Category: Relations

WHY WE HATE JULY

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks4 Comments

I know people are going to get tired of this, but it is that time of year again when Ann goes dark. I don’t mean that I’m getting too much sun. I mean I’m getting introspective and “judgy.”

The second anniversary of my father’s death is the 25th of July, and my friend Leah passed away at a terribly young age from breast cancer on the 26th. It would be great if and when those dates slide right by me and I realize afterward that I missed them completely, but for now, it’s still too new and I still catch myself making a mental note to tell one or the other of them something funny before I recall I can’t.

On July 23rd of 2010, Eric, Leah’s husband, was posting this on Caring Bridge – “Leah is holding on. Her strength is still keeping her going. She is much the same as she was this morning. She has zero pain. She is sleeping well. We still expect her to pass at any moment, but it could be another day or two I guess.

“Teagan,” (side note from me: Leah’s 5-year-old daughter) “stopped by today. I was concerned that this could go horribly wrong. It didn’t. It went well. Teagan gave her a few hugs and kisses. She seemed to be okay with the fact that Leah is not really here anymore, and will not be here at all soon.

Guess what else? You won’t guess it, so I’ll tell you. The room that Leah is in was also Tom Landry’s room. Tom Landry was the first coach of the Cowboys, and stayed the coach for 29 seasons, winning two of the Cowboys 5 super bowls and inventor of the 4-3 defense. Tom Landry is idolized in this part of the country, and a stretch of Interstate 30 between Dallas and Fort Worth is called Tom Landry Highway. Also of note: he was interred at Sparkman-Hillcrest, which is where we will have Leah’s services. So, Tom led the way, and is probably waiting to guide Leah. I told her this. Perhaps that is why she is holding out. She would rather it be a Redskin-affiliated angel.”

It’s amazing that Eric was able to find any opportunity to make light. They are lucky they have pages and pages of notes on Caring Bridge – from 2008 until 2010 – of Leah’s (and Eric’s) experiences and hopes. (Although still having Leah would be far superior.) Those who choose to can go back through the full two years of posts and hear her voice in every line and wisecrack.

Frustratingly opposite of that was my father, who departed so quickly there wasn’t a chance to prepare. What we did wind up with is a mystery that still fascinates and frustrates me. My father always jotted things down or doodled. Apparently, after his stroke, as they were wheeling him into the ER, he was unable to talk but was signaling my stepmother with his hand – moving his thumb like he was holding a pen and clicking it.

My stepmother handed him a pen and notepad. What followed was 11 pages of testimony to his rapid deterioration. I have stared at these pages a hundred times and still can’t decide if he knew what was happening and was frustrated by his inability to communicate it, or if he was – I don’t know – just trying to ask for his eye glasses or medicine out of the tote bag that he mentions. From what I see on these pages, it looks as though he is writing the word “brain” a lot. Several notes repeat “VOF tote bag.” That’s a bag with the Voices of Freedom logo on it. I think he asks for a pencil. Perhaps the pen wasn’t writing well upside down?

At one point he seems to give up writing and starts drawing. I can see a head and an arrow pointing to the back of it. Maybe that’s where he felt the stroke had taken place? There was also some supposition that he was trying to write DNR.

It doesn’t matter how many times I review them; they aren’t going to tell me a story, or explain what he was thinking or feeling. What they amount to is frustration. I’m looking for clues where there are none. What could he possibly have conveyed at that point that needs additional study?

I’m just glad he had a chance to try to communicate. I don’t even carry a functioning pen in my purse, much less paper. If I’d been with him, he’d have been scribbling with a tube of lipstick on a deposit slip – or an old receipt. (Note to self: start carrying pens and note pads.)

Who knows – maybe someday we will find someone who can break apart the layers of writing and they’ll find something that really surprises us. Like the number of a bank account in Switzerland…

Hmmmm. Maybe that’s what is in the VOF tote bag.

In conclusion: Everybody keep it together out there. We’re almost through the month.

BRING ON THE FIREWORKS

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks3 Comments

The 4th of July is one of my favorite holidays. There are flags flying everywhere you look. Plus, we get the day off from work. For those with pools, the day is spent bobbing and floating, the scent of sunscreen in the air mixing with the smokey but sublime scent of hot dogs, hamburgers and ribs on the grill. For those without pools, you still get the thrill of the grill, but it’s in shorter bursts as you dodge the 99 degree heat threatening to cook YOU.

My family has a traditional celebration on the 4th. We go to the Country Club (pronounced the way Thurston Howell III would say it). At the Club, we join about a million other party-goers at tables decorated in red, white and blue, feast on fried chicken and anything that stood still long enough to get grilled.

As dusk falls, our little party of 14 or so heads outside with the other 999,986 festively dressed guests to jockey for a position from which to watch the fireworks. Somehow, this always works out remarkably well for us. I credit my stepfather who can clear an area with the simple gesture of squinting and putting his hands on his hips, although I’m not sure he’s aware of his super power. I also give my husband credit. He can locate chairs and line a dozen up like nobody’s business. We end up at the top edge of the grass overlooking the golf course, yet conveniently close to the bar.

After being seated we train our eyes on the flares moving beyond the creek, where final preparations are underway. Around us, giggling, excited children chase each other, waving glow sticks and necklaces – like little miniature rave attendees.

In the past, there have been what I would call some dicey choices made with the music that accompanies the show. For YEARS they kept playing that country song by Martina McBride – Independence Day. I don’t know whose idea it was to adopt a song about a woman who burns down her house with her abusive husband in it (and herself), leaving her child an orphan – as a song celebrating our country’s freedom, but I hope to never meet them. Here’s the chorus:

Let freedom ring
Let the white dove sing
Let the whole world know that today is the day of a reckoning
Let the weak be strong
Let the right be wrong
Roll the stone away
let the guilty pay
It’s Independence Day

Ugh. It always took a few patriotic songs after that before I could stop scowling and muttering to myself.

Lately, someone at the Club blessedly took that particular song off the play list. Now we have a medley that includes Neil Diamond’s “Coming to America,” the ever popular, if a bit tired, “Proud to be an American” by Lee Greenwood, “Born in America” by Bruce Springsteen, and if I’m not mistaken, “American Girl” by Tom Petty. It’s an interesting combination, to be sure.

The fireworks are fantastic. They burst directly over our heads, within reach of our fingertips. The 999,986 others disappear, and my family remains. When they play the National Anthem and everyone stands and sings while watching the last of the ghostly firework trails disappear in the night sky, I tear up. For a brief moment, across the country, I feel like we’re all on the same page.

But I know we’re not. I can tell, because SOMEWHERE, at a firework show near you, SOMEONE is playing THAT STUPID SONG.

REST ASSURED

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks2 Comments

I was thinking about death recently -because that’s one of the weird things I do – and I had a strange vision of my funeral. My husband had selected the music for the service, resulting in a medley involving Rush and the Foo Fighters.

That’s when I came up with a genius idea: Rest Assured.

In the “As Seen on TV” ad for Rest Assured, we’d freeze frame as the Geddy Lee vocal goes full throttle into “Fly by Night,” then a trusted celebrity pitchman (maybe someone like Dan Aykroyd in Driving Miss Daisy) would step into frame and say, “Don’t let this happen to you.”

DAN: Do your loved ones know what you want when you’re gone? Do they know what music you’d like at your funeral? What flowers? What type of casket? Can they compose an obituary?

(Dan looks directly into camera doubtfully.)

DAN: Do they even KNOW your birthday? Really? (He shakes his head.) Do they know if you want to be buried, cremated, shot off in a firework, or donated? Do they know what you want to wear? No. They don’t. Trust me, I’m an actor. Your family knows none of this. That’s why we’re offering you, Rest Assured. Rest Assured is the all-in-one kit that assures you a funeral that won’t make you die of shame.

(Dan makes his way over to a small table that holds a decorative box.)

DAN: The Rest Assured kit includes a questionnaire that asks the pertinent questions your family needs answered before you croak. And, best of all, it’s in the form of a game, so you can make your wishes clear while enjoying a little light-hearted competition.

If you purchase now, you’ll also receive this companion mini-kit, Friends to the End. The mini-kit contains a key ring, trash bags and notebook. Give this kit to a trusted friend who will act on your behalf in case you’re taken from this world unprepared. ‘Unprepared’ meaning you didn’t have advanced notice and need your friend, upon notification of your death, to race to your home, use the house key you’ll have attached to the key ring, and follow the instructions, also noted here.

(Dan taps the notebook and smiles.)

DAN: …Important instructions like, open drawer to bedside table and remove anything battery operated, inflatable, or ingestible. Go to spare bedroom closet and remove box of videos, magazines and DVDS. Go to kitchen drawer and remove emergency ‘cigarettes’ and matches. Place empty wine/vodka bottles in neighbor’s recycle bin.

That’s right. Friends to the End enables your friend to protect your reputation after your death. Think about it. Your family members rummaging through your possessions. Think hard. Do you want that? Haven’t they been traumatized enough by your death? Do they need to know about your late night snack stash? Your collection of attractive yet impractical women’s shoes? No.

Do they need to read your journal? ABSOLUTELY not.

That’s why you need Rest Assured, and the companion mini-kit, Friends to the End.

(CUT to Dan looking sympathetic.)

DAN: What would YOU pay for peace of mind?

FADE TO BLACK.

_____________________________

Great idea, right?

I KNOW.

A few sample questions included in the Rest Assured kit include:

Where do you hide the GOOD jewelry?

What is the combination to your lock box? Do you have money hidden in Swiss Banks?

What’s your favorite flower? (List names and colors.)

Who do you want to give the eulogy at your funeral? (What if that so-called friend of yours – the one with no brain-to-mouth filter decides to tell the Vegas story?)

Do you really want to spend eternity in a suit? Wouldn’t jeans be more comfortable?

What kind of casket do you want? Wood? Fiberglass? Eco-friendly? Decorative?

Where do you want to be buried – or scattered? (Do you think it’s wise to trust your kids to keep you safe in an urn on the mantel?)

Bag pipe or non-bag pipe interment?

Music: Rainbow Connection or Highway to Hell?

Amazing Grace?

Gloria?

THESE are questions that, once you’re gone, some funeral director will fire at your bereaved relatives. And they’ll HAVE to answer. Even if they don’t know. THINK ABOUT THAT. If it scares you silly, place your order now. Operators are standing by.

If you don’t get things sorted out now, you could end up the victim of an overly enthusiastic funeral director with an overstock of these:

It could happen.

TORNADO TOWN – DON’T TRY THIS AT HOME

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks4 Comments

Yesterday was a big day in the metroplex. We had a dozen tornadoes reported on the ground. Being at work in the downtown area, I had little clue so much drama was taking place. We DO have floor to ceiling windows on the North and South sides of the building, so I have a good view of the sky most of the day. But as far as I knew yesterday, the weather was the norm for Texas this time of year. Major thunderstorms. Big whoop.

I may have even said “Big whoop” at some point.

Then, I noticed our automatic blinds were closing, which irritated me because it was storming and I like to watch the clouds as they form little puffs or tails. I had just rounded the corner muttering to myself and heading for my boss’ office when one of our IT guys stepped off the elevator and announced, “There’s a tornado on the ground. We need everyone to take shelter.”

I have not heard these words at work before. I’m in a three-story office building on the edge of the West End in Dallas. Near the highway. A couple of highways. And Reunion Tower. I guess ever since that tornado struck downtown Fort Worth in 2000, tornadoes are cocky enough to pop up anywhere they feel like it.

Wondering why our PA system was a human being rather than a PA system, I followed him around the corner to my work space and listened as he told our side of the office the same thing – and to head for the West stairwell or the break rooms. Now.

Strangely, I grabbed my purse. Then I stood a moment trying to decide which sounded better. Stairs or break room. I made eye contact with the “boss man” who happens to be one of the architects who designed the building. He says, “Break room.” I follow.

A crowd had already gathered. It was just tight enough to bump elbows with people, which from what I hear means it’s a good party. “It’s not a party until your elbow is in someone else’s drink.” See? Like I said.

Standing in the middle of a room during a tornado went against all the training I received as a child in Texas. Even though I was safely away from windows and potentially flying shards of glass, homeless people and debris, it just felt wrong. I know my tornado alley friends can relate. At some point during our academic careers we spent the better part of a day crouched on the floor of the hallway at school, foreheads touching knees and hands covering our heads – like little yoga turtles, while outside the sky turned green.

For a brief moment yesterday as I stood there like Queen Elizabeth, holding my purse on my forearm, I considered getting a Sharpie and writing my name and my “In Case of Emergency” contact on my arm. I also giggled a little when I thought of taping my driver’s license to my chest.

It does not feel like an emergency when you are standing in a crowd of people who are updating their Facebook status (John Doe is “Huddled in a break room with lots of people I work with but barely know – waiting for death, or a coffee, whichever comes first.”) The ability to watch radar images on an Ipad was a new twist to “Storm Watch” for me. Everyone’s screens were very RED.

After about 5-10 minutes we were told to return to our workspaces but be prepared for “round two” any time. I never even realized that in addition to the tornado I heard about in Lancaster – the one with the giant trailers flying through the air – there were many, many more. I contacted my husband and he said he thought they tested the sirens on the first Tuesday of the month, and therefore had pretty much ignored it.

I called my mother, who worries, to tell her I was alive and well and that my employers were keeping us informed.

Me: Hi, mom. Just got out of the break room where they had us huddled.

Mom: You were in a lunch meeting?

Me: No. We were seeking shelter. From the tornadoes.

Mom: There are tornadoes? Are any near Sarah’s school??!
(Sarah, the adorable grandchild who is the first priority. As she should be.)

Me: I’m fine, thanks. And no. I think Sarah’s in the clear. As are you. Now.

Sigh.

All in all, over 800 homes were damaged by as many as 12 tornadoes. That’s impressive, even for Texas. Even more impressive – somehow we seem to have escaped without any loss of life. Let’s keep that up this Spring, shall we?

Oh, and in case you were interested, the new drainage system Hubby dug works great. He was wandering around in the backyard during the “siren serenade” a.k.a. “the attack of the viral spirals” yesterday to confirm it.

He may not be that bright, but he’s cute, and his drainage work is impeccable.

DRIVER ON BOARD

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks2 Comments

Well, it’s happened.

My last little chick has sprouted wings (to match his cute little horns) and passed his driver’s license test. Don’t ask me why it took 2 years past the expected date to accomplish the task, but it did. I am not complaining about that at all, by the way. Frankly, (and you people better not tell him I am saying this), I would not have wanted him driving at 16. At 16, Austin was still accusing inanimate objects of bad behavior and was incapable of closing a cabinet door.

Now that he’s 18, he closes cabinet doors, but is incapable of locking the door to the house. You know, the door that, when unlocked, allows bad people to come in and either kill you or take all your stuff.

Hopefully he will be better about locking the car. As for me, I once had a cute little Mitsubishi convertible that was broken into 3 times as it sat parked behind my condo. The fourth time, it was in the parking lot at the office. I got so tired of replacing windows and/or slashed convertible tops that I seriously considered just leaving the car unlocked from that point on.

(Not actual car. Well, it is an actual car, but not MY actual car.)

Jerks. Took all the fun out of owning that.

Anyway, Austin succeeded in getting his license on something like his 5th trip to the DMV. The DMV is apparently a lot like Home Depot, in that one trip is never enough. You always forget something. I have never known a single person who can visit Home Depot just once in a weekend. If you go once, believe me, you’re going 2-3 more times.

The first trip to the friendly and helpful DMV, (snicker), the vehicle’s inspection sticker was out of date. The second trip turned out to be a national holiday, so they sat staring angrily at a locked door. The third time, Austin actually made it into the vehicle to begin the test, which unfortunately involved parallel parking as the first step – a strict Pass or Fail element. Austin had NEVER parallel parked before. You can imagine how well that went.

(Okay, this didn’t happen.)

The fourth visit to the DMV took place on Tuesday of this week, with a scheduled appointment. Only, the appointment was actually scheduled for Thursday, so Robert’s head exploded. In public. Is anyone else beginning to picture this whole mission as doomed?

Well, not so fast. Dearest mother-in-law, Didi, stepped into the yawning breach of Austin’s driver’s license pursuit on Thursday and I was very pleased to get a message in the afternoon from the 6,100 texts a month texter: I PASSED THE DRIVER’S TEST!!!!!

That’s the first good news I’ve had all week. I treasure the thought of his independence – and the thought that neither his father nor I have to get up early on weekends to drive him to work anymore.

At least, I will treasure his independence until the first accident, at which time, my head will explode.

May it be a long time coming.

For now, “DRIVE, Austin, DRIVE!!”

And keep your eyes on the road.

And both hands on the wheel.

And for God’s sake, DON’T TEXT WHILE YOU DRIVE OR I WILL BREAK YOUR NIMBLE LITTLE FINGERS.

SIRI-OUSLY

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks7 Comments

I am having a love / hate relationship with Siri (the IPhone 4S built-in personal assistant), who genuinely TRIES to help me, but we seem to be having communication problems. Like I need someone else in my life with whom I can’t seem to make myself understood.

Siri  delighted me with her attempts, at first. I made a calendar entry for an upcoming wedding, although I couldn’t figure out how to title the entry, so at this point I just have a full day booked and in a few weeks will have no idea why the 16th of June is marked, “Note.”

I was feeling a little snoozy later on and asked her to tell me a story – and she became delightfully coy.

When I began defining my relationships for her, she just started ticking me off. I was able to convince her that Robert was my husband, so I could say something like, “Text my husband…” Then, I tried to tell her who my mother was, and she showed her true colors. “Annette is my mother,” I calmly explained. Siri repeated the relationship perfectly, but then went on to show the entry in my contact category as “Annette: Manager.” 

Humph. I tried again.  “Annette is my MOTHER.” Siri repeated the identification, but then showed me her note. “Annette: Assistant.”

While Manager and Assistant are perhaps accurate descriptions of roles my mother (or any mother for that matter) takes on, I didn’t appreciate the sarcasm. I decided to discontinue my little organizational spree, afraid of what title she might assign my friends or family. What if I designated a relationship and the little witch assigned the title, “Arch Enemy?”

Determined to sort out the misunderstanding, I pressed the button to call Siri again and informed her that “Annette is NOT my Manager.” She had the nerve to tell me she cannot delete relationships for me.

“Well, then, don’t mislabel them,” I snapped. At my phone. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” Siri responded demurely.

So then I felt guilty and gave up creating relationships. (Wow, that sentence is so Freudian, I’m not even going to correct it.) 

Siri was able to tell me how many calories dinner was last night, but shied away from telling me where I could hide a dead body. (I was feeling inquisitive.) She DID graciously show me several businesses in my area that have the word “Hide” in them. Asking where to “dump” a dead body resulted in no nearby dumps.

Oh, well. At least I know if I am ever in need of such a location, (which I have no immediate plans to require), I am on my own. Or maybe my Manager/Assistant will help me out. After all, what are mother’s for?

Moving on to cheerier topics with Siri I asked, “Who will win the Super Bowl?” Instead of showing me betting odds or predictions, she asked if I wanted her to Google, “Who will win the suit?”

“What suit?” I asked, perplexed.

“I don’t know what you mean by “What seat?” the minx responded.

“Are you kidding me?”

“I kid you not.” (Snap-ish.)

So I have no idea who is going to win the Super Bowl, the suit, or the seat. But I think I know who my arch enemy is.

Yes, Siri. Be my guest.

THE DIET DIARY (OR – EVERY CALORIE COUNTS)

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks3 Comments

I haven’t posted recently because I’ve been totally focused on my new rules.

Hubby announced the other day that we would be dieting. Said diet consists of alarming restrictions about food and beverages. “No drinking on Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays. Two drink Wednesdays and Fridays.” I think I blacked out about then because I have no idea what Saturday and Sunday are supposed to be. I’m thinking “Make up for lost time” weekends.

In his usual organized way of pursuing a goal, he made out menus that involved cereal and lots of chicken. And veggies.

It’s a nightmare.

On Monday he sent me to work with a grocery bag full of snack items that would answer  the “Eat five times a day” requirement. Lots of granola bars, cereal bars, peanut butter crackers and flavored cardboard. I mean rice cakes.

 

Life is no longer worth living.

By Friday I was starting to fantasize about pizza. I saw someone walk into the kitchen at the office with a bag from Whataburger. I almost tackled him. The rest of the afternoon I could swear I smelled cheeseburger.

Say hello to 620 calories. And that’s just the burger.

In an unsually cooperative mood, I incorporated working out into this little farce. I mean healthy new routine. I have always hated going to the gym, and my first visit back in years was exactly what I expected. Annoying and pointless. I am mechanically challenged when it comes to gym equipment. I found myself atop a treadmill thinking, “How hard can this be?” Well, either the gym is rigged for people over 90, or I am even worse at this stuff than I thought. Even the pre-set cardio routine challenge was no challenge. At the low end, it had me walking  at 2.0 miles per hour. When it ramped up to the highest rate, it was 2.8 miles per hour. I thought maybe I had to crank the speed up myself to set a baseline, but after going through each cycle, it dropped back down to 2 again. Even I can walk at 2 mph without effort – other than maintaining my balance.

After wrestling through the routine and upping the speed each time, I managed to burn all of 54 calories in 20 minutes. A huge disappointment for a girl who measures her calorie loss in terms of Chardonnay (1 glass = 120 calories).

The treadmill is definitely NOT going to do the trick. Unless I plan to spend 24 hours a day on it. In desperation, I looked around the gym and spotted the rowing machine. Rowing. Potentially interesting. Not a bike. Not a treadmill.

I tried it. Mostly because at this point the gym was completely empty. No witnesses if I had an experience reminiscent of my first time on an elliptical machine. (I now refer to it as an epileptic machine because while on it I look like I’m having a seizure.)  I am not at the gym to amuse others. I am at the gym to punish myself for liking butter and bread and wine.

I tried a couple of different settings on the rower and imagined I wasn’t embarrassing myself too badly. I would be proved wrong later when I got home and pulled up some rowing videos on YouTube. Apparently, the normal level of resistance for rowing on water is a setting between 3 and 5. (I was rowing at the resistance of 10.)  So, basically rowing through mud.

I studied the videos, then went back the next day. Warily, I eyed the rowing machine, determined to psych it out. 30 minutes later I had burned 220 calories. That’s almost two glasses of wine! Apparently, going full tilt, you can burn 800 calories an hour. (Of course, that’s if you’re an Olympic rower.) I am not an Olympic rower, nor will I ever be. But how great would it be to be able to burn off 6 glasses of wine in an hour? 

I can dream, can’t I?

REGRETS, REINCARNATION AND REALITY

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks1 Comment

Today’s LetsBlogOff topic is: “If I could turn back time.”

I tend to get maudlin when I start thinking along these lines. I start wondering, “What if?”

What if…I had continued working on the ranch in Mt. Pleasant training quarter horses?

What if…I had taken a chance and moved to L.A. or New York?

What if…I had made a million other decisions differently? Are there parallel universes out there in which I am living those other lives? Wouldn’t it be fantastic if after each decision you make, a game show host – let’s say, Monty Hall, pops up and shows you what’s behind Curtain #2 so you could see what WOULD have been? Then you could have instant regret, instead of getting 5 or 10 years down the line before realizing you blew it.

We don’t get to the afterlife and have someone tell us, “Well, you kinda’ wasted that XX years, didn’t you? Why don’t we try again? This time, don’t be such a wuss.” At least, I don’t THINK that’s how it goes. None of my sources say so. Best case scenario is that you come back – but as something else. (Too bad I can’t come back as my own dog, because she lives the life of Riley.)

Tip: If you get there before I do and you’re given the option, ask to be my dog. Two meals a day, any and every cushion in the house at your disposal, and constant scratches. Second best gig? Come back as my friend Max’s dog. Her feet almost never touch the ground and she is allowed to drink from his glass. Including small sips of booze. Actually, coming back as Max’s dog may be better.

Plus, as an added bonus – if you’re a dog – your biggest decision is which spot of grass to pee on, or should you lick… nevermind. I have gotten WAY off track. This is supposed to be about turning back time.

So, if I could turn back time, I would…

…put down that slice of pizza and NEVER, EVER try it. Then I wouldn’t know what I’m missing when I’m NOT eating pizza – which is way more of the time than I would like. Same goes for queso.

…rethink that whole Flashdance wardrobe I had in the early 80s.

…not punch my friend for biting my brother in the back. (She really did jump on his back and bite him when we were about 6 years old.)

No, wait. I think that was a good decision. I’ll keep that one.

I would…

…lift my shirt and show my you-know-whats when I was on stage at the Chili Cook Off in Terlingua (assisting with beer bong duties) and the whole side of the hill was chanting my name. College. What a waste of perfectly good brain cells.

Lastly, I would…

…demand better gifts for Christmas than what I received as a child. (At least the year this photo was taken.) Look at this expression. Then read the top of the box.

Potty People? Really?

Please check out what others would do if they could turn back time by clicking on the LetsBlogOff logo.

2012, WE NEED TO TALK

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks4 Comments

Every two weeks, another LetsBlogOff topic is introduced and we scamper off to compose our responses. This week the topic is, “What are you looking forward to in 2012?”

First things first.

2011, thank you for the year of recovery. We marked the one year anniversaries of the passing of my father, Bill Rogers, and my friend, Leah Siegel. I appreciate the opportunity to experience the healing process that strengthened other relationships and for the ability to add a little perspective to my life and work. I don’t know that I would have taken the trip to Wales (my first out of the U.S.) if not for the realization that we don’t always have next year or even tomorrow to carry out our plans.

(Thanks, Sandy, for the best trip ever!)

2012 has the potential to deliver big in lots of ways – or to be a complete disaster. We can control our fate to some degree, but some things are outside our power to command. But, hey, a girl can try, right?

So listen up 2012. Here’s what I need you to do for me.

I will be needing a complete and total cure; a clean bill of health – for a child I know. I can’t go into more detail, as the situation is still developing, and it’s not my place to do anything but put the universe on notice. I just know this: It needs to be fixed. Universe – Pick on somebody your own size. Or I will cut you.

Employment. For my husband. It’s been a difficult few years for him in IT/Channel sales, and it’s time to turn things around. Really. He needs to get out of the house. The dog has gotten way too attached to him. And too spoiled. Observe.

Otherwise, 2012, I expect the same thing from you that I do from myself. I am looking forward to new opportunities, a little rejuvenated attitude and more than a small boost of energy.

I plan to continue this blog, which will be a year old in May. It has been fun and therapeutic, and has introduced me to some wonderful people and talented writers. Who knew complete strangers could be so supportive?

There’s also a possible trip to France in 2012 which should rival my Welsh adventures. I look forward to seeing my friends and family more often, and to the complete recovery of my mother’s pelvis. (That sounds as if she lost her pelvis, rather than broke it, doesn’t it?)

I also look forward to never discussing my mother’s pelvis in public again; as I am sure, does she. (It’s healing nicely, by the way.)

Okay, apparently my obsessiveness and paranoia is going to continue in 2012, because now that I am thinking about the trip to France, I look forward to someone loaning me Rosetta Stone – French. Hint-hint.

I think I may be confusing 2012 with Santa Claus.

Au revoir, 2011. Bring it on, 2012.

What is everyone else expecting from 2012? Read on.

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HOLIDAY SCOOP AND THINGS YOU MAY ALREADY KNOW

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks4 Comments

In the spirit of helping my fellow-man (and woman), here is what I have learned this past week. You’re welcome.

1. Never trust a teenager who tells you what time your mother-in-law is expecting you. The result is arriving 30 minutes AFTER she intended to “serve.”

2. An unwrapped gift will remain unwrapped until I wrap it. Seriously. DAYS after Christmas. Right now, in another room, a certain individual is staring at the gift in question and saying to himself, “Geez, when is Ann gonna’ wrap this?”

Actually, we’re in a stand off. He wants me to wrap the gift (which I agreed to do because he used the classic, “I’m a guy and I can’t wrap presents well,” ploy.) However, I am not going to wrap it until he completes the gift by putting the photo in the frame. He’s 18 and should be able to manage that himself. Apparently, that gift is going to live in my kitchen unwrapped and un-given FOREVER.

3. People attempting to attend Christmas Eve service at church on a rainy, cold evening will lie, cheat and steal to reserve a seat – or an entire pew – for their LATE (not dead but clock- challenged) friends and family. Seriously. Derek and I (who were on time and in the first group to enter) had to march almost to the front of the church to find a pew someone wasn’t planking on or that wasn’t strewn with coat, scarf, gloves – all spread out across every last inch.

4. Either I have no friends, or no one is sending out Christmas cards anymore. I think we received 4. One was from our newspaper carrier and I think they make him do it. I thought everyone wanted to show off their cute kids and puppies. What happened? At least the Kardashian family did their part.

5. Bowl Games have stupid names now. We should protest. Let’s occupy the Beef ‘O’Brady’s Bowl.

6. Work you take home to tackle over the holidays does not do itself. Although I still hold out hope.

7. Time passes more quickly when you are at home than when you are at work. I know this for a fact because I only seem capable of one activity per day. I scheduled a phone call this morning and it has thrown me off completely. I am still in my pajamas with very low expectations for exiting them. This is bad news for the people I am meeting for cocktails at 4:00.

8. Do not stack that container of olives on top of the container of berries. The olives leak. (This may not be a universal truth, but it’s something to consider.)

9. My husband can watch more football than yours.

10. Save yourself the trouble of reading “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo,” because the movie is crazy good. It’s also exhausting. P.S., Sweden in winter does NOT look as charming as it sounds. Join me and the other slackers in skipping ahead to book 2, which according to my sources gets moving faster than book 1.

Oh, and one last thing… did you hear Samoa is tossing today and skipping on to the 31st? No December 30th at all. I didn’t even know you could do that. They are crossing the international date line so they will be available for more trade with Australia. I think they should play a little more hard to get. Australia has that cute accent and all, but really…

Also, does that mean they get more sleep or less? Because I am all about gaining some snooze time.