Today's Special

My giftings do not include car maintenance.

Once upon a time, I was making the long drive from the True North Strong and Free back to New Jersey. By myself. I was feeling pretty proud of myself, actually, for having attempted the(thus far successful) trip. When I was about 30 minutes from the U.S. border, still on the good ol' QEW, my car decided that steering was no longer in its job description. As was the whole "forward motion" thing.

Amazingly enough, I was near an exit, and I managed to get the car off the exit ramp, and on the side of the road. At dusk. Across from nothing but a rather seedy looking "motel."

Really.

I don't remember if I just didn't have my cell, or if it wouldn't roam in Canada, or what. For whatever reason, I had to trudge my way across the road to the motel, and use the payphone to call AAA. Except I was still in the TNSAF, so it was CAA I called. The very kind lady got help sent to me, and very strongly urged me to not wait in the motel bar.

I didn't.

A very nice tow truck driver came to rescue us, I got to spend the night in a hotel by myself, and CAA fixed the serpentine belt on my car.

Fast forward to yesterday. I was on my way to my monthly indulgence--a massage. I didn't used to be one of those people that got a regular massage. (I secretly always wanted to be one, though.) However, I found a great, reasonably priced massage therapist, and I find it really does help.

But I digress.

So there I was, driving happily along, blissfully unaware that disaster was about to strike. As I turned onto the street my masseuse was located on, my car decided to reminisce about that time we were driving home from the TNSAF. Once again, steering went out the window. Once again, my car crawled to a stop. Just like before. I thought to myself, "Well, there goes the serpentine belt."

I was totally proud of myself for remembering what the thing was called.

I phoned Hubba Hubba, who said he would come "take care of it", and I walked the remaining block and a half to my appointment. But not before I followed Hubba Hubba's advice to put a rag, or something, in the window. I assured him I'd find something, but all I could find was an dried out diaper wipe.

It worked, I guess.

After my appointment, I ventured out in the rain, expecting to see HH and a tow truck. Instead, there was my car, parked neatly in the parking lot of the masseuse. A block and a half away from where it died.

What?

I called Hubba Hubba. I heard a hint of amusement in his voice as he explained that my car had not, in fact died. The serpentine belt was just fine. The car had merely stalled.

Yeah. I never bothered to try and start the car--I assumed it was the serpentine belt, like before, and went from there.

Cars: not my specialty.

Meanwhile, back at the farm...

Last night seemed like any ordinary night. There we were, sitting peacefully in the living room, watching The Cosby Show, which is one of Hubba Hubba's favourites. (I won't tell you some of the others, it might embarrass him.) It was a good episode--the one where Rudy's sick, and Claire is up for partner at her law firm, so Cliff has to take care of her. Funny, funny stuff. At least BoBo doesn't get his temperature taken "the baby way."

But back to our story. As I said, it seems calm and peaceful. Our family, watching good family programming together. A show I don't mind Wiggle Man watching. I guess he had a problem with it, though, so he did what you do when you have one of those problems:

He called 9-1-1.

Seriously. He'd been playing with our cordless phone when suddenly we heard a man's voice on the speakerphone. Hubba Hubba grabbed the phone, realised it was a 9-1-1 operator, and explained the situation.

Our story doesn't end there.

Twenty minutes later, 2 state troopers pulled in. With a spotlight attached to one of the cop cars. One officer came to the front door, one came to the side door. I was so nervous, I couldn't find the light switch for the porch light. Yeah. They're required to check out all 9-1-1 calls these days. Even accidental ones made by toddlers. They were very kind about it, thankfully. Maybe they have toddlers of their own at home.

Needless to say, Wiggle Man is banned from the phone until he's 46.

My brother-in-law, a former 9-1-1 Chief himself, found the whole thing very amusing.

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On a completely different topic, I wanted to address some of the issues that have come up about Twilight.

The whole reason I began reading the book was to understand the hype, and be able to talk intelligently about it. (Sort of the same reasons I read books like The DaVinci Code.) I wasn't necessarily planning to end up liking it. Which I do, actually.

The vampire thing really doesn't bother me from a Christian perspective. I mean, we're dealing with mythical creatures. No one has a problem with the Narnia books (also favourites of mine) simply because they have pretend creatures in them. But C.S. Lewis, for the most part, maintains the traditional line between "good mythical guys" and "bad mythical guys/witches/evil guardians". Just because in this case the "good guys" are mythical creatures we typically cast as "bad guys" doesn't mean we're glorifying evil. In fact, I think it has a lot to say about judging people/vampires/werewolves/unicorns/other pretend things for who they are and what they do, rather than what category of fairy tale character they fit into.

Other people have problems with the sensuality of the book. And yeah, there are scenes in the book that I wouldn't want my daughter to read. (Not that I have a daughter, but you get the point.) I do, however, have a young son, and as I alluded to in the beginning of this post, there are things in our culture I'm not comfortable with him coming in contact with. Which is why, as a parent, I make decisions about what he sees on tv, what movies he watches, and what books I read to him.

I think this is an issue of age appropriateness. The people I have recommended the book to are all grown adults, married themselves, who are unlikely to be affected by the kissing scenes. (Which, in reality, are rather tame compared to some of what's out there in the mainstream media--but that's another soap box.)

I guess my point is this: Let's be aware, as parents and role models, of what we allow the children in our influence to read, watch, and listen to. Just because something is targeted at 14-year-old girls, doesn't necessarily mean it's appropriate for your 14-year-old daughter to read. Let's make our own parenting decisions, instead of letting the media do it for us. Let's remember that there are things that are appropriate for adults that are not appropriate for teenagers.

And let's look for the good lessons in books like this. Lessons like abstinence. (Yes, it's because of his vampirish strength, but also because Edward values marriage. No one talks about that part.) Lessons about the nature of good and evil, and redemption. Commitment. Sacrifice.

What are your thoughts about these books? I've said my piece--what's yours?

Why I Don't Buy White Shirts

If you're a regular here at Poutine, you know I love all things Target. I always spend too much money at Target, which is why Hubba Hubba gets a headache just looking at the place. If you read yesterday's Not Me! Monday post, you know about my stained white shirt. But let me elaborate, and fill you in on..."the rest of the story."

During one of my trips to "Jenn Paradise" (read: Target) last week, I bought a great little white button down shirt. Very cute, perfect for layering. Also, from the clearance rack, which makes it even more wonderful. Also makes it hard to replace if it gets, say....stained.

Proudly, I wear my new shirt to church Sunday morning. Hubba Hubba, Wiggle Man and I hit one of our favourite restaurants afterwards for some yummy pasta. I know what you're thinking: Ok, she got spaghetti on her new white shirt. How cliche.

Oh no, friends. I did not spill anything on my new white shirt. Wiggle Man did not get anything on my new white shirt.

Hubba Hubba.

There he was, across the table. I can see it in slo-mo: His piece of celery drops from his hand, traveling down toward his plate of wings slathered in hot sauce. Upon impact, hot sauce splatters up, not towards Hubba Hubba in his green shirt, no. Like a heat-seeking missile, it finds my crisp white shirt and heads right for it. Splat.

Seriously, people?

We come home, and Hubba Hubba gets the stain out. Go Hubba Hubba. Thank you, Shout. The shirt goes on the line to dry to prevent shrinkage. When it's dry, I head out to get it, and the other clothes, off the line. It's so picturesque--Wiggle Man screaming on the grass because he wants to play with the chickens NOW, and me crying. Crying? Because while my beautiful shirt was drying on the line, a bird pooped on it. Not just any bird. A bird that had apparently consumed a purple berry recently.

Seriously?

Again with the Shout. Two rounds, this time. Purple berry poop is hard to get out. The Shout and I prevailed. This time, the shirt is drying on a rack in the basement. It might not have that line-dried fresh scent, but at least it's safe from birds.

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Check out my blog in the next few days for my very first giveaway!

Graduation

Last night was the local high school graduation. My beloved and I were there because several of the "kids" (the salutatorian informed us they were now "adults") from our church were graduating. I enjoy things like graduations, because while I would argue that maybe they're not quite adults yet, high school graduation is definitely a huge milestone. A rite of passage towards adulthood. It's nice to be able to witness that, especially for young people we've been working with since 7th grade. And what do I know? Maybe they're more adult than I realise. Certainly many of them handled themselves with more poise than some members of the audience.

Don't get me wrong; I'm all for celebrating accomplishments like graduating. I'm all for hooting and hollering for your graduate. The louder, the better--let them know you're cheering for them! Here's my beef: air horns. Not one, but two men with air horns were sitting in our section, one right behind the other. (They were both sounding them at the same time, for the same graduates.) I was startled, but otherwise ok after the first few blasts. However, after the seventh or eighth graduate they "celebrated" thus, I seriously thought fluid was coming out of my ears. A young girl next to me started crying after a particularly loud blast.

If there are any of you reading this who are air horn aficianados, I hope you'll forgive my rant. Please, please, please: if small children are crying, and those around you are visibly starting with every blast, if people are rubbing their ears and are no longer paying attention to the ceremony because they are watching your trigger finger to see when the next blast is coming, perhaps you could consider putting the air horn away for the evening.

Anyway, rant over. Congrats to all graduates out there--we're proud of you. I'd sit next to an air horn any day for you!