Jeopardy fantasy

For years I've wanted to be on Jeopardy.  Not just be on Jeopardy.  DOMINATE on Jeopardy.  I want to be the Ultimate Jeopardy Cage Fighter.  And I've always thought I had a decent shot at it because whenever I watch Jeopardy at home, I bust out my cage fighter moves and answer almost every question except for the mixed drinks part, because what can you expect from a girl who's favorite alcoholic beverage is NyQuil?

Anyway.   Dylan sent me a link for an online tryout this week, so I registered and logged in and WENT FOR IT on Wednesday night.  But before I went for it, I (this is the truth) drank some fluids and rubbed a little Ben Gay on my calves because Ben Gay is the fragrance of champions.  I thought it would inspire me.

Soooooo.  The test started.  I had to answer 50 questions, and I only had 15 seconds per questions.  15 seconds feels like a long time when you're waiting for the microwave to melt you some butter, but it's a really SHORT time when suddenly you're being asked to name (and type!) various bodies of water located on our planet.  Also, I was having a hard time reading the screen because my eyes were watering from all the Ben Gay.

Long story short, I don't think I did very well.  Which is why from now on I'll just allow certain cherished fantasies to remain cherished fantasies.

Will there be laughs in Heaven?

Not that I need to worry about that . . .

HOWEVER.  Here's what I thought yesterday at the gas station whereat I shut my door with the keys in the ignition and the motor still running.  (Wow.  That sentence was a non-tasty mouthful, wasn't it?)
Anyway.  I wasn't worried because the door on my car won't lock in that situation, thus saving idiots like me from themselves.

This was not the case when I was growing up.  People locked their keys in the car with the motor running all the time.  And if a bunch of high school boys did it in the parking lot during the state championship playoffs, it was good for a lot of laughs.  It still is whenever I think about those guys.

It seems to me that most humor grows out of the chasm--the Grand Canyon, if you will-- that exists between the Real and the Ideal.  Like that time I got married, for instance, I wanted a perfect little head wreath made of charming baby's breath and sweetheart roses, only the florist got focused on that word "wreath" and instead fixed me up with something you'd hang on your front door during the holidays.  When my friend Donna saw me she said, "OMG. You look just like the ghost of Christmas past."

I know.  I've told that story before.  I'll tell it until I die, because it's funny, right?  But it wouldn't have been funny if the florist had made me the perfect thing.  See what I mean?

So if everything is perfect in Heaven--or anywhere else--where are the laughs?

Crazy Cat Lady

Yesterday I was filled with a sudden longing to see my old cat Clio again--or at least to see her turn her head, blink her eyes and give me a dainty meow every time I say her name.  Yes.  I missed a cat.  Even though two cats currently live in this house, which is probably two cats more than anyone should have. My children are embarrassed for me and live in terror that I will acquire more cats, in addition to acquiring more dogs, another bird, a turtle, and perhaps a rabbit that has been trained to use a litter box.

So yeah.  I missed my cat.  But I think that was just part of the missing I was doing yesterday.  I hate how death separates you from the physical presence of someone you love so that you can no longer enjoy how your grandmother smells like Avon products or watch your grandfather take off his golf hat and rub his bald head or hear Marilyn's throaty smoker's voice every time she starts a sentence with, "The thing of it is" or talk to Becky on her morning commute.

Kind of a bad day yesterday, although I did enjoy the part where I sat on my friend Stephanie's couch and discussed manuscripts with her while sipping hot chocolate.

Today will be better.

Wherein I talk about trying to beat my granddaughter at bowling

Here's this week's column. The corrective shoes part is true.

This is how I text

The following is a text conversation I recently had with one of my boys.

SON:  When you're done call me and I'll pick you up.

ME:  Meeting still going.

SON:  No worries.  Just text me when you're done.

(An hour later)

WHAT I MEANT TO TEXT:  I'm walking up the south side of South Temple right now.

WHAT I ACTUALLY TEXTED:  I'm  waking up souhvfufd of south tmpme now.

SON:  In English.

The Geisel Award

Carla Morris answered my questions about the Geisel Award selection process in this interview.

I won't lie.  I'd love to win this award.

Ornament

I took down my tree this week and couldn't find an ornament that I particularly treasure.  It's a rocking horse with three little boys on it, and I received it when Ken Cannon and I just had three sons.  Every year I put it in the same spot and remember when we lived in the old house in the Marmalade District.

Anyway.  I couldn't find it when I began packing up.  I searched through the branches and needles, the hysteria mounting, but to no avail.

Then I remembered the conversation I'd had with Shelley a few nights earlier.  Shelley has a baby at Primary and three little girls at home.  Somehow she's managing to manage, and I'm in awe.  Truly.  We talked about the baby, of course, but we also touched briefly on what it was like to have a dad in the military.  Her family moved a lot, which taught her to let go of things, because you know.  They're only things.

Remembering that conversation as I searched for the lost ornament calmed me down, and I was all que sera, que sera.

But I won't lie.  I was thrilled nigh unto tears when Ken found that ornament lying facedown on the sidewalk in front of our house later that day.