Jenmenke

Road Warrior

Babble

I Resolve Nothing

That may sound lame to you, but it is a first for me. I am the grand resolver. I love to resolute. For me, my family. I stop at nothing in my high and mightiness.

So this year, my resolution is to not resolve.

Does that sound lame?

The truth is, I am coming to the realization that I am simply not in control of my life anymore. I am at the complete mercy of my kids and their schedules.

I always thought the busiest time would be when they were little. –And, it was harder then in many ways. But now? I can’t even pick my nose before I realize I’m late for something. Forgot something. Didn’t do something.

Family dinners are all but impossible. Ohhh, I was soooo convinced we would alllllways have family dinners.

Oh, how I judged those who didn’t.

Two, maybe three a week.

Maybe.

So last year’s resolution of Kid’s Cook Mondays was a total bust. A complete failure. And I’m not very good at failure. It’s eaten at me. Dogged my every Monday. But: it’s pretty hard for kids to cook if they are eating at Subway between soccer and youth group. Or jazz band and basketball. Or soccer and soccer. Or eating at 9:30 when they get home. Or 4:30 when they leave. [In case you are wondering, it doesn’t stop me from eating.]

So what should I resolve?

My joke to the family was that we’d be going gluten free for 2012. No one even believed me for a single second.

For, no Menke would make it even one gluten-free day.

Not one.

I did say I wasn’t going to drink any alcohol in January. But it wasn’t a real resolution. More of a guideline.

[…one that I’m really regretting right this very minute as I drink my third thermos of mint tea.]

And I did throw around the idea of doing the Bon Appetit Food Lover’s Cleanse. Went online and checked it out. And then realized we are only home to eat dinner those two, maybe three, nights a week, so what’s the point.

Still, it wasn’t a resolution.

So what do I want to change for 2012? You know, assuming I’m not perfect already?

Nothing.

Because, yes, I am perfect already. I’m taking the year off.

This will be hard — even harder than Meatless Mondays.

 

My Potato Patch: A Retrospect

I know it’s been a while.

I know.

Let’s put that behind us and move on to greener pastures.

Or dead ones.

The potato patch, to be specific.

Potatoes are a cash crop and worth the effort.

[No, not really.]

Potatoes grown in the garden are amazingly different from their supermarket counterparts and worth the effort.

[No, not really.]

Potatoes are so easy to grow and rarely fall victim to pests or blight and are worth the effort.

[No, not really.]

Like corn, it seems, every year, I grow potatoes, regardless of what my notes from the previous year tell me to do. I think the main reason is that I always have an empty planting box and withered, sprouting potatoes from the year before in the lower garage. It just seems silly not to plant potatoes.

So I do.

And then I listen to my dad bellyache about it for the next several months since I often guilt him in to digging them for me. He’s probably only really done it two, maybe three, times. But you’d think I had him out there slaving away every year since 1995 the way he goes on about it.

“Potatoes? Potatoes! Why’d the Hell you plant potatoes? I’ll buy you potatoes. I’ll pay you not to dig them. They don’t taste any different from the store. Geez”

…and on and on and on.

So it was this year as well. And I really had no intention of having him dig the potatoes. Really, I didn’t. But a series of events forced me to ask.

First, he was going to paint the barn. Then, when that didn’t pan out, he offered to paint the lattice on the screen porch. When we needed to use the parking spot where the lattice was laying, we farmed that project out as well.

Clearly he was in my debt.

And yet, still I refrained from assigning him potato duty. Not that I didn’t tease, and threaten. Sure I did. But I had no plans to go through with it.

Until that fateful Saturday in November.

He had willingly offered to accompany Charlie to his second annual Robotics tournament. Charlie had to be there at 8 am. It was a 45 minute drive, which meant they would have to leave at 7:15 am. No easy task for Gramps. He’s not a morning guy. I totally get that and it was one of the reasons I was delighted he wanted to go. –I take after him; I’m not a morning guy either.

The other reason was that last year’s tournament went all day.

All day. A robotics tournament, all day.

To be fair, I did want to make sure he didn’t feel like he had to do it. I even said, “You don’t have to do it, dad. I was planning to dig potatoes tomorrow, so if you don’t want to go, maybe you can dig the potatoes?” heh heh.

No, no, no, no. My plan worked! He was going. I was thrilled. My dad is the best!

Unfortunately, at 7:15 am the next morning, the loft was pitch black.

Pitch black.

So I threw the covers off, threw some jeans on, whipped my way-too-long-hair-for-a-46-year-old into a ponytail, screamed some things like, “WHAT ARE THOSE CLOTHES IN THE BATHROOM? WHY ISN’T YOUR BED MADE? ARE YOU READY? DO YOU HAVE YOUR STUFF?”

I threw the car into reverse and…

…nearly backed over my mother.

Who had run down the driveway in a panic wearing her gigantic fur coat that she keeps at the loft to tell me, “He’s up! He can take him. It’s fine!”

Which I knew was not true. He might be up, sure. But was he ready to go? Was he in the car? Why was my mother in the driveway, freezing her butt off? Or not freezing her butt off since she was wearing a big bear fur, or coyote. Or something.

“No, no. It’s fine. Just tell him he can either come relieve me at noon or dig the potatoes.”

And then I left her in the dust.

Ironically, it was also to be the first snow storm of the year. Which started around 11am and made it silly for him to drive all the way in to town to relieve me, and even more important for me to get the potatoes dug. And so began a day long email exchange:

The first, from my dad:

 

In between these two emails he called me and we decided he shouldn’t drive in. And he grudgingly said he’d dig the potatoes.

By this time, I was starting to suspect he was just messing with me. –That he had dug the potatoes hours before and was simply having fun at my expense. I went along with it, acting enraged.

 

 

 

 

He called me again, to ask me where the garden fork was. He was really hamming it up. I mean for crying out loud. I continued to go along with it. “DAD! It’s in the garden! If it’s not in the garden it’s in the barn hanging up! Where have you looked?!”

KJDJDSHSHST…YOU ARE BREAKING UP…. silence.

And he was gone.

*******

The sloth really didn’t dig the potatoes. He laid on the couch, watching the snow and reading a book all day. Morgan and my mom both tattled on him, so I know it’s true.

And, after the snow melted a few days later, I went out to the garden to see this:

The garden fork, in the potato bed.

So he’s a liar, too.

 

 

 

A [Current] Day in the Office with Jennie

I had more flies yesterday. A lot more.

But when Ollie Cat came in looking for dinner around, oh, 2:30 pm — daylight savings is a real stretch for my 4-legged friends — and I didn’t respond to her meows, her sitting on my keyboard effing everything up, her move to a spot on my wacom tablet, directly in front of my screen. –Well I finally responded by pushing her aside and she settled down for an apparent nap on my paper cutter.

(Still meowing pathetically.)

It took me a while to register the sound she was soon making: the sound of eating.

And I realized she was eating my flies that I had been saving to make myself feel better about my accomplishments for the day. She ate about half of them before I screamed at her to, and I swear this is verbatim: “HEY! STOP IT! THOSE ARE MY FLIES!”

And I find I have little else to show for, or to say about this day.

 

 

Hey Bennett: Leave Me ALONE!

The title should say it all. But if, for some reason, it doesn’t, Bennett is my brother. And I want him to leave me alone.

I’m hot. I’ve had about 50 hot flashes today. I’m keeping the black rage at bay by the skin of my teeth. And I’m on my second beer. I call it my “attitude adjuster.”

I’m trying to remember all the things on my calendar with no screw-ups. But since I know Barb reads this, she could tell you I have not been successful in the venture. –For I forgot to go to Freedomfarm (a volunteer thing I do), not one week, but two. Two in a row. Shameful.

My garden is a wasteland.

A wasteland, I tell you.

I repainted my porch floor because I HAD TO.

Had to.

…only the delightfully cool ‘Bamboo Beige’ accent color that was to be a darker version of our mustard gold house was actually peachy-orange. It was an utter disaster. Trying so hard to be patient, I waited all of 3 hours before painting over the peachy squares with “Dusty Green” that I found in our Dusty Garage that I bought approximately 12 Dusty Years Ago.

Though it looks good right now, it is easily scraping off with the least abrasion. (Think step ladder, stepped upon to vacuum up some of the millions of ladybugs/asian beetles and boxelder bugs that I am currently sharing my porch and home with.)

I fear the worst.

It is too fricken hot to do anything outside, though I am trying. Aforementioned hot flashes, notwithstanding.

Charlie is sick and coughing and sneezing all over everyone, leaving snotty kleenexes everywhere.

Again. I fear the worst.

(for me, that is.)

The apples are rotting off the trees. I have little more to say about that.

My oven is a MESS after those STUPID, OVERSIZED Costco pizzas dripped all over and are right now smoking up the whole house as I try to roast chicken while Morgan complains bitterly that she wanted to go out. I simply love those over-sized Costco pizzas for feeding a crowd. –Like the soccer team that showed up after the game on Friday night. But really. Can’t they be just an inch or two smaller so they aren’t jammed up against the back oven wall and the glass door?

Morgan — yes, miracle Morgan of the car accident — had surgery after fracturing her thumb in two places which required plates and screws when an errant soccer ball hit her before the third game she was able to play in after the whole concussion hoopla.

She’s had doctor appointments and court appearances (from the car accident), conferences, dates, parties and meltdowns . I’ve been on the phone with teachers, insurance people, prosecutors, and other various sorts to unravel the drama that is her 16-year old life. It’s all so… exciting!

Winter soccer is morphing into summer soccer proportions. It is a good thing. Or so they say. All I have to say is: pray for me, for I surely will not last another season without making headlines. In the crime section.

I have two lonely clients who think I am nothing more than a flim-flam con artist who took their money and ran, as they wait more patiently than is even humanly possible for their jobs to be completed.

And in the midst of all of this, BENNETT calls me — during school conferences that I was squeezing in during a soccer game half time — to say I am a loser. (Actually, I can make anything up I want to about my brother because he won’t lower himself to defending himself in the comments. So, really, when he asks me why I write this stupid blog, isn’t that reason enough? Did he really call me a loser? No. He did not. But frankly, I don’t remember what he called me. I was too busy staring daggers at the back of the head of the woman at the table talking to the teacher who had used up more than three allotted conference time slots. Who does that? )

I will be back soon to finish up the Road Warriors Three, Day 8 as Bennett so eloquently and lovingly reminded me was a trip that was actually completed more than 70 days ago.

I just ate my third cookie. I am fat. And I’m wondering if I have time for a third beer.

Thank You.

Thank you God, Thank you friends. Thank you, thank you.

Morgan walked away from this car accident unharmed yesterday.

Is it me, or is that a miracle?

I’m so thankful and so grateful and so… zombie-like. I feel like I am walking in a dream underwater.

We don’t know what happened. She remembers nothing. While she could have swerved to avoid an animal or something, it is most likely that she simply took her eyes of the road for an instant. No, she wasn’t on her phone. But who’s to say she didn’t look at it? Or reach into the back seat? There are no shoulders on the road, the gravel on the edges are soft from all the rain and the ditches are deep. We’ll probably never know exactly how it happened or why.

An event like this should deepen my faith. And I’m sure that eventually it will. Unbelievably, I find myself questioning God. Going round and round wondering why her life was spared when so many others are not. My dear friends are on their knees thanking God and what is my reaction?

“Why me, God? Why am I so lucky?”

Shouldn’t I, too, be on my knees? It shouldn’t matter why! She’s OK! Hug her, love her and support her!

But I just can’t get over it. There have been so many tragedies in our small town over the past few years. Two kids have died in almost identical circumstances. Another was critically injured and will never have the same life he would have. How can I look those parents in the eyes again, knowing how lucky I am when they were not? What do I say? How should I feel?

So now in addition to thankful and grateful and zombie-like, I am also feeling lucky and guilty, all at the same time.

Did I mention angry?

Yes, I am also angry. How can a mother, who’s daughter’s life and health were spared, be angry with her for making a simple mistake? What kind of mother feels like that?

This mother does.

So please add angry to the previous thankful, grateful, zombie-like, lucky, and guilty.

Thankfully, that feeling is subsiding. As well it should be if you knew how many ‘mistakes’ I made driving as a kid and continue to make as an adult. If my mom was a writer and there were such things as blogs, she very well could have written this same post when I was 17 and rolled my car into a telephone pole.

So please add hypocritical to thankful, grateful, zombie-like, lucky, guilty and angry.

Mostly I feel numb. I’m finding it hard to find the words to properly pray and thank God for this amazing gift of life. I’m a baby Christian with as many flaws as there are words to describe them. And regardless of the years I’ve been trying to follow God’s plan for me, I will probably always consider myself a baby Christian because I’m so terrible at it. All I know for sure is that I am a believer. A skeptical one. A perennial Doubting Thomas. And I know He loves me just the way I am, regardless of my circling back around, time and time again in my faith. I didn’t use to think it was important to believe this, but now I know that it is: I believe in Jesus Christ, only Son of the Father, who died on the cross and rose again to save us from our sins.

Period. Now you know: It’s my dirty little secret.

And poor God, I add so much to his list.

Thank you for listening to me. Thank you for praying for me. And thank you God, for this gift of life. I will not squander it.

 

 

So…

It’s been — what? Two weeks? Three weeks?

Did you miss me?

According to my loving and supportive brother, there is likely no one out there anymore TO miss me. And that’s, well… that’s totally understandable. And I’d have to say it’s hard to believe there was ever anyone in the first place, so it’s a good thing I’ve got roving spam bots to keep me company.

I’m not going to go on and on about how busy I’ve been. We’re all busy. I mean, I’m almost 100% sure I’m busier than you, but you don’t want to hear that, do you? You wouldn’t believe me anyway. Because you are equally 100% sure you are busier than me. Right?

What in Heaven’s name are we doing to ourselves? And we all pretend we are all just FINE.

“How’s your summer going?”

“Oh. Just W O N D E R F U L. YOU?”

“Lovely.”

I actually don’t say that. Just ask my poor friends. It’s a wonder I have friends at all.

“How’s your summer going?”

“Pretty crappy really. Not relaxing at all. I’m hoping August is better. Oh, it’s fine, really, I’m just saying it’s not what I picture summer as being….”

And then I go in to this long diatribe about all the wonderful things I do for everyone but myself. All but negating the whole idea of the Happy Helper. The Selfless Giver. The biblical Good Samaritan.

It’s just not in the cards. I do try. But you would never know I try. I’ve never made it past saying “it’s fine.” Not once. Not even to someone I don’t know.

I can’t begin to imagine what kind of little old lady I will be.

But really. Is this really what I’m supposed to be doing? Driving my kids all over to Hell and back in the name of what? Never-ending to-do lists? Guilt that piles on top of guilt that piles on top of guilt? Is it really that important to grow my own damn sugar snap peas? Does the pumpkin patch seriously need to be perfectly weed free? Really?

Do I really need to understand iTunes Home Sharing? Really?

Is that extra $5 off the shoes I am hunting for online really justify the 2.5 hours I spent looking? Really?

Does Crow River Soccer really need a pretty web site? Really?

Maybe I’m being too nostalgic.

Could we ever really go back to the 80’s? Before cable TV? Before computers and iphones and the need to stay plugged in all the time? The crazy need to return a call or an email within an hour of receipt? The need to google every stupid question that comes up in conversation?*

When kids played outside?

And moms had coffee together?

And happy hour started at 4 pm daily?

Or was that just my mom?

Ha ha. Just kidding mom.

And no, I don’t just need a vacation. Because I’m going on a vacation soon and that just adds to the stress. And coming back from vacation is worse than getting ready to go. And when you add those two together, don’t they more than negate the wonderful time you were away? When you were in your car with the MiFi on, doing work in between towns big enough to warrant 3G, while the kids are in the back watching movies, playing online games and facebooking and complaining about the crappy Verizon data coverage?

While we are on a “CAMPING” trip!**

I know what you are thinking.

That I’m just a bad parent.

Or a cry baby.

Or a complainer.

Well you’d be right.

I ask you again: Did you miss me?***

*Nope. Couldn’t give up Google. I love it.

**You think I am kidding? Just wait. Road Trip #3 is coming soon.

***If so, I have included the only photos taken of me all year from fourth of July in Hayward. –When I happily blew off every commitment on my to-do list for 6 days and have been martyrishly paying the price ever since. If not, please disregard.