Saved By The Scanner

So I've been trying to de-clutter our house/lives, which, if done properly, would involve giving away certain family members. You see, this isn't a matter of permanently doing anything. This is just the act of removing relatively unimportant objects of the past in order to replace them with the unimportant objects of now. Yes, literally as we speak, two members of my family are creating tangible evidence of their existence, of which I'm somehow responsible for the finding of it's home. The third family member is dreaming of how she will suck up space tomorrow.

If left to Terry, every scribble, every thought put to paper, every piece of material memory would be saved and improperly (but lovingly, I'm sure) stuffed into a garbage bag. And then the day arrives that he forgets what was in the first three garbage bags that are collecting dust in the laundry room, which he's been stepping over for the past 10 years, and he curses, "why am I always tripping over garbage bags of {beep}?", and I'm to blame for not having made our home look like the showroom of the Container Store.

Being the clairvoyant member of our family that I am, I take measures ahead of time to secretly throw away the majority of the crap that my children deem priceless, without their knowing. Plastic tiaras: you had a good (brief) life here, but I'm afraid it's your turn to meet the kind folks at Salvation Army. Star Wars Happy Meal toys: I wish my husband never saw you. You'd have never made it past the box if it weren't for him. He's at work now, so I'll do you the favor of reuniting you with your Happy Meal toy relatives at Goodwill. Sticker books that were filled within the first hour that my children had you: they never really loved you. Stickers are only fun if they're pressed on hard-to-remove surfaces. And that is why your destiny is a landfill. Pez dispensers: I'll take my chances at not debuting you in 30 years on Antiques Roadshow.

I have little to no guilt in that arena of organizational life. But I could seriouly lose sleep over how awful I feel when I secretly throw away my children's artwork. First of all, Fiona has been drawing since day 1. I'd say she averages about 5 drawings a day since 16 months old. At least. Without even doing the math, I can assure that's more garbage bags than we have room for in our teeny tiny laundry room. It's a scenario I'm all too familiar with: standing over a trashcan with multiple pieces of construction paper in my hand, heart heavy as I'm executive assessor of toddler talent. What's even more sad, is that her little sister has only shown interest in drawing and painting within the past year, obviously not having had the same amount of time to refine her visual art skills as Fiona. Her interests just lie elsewhere- movement, music, interaction, words- but her artwork rarely goes on to the next round. "Auf Wiedersehen, Neve."

A few days ago, as I was scanning in drawings that Terry did for the prior two posts, I kinda got into this weird scanning frenzy. I wanted to scan everything I could get my hands on. Bedspread, pages out of vintage storybooks, swatches of vintage fabric, the dog's ear, etc, etc. Before scanning the children themselves into our computer, it dawned on me: I could scan in their work! No more crumpled pieces of construction paper! No more saved paper placemats from the pizza shop decorated with bored scribbles! No more sunday school craft projects that were done by teachers! Oh, happy day! Apparently, if you were a toddler craft that wanted to make the cut around here, you should have had a Bible verse written somewhere on you. Ex-southern baptist guilt saved you from ruin... until today.

Today, bags of "borderline" art were tossed out with moldy cheese, but scanned into existence forever. (Or until someone steals our computer.) I kept the stuff that is priceless (which was more than I'm really willing to admit.) And even major-motor-skills Neve got her own virtual folder of drawings and scribbles.

First Place:

"ASTRONAUT SISTERS"
or
"STUCK IN SPACE WITH HER? WHERE'S A BLACK HOLE WHEN YOU NEED ONE?"
or
"TRY TO STOP ME FROM EATING FREEZE-DRIED ICE CREAM HERE, MOM."


Second Place:

"HANSEL AND GRETEL"
or
"ALL SMILES BEFORE YOU GET SHOVED INTO AN OVEN"
or
"THAT'S WHAT YOU GET FOR EATING MY HOUSE, YOU LITTLE..."

Third Place (Most Improved):
"A FACE by Neve"
or
"I'M STILL UNSURE ABOUT THIS NEW TOUPEE"
or
"TRANSCENDENCE THROUGH FAITH"


Most Likely To Be Shown To Other Mothers by Your Own:
"MALCOLM'S SCHOOL" (this is an aerial view of the lunchroom of a "big kid school".)
or
"MY MOTHER WANTS ME TO BE THE INTERIOR DESIGNER SHE NEVER WAS"
or
"I'M BRILLIANT"


Honorable Mention:
"A FRAMED PICTURE OF GRANDMA" (even after she tried explaining that these two main images were framed photographs- the one on the left of a grandma, I still don't think I got it.)
or
"GRANDMA + DOOR + BIRD IN FLIGHT + ? = FREUDIAN NIGHTMARE"

First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes John Rocker in a restaurant in Atlanta on your 6th wedding anniversary. Of course.

Terry and I celebrated the 6th year of our sacrament of holy matrimony this past Sunday. And what (or who) says "sacred" better than John Rocker?
Remember that face? Perhaps you will remember his timeless words about minorities and New Yorkers? Or perhaps you'd just like to look at his super-cool website where you can buy tee shirts that say 'Speak English' on them? Yeah, he's awesome. (Belch.)

Close to closing on a Sunday night, in an almost empty restaurant in Atlanta, a hostess thought it would be a good idea to seat us directly next to John Rocker and Miss Calhoun County. Like, a foot away from one another (and despite the 100 other tables she had to choose from), him and his lady friend ordered the exact same combination of entrees and side dishes as me and Terry. Terry and the teeny girl ordered a light pan-seared fillet of trout with a side of sliced tomatoes, while me and the baseball-playing Hulk ordered fried chicken, mac and cheese, and squash casserole. As I glanced over at his tree trunk thighs, I gave taking another bite [of my fried chicken thigh] a second thought.

He dwarfed my 6'4" husband. And like many famous/not-so-famous famous folks, his personality filled the room almost more than his relaxed fit jeans and size 17 leather loafers. (Without socks. Yuck.)

Before either of us knew who he was, we were both guilty of shamelessly staring at the goofball who would (in the most conspicuous way) sensually kiss the top of his girlfriend's head, every time he got up to go to the bathroom. Which was about every 10 minutes. Like watching a train wreck, Terry and I couldn't pull our eyes away from the collision of his big ole man lips and her bleach blonde hair, which took place every opportunity the peacock had to preen.

His voice carried throughout the empty restaurant about topics that were so uninteresting I just had to listen. For instance, he declared his love for fried chicken over trout to his date with a booming,

"I DON'T LIKE FISH. I'LL GET CHICKEN."

Terry and I could barely finish a sentence to each other, as one brilliant boom after another echoed in our ears.

But it was all worth it when Terry slid a napkin across the table that said, "i think that's john rocker." To which I scribbled, "who?" And he writes back, "the brave's pitcher who made news a few years ago for being a racist idiot in ny." And I, "oh yeah."

Seconds after Terry got up to use the bathroom, the waitress brought us our celebratory slice of chocolate cake. Apparently the Rocker duo had also just ordered the same dessert, as I hear her whisper,

"That's about to be our's too! Ooooh, yummy."

And he boomed,

"CHOCOLATE CAKE IS AWESOME."

(Maybe he didn't sound that dumb, but that's the jist of what we heard. Think Puddy from Seinfeld.) Feeling their eyes all over my luscious cake, I turned around and smiled. She giggled and said,

"Oh my gah- she heard us."

I make some dumb small talk about how good dinner was and how AWESOME chocolate cake is and forever will be, just as Terry returns from the bathroom. And does not sensually kiss my head, but whatever.

And after the 2 couples polish off their celebratory cake, we turn to each other as if to acknowledge our bizarro identities (where I'm John Rocker and Terry is an ex-Falcons cheerleader with lip/boob implants) from a parallel universe, meeting for the first time at an empty restaurant. I say,

"Was the cake everything you hoped it wo---", cut short by Mr.Rocker's final boom of the evening,

"AND MORE!"

Just as our anniversary was everything I hoped it would be. AND MORE!

6 Year Anniversary

October 5, 2002

Squint

farmfamily, originally uploaded by DeraWhite.

Here is a photo from a weekend trip we took a few weeks ago to my cousin's lake house. Don't look for any signs of a lake, as I happened to take 2 rolls of film without even the slightest hint of water in any of them. The house is 100 steps from an enormous lake. What up? Good thing there were many other lovely camera-worthy backgrounds in the more dry direction.