Welcome to the Funny Farm (2 page)

But somehow knowing that the dispenser has fallen into disuse at Beth's house too makes me feel a little better. Less guilty. I may still get the Bad Mother of the Year Award for letting my kids manually unwind their toilet paper, but at least I won't be making my acceptance speech all alone. Beth'll be right beside me, sharing the podium.

I think one of the scariest feelings in the world is wondering if you're all alone. Of course, I realize that mothers of preschoolers may take issue with this statement because the thing they crave even more than chocolate is isolation. This is because these women have not experienced a private moment—not even to go to the bathroom—since the birth of their first child. But I'm not talking about THAT kind of alone. I'm talking about the alone we feel when we're afraid everyone else is living Martha Stewart/Ruth Graham lives while
our
lives resemble something more akin to Lucy Ricardo meets Roseanne Conner. At Peyton Place, no less.

But that's the nice thing about having friends with whom to share the intimate details of our lives. It helps us realize that we're ALL living Lucy/Roseanne/Peyton Place lives.

King Solomon had it figured out. He wasn't even a woman and he had it figured out (of course, he WAS married to seven hundred of them, so maybe that helped him get a clue). I say he had it figured out because he's credited with writing, in the book of Ecclesiastes, the observation that “there is nothing new under the sun.”

And there isn't.

So the next time you're feeling like no one could possibly understand the things you're going through, think again.

I don't know about you, but I think this is comforting, not because “misery loves company,” but because “there's strength in numbers.”

And not just strength. There's hope, too. Because if other women have experienced the same struggles and emerged victorious to tell the story, then you and I can do it, too. Although I have to admit, I'm more than a little curious how Solomon's wives made do with baked-on lasagna.

2

No Batteries Required

M
Y COMPUTER IS WHEEZING.

Would someone please explain this to me?

I realize this is allergy season in some parts of the country, like Texas, where winter doesn't arrive until January and then lasts about as long as an episode of Barney (which, believe me, can FEEL like an eternity, but in reality only lasts for four hours, three if you don't count the commercials).

But I still don't think that explains the rhythmic wheeze coming from my hard drive.

Then again, what do I know? I am technologically impaired. I not only cannot program the VCR, but I'm still figuring out the remote, and I've just recently gotten the hang of programming the microwave.

There should be government aid programs for people like me because, clearly, we are seriously disadvantaged in a culture as hooked on technology as ours is.

Remember when the only digits we had to memorize were the ones in our addresses and phone numbers? To simplify matters even more, phone numbers had a mere five digits because they all started with a word. Mine growing up was Topaz 86957.

Now, the numbers I'm forced to memorize include my home number, fax number, cell phone number, the pin number to my ATM, the access code to my e-mail, the password for my cell phone voice mail, the phone number and passcode to retrieve my answering machine messages . . .

And that's just to keep in touch with
myself
. If I want to actually communicate with another human being, there's an even longer list of home, work, fax, cell phone, and beeper numbers I've got to keep track of.

Maybe my brain's on technology overload. Yeah, that's it. My brain is on overload and, as a result, I have developed a subconscious hostility toward anything that requires a modem, electrical outlet, or battery pack. This would certainly explain why I have such a scary history with things like laptops and cell phones.

Oh. You hadn't heard about the laptop?

Let me begin by saying that any time a woman tells you that she backed over her husband's brand-new laptop computer with her car, you can rest assured there is a perfectly reasonable explanation somewhere.

I'll let you know when I find one.

Until then, let me just say that my husband was going on a trip, and we were loading his bags into the trunk, and the phone rang, and I ran back into the house, and by the time I jumped back in the car and revved the engine it had sort of slipped my mind that the laptop was still sitting on the driveway behind the left rear tire, and, well . . .

I'll let you imagine the rest of the story. Actually, you'll
have
to use your imagination because this is a family-friendly column, and I've been asked to keep the profanity and bloodshed at a minimum.

I'm
kidding
. Actually my husband was amazingly gracious. Which is precisely why, three weeks later when I ran over my cell phone with the van, I felt perfectly comfortable e-mailing him the news and then leaving town for a week. If I'd thought he was going to overreact, I would have stayed away much longer.

Our world is so different than it was just a decade or two ago. Between cell phones, faxes, Federal Express, beepers, laptops, e-mail, e-commerce, and the World Wide Web, the way we talk and shop and think and do business is hardwired to the fast lane.

Which actually is okay. In fact, on a good day—meaning a day when I'm not explaining to a Sprint customer service person why the display on my cell phone looks like a lava lamp—I'll be the first to admit that all this technology can be pretty cool.

Still, I'm glad that some things stay the same. Intimate and old-fashioned, even.

Like talking to Jesus.

What a relief! I don't have to plug in, log on, or boot up. I don't need passwords or access codes, and I never have to wait for someone to return my page. I didn't even have to worry about Y2K, because there's no computer chip linking me to him.

Just a weathered, bloodstained cross.

No modem, outlet, or batteries required.

It doesn't get any simpler than this.

We need an ever-increasing array of gizmos to stay in touch with our world.

Staying in touch with our God is another story.

Maybe I need to take a moment and unplug. Maybe I'm overdue for an old-fashioned heart-to-heart with the Creator of my soul. My e-mails, cell phone, faxes, and modem aren't going anywhere. They'll still be waiting for me, blinking and beeping for my attention, when I'm through.

And speaking of e-mails, send me one, okay? I always love hearing from readers.

Particularly if they know how to get tire tread marks off a mouse.

3

Common Treasures

Y
ESTERDAY MY FIVE-YEAR-OLD CAME RUNNING
in the front door, her face beaming.

“Mom!” Kacie shouted. “I found a treasure!”

She stuck out her fist and, practically bursting at the seams with excitement, began to uncurl her fingers. I expected to see something shiny or uncommon or valuable.

It was the cap of a pen.

Some of Kacie's other treasures include a jar of plastic spiders and a dehydrated gecko she makes me keep in a Ziploc bag on top of the refrigerator.

They say one woman's junk is another woman's treasure. This is particularly true when the second woman is a preschooler.

Of course, I guess I'm not all that different. I love to hunt for treasure, and it doesn't matter if that treasure is someone else's discard or not. Some of my best “treasures” have been unearthed at garage sales, where, for mere pocket change, I've rescued invaluable artifacts from a destiny of dust and neglect or—even worse—a trip to the dump.

One of my more prized garage sale finds is a gold-leafed armadillo. Not to mention the set of porcelain mugs designed to look like pig snouts when raised to the lips of unsuspecting guests.

Sometimes I treasure something because I can see that it has potential. At face value, something can look like a piece of junk, but when observed through the lens of imagination, it takes on newfound grandeur.

Like the brass urn a man tried to sell me at a garage sale. I declined and started to walk away, then hesitated. “You know,” I said, thinking aloud as I studied the urn one more time, “drill a couple holes and run some wires and hardware up through the center, and you could turn this into a really classy lamp.”

Having talked myself into the purchase, I reached for my wallet.

“No way,” the man shook his head and clasped the urn to his chest. “It
would
make a terrific lamp. Sorry, lady, it's not for sale!”

If you and I ever go garage sale-ing together, remind me to keep my mouth shut during high-level negotiations.

Of course, there are other times you can't get someone else to see the value of a “treasure” to save your life.

Just last month, for example, my family was roaming the fall festival in our little town. Spotting a dog-eared copy of
Watership Down
at a used-book table, I tried to contain my ecstasy as I showed my find to my fourteen-year-old daughter. “Oh Kaitlyn! I LOVED this book when I was your age! It's the BEST story! You've GOT to read this book!”

She appeared vaguely interested. “What's it about?”

I gushed, “It's about rabbits.”

“Rabbits,” she said dryly, raising one eyebrow and giving me a look that teetered somewhere on the continuum between disbelief and disgust.

Just then the associate pastor at our church, Scott Ward, ambled past us with his sons. Stopping to chat, he spotted the book in my hand. “That's a GREAT book,” he said enthusiastically. “I remember reading it in school. You should read it, Kaitlyn, it's a really cool story.”

Realizing I had failed miserably at conveying to Kaitlyn the rich character development and complex plot of this classic novel, I seized this new opportunity with enthusiasm. “Tell her, Scott,” I urged. “Tell her what it's about.”

He turned to Kaitlyn, and I watched his face as he searched for just the right words: “It's about . . . rabbits.”

Kaitlyn smiled politely, but her eyes said volumes. They were saying, “When I'm their age I hope someone reminds me to take my medication before I go out in public.”

I'm learning that while one woman's junk is another woman's treasure, the reverse can also be true: One woman's treasure can be another woman's junk. Unfortunately, this is virtually guaranteed if the second woman is a teenager and the first woman is her mom.

My friend Jeanette recently sent me an e-mail. In it she wrote these words of encouragement: “Karen, you're such a treasure.”

At first glance, her words seemed strange. A treasure? Me? Yeah, right! Aren't treasures supposed to be shiny or uncommon or useful? Truth is, some days I feel about as shiny as a dog-eared book, about as uncommon as the cap of a pen, and not nearly as useful as a gold-leafed armadillo (which happens to make a great doorstop, by the way!).

But maybe that's okay. Maybe treasure, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. And if my limited imagination can find potential in something as temporal as a brass urn, think what kind of potential God's unlimited imagination can see in you and me!

Someone treasures us.

This is a comforting thought, particularly on days when we don't feel particularly treasured, days we feel overworked, overcommitted, or underappreciated.

You know, maybe it would help to have a reminder. A visual aid of sorts. Some common item that, on the surface, appears quite ordinary, yet has been turned by love into a cherished treasure.

A dehydrated gecko works for me.

4