Yet here I am at 32 and all that I've figured out is that nothing about me makes a whole lot of sense.

There is only one thing I've found that I'm certain about - the kind of people I prefer. People like these ones, who let me show up in my SUV (that's never been off-road), to ride four-wheelers (that I have no clue how to operate), wearing absolutely zero make-up (except my favorite Mac lipgloss from Nordstrom), sporting never-before-worn camo pants (over frequently worn argyle socks).


And, as always, gratuitous pics of the kids:

Making peace with my multiple personalities,
Sybil

You put your whole heart in and you shake it all about...

I started having what I refer to as 'friend-crushes' at a relatively young age. They were basically like real crushes only I fantasized about sharing Cabbage Patch Dolls and shoes instead of first kisses and prom nights. I blame these crushes on two things - my intense need to connect with people and my struggles with Sibling Deprivation Disorder. The crushes didn't happen often - sisterless or not, my standards were high. And, let's face it, girlfriends worthy of that kind of yearning are rare. But, when they did happen, the feeling was powerful. I'd daydream about the fun we'd have together, the secrets we'd tell each other, the endless games of 'light as a feather, stiff as a board'. And then I'd plead with the Friendship Gods that this person - this amazing, intelligent, deep, thoughtful person - would see past my faults and want me in return.

I met Robyn at Classic Skating Rink when we were both still single-digits-old. If memory serves me correctly, she was planning to beat up a girl I didn't particularly like and, as the saying goes, enemies of my enemies are my friends. I liked her infectious laugh during the backwards skate to Mony Mony, I could sense a friend-crush coming on during The Hokey Pokey and, by the time the couples were skating to You're the Inspiration, I was totally smitten. She had it all...the strength, the femininity, the humor, the hair. Plus, there was an added bonus - her height. Let's just say that when you skip a grade and still find yourself on the back row for picture day, finding a friend who is taller than you is better than a fire drill during math class.

Now, it's probably not all that uncommon for people to make friends in grade school and keep them into adulthood but I recognized quickly that this one was going to be tough - we didn't attend the same school, we didn't live near each other, and we had known each other for the duration of fourteen monster ballads and some one-hit-wonders. And this was the 1980's, after all...I couldn't exactly save her 'digits' in my cell phone and text her when I had questions about lipstick and boys and bras. As the night wore on and the licorice ropes wore off, I decided I better simply make like Kool & The Gang and do my best to Cherish The Night.

That was over 20 years ago. Here we are, seven kids, two bridesmaids dresses, and a whole lot of life experiences later, taking our girls to the Miley Cyrus concert.



It's true that happiness has many faces.

It can look like finally getting two heads of hair (semi) done for a Mommy-daughter date...


It can look like flashing gang - er, I mean peace - signs with the big girls...


It can look like posing in your new concert t-shirt because you don't yet know that Mommy will never let you wear it any place else but to bed...


It can look like doing groovy 80's moves (see :24) at your favorite (and totally age-inappropriate) concert or dancing such that Ronald Miller would be proud (see :32)...



Or it can look like this...old friends, deep friends, tall friends...the kind who fight your enemies and love your kids and don't need cell phones to stay connected. And, if your substitute-sister shares her real sister with you, well, that's even better than when the last skate of the night is a Journey song.



Peace, Gobstoppers, and grade school crushes (of any sort),
Corbie

You Don't Send Me Flowers...

I'm a hippie. When I mention this to people, I'm usually met with a mixture of doubt and amusement. It's true, I don't hug a lot of trees (nor people, for that matter). And I suppose that on the surface I seem a bit more 'yuppie' than 'hippie'. But in my heart, in my mind, I'm a total flower-child. So, imagine how offended I was when I saw this.


I mean, if you can't trust the organic-eating, joint-passing, free-loving folk among us, who can you trust? I don't know, but I'll tell you a few you can't:

- People who can't spell. Fine, that's a bit harsh. But people who can't be trusted to spellcheck the six inch letters they are placing on their back windshield certainly shouldn't be casting stones at the 'hippies'.

- People who use the (non) word 'irregardless'. Here's the deal - if you think this is a real word, I can't trust that you don't live in a hut and drink your own urine. On the contrary, if you know this is not a word and continue to use it regardless, I can't trust that the English language is the only thing you'll bludgeon.

- People who Facebook poke. What is a digital poke anyhow? And would it kill you to offer me some Facebook foreplay first? I don't ask for much but some digital candles and pizza would be a nice touch.

- Abusers of the 10 items or less line. I can't trust that you can count, I can't trust that you can read...much more importantly, I can't trust myself not to spray bug killer in your eyes (unfortunately for you, it's my only item) when you put your 23 items on the conveyor belt and continue to browse for gum and magazines.

- Mall walkers. Let's see...you're at the mall, without your wallet, wearing ugly shoes. You're suspect on so. many. levels.

- People who hate cheese. I understand not eating cheese - I know plenty of loons people who avoid the calories. But not liking cheese? You probably hate babies and puppies and say 'irregardless'.

- Neil Diamond haters. As Bob Wiley said, there are two kinds of people in the world - those who like Neil Diamond and those who don't. If you don't love a Jew who sings Christmas songs to make money hand over fist bring joy to his gentile fans, you simply can't be trusted.

- Fans of those teams. You know who you are...oh ye fans of the Yankees, Cowboys, Lakers. In another life (say, 1067 BC, give or take a few years), you were cheerleaders, on a sideline, chanting "Goliath, Goliath, he's our man...".

- Wal-Mart greeters. Anyone who is that happy, to be working near the constantly opening and closing doors at Wal-Mart, was very recently answering to Prisoner #642579.

- Users of port-a-potties. Color me crazy but the whole 'no sink nor plumbing' dynamic makes me not trust that you washed your hands.

- People who hide their PIN at ATMS. You don't trust me? Well, back at ya, jerk-off.

- Actors in erectile dysfunction ads. If your penis, indeed, does not work, I can't trust that you'll be that much fun. If it does work and you are just pretending that it doesn't to make a quick buck, well, I can't trust that you have enough pride not to humiliate us both. Plus, my money says you poke people on Facebook.

Peace, hippies, and cheese,
Corbie

Fan or Fanatic

Many things in life are separated by a very thin line. Right and wrong, for instance. Genius and madness. Love and hate. Bambi and Pulp Fiction. Online dating and 'To Catch a Predator'.

And yesterday, I got to thinking...exactly how thin is the line between a fan and a fanatic? In the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that this question occurred to me following an email exchange with a friend about a fantasy football league. An illegal trade had taken place, someone had stacked the odds unfairly in their own favor, and we were debating a variety of lethal options to right the unforgivable wrong.

After much deliberation, I'm fairly certain we settled on death by firing squad and it's possible that I ended the email exchange declaring we were the Robin Hoods of fantasy football (what does that even mean exactly?). The worst part about all of this is that we were serious. Well, no - the worst part is that I'm not even in the league in question. Nope - I'm in three (yes, three) others. Does this make me a fantasy football fanatic? Hardly. A fanatic would have settled for no less than a public stoning - a firing squad seems downright merciful, given the circumstances.

In the interest of public awareness, I've created the following key to help differentiate between fans and fanatics~



Fan: Appreciates a nice blanket or hoodie bearing their team logo.

Fanatic: Ordered their formal dining room chandelier from NFL.com.

---

Fan: Enjoys date night at the game, but prefers if it includes a nice dinner.

Fanatic: This bedroom set all but eliminates the need for foreplay (or food or sunlight, for that matter).

---

Fan: Proposes to spouse via jumbotron.

Fanatic: Proposes (daily) to Brett Favre via email, Twitter, and high-speed car pursuits.

---

Fan: Has occasionally browsed ebay in search of Karl Malone memorabilia.

Fanatic: Has missed important conference calls because they conflicted with auction end-times for an ugly t-shirt, probably signed by the ebay seller himself (MarkHoffmanMemorabilia) instead of Karl.

---

Fan: Wears jersey bearing favorite player's last name on game days.

Fanatic: Insists people call them Mr./Mrs. (insert favorite player's name here) throughout entire regular season.

---

Fan: Has a team decal on car window, well-placed so as to not cause blind spot.

Fanatic: Dream car looks like this...

---

Fan: Understands that with :20 left on the clock, down by 17, the game has been decided.

Fanatic: I'm sorry - where was I? I lost my train of thought because Brett Favre is in the pocket, down by two touchdowns and one field goal, and we're poised for a Vikings victory in T-minus fifteen seconds...

Peace (unless your team is playing mine),
Mrs. Favre

Big Cleats To Fill...

This is a pretty good combination on the soccer field. I mean, the boy on the right (who plays right mid-fielder) can fairly predictably get the ball up to the boy on the left (who plays left forward), who can then almost as predictably make something happen with it.

Well, we figured it worked for Peyton and Eli and it could work for us, too. Meet the next generation of soccer superstars...watch out...they've got big shoes (and it appears, shorts) to fill.

Talking strategy with the offensive coordinator...












'Picking' their next play...





































Trying not to get their shorts in a bind...











































Keeping their heads in the game...



Please note: Any contract offers will require that the currency be converted to popsicles...

Peace, love, and family sports dynasties,
Corbie

Training Wheels of the Human Variety...

I was uploading/downloading/whatever-it-is-called-when-images-move-from-one-location-to-another some pictures from my phone today and remembered one of my favorite summer stories. Excluding the hundreds of files around my desk that are stacked in such a way that they resemble a sophisticated fort, I figured I have nothing better to do but share it (i.e. I'm avoiding work right now).

I taught Morgan to ride his bike recently. Yes, he's my 7-year-old. No, it isn't lost on me that he should have learned to ride it years ago. But he was scared to learn and, having forced my oldest child onto Santa's lap enough times to give him recurrent nightmares about beards, I decided to use a 'when you're ready' approach with my next two children.

Well, that was my approach until I snapped. This summer, I suddenly decided that I could no longer watch Morgan ride a scooter while the kids his age popped wheelies and pumped each other on their handlebars and 'ghost-rode' each others' bikes home. One afternoon, as my mean-mom roots took over, I threw his bike into the back of my car and headed for a parking lot. Morgan cried while we drove, proclaiming loudly that he "didn't care about learning to ride a bike" and "I thought you said it was my choice, Mom". My response? "Oh, you have a choice, alright - your school parking lot or mine?" As you can see from this grainy phone pic, he chose mine.


The moral of this story isn't that my parenting skills are lacking (though in many ways, surely they are), nor is it that things are never as scary as we think they'll be (Morgan took off riding on his own before I could even get a firm grip on the back of his seat). No, this is a tale of friendship. As we loaded back into the car, with Morgan grinning ear-to-ear, the following conversation took place:

Morgan: "Thanks for teaching me how to ride my bike, Mom. Now I don't have to be embarrassed to tell people I don't know how".

Me: "You've been embarrassed to tell people you couldn't ride a bike, Morg?" (cue the sound of my heart breaking).

Morgan: "Yeah. Well, except for Reggie - he would never make fun of me for something like that, Mom."

Reggie is the son of my friend Kim. He's a year older and a head taller than Morgan, and his personality is the size of a small country - lucky for Morgan, his heart is the size of a large one. May we all be Reggies, know Reggies, and raise Reggies.

Peace and love and the best kind of friends,
Corbie

(Reggie and Morgan on the 4th of July. Morgan is wearing the sweatshirt of Reggie's sister, Abby. Apparently, it is also Reggie's policy not to make fun of his friends for cross-dressing).

Girls Gone Green

Earlier this year, Marie and I set our sights on another humanitarian trip. I needed an adventure, she's my designated international travel-mate, and when she spun the globe, her finger landed on Cambodia (well, actually it landed in the ocean several times and then finally landed somewhere near Asia, but try to follow along). For various reasons, Cambodia didn't come together and we realized we would need to move to a yet-undetermined plan B.

Luckily, adventure was right around the corner when Bricia mentioned a girls-only river trip she had her sights on. Admittedly, it wasn't going to be a third-world country but it was going to be on the Green River in Vernal, UT (same same) and it would offer the lack of indoor plumbing that makes us swoon. Thankfully, the details were arranged through an expedition company (i.e. someone who knows what the hell they are doing) and they gave us a list of things to pack...some mandatory (sleeping bags)...some optional yet advised (bug repellent)...and others 'entirely up to the whims of 10 princesses' (yoga mats).

Now I realize there are published guide books to tell you the ins and outs of the Green River, I know there are entire websites dedicated to the amazing hikes in Lodore Canyon, and I'm sure there are entire courses on wilderness skill that would drastically improve your chances for survival. That said, I now present you with my own observations and tips to make your next girls-only river trip a huge success:

• When you are told to 'pack light' because you will spend most of your time in a swimsuit, feel free, as I did, to still pack 10 suits for a four day trip. Despite this, you will have at least one day when you walk out of your tent to find another woman wearing the exact same suit. This is only a river trip, folks - not complete anarchy - fashion laws must still be adhered to. You can hope that the friends on your trip are selfless enough to change their suits (thanks, Bricia) or you can mud wrestle for who gets to wear it...something like this:

• If you always wanted your name to be Megan (acceptable nicknames: Meg, Meggy, Meggers) instead of 'Corbie', simply announce this to the group at put-in. Your river-mates will be far enough away from civilization (and sobriety) that they will play along the entire trip.

• If you enclose a spider in your tent the first night you go to sleep, it will bite you roughly 17 times. The best treatment for this is alcohol. Ingested orally.

• It does not matter how strong of a swimmer you think you are, you cannot outswim the 24 year old river guide. When he beats you to the designated rock in the middle of the river (and by 'beats you', read: you never even make it there), it is pointless to challenge him again just ten minutes later. You will only be more tired , and, let's face it - he was just getting warmed up. You will also fail to beat him at an arm wrestle, leg wrestle, or foot race, assuming you are nutty enough to try. Hopefully, you have a friend like this, however, who can reverse your folly and redeem the ladies' team in a wrestling match.

• River guides have several responsibilities - cooking, cleaning, and rowing, just to name a few. Their most important job, however, goes something like this: Try not to let anyone die of their own stupidity. This means that if someone in your group starts a drum circle using an overturned bucket and you all begin chanting about walking on hot coals, they will wake from their one-eye-open slumber to sternly tell you, "no one is walking on coals, ladies". Ditto for night swims and attempts to steal the kayak.

• There is an entire collection of drinking games I have never played (beer shotguns, ice runs, etc.) due to my previously held opinion that graduating with honors and being a drunk were mutually exclusive. Be sure, as we did, to take along a couple of doctors, a couple of teachers, and plenty of women with masters degrees to purge yourself of any of these beliefs. Also be sure to bring a block of ice.

• If you fall asleep on the beach wearing nothing but your swimsuit, it is safe to assume that you will freeze your ass off. This is a fair trade-off for the following perk: the wine that is propped up next to you in the sand (the one you were drinking when you passed out fell asleep) will be perfectly chilled upon your 6 am wake-up. If the coffee isn't ready yet, it is entirely acceptable to begin drinking it again.

• Apparently, they still sell Tab. Am I the only one who didn't know this?

• I'm told (though I never had the good fortune to try it) that leaving a Runner's World magazine near the potty is a nice touch (thanks, Brenda). Apparently having some reading material helps one relax while sitting on the portable potty as strangers float by and shout "top of the morning to you" from their rafts. Along these same lines (of this I can attest), it would also be nice to have some reading material on hand while attempting to pee in the river, as the frigid temperatures do not exactly support any sort of muscle relaxation.

• Since returning home, it has been brought to my attention that these 10 gallon coolers could be used to hold something other than water. It would have been nice if it had occurred to someone prior to our departure...like right about the time we were forced to choose between unloading our firewood or the large quantities of alcohol these women brought on board. Our decision? Let's just say we spent a fair amount of time looking for driftwood at our campsites.

• Trying to maintain your balance during yoga while positioned on the edge of a running river is like trying to leap while pregnant - it just isn't pretty. That said, I dare you to try to find a more soothing yoga venue anywhere.

• Speaking of dares - resisting the urge to accept every dare that comes your way from passersby along the river will allow you to remain much more dry than I did. Nonetheless, if you want your friends to take a picture under a waterfall, triple dog daring them to do so is entirely reasonable.

And, of course, the rest of the pics...(or at least the ones I can publish)...

Peace, love, and the good fortune to be surrounded by amazing sights and even more amazing women,
Meg

Time keeps on ticking...

Lately, I'm obsessed with time. The passage of time, the lack of sufficient time, the fact that I'm never on time. It may have to do with my newly emerging wrinkles but, at least in small part, I blame it on my kids starting school last week.

Cale is now in middle school which, unless I'm having a major lapse in my understanding of biology, means that I am the mother of a middle schooler. Yes, my first baby has a locker and a complicated schedule and he can buy Powerade for lunch (I mention this tidbit because he mentions it no less than fourteen times per day). Middle school brought with it some choices such as musical instrument (cello), language (Spanish), and the choice of either P.E. or dance (okay, this one was less 'choice', more 'duh').


As you can see, Cale has also graduated to new a new uniform. Poor Morgan is as happy as you can imagine he would be about all of this (read: not at all). It isn't enough that he is no longer able to see his brother in the halls, he must also continue wearing what are arguably the worst uniform colors known to man and, (as he tearfully explained to me after the tenth time Cale said 'Powerade' yesterday) he can't even reach the apple-juice shelf in the lunchroom. As his age would dictate, Morgan wants time to move more quickly.


And, as if it is not enough heartache for my oldest to head off to middle school, my youngest also headed off to 'real' preschool last week. I say 'real' because, although she has attended another preschool for the last several months, this marks what feels like the beginning of the end...she now attends the school from which she will likely graduate high school. Granted it is still fifteen years away but, from where I stand, fifteen years ago seems like yesterday.

To me, the most fascinating thing about time is that it is the great equalizer of mankind - no amount of physical strength can halt it, no amount of intelligence can outsmart it, no amount of money can buy more of it. And it is ironic that, like beauty, time is taken for granted by the young. They don't appreciate the slow movement of time - long bus rides, longer school days, utter eternities betwen birthdays - until it is too late. And when exactly does it become too late? When does our perspective on time shift? Does it happen overnight? Do we go to bed wishing we were more grown-up, more sophisticated, more seasoned...and wake up wishing our hair color was real and our ID fake? I remember specifically wanting to be old enough, wise enough, mature enough, to use the word 'apropos' without sounding like a fool...now, I find myself missing the age where being foolish was entirely apropos.

Peace and love and the wisdom to make every second count,
Corbie

Defending My Quarterback...

In case you live under a rock and haven't heard, Brett Favre has signed with the Minnesota Vikings. Of course, there is no way that I could have missed this tidbit because A) I'm an ESPN junkie (which is every man's dream until they realize the horror that is their wife rushing to the mailbox to beat them to the Sports Illustrated) and B) I received at least two dozen emails from friends near and far who thought I should know the ghastly news. Now, it isn't lost on me that the entire sports world has their knickers in a knot over Brett's tendency to retire, and then unretire (and then retire again)...usually more often than he shaves. The problem? I'm as happy as a clam at high tide.

For those of you new to Random Musings, I love Brett Favre. I love his talent, I love his arm, I love his scruffy 'I-haven't-shaved-since-I-bailed-hay-last-week' look. And I love football. I loved it as a cheerleader, I love it as a spectator, I even love throwing the 'perfect' spiral passes to my boys. But mostly, I love that Brett Favre loves football.

First off, I'm guessing that few of us are the 'Brett Favre' of our respective fields. Don't get me wrong - I can close a mean home loan. I can do it at breakneck speed, with sharpshooting accuracy, and barely break a sweat. I'm generally on any 'top-producing' lists and I know my job inside and out. Still, on a relative scale, I'm probably the mortgage equivalent of a second-string high school quarterback from a small town in Idaho.

So, what if you were that good at something? Something physically taxing and emotionally draining, yet something that most people can only dream of doing? And what if you were getting older and didn't know how much more you had in you, but every now and then you woke up feeling like you were 25 again and maybe, just maybe, could squeeze one more year out of a body that has accomplished things few people can imagine. You wouldn't waffle on your decision? You wouldn't wonder 'what if'?

And forget his ridiculous level of talent for a minute - what about him simply being human? Am I the only one who feels confused about what I want to do now that I'm all grown up? I mean, I have a job - a job that I'm good at, a job that has been very good to me. So someone please tell me why I have registered to take the LSAT in September? So I can 'retire' from mortgages - a career I've spent a dozen years building - and get yet another degree that I may or may not put to use? At which point I will probably find that I can make more money, more easily, doing what I am already doing now and perhaps I will then 'unretire' to do mortgages again. And yet, all of this seems perfectly logical to me right now. Why? Because I'm human, folks...100% fallible.

Am I to believe that none of you sit in your offices every day, staring out the window, wondering what exotic career awaits you? Fine, how about those of you in a cubicle...surely you can relate...no? None of you try to invent useful objects or write clever screenplays or dream of starting a company with your best friends where you can laugh and play wastebasketball all day? I'm the only one, huh? Well, color me crazy but I totally get it. I get being confused. And I get changing your mind. And I get waking up one day wanting to be a writer and waking up the next day wanting to be a teacher and waking up on payday thinking that the status quo might be just fine, too.

So, feel free to hate him, and to mock him, and to say that you've lost respect for a man who is, without question, one of the greatest quaterbacks to have ever played the game. Me? I'm standing by my man. Because he's great at what he does, even if sometimes he isn't sure if he should keep doing it. And when he is in the game, there is nothing wishy-washy about the way he plays...he leaves it all on the field and plays until the last second runs off the clock. And I don't envy having to make major decisions - the kind that you or I get to toy with in the shower or over a bowl of Cheerios - in front of millions of fair-weather fans ready to cut you off at the knees for simply being like them...confused...unsure...human.

And I'd like it known that I actually respect him more for coming back to the game...for facing his adversaries off the field just like he faces them on the field...for looking them squarely in the eyes - knowing full well that some bruises await him - and throwing his hat into the ring the way he throws the ball into the endzone. A less respectable man wouldn't have the guts to follow his heart.

Peace and the freedom to change our minds as often we see fit,
Corbie

Progress...

I'm in a funk. A life funk, a work funk, a blogging funk. I'm sitting here in the middle of the night, pondering my life, wading through piles of work, feeling guilty about not having updated my blog in weeks. Which got me thinking, why did I even start this blog in the first place? I mean, I love to write - it is the only therapy to which my soul responds - but why this venue? Why so public? Why such a thin veil between my heart and the reader's eyes?

While pondering all of this, I looked back to my first post and was reminded that I started this blog over a year ago, just before I left for Africa. If I'm honest with myself, I was trying to find answers to many of the same questions that I'm still confused about today. So much for progress...

I was also reminded that my trip to Africa was humanitarian in nature - the chance of a lifetime to see with my eyes what my heart has always known - that many people have it much (much) worse than I. A chance to be reminded (and in a way that a Sally Struther's TV special simply cannot deliver) that millions of people live each day without basic necessities like clean drinking water or access to healthcare...that many peoples' daily existence is such that the things I worry about - the things that cause me stress, that disappoint me, that break my heart - are things that many people do not have the luxury of even pondering.

And then I remembered that the footage we captured while there - of The Hunger Project, the schools, the medical initiatives, the orphanage - had been edited and compiled months ago and I hadn't yet posted them here. So, like it often does, the Universe brought me full circle...right back to where I started.

Whenever I think back on Africa, one vision haunts me. It is the memory of women - selfless, desperate women - pushing their infants into our arms and pleading with us to take their babies to a better life. I was still breastfeeding Ryan at the time and I remember the ache in my chest as I resisted the urge to grab these babies and simply run with them.

More than anything, I pray that I am continually reminded of the people who would give absolutely anything to have my troubles for a day.

Some of the stories are lengthy (meaning no one is expected to actually watch this) and additional stories that we filmed can be found by searching for 'Ghana' on the Goodtube website, but here is one of my favorites:



Peace and love and a healthy dose of perspective,
Corbie

Words are powerful. Choose them wisely.

While recently in New York with Penny, the following were my three favorite things:

First, I spent valuable NYC time doing something even more priceless - hanging out in coffee shops and outdoor cafes (and occasionally just lying around our hotel room) reconnecting with the sister I found at twenty.

Second, we hit a Deepak Chopra seminar and meditation, which gave me a chance to reconnect with myself (and to cry while sitting next to complete strangers - a phenomenon I strangely enjoy).

And third, I bought (and read) the small book Six-Word Memoirs on Love & Heartbreak: By Writers Famous & Obscure.
As a lover of words and language (and books, and newspapers, and magazines, and the back of cereal boxes...), I tend to be wordy. I'm an expert at whatever the literary equivalent is of making a mountain out of a molehill, often making six paragraphs out of what calls for just six words. In all honesty, I remain convinced that cell phone texting was the Universe's way of playing a twisted joke on me - I can barely order a snow cone in 160 characters or less, how am I to express something significant?

So, I was fascinated by the passages in this book - fascinated by the ability to tell an entire life's story using only six words. Some are funny, some are sad, all tell a stranger's tale. It was the perfect reminder of the power of words - the power to hurt, the power to heal, the power to convey heartache and happiness, love and loss.

Some that I loved:

Hearts never look both ways first. ~Tanya Jarrett

Soulmate found in grade nine gym. ~Amy Leask

We belly laugh every single day. ~Michelle Ottey

Thought "great legs!" Said "great smile!" ~Lionel Ancelet

I thought we had more time. ~Joe Hill

My life's accomplishments? Sanity and you. ~Elizabeth Gilbert

Where he is, I am home. ~Julia Evans

Waiting to forget your name again. ~Cybele Paschke

Preferred brunettes but kept the blond. ~Rebecca Stadolnik

You holding my hair, me puking. ~Diana Greiner

Don't want your ring. Just love. ~Naomi Piercey

My marital advice? Marry an orphan. ~Kristina Wright

He was The One. I wasn't. ~Cathy Collinson

He had nothing. Gave me everything. ~Rebecca Woolf

Our song: Pat Benatar's "We Belong." ~Daniel Handler

Tomorrow, maybe, I'll sell the ring. ~Matt Tanner


And my personal favorite:

Coffee, my vice. So was he. ~Alessandra Rizzotti


Peace and powerfully worded passages,
Corbie

Twist of fate...

I went to New York with Penny again this past weekend. I don't know what came over my usually camera-happy self, but I took only the following four photos:

This is us (if I remember correctly, unshowered) in front of a Hello Kitty statue...the explanation for this photo is long and would reveal far too much about our twisted humor.


This is a man asleep in a phone booth. It goes without saying that if this photo constitutes 25% of the pictures I took, I am far too easily entertained.


This is Penny trying not to pee her pants from laughter after successfully convincing the phone-booth-narcoleptic that my camera's flash (which woke him) was simply a bolt of lightning and that he should simply go back to sleep...which he did.


This is Penny at a fortune teller at roughly 1 AM, which brings me to the point of this post. During my card reading, the fortune teller told me, unequivocally, that I'm destined to have two children. And, since clearly I'm one over what fate had in store, I'm trying to decide which one to give away. I've decided that, in order to avoid any bias or shows of favoritism, the kids can compete for my affections in the following events~

- CLEANEST THRONE: Not to be confused with a scrubbing competition, this is more of a usage competition. Each child will be assigned their own toilet in our house for one week. At the end of said week, whichever toilet has the least urine, vomit, and other stuff on the seat (and surrounding walls), wins. I do realize that Ryan has the slight advantage here but the boys are welcome to sit down to take care of their business as well (as I've been encouraging them to do for years).

- SILENCE IS GOLDEN: The first of two silence-based games, my children will compete for who can remain the most silent while I run countless errands. Cries of 'are we there yet?' will be met with immediate disqualification, though bonus points will be awarded for using hand signals to point out locations where I can get banana flavored snow cones.

- UNCLE: In the second (and more heavily weighted) of the silence-based games, my children will be rated on how quiet they can remain while I discreetly squeeze their arm using increasing amounts of pressure. This skill is highly valued in stores, elevators, and other public places where discipline is desired but a visit from Child Services is not.

- AIM LOW: While general academic prowess is admired, the winner of this event will have mastered the ability to answer questions about my age and/or weight using preposterously low numbers...and while keeping a straight face.

- JUST TRY TO LOOK NATURAL: Children will be tormented with hair gel, uncomfortably formal clothing, and a skipped meal, and then forced to sit through a family photo session. The winner is the one who manages to pull off a happy, tear-less face in whatever photo I look the best in (because, let's face it, that's the photo that's being selected).

- KNOCK, KNOCK, NOBODY'S HOME: Various in-laws and door-to-door salespeople will drop in on us unexpectedly during this final event. The winning child will successfully remain silent, avoid being seen through any windows or doors, and will wait until the visitor is well out of visibility range before retrieving any packages left on our 'welcome' mat.

Godspeed, kids...I wish I could keep all three of you but it just wasn't in the cards...

Peace and the ability to put all your trust in 'fate',
Corbie

Hippie Parades and Perfect Holidays...

If Thanksgiving doesn't watch its back, 4th of July is going to win out as my favorite holiday. I mean, I'm ambivalent about turkey, yams are some kind of twisted joke, and someone always sticks their fingers in the mashed potatoes rendering them inedible. But the 4th of July has fireworks and Lee Greenwood songs and portabella mushroom sandwiches (or whatever other people cook up on the barbie). And, most importantly, it has the Park City parade. Park Cityians take two things particularly seriously - rugby and the 4th of July - and every year we make what my friend Marie described as a 'pilgrimage' for both. My kids have never seen any parade other than the Park City one and, quite frankly, I prefer it that way - I don't want them spoiled by floats and beauty queens and all things shiny when they can grow up on this...

The 4th of July not only owns the grooviest parade, but it lays claim to some of my favorite traditions - Alpine Sliding, the parade, rugby at the park, and watching Penny and Cale inhale countless bags of Cheetos. This year, along with the usual suspects (Kim, Lill, and Penny), Lindsey's family joined in the fun, proving that the 4th of July just keeps getting better. Here are the pics...

And a few pics that require explanation (or deserve motionless observation):

This is Ryan and Mug working on the only circus act they have that doesn't involve Mug's boobs...


It simply isn't enough that I make poor parenting decision on behalf of my own children...look what I feed Porter at the crack of dawn when Lindsey isn't looking...


Yes, I'm pretty sure they touched...


Check out the eye. I'd say it was revenge but Morgan was no where in sight...must be some sort of karma (see previous post).


Hope you all had a wonderful 4th of July!
Corbie

Who throws like a girl?...

Do you remember those old-fashioned, hand-sketched cartoons? The ones where the story unfolded, frame by frame, right before your eyes? You had to read between the lines a bit, draw some logical conclusions for yourself, but in the end, it all became clear. Here is a modern day version, 'snapped' instead of 'sketched', from our house to yours. And, just like in the old days, someone always ends up seeing stars...







Peace and love and good old-fashioned shiners (that you can tell your friends you received doing wheelies on your bike instead of admitting that your little sister has perfect aim),
Corbie

Contact-worthy...

See the glasses I'm wearing in this picture? They are glasses I've been sporting a lot lately because I'm down to exactly two pair of contact lenses. I can say 'exactly' because I have searched through every purse (where I found one pair!) and glove box (another!) and bathroom drawer (nada!) to try to find any remaining links to clear vision.

I hate going to the eye doctor. I mean, most people probably don't relish it but to give you a frame of reference, I prefer hearing 'scoot your bottom to the end of the table and relax your knees' at a doctor visit rather than 'tilt your head back and try not to blink'. I don't like having my eyes dilated, I don't like making small talk with the optometrist while our lips are close enough to touch, and I can't ever decide whether 'A' looks better than 'B' or whether I think that the whole A vs. B routine is a conspiracy and people are laughing their asses off at me from behind a two-way mirror (I picture them shouting, "Show her the identical hot air balloons again - see if you can make her cry this time!"). Plus, I'm so tense and miserable that when the doctor has me cover one eye during the first half of the exam, I apply enough pressure to render myself blind for the second half - I'm always afraid my prescription will read 'Right eye: -1.75, Left eye: Glass'.

So, in an effort to spare me any additional post-traumatic-stress, Penny let me in on a secret...a website where you can order contacts without a prescription. Well, technically you are supposed to have a prescription but I've been clicking the little 'I certify that I I have seen an eye doctor and that I am not a liar and a fraud' box for years and, like a trusty old friend, the contacts have been showing up on my doorstep like clockwork. That is, until now.

Apparently the jig is up because I received an email denying my latest shipment of contraband. I don't know whether they got suspicious because my prescription hadn't changed since the new millennium, or if it was that I always ordered enough boxes to give Stevie Wonder sight, or if they actually called the doctor I routinely list as doing my last exam (it's true...he did do my last exam...in 2003) only to find out he retired years ago.

At some point in my contact lens ordering racket, I settled on daily disposable contact lenses - this means I can (and do) take them out anywhere, anytime, and toss them into the garbage or out the car window. This also means that, until recently, I've gone through contacts fairly quickly, which brings me to my point. Like Elaine from Seinfeld, who had to determine if potential partners were 'Sponge-worthy', I am now judging people, events, and locations as to whether they are 'contact-worthy'.

Last month, I was the proud owner of three pair but I 'splurged' and used a pair for Ryan's first dance recital (see previous post). I find that every move I make nowadays is based on contact-worthiness. What used to be a simple concert attendance has now turned into a mental flow chart...a complicated mathematical equation based on the proximity of the seats, the hotness of the artist, the likelihood that the music will make me want to dance (this one gets moved to the 'contacts-mandatory' category immediately, as no one wants to see me doing the electric slide in spectacles).

Sooner or later, I will break down and do the unthinkable....I will either rob the local Standard Optical at gunpoint (contact-worthy) or I will get an eye exam (don't judge me that the former sounds more likely). Until then, if you see me stumbling around at your wedding or sporting glasses at your child's championship game, try not to feel hurt that your event wasn't contact-worthy...after all, I am down to just two pair...

Peace and love (and the good fortune not to be driving near me at night),
Corbie

Recital Recap 2009...

It's that time of year again...recital season! I know that you are all dying for a play by play of the kids' performances and what kind of person would I be if I didn't oblige?

First up, Cale, in a little number titled 'I have a 103 degree fever but I'm going to still play Wake Me Up When September Ends while some dude in a green shirt sings the lyrics, mostly because I have the hots for the girl behind the drums'. Cale is on the left with the black acoustic guitar, in case you can't make him out amidst all the pyrotechnics.

Next up, Morgan, playing a little number titled 'too bad I'm so young that my feet can't touch the rungs on this stool because by minute 1:25 of this rendition of My Girl, I'm going to start swinging my legs in a show of utter boredom'. He's the little one in the center playing the half-sized acoustic.

And last but not least, Ryan, in her first dance recital. She's the youngest in her class but she makes up for it in pure adorableness (she's the smallest one, on the far left). I decided to sign her up for ballet and tap classes at the studio where I grew up dancing so, despite my status as a grown woman, I often find myself in fear of being yelled at by my former dance teacher. Because of this, I go where I am told without asking questions and thus was backstage during the recital, helping dancers get dressed and cued up. I had to then rely on my Mom to record the performance using her subpar camera skills and, as an added bonus, she laughs the entire time.

As if the stars hadn't sufficiently aligned with the above displays of talent, Ryan's tap dance was choreographed to a song already made famous by Morgan - My Girl. Again, Ryan is the small one on the left and, again, my Mom managed to botch the recording (this time by missing the entire first verse...you just can't get good help these days). Still, she did manage to capture the most important part - around minute 1:09 - where Ryan flashes us the world's fastest thumbs up during the middle of her dance.

Thanks for tuning in to Recital Recap 2009...please direct all bah mitzvah booking requests to our agent.

Would You Rather...?

I spend at least half of my life entertaining hypothetical questions. I love to talk (to the extent anyone will listen), I love to think (to the extent I am able), and thus, I love to play any game that starts with ‘What if…’ or ‘Would you rather…’ or ‘If you were stranded on a desert island…’.

This last one has kept me mentally occupied for over a week now. It all started at the Fleetwood Mac concert last weekend. Here we are - Ammon, Lindsey, me, Robert, Penny, and Brandon - in a picture I like to call 'What if Ammon had go-go-gadget arms and could have actually captured a decent photo?'.



While standing at the concert with several of my 'If I were headed to a desert island, I'd find a way to pack you into my Samsonite' friends, I felt it was the perfect time to ask what music this photogenic bunch would select if they could only listen to one artist or band from that day forward. Ammon went out on a limb (nope) and said Bob Marley, Lindsey went for Coldplay, and Robert, Penny, and Brandon never got to answer thanks to me saying the word 'boobs' too loudly and the woman in front of us telling us to "keep it down". I thought about asking her 'Would you rather I put gum in your hair or spill my drink down your back?' but she didn't really strike me as the hypothetical-game-playing type.

At any rate, the conversation got me thinking about my own 'stranded on a desert island' preferences and, until a major television network gives me the floor to talk about nothing but myself, I'm going to have to publish them here. After you think long and hard about the question 'What if Corbie kills you in your sleep?', feel free to disagree with me in the comment section. I gave myself three choices in every category...any desert island that limits me to less than that would more closely resemble the question 'What if you were stranded up shit creek without a paddle?'.

Bands
Fleetwood Mac
George Strait
Elton John

Songs
Leather and Lace by Stevie Nicks & Don Henley
Landslide by Fleetwood Mac
Silver Springs by Fleetwood Mac

Books
The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran
Collected Essays of Ralph Waldo Emerson
Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris

Movies
Beautiful Girls
Breakfast Club
Good Will Hunting

Articles of clothing
Bikini (doubles as both bra and swimsuit - I'm a thinker, folks)
Flip-Flops (black)
Flip-Flops (brown)

Toiletries
Toothbrush
Crest Toothpaste
Dental Floss
Carmex
(yes, I'm aware this is four items - let's play a game titled 'What if you deny me any one of these four items and I beat you with one of my four flip-flops?')

Food
Peanut M&M's
Pineapple
Purple Grapes

Drinks
Water
Coffee
O.J.

Three Random Items That Would Make My Island Complete
Deck of Cards
Hammock
Magic 8-Ball (I can entertain myself for days with one of those)

The fact that I get to see all three of my stranded-on-a-desert-island bands this year is second only to the fact that I get to see my above stranded-on-a-desert-island friends as often as I like (or at least when they aren't tired of playing 'Would you rather...?' with me and actually take my calls).

Peace and love and the always-amazing Stevie Nicks,
Corbie

Losing like a winner...

Years ago, I swore I'd never let my sons play competitive soccer. It was filled with strange people, I reasoned - people who were nutty and bloodthirsty and too, well, competitive. I wanted my boys to learn to be fair and to learn sportsmanship and to learn that being a good teammate was more important than winning. This is ironic because A) I am nutty, and bloodthirsty and too competitive and B) we are now several years into playing competitive soccer (listen - I copped to being nutty, alright?).


These two boys met on a soccer field and fast became friends. They've won together (1st place one season) and lost together (last place one season) and learned the give and take that is required of teammates.

And then, just when things were getting good, it was time for tryouts again. In their current age bracket, the boys are moving to bigger fields, bigger teams, bigger competition, which meant a healthy dose of roster changes. Some boys moved 'up', some boys moved 'down', all of them lost teammates they've been playing with for years.

The boy on the right (he's mine and named Cale, in case you're new to pictures of my offspring) was selected for a good team, a solid team, a team he's had his eye on for awhile. The boy on the left made a great team, a beyond-solid team, a team everyone has had their eyes on since these kids could tie their own cleats.

This weekend, less than two weeks after tryouts, they all tried their hand at a 3v3 tournament with their new teammates. Cale's team did well enough - they took fifth and qualified for regionals. The boy on the left? First place - undefeated through five games in 24 hours (including against Cale).

I was proud of how Cale played (three hat tricks in five games!). I was proud of where his team finished. And I'm nutty and bloodthirsty and competitive enough to admit that I was proud when his team beat a team that should have beat them.

But most of all, I was proud as I watched him rush the field, eyes welled up with happy tears, to embrace (fine, chest bump) the boy on the left who scored the sudden-death-in-overtime winning goal to give his new teammates a first place win. Unhealthy competition can be found anywhere - but so can good sportsmanship and true friendship.

Peace and love (and the rare proud parenting moment),
Corbie

An Irish Blessing...

Some people cry at weddings, some people cry at births...me, I'm a graduation sap. Something about the growth, the potential, the end that also signifies a beginning. Since it's graduation week around these parts, I am a ball of various emotions. I have cheerleaders headed out into the grown-up world, my oldest child headed off to middle school, and my youngest headed toward adorable plaid jumpers that unforgivingly symbolize a new chapter for me as well.

At my kids' school, the third, fourth, and fifth grade students are invited to sing at the seniors' graduation ceremony. Since it was Cale's last chance to participate, we dragged our already-summer-acclimated butts out of bed and headed downtown to Abravanel Hall. Each year, the kids sing the same piece - a song titled 'Blessing', which is a musical adaptation of a traditional Irish blessing (see below). At some point during the performance, it occurred to me that Ryan will be in fourth grade when Cale is a senior, meaning my youngest will be singing this song at my eldest's graduation ceremony. If any of you are looking for a solid investment, consider buying Kleenex stock around May 2016.

To all the graduates out there...from the ones headed off to middle school to the ones headed off to medical school...

May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
and the rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

Here are the boys outside of Abravanel Hall after Cale's performance. When I picked them up from their last day of school this week, Morgan's teacher teasingly said to him, "all I'm wishing for you this summer is a haircut". Personally, I'm okay that they want their hair to keep growing...I just wish that the rest of them would stop.

Peace and love and new (if slightly unwelcome) beginnings,
Corbie

Old School Rock n' Roll...

As part of 2009's 'The Music Gods Must Love Corbie' concert series, .38 Special, Styx, and REO Speedwagon came to town. Here's how you know when the music you listen to is outdated...the following are excerpts from an IM chat with Brent Noble, former high school classmate, age 32 (my age):

ME: What you guys doing tomorrow night? Any chance you are REO Speedwagon/38 Special/Styx fans?

(Of course, I'm thinking to myself, 'I've really got to start finding out where people stand on these three bands before I even agree to put their numbers into my cell phone...')

BRENT: You have some 8-tracks you're getting rid of?

(You have a death wish, funny man?)

ME: No. Concert tix. Rio Tinto Stadium. Be there or be square.

BRENT: How much? What time?

ME: We will pay you to go. That's how much.

(Perfect, Corbie...nothing screams 'cool' like cash-for-friendship offers...)

BRENT: No (expletive) way!

ME: You hate them that bad? Come on. Can't Fight This Feeling? Everyone likes that song?

BRENT: Is that the one from Top Gun?

(I choose sympathy over anger at this moment. After all, what kind of tormented childhood causes someone to confuse The Righteous Brothers with REO Speedwagon?)

ME: Nope. "Cause I can't fight this feeling anymore...I've forgotten what I started fighting for...". Ring a bell? You could always just get drunk and pretend to recognize the songs.

BRENT: Again? I'm doing that right now to karaoke.

(Great - the dude's drunk. There's no way I'm bringing this ship into the shore.)

ME: What song you singing?

(If he says anything by Britney Spears, I'm throwing away the oars, forever...)

BRENT: No clue.

ME: Probably an REO Speedwagon song then.

BRENT: I need to get a sitter but count us in. One thing though...Is 'REO Speedwagon' pronounced like Rio Tinto or like Oreo?

ME: Oh my hell. I can't believe I even have to answer this...like Oreo...Ding Dong.

*****

Here we are, old-school photo style. I thought about drawing big bangs on Nicole and me, and perhaps some mullets on Cheech and Chong, but making it black and white was as far as I got. I would make excuses for how my hair looks by telling you it had been raining earlier (because it had) but then you would all wonder why Nicole still looks fabulous (because she does) so I'm going to blame it on my having sprinted Carl-Lewis-style back to our seats to make sure I didn't miss Time For Me To Fly, while Brent (otherwise known as the sucker who somehow got assigned to walk me to the bathroom) pointed and laughed at me.

We also had Josh Hill and Brad Warren with us but somehow they never made it into a photo...I blame this terrible oversight on the two of them being busy with their air-guitars. They did the bands proud, however, by holding hands and swaying during the classics. Still, in an effort not to leave Josh out (cry-baby), here is a pic of him with his wife, Kristy, from a recent Airborne Toxic Event concert we attended. Penny really wanted to see REO Speedwagon too but was out of town, so I've included her as well. If anyone else attended the concert, wishes they had attended the concert, or simply heard REO Speedwagon play once during the couples-skate at Classic Skating Rink, and wants to be in this post for their 15 seconds of fame, just email your photos to Lindsey (she's who gives photos the green light here at Random Musings).


Here's to old-ish music, new-ish friends, and outdoor concerts. I'll leave you with a scene from the movie 'Big Daddy' (a favorite at our house), which pretty much sums it all up:

Don't feel embarassed if you want to listen to my blog playlist all day...there's an old school rocker in all of us (even Brent).

xoxo,
Corbie

My Two Sisters...

I used to worry about Ryan not having a sister. After all, the boys have each other and seem to bond over sports and hot chicks and the ability to aim their urine at moving targets. And Ryan is definitely all girl. She asks me constantly if it is 'dance class day' and if she can wear her pink dress again and if we can do 'girl stuff' (girl stuff equates to various degrees of 'beauty parlor', which, despite my valiant efforts, has yet to result in her giving me a massage). Here she is recently after asking me to take a picture of her in her new swimsuit...she actually instructed me to wait while she posed like this.


But my concerns over SD (that's Sister-Deprivation...a real disorder...I suffered from it myself) were recently put to rest when 'Princess' came on the scene. Ryan has instructed Cale that he is to answer to this new moniker at all times and that he is to serve as her horse (piggy back rides) and her motorcycle (shoulder rides) and her dance partner (this one gets entertaining). And I will be damned if that kid - the one made out of snakes, and snails, and puppy-dog tails - doesn't indulge her at every turn.

Like this one...


...and this one...


...and this one...(if you look closely you'll see he is also enduring a Barbie-head-beating)...


...and a few others (all in a 48 hour span this past weekend)...

And lest you think that Princess is a one trick pony, here is a little routine he's choreographed. Forgive the quality of the video...I caught it with my cell phone camera. As for the quality of the dancing...I have no similar excuse. Many thanks to KG, Video Formatting Genius, for making a treasured family heirloom out of an emailed Blackberry video.



And here is a little video titled 'If You Can't Beat Em, Join Em', co-starring Morgan as the other sister. Always the lead singer, Ryan requested that they be her background dancers...I may or may not have stopped the camera just as it was getting good because I was laughing too hard to keep my hand steady.



Peace and laughter and kids who love each other more than any semblance of pride (clearly),
Corbie

Love and Country...

In 1607, Shah Jahan, a 15-year-old prince of the royal Mughal household (who would later become the Emperor), fell in love at first sight with the 14-year-old Mumtaz Mahal as she sold beads in a marketplace. He declared to his father his unwavering intention to marry the girl and, five years and two wives later (it was common for royalty to take several wives for political gain), Shah Jahan was finally given approval to marry for love. Said to be a rare combination of beauty, brains, and benevolence, Mumtaz Mahal was adored by both Shah Jahan and the people over whom she presided.

Rarely apart during their 19 years of marriage, Shah Jahan was by Mumtaz Mahal's side as she died giving birth to their 14th child. It is said that he was so heartbroken after her death that he locked himself in his private chambers for a month and ordered the court into mourning for two full years. Following this period of mourning, Shah Jahan commissioned the best architects and craftsmen of the time to construct a monument to the woman he loved - a work of art we now know as the Taj Mahal.

The project took over 20 years and 20,000 craftsmen to complete and is one of the modern wonders of the world. In pursuit of architectural perfection, Shah Jahan insisted that the Taj Majal be symmetrical in every detail, and thus had Mumtaz Mahal's body placed squarely in the center of the chamber. However, several decades later, at the time of Shah Jahan's death, never wanting to again be apart from his beloved wife, the Emperor's body was entombed next to hers, and remains the only asymmetrical detail in the world famous architectural masterpiece.

*****

In most ways, I'm a pragmatist. I work with numbers, I see things in black and white, my style is matter-of-fact. But when it comes to love, I'm a hopeless romantic. The above tale is my second favorite love story of all time...the following is my first.

*****

Reuben 'Mac' McEwen, was born in Arkansas in 1918. Looking for adventure, he joined the Navy after high school and was stationed at Pearl Harbor when it was attacked. He continued to serve until the end of WWII and his service in the Navy would be a source of pride for him until the day he died in 2005. His love of country would be surpassed by only two things - his love of God and his love of a woman named Marge. When the two of them met, Marge (whom he would lovingly call 'Em') already had a divorce under her belt and a daughter to show for it. He must have told the story hundreds of times - how he first fell in love with the little girl and then fell for her mom shortly thereafter.

Marge was witty and sassy and as sharp-tongued as any woman of her generation dared be. Never will there be a woman more capable of barking out orders and never will there be a man more happy to comply. He loved everything about her and she loved him simply for loving her...for loving the both of them. Their story lacks great architecture (they would live out more than fifty years of marriage in a tiny house built by Mac himself), it lacks great wealth (they didn't have much and, having both lived through The Great Depression, they were careful with what they did have), and it lacks great tragedy (if you don't count his broken heart the day she died). But what it doesn't lack is love. Enough love to hold together a makeshift family. Enough love to not even notice that it was a makeshift family. Enough love to see that, having served his country during the war, the greatest service he could provide in times of peace was to settle down with the love of his life and her little girl.

Why is such a simple story my favorite story? Because it is part of my story. Because I got to see it firsthand, see it play out in real time, see how unconditional love can alter the course of an entire family's history. That little girl was my maternal grandmother which means that technically 'Pa' and I weren't related...but try telling him that and you would have had a fight on your hands. I was his, my mom was his, her mom was his...as far as he saw it, the mapping of DNA took a backseat to the mapping of his heart.

While they were deeply religious people, Nana and Pa always made it known that love trumped all. When I told them I was expecting a baby and getting married (in that particular order), Pa simply shouted, "Hot-Dog, Em! Our great-grandbaby's having a baby!" And, true to my Nana's nature, she simply responded with some wisecrack about hoping the sex had been good and how love-babies are always the most beautiful. That kind of love deserves some kind of medal...and trumps even the Taj Mahal.

This Memorial Day, I feel grateful for fallen heroes and for surviving heroes...for heroes who follow orders into the battlefield and for heroes who follow their hearts into the minefield of life.

'So Cute'...So Overrated...

Judging by your kind comments and flattering words, I've decided my last blog post was harmful - toxic even - and I am here to right a wrong. Somehow, using slideshows and smiling children as my weapon of choice, I created the appearance that we are 'amazing', that we exude 'boundless energy', that we wear 'nonstop smiles'...even worse, I made us out to be 'so cute'. And I'm here for full disclosure.

Nothing ruffles my (currently unwashed) feathers more than PDP's (public displays of perfection). Blogs that are 'so cute', kids that are 'so cute', families that are 'so cute'. The hottest places in hell - even hotter than the ones where I'm headed - are reserved for people who abuse their fellow life-strugglers with So Cuteness.

Random Musings was intended as a safe place...a haven for regular people...real people....my people. People whose kids finish their homework at the inappropriate hour of 11 PM, people who tell their kids they will buy them a special prize if they just 'shut their pie holes' for the next 10 minutes, people who fall asleep on the couch from utter exhaustion when they should be giving their husbands much-deserved birthday sex (I own all of these in just the preceding 24 hours).

Last night, I may have even been testy with my mom because she didn't want to try some exotic sushi I was convinced she would like...and I may have then gone from 'testy' to 'snippy' when she tried it and didn't. Today, I didn't have any cash in the Jeep so I stole three dollars out of Cale's wallet (first sin) to buy Ryan a McDonald's happy meal (second) and thought to myself 'he should be more responsible with his money if he doesn't want someone to spend it' (third). I haven't cooked in a week and when I last did, I'm pretty sure my kids hoped I never again would, as I selfishly assembled a meal that I love and they hate, and then I told them to make themselves peanut butter sandwiches if it wasn't to their liking.

But I wake up each day hoping to be better and do better. I wake up each day hoping that this is the day I won't raise my voice to my kids, that this is the day I will find out what I'm supposed to be doing now that I'm all grown-up, that this is the day I make some sort of difference in the world. The same things I'm sure all of you wake up thinking.

And I pray to whatever God hasn't tired of me yet that the people I love will know they are loved (despite my behaviors which often show otherwise), and that my kids will grow to be deep, kind, thoughtful human beings (despite the consistently poor example I set), and that I will always choose people over things and humility over pride and understanding over judgment (despite doing just the opposite at damn near every turn). All of the same things I'm sure you pray for - to whatever God has lent you his ear - each and every day.

Mostly, I wish for a book - the book - the one that tells me when too much is not enough and when very little is still too much. The one that explains why sometimes I feel like the world is my oyster and sometimes I feel like I'm drowning. The one that tells me how to raise my kids to be more than 'so cute', and how to raise myself to resist So Cuteness, and who to trust and who to avoid and what to do and where to do it. Of course, the downside is that if any such book existed, everything might wind up being 'so cute'...and I truly can't think of anything less attractive than that.

Here we are...being 'so real'...

This is Ryan and Morgan passed out from exhaustion in the Jeep a couple of days ago. That raincoat Ryan is wearing is a 2T (she's three) but I haven't purchased a new one and it was pouring rain outside (again). No smiles in this photo - nor did I get any when I woke them up and dragged them to yet another soccer game.

I may or may not have asked Cale to brush Ryan's teeth because I was too busy working on files to do it myself. Notice the particular amount of effort Cale is putting into watching the TV screen rather than Ryan's molars. Ryan may or may not have slept in that costume (yep) which is second only to the fact that Cale is wearing a swimsuit that he slept in as well. But at least they have clean teeth.

Morgan and Ryan home sick recently. Yes, Ryan is using a couch pillow to keep herself warm - this is what happens when two sick kids are left to fend for themselves while Mom gets some files done upstairs. After taking this picture, I told Morgan I'd let him have yet another brownie, and allow him to eat it lying sideways on the couch, if he promised not to move his legs one inch and wake the sleeping terror.

This is the face we see more often than the smile...she's sassy and so very real.

Look at the forger and the pants cutter all curled up (i.e. passed out tired) in Ryan's (now smashed) chair...I found them in the toy room this way just after midnight...aren't we 'amazing'? (Hint: nope)

Remember this picture? I used it to display Morgan's adorable smile. Now look closely at his feet - I'll let you guess how adorable his coach thought it was that we forgot his cleats and he had to play in his tenny runners. Oops. I love how, when we look closely, nothing is ever as perfect as it seems. It's usually even better.


Here's to a little less sugar and a whole lot of fiber in the diet of life,
Corbie

Housekeeping...

Don't panic...I haven't been up to any sort of scrubbing. But I need to do some blog housekeeping so I can start off with a clean slate - you know, get back to my usual erratic (yet semi-predictable) rate of blogging. Thus, the following update (in no particular order of importance) is for family and those of you who look to us as the model for how not to run efficient lives. Aside from me working like a hooker during a congressional session, here's what we've been up to:

First up, here we are - Marie, Bricia, Kim and myself - in our 5th annual golf tournament for the kids' school. We actually managed to keep it pretty tame this year. Everyone kept their clothes on (assuming you don't count a couple of trips to the bushes to talk to a man about a horse and one quick flashing of the foursome behind us). Everyone kept track of their golf gear (assuming you don't count that the guys one hole back had to return a club cover and sleeve of balls to yours truly). And everyone managed to stay sober enough to walk to the award luncheon afterward where, with my winning of the ladies longest drive, Bricia doing some damn fine chipping, and Marie and Kim putting like pros....drumroll please...we took last place again! The best part is that last place wins you a round of golf lessons and we all got to joke (again) that if Bricia wanted golf lessons, she'd roll over in bed and ask for some. Whatever. We were definitely the most fun foursome, as evidenced by everyone trying to play through one another to get near us and our well stocked snack/gift/beverage cart.

Next up, let's all just acknowledge that the music Gods love me. How else can you explain the concert line-up this year? George Strait, Kenny Chesney, Depeche Mode, and Fleetwood Mac? Toby Keith, Crystal Gayle, Sawyer Brown, and U2? And what about the Bellamy Brothers, Air Supply, REO Speedwagon, and the tag-team of Elton John and Billy Joel? Let me just say that Robert does not get a lot of credit for doing things 'right' (read 'my way'). He never puts new bags in the trash cans (ignore the fact that he does empty them far more often than I do), he doesn't put the laundry away correctly (ignore the fact that the laundry falls under his chore list far more often than most men), and he forgets my birthday and our anniversary every year (I have nothing to add that will let him off the hook for this last one). But he does do one thing extremely well - he scores amazing tickets to anything my heart desires. This go around, it was 5th row and center at the Eagles concert. As in, the Eagles concert - Glenn Frey, Don Henley, Joe Walsh, and Timothy Schmit (pictured here from left to right).


Here are my mom, my dad, Robert, and myself at the concert. We made it a family affair (Robert's family included, though I never actually saw them) and it was worth whatever price Robert placed on his soul to get all of our tickets. Speaking of souls, if there is a heaven, I'm convinced it will look something like standing on the fifth row of an outdoor concert, listening to Don Henley singing Boys of Summer (that or it will look like me and Kevin Bacon making out but I have to play the odds on this one).


Speaking of odds, what are the odds that Mr. Tyler of Jazz game fame followed us to the Eagles concert? Because the guy behind my dad actually yelled at him to take off his hat. Now, I abhor all types of violence - war, boxing, the auditory rape that occurs when I hear Britney Spears sing - but if the dude behind the tall cowboy (a fifty-something cowboy who loves the Eagles like Britney hates panties) wants to yell at him about his hat, I feel it is my civic duty to encourage Robert to kick the guy's ass. Some friendly advice...if you want to ensure that you will have an unobstructed view of the show, try the symphony...in China.

Next up, last week was the country fair at the kids' school. This is a fun, carnival-esque event with games and prizes and cotton candy and all sorts of similar American excess. The kids run around and have their faces painted and hair colored and try to win things that I will undoubtedly throw away the second we get home. The fair also has a marketplace where they sell homemade goods to make money for the school. In years past I have made tie-dyed peace sign shirts, knitted scarves, etc. This year I settled on bracelets. I may or may not have started the bracelets at 9 pm the night before they were due (yep). I may or may not have pulled a heavily coffee-supported all-nighter to complete 50 of them (yep). I may or may not be the most odd combination of procrastination and unwavering follow-through that has ever roamed the earth.

Next up, Lindsey had her baby (pictured below in a photo titled 'right before she peed everywhere')! I have yet to actually see this little bundle of joy in person since the Nazis in scrubs at the hospital wouldn't let Ammon and I sneak in for a peek when I was there. Then, by the time Lindsey and baby (Piper Lane) finally made it home, two of my kids had colds and I haven't wanted to infect her with their cooties. The goal at this point is to get Piper to fatten up (she was 6 weeks early) so Lindsey-the-milk-maid has been feeding her around the clock and I've had the entertainment of talking with Lindsey about boobs and nipples and areolas and bunnies (we discuss this last one just for funses).


Next up, Morgan's soccer tryouts were this past week and Cale's are coming up next week. It isn't enough that we hit 7 collective practices and 6 collective games per week, nor that we spend ridiculous sums of money for the privilege of all this - we also have to pray to the soccer Gods that we will be allowed to continue this fun next year. Here is Morgan flashing what I'm pretty sure is a rehearsed smile...who could resist this angel for their chain gang team? Turns out, no one - he's in.


To finish things off, Ryan's school program. I'd love to crack a joke here or make fun of some other schmuck's kid (or even my own) but the truth is that watching my youngest (and last) baby give me the thumbs up during her school program can make even the most jaded woman's heart melt (plus I had a good time laughing at the girl in the red and white flowered dress - see video).

Peace and love (and much appreciation for indulging me in my latest round of 'Blog-Catch-Up'),
Corbie

A little of this and a whole lot of that...

Here is what we've been doing while I haven't been blogging:

Mostly watching this...

And usually watching it in this...(yes that slight overcast would later turn into a tornado warning while we watched Cale's games in exotic Boise, Idaho).


Last weekend we had eight collective soccer games between the two boys. This weekend - Mother's Day weekend - we were granted a reprieve with only five. Here is how Ryan sometimes feels about these games (she seems particularly moody when they are held in torrential downpours)...


But usually she feels like this...(especially when she gets to abuse hotel bed springs during out-of-state tournaments)...


In the couple of hours between soccer games, we can typically be found relaxing around a hotel pool or at a groovy small-town bowling alley or playing Wii in a hotel lobby...with people from soccer...

Thankfully, soccer people have turned out to be the best kind of people...(and, even more thankfully, they come with younger siblings who serve as built-in friends for Morgan and Ryan)...


Peace and love and the kind of joy that comes from making memories outdoors (and in an occasional disco bowling alley),

Corbie

Sandwiched...

As an only child, I have no clue how it feels to be anything other than 'the one'. I have never worn the hand-me downs of an older sibling, never been forced to put up with the toy-breaking, noise-making antics of a younger one, never had to feel the averageness that goes along with being sandwiched between two siblings loved equally by my parents. But such is the life of my Morgan.

And, as if being the middle child isn't enough, the poor little guy doesn't even have gender in his favor. Cale gets to wear the titles of first boy and oldest. Ryan wears the crowns of first girl and baby (a point lost on no one). Poor Morgan just gets to be the second boy, second child...nothing new, nothing original, nothing he can claim as 'his'...not his clothes (these almost always come out of a box labeled 'Cale's old clothes'), not his toys (these are found at the bottom of toy boxes and are likely missing crucial pieces), not his bikes (these are passed onto Morgan when Cale is ready for a shiny new one). Things would seem more equitable if Morgan then passed these items onto Ryan but the reality is we have yet to make Ryan wear baseball tees, we have yet to deny her yet another doll, and we have yet to make her ride anything not reaking of hearts and glitter.

Well, we decided this weekend that it was time to pull out the bikes and get ready for the sunny days ahead (they are ahead, right?), so we loaded up Cale's old bike (soon to be Morgan's) and headed for the bike shop. Upon entering the store, Cale picked out the most expensive bike he could find and began sporting his 'I won't pout if I don't get this bike but man you would be the coolest mom alive if I did' look (he's a professional at this game) and Ryan proceeded to pick out a purple-butterfly number that screamed 'princess'. Two kids down, one to go...the middle one, of course.

As luck would have it (or it's evil twin 'misfortune'), we were told that Morgan's bike tune-up couldn't be completed until Thursday - almost a full week. The cost of the tune-up: $100. Cost of a comparable new bike: $300+. Robert and I went back and forth trying to decide what to do, with each of us taking our usual stance (Robert wanting to buy Morgan a new one, and me wanting to kill Robert). Ultimately, we decided to stick with the old bike (score one for economically conservative me!) but also decided to leave all three bikes at the shop until Thursday. This seemed fair...a small victory for our middle child who always loses in the birth-order war.

But as Morgan overheard me giving these details to the cashier, he got a worried look on his face and pulled me aside for a 'family meeting'. You see, he didn't mind that his bike wouldn't be done until Thursday, and he didn't mind that his bike was 'old', and he didn't mind that none of this was 'fair'...he just wanted his brother and sister to have their bikes today because, as he put it, they both seemed really excited.

As an only child, I never had to sacrifice much of anything - my clothes were mine and my bikes were mine and if there was only one piece of cake left, well, that was mine too. But I also never experienced the kind of love and selflessness it takes for a child to genuinely smile for a picture, while sandwiched between their siblings' shiny new bikes.

Dream Weaver...

Recently I read an article here that detailed the ten most common dreams and their accompanying meanings. All the usual suspects were present - falling, flying, running naked through your old high school trying to get last-minute credits for graduation - I've had all of these more times than I care to recall.

But, much to my dismay, the article mentioned absolutely nothing about sack eating. That's right - sacks. Plastic sacks. The free ones that the cashier gives you even if you are buying only a pan of brownies that she knows full well you have no intention of tipping on its side so, instead, you carry said brownies out to the car inside the bag the exact same way you would carry them outside the bag. Forgive me - I meant ouside the 'sack'. I can't even bring myself to call my midnight snacks 'bags' because, in my mind, the word 'bag' and it's brand-name implications - Hefty, Ziploc, Louis Vuitton - represents something almost palatable. At the very least, any sort of 'bag' would certainly make less of a crinkling sound as it went down.

I've had this dream four times now. While sometimes I eat the bags like I actually enjoy them, there are times I act a little bit put out about it. Occasionally, I have a slight suffocating sensation (no more than when I wake up and Robert is holding a pillow over my face, though) as one gets trapped in my throat like a balloon.

Well, with all the brilliant minds of the world wasting time interpreting easily analyzed dreams about lost keys (this one probably means you're stupid), or missed airplanes (committment issues), or crumbling teeth (you, my friend, have halitosis), I am left to interpret my own nocturnal psychoses. The following are possible interpretations I've come up with so far - feel free to offer up any of your own:

• My stomach had a chat with my subconscious and laid down the law - the one-sided conversation went something like this: "Cut the organic horseshit and give me some good old fashioned polyethylene terephthalate".

• It's Earth Day tomorrow and I'm feeling guilty that I drive an SUV, use disposable coffee cups (yes, sometimes even at home...there is a special place in hell reserved for people like me), and that I have my machine-washable shorts dry-cleaned. Perhaps, in the recesses of my twisted mind, I think that by ingesting plastic bags, I can do my part to save the planet one meal at a time (with the added bonus of weight loss - we all know reclycling takes energy).

• Maybe, despite my kids' promises to the contrary (while cash-prizes for 'correct' answers are dangled in front of their noses), my cooking does indeed, suck.

• I've read the warnings...'Plastic bags can be dangerous. To avoid danger of suffocation...blah blah blah'. Perhaps, in yet another show of moxie, my subconscious is saying F-U to the FDA.

Peace (and tasty, digestable, sweet dreams),
Corbie

Boys will be boys...(and so will men)...

So, I'm up late working tonight and figured I'd kill two birds with one stone by uploading all of our weekend pictures while I'm at my desk. I planned on a reasonable quantity of photos since our cameras had the pleasure of attending three soccer games, the Salt Lake half-marathon (yay Jenny!), and a rugby road trip. What I didn't plan on, however, was the quality of the photos.

Now, I've documented plenty of girls' trips here at Random Musings but it only occurred to me tonight that I have been guilty of journalistic chauvinism. In an attempt to right my wrong, I present you with the 'Reno, Nevada Rugby Trip' - take number fourteen (or thereabouts)...

Here are the main characters in this tale...from left to right is Mike Morgan, Ryan Dunyon, 'Dalton', and Gene Simmons Robert. I would like to apologize to Dalton that I do not know his first name, though it would help if someone actually called him by it now and then...I want to say it's 'John' but then I feel like I'm confusing him with John-boy from 'The Waltons'. Dalton, I know you've been playing with these guys a long time, and I promise I know exactly who you are. But in my defense, I have a child named after each of the other bastards in the car (my car, mind you, which they always take on these trips) and if I ever have another one I promise to name it after you (here's hoping your first name is Lucy).


Apparently it is necessary to have not one, but two, guitars in a 4X8 space. I'm frightened by what this must have sounded like. I'm frightened by the way Dalton is looking longingly at Dunyon's hands. But mostly, I'm just frightened that I can't tell if that is Robert or Morgan in the passenger seat which leaves the possibility that, at some point, Morgan may have driven my car.


Yep, it appears this is Morgan peeing on my door. I have a picture of Dunyon relieving himself as well but posting Morgan's here gives me the chance to tell my favorite story of the trip. See, there was a lot of late night driving and I asked Robert who sat up front to keep him awake. His response was, "who do you think?". So I guessed Dunyon...after all, he's the 'responsible' one of the bunch. Nope. "Dalton?", I asked. Wrong again. "Mike?!", I laughed. Robert then proceeded to explain how Mike sat up front everywhere they went by utilizing the old 'shotgun, no argues' tactic. Is anyone else hearing that phrase for the first time since you were 7?


These are the kinds of pointless pictures Robert takes if you let him loose with a camera. It's a wonder they even made it to the game rather than spending the entire weekend driving around finding streets named after teammates who couldn't be there. Pembroke? Check! Fletcher? Check! Molonai? Um...maybe we should fill up on gas first...


My guess is that, upon realizing they had sung every song from James Taylor to Def Leppard, they decided to start acting out movie scenes...here's Dunyon doing Teenwolf.


Boyz n The Hood...


And Brokeback Mountain...(they are spooning, right?)

Here are the rest of the pics...(or at least the ones that aren't too obscene):

Peace (and the reminder that, thankfully, we're only as old as we act),
Corbie