Gangstas In the Hood

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Click to play Mippey 5, livin’ on the edge with “Temporary Tattoos” parody of “Snapbacks & Tattoos” (by Driicky Graham).

I probably shouldn’t admit this, but I’m a Mippey 5 fan.  Luke Thompson, the gangly Minnesota YouTube sensation, makes beverages come out of my nose kind of like “Weird Al” Yankovic did when I was — um — two.

“Weird Al” Yankovic with a “White & Nerdy” cameo by Donny Osmond. Click on this parody of “Ridin’ Dirty” (by Chamillionaire featuring Krayzie Bone).

Thompson’s probably never even heard of Yankovic, but they are like-minded, creative masters of self and pop culture-deprecation with lots of time on their hands. Yet, Mippey 5 can crank out a music video in the time it takes me to make a blog entry.  Impressive.

Recently the Mippey 5 gangstahs caused quite a scandal in the hood while taping the Harlem Shake.

Those Fridley kids are so wild.

“Welcome to My Hood” DJ Khaled parody of 2011. Okay, so why does this suburban humor strike me so funny?

Anyway, I have a request concerning Adele’s “Rumour Has It”.  I know — it’s an overplayed tune and there’s no rapping.  But envision a parody called “Lederhosen“.  You could start a new trend, Luke.  And, seems to me “lederhosen” offers just the right amount of syllables, some great video possibilities, and plenty of room for Minnesota cheese.

The Boys Are Back in Town!

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Our son is the paratrooper you see walking in the last frame of this YouTube video from 2011.

We feel lighter today.   Must be because we can finally exhale. We just received word that our son is back at his military base in Italy after his second lengthy tour in Afghanistan.

He has proven himself to be an officer and a gentleman. We’re so proud of him for using his talents to serve our country.  We are eternally grateful to those who prayed for his safety.

Prior to our son’s first stint “downrange” our friend’s son, Major Frank Diorio, was featured on CNN Lou Dobbs Tonight.  During the interview, Philippa Holland, CNN Senior Producer, said, “No food, no sleep, no casualties during three solid days of fighting in what was considered the most dangerous city in Al Anbar Province. Diorio did not lose a single Marine during any of the 275 engagements in the seven months he led in Iraq.”

No casualties out of 275 engagements?  Unheard of.  These statistics wowed me, but I didn’t think much more about these numbers until my son headed directly into the danger zone — and he, too, was responsible for other mother’s sons as a platoon leader (and later, as a Captain).  So, I called New Jersey.  “Uh, this is your Minnesota buddy.  I remembered about Frank — how he and his men survived all of those battles with no casualties.  Can you tell me — what was his secret?”

My friend  didn’t skip a beat, “Psalm 91.”

He must have misunder-stood. I expected some top secret military strategy — something more tangible. “What? Can you repeat that?”

“Psalm 91.  It’s the Soldier’s Psalm.  I pray it every day and so does my son.  That’s what kept him safe.”

Our sons had their weapons of protection.  We parents needed ours — and we weren’t taking any chances.  So, I promptly typed up two-sided Psalm 91 cards and printed them on a camoflauge background for our son and his men to carry in their pockets if any of them so desired. I took the cards to Staples to be laminated.  The kid working at the counter rolled his eyes at first, but when I was ready to leave, he whispered, “Do you have an extra?  I have this military friend…”

My son admitted that he didn’t hand out the cards.  Picture it: “Uh, men, these are from my mom.”  But he gave them to the chaplain to distribute.  I’m hoping our son and his macho crew responded like the kid at the counter and took a card on the sly.

During our son’s first assignment in Afghanistan, his 503rd (Airborne) Infantry regiment platoon was deployed to follow in the footsteps of other brave American platoons, like those who were featured in Restrepo, the documentary (not suitable for children).  Watching the movie made the reality of our son’s situation all the more real.  Then, we watched Taking Chance.  I didn’t want to be Pollyanna about this.  I wanted to know what he was up against.

March 10 edit: Our condolences go to the family of Private First Class Theodore Glende and any families who aren’t able to celebrate the victory of their loved one’s homecoming. Our hearts break for their loss.  Our son didn’t share until today about the the continuous barrage of enemy fire to their bases or about the attack that killed Private Glende.  He always assured us, “Don’t worry, we’re safe.” I’m sure he didn’t want to worry us.

I can’t say why our prayers didn’t protect Private Glende from harm, but his story is far from over.  And, because he was where he was when he was — five other men were saved.  His young wife and his family deserve to be so proud of his valor.  We are eternally grateful for Glende’s life, but so sad about his death and his family’s loss.  This strenghtens our commitment to pray every night as long as we are able, for all brave men and women out there.  We can’t thank them enough for their sacrifices.

Our Sunny Valentime (Strategic Spontaneity IV)

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Four year old “Sadie” looked forward to this grandpa/grandma/grandchild  date ever since we started the tradition with her oldest sibling last August.  Six months is a long time to make a four-year-old wait.  In fact, she cried a puddle of tears when she learned that her other sister and her cousin (grandchildren #2 and #3) would be in line before her.  We hadn’t considered how difficult the concept of seniority would be for a child.

On our car ride to her house, I tapped my husband on the arm and sighed, “This will make a little girl extremely happy.”

My husband patted my hand and winked.  “And, I think it’ll make Sadie happy, too.”

Grandchild #4 forfeited her favorites for this experience.  She didn’t wear her 12 hour/day, seven days/week pink outfit. She didn’t bring her blankets.  And, she even let her mom wash, brush, and put a barrette in her hair.  This made us feel colossally  important.

The best thing about Sadie? She’s an exuberant conversationalist.

She bit her corndog and pointed like a miniature Vanna White to the red and pink decorations around Culvers.  “Hey! Gwamma, do you know why there’s heawts eveywhere?”

I took a wild guess. “Because they love us?”

“No, sillllly! ” she laughed like it was the best joke ever, “It’s because it’s almost Valentime’s Day!”

As my husband buckled her into her car seat, she pointed out the window, “Hey! Gwampa, what does that water tower do?”

“I’m thinking it holds water.”

“Silly!  It has a super dooper drain so it can go to all our sinks!”

On the way to the Mall of America, “Hey! Let’s sing songs!  I’ll start. Boom chicka, boom chicka…”

On the ferris wheel, “Hey! Sometime can we come here with my flamily?”

Eating ice cream, “Hey! Sanks  for bringing me to the Mall of the Merika.”

On the car ride home, in the middle of an I Spy game, “Hey! Gwamma!”

“Yes, Sadie.”

“When will I die?”

Uurch!  It’s lucky I wasn’t driving.  I might have braked or jerked the car into the next lane.  My husband and I looked at each other. Where did THAT question come from?  Either she assumes her Grandpa’s the crazy driver or she thinks we’re really old.

Me, trying to match her tone of enthusiasm: “I don’t know, Honey.”

Grandpa: “None of us knows when we’re going to die.”

“Oh.”

Then Sadie broke into a flamboyant and cheerful song about dying and Jesus and Heaven and friends and “Tree”.  (Tree is her favorite blanket.  It has trees on it.)

“Hey! Can I have Tree in Heaven?”

Me: “Absolutely, Sweetheart! Jesus knows the desires of your heart.  I’m sure you can have Tree and everything you love — all your blankets and more.”

“I would like to have Tree in Heaven. Hey! Can we have food in Heaven? Hey! I would like to have corndogs  and ice cream in Heaven  Hey! And, my flamily?  I would like my flamily to be in Heaven.  Hey! Let’s sing a song. I’ll start.

Boom chicka, boom chicka…”

Happy Birthday, Mom!

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Happy birthday, Mom! Mildred Lucille passed from this life into the next almost seven years ago.   We miss her, but know she’s very much alive, loving us in ways we can’t yet appreciate.
Recently my husband and I attended a Rediscover: faith talk where the speaker challenged us to join him in considering our purpose in this world.  Then he got our attention. “Every action reveals our answer. Every action is an investment we can never get back bringing us closer to or further from who we want to become… Will we leave an inheritance that will last?  Are we building lasting value?”

Mom lived a modest life. Based upon the world’s standards she’d be considered an utter failure.  She didn’t obtain a college degree.  She died with no sizeable estate.  She never had a powerful job.

But, by otherworldly standards, she was our family’s most productive stock broker.  She left an inheritance that will last. She invested in faith, hope, and love — and then gave it all away.

From all of us: Thanks, Mom! We LOVE YOU!

Strategic Spontaneity III

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Cowabunga!  We are on an unexpected roll with our grandparent/grandchild dates.

January 25 I received a 2:50 a.m. phone call from our daughter-in-law that her water broke.  We rejoiced when grandchild #6 (“Spidey 2”) arrived without complications around 11:30 a.m. late that morning.

Spidey 2 came into the world only three days before his big brother’s (Spidey 1’s) fifth birthday, so we had two occasions to celebrate.  After meeting Spidey 2, birthday festivities,  sledding with Spidey 1, and helping the exhausted parents for three days, I offered to take Spidey 1 to our home for three more. This would give the parents some alone time to rest and bond with Spidey 2.

As we traveled, it occurred to me that Spidey 1 would be disappointed upon arriving at our home, because “Papa”, my husband, wouldn’t be there. He had to attend a meeting. That’s when I remembered Strategic Spontaneity.  Spidey 1 was due for a date.  After all, he was third in the grandchild line of progression, after his seven and six year old cousins.

As the Mall of America sign came into view I asked Spidey, “How’d you like to go to the Mall of America to eat?”

“No, I don’ wanna eat. I wanna see Papa. Look! An airpane!”

“Mmhmm, an airplane. You have to eat. And, you could pick whatever you want.”

“No, I don’ wanna go to the Ma of Amer-ca.  I wanna see Papa. Is that biwding a hopsital? A baby came out of Mommy’s belly at a hopsital.”

“No, that’s not a hospital. But it looks like a hospital, doesn’t it? Papa won’t be home until later.  How would you like to go on a Nanna date?”

“A Nanna date?”

“Yeah, a Nanna date — where you eat at Burger King or McDonald’s or A & W Rootbeer and go on rides.”

“Rides? I like Nanna dates.”

Spidey 1 is less complicated than the girls.  He would have been ecstatic spending the entire excursion on the escalators. But people (security) started to get annoyed.

Once he saw the amusement park, he let out a sigh like he’d seen the Great Pyramid of Giza.  He found Nirvana.  He declined the customary sibling gift shopping.  (After all, he’d already bought a Kit Kat for Spidey 2.)

He only stopped to eat his chicken nuggets after I bribed offered the choice: eating them = more rides or not eating them = going straight home.

He even chose one more spin in lieu of ice cream.

On the way home, Spidey sat in his carseat in the dark back seat, covering his head with his favorite blanket, so he could suck on his index finger in private. I heard the suction popping noise as he pulled his finger out of his mouth. “Nanna, I like Nanna dates.  Can we go again t’morrow?”

We didn’t, but Spidey 1 didn’t notice.  Instead, he enjoyed three more glorious days of dates with me, Papa, and his aunt, uncle, and three cousins.

We returned Spidey 1 to his home and family over the weekend and assured Spidey 2 that we’d be back soon for his turn, which would involve a bottle and a diaper change — kind of like what Papa and I will enjoy in a few years.

Now, as I sit at my desk, I realize that I’ve missed some submission deadlines.  At first this made me sad. But then I consider, there will always will be conferences to attend and agents, editors, and publishers to meet, but Spidey 1 will only be seen in public with his Nanna until — um — well, I’ll keep you posted…

Strategic Spontaneity II

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As posted in September, my husband and I committed to individual dates with our grandchildren. We’d intended to do this twice a year with each child.  But, with five grandchildren, and another making his debut any minute, we needed to step it up.  So, we finally enjoyed our first date with our second grandchild.  Coordinating around runny noses, holidays, work, school, and family time becomes more challenging as they grow.

Our date with “Tinkerbell”, granddaughter number two, age five, was even less spontaneous than our date with “Katie“, granddaughter number one.  Tink wanted to do everything we did with her sister — only, with amusement rides.  One thing we hadn’t thought about: 5:30-7:30 p.m. in January is a lot darker than 5:30-7:30 in August.  Also: 5:30-7:30 p.m. in January is a lot colder than 5:30-7:30 in August.  So, our repeat environment seemed a bit dreary in comparison to the first.

To add to this dismal atmosphere, once we found a vacant table in the Mall of America food court, a maintenance man had a seizure. Our five-year old granddaughter sat with her mouth gaping open as my husband rushed to assist the fallen, convulsing man and I dashed to the nearest concession for assistance in calling the mall emergency line.  Once we and Tink were assured he’d be okay, our cold food didn’t seem very appetizing, so we whisked her off to Nickelodeon Universe.  There, we would have to have fun in a hurry.  We only had time for three rides.

Since Minnesota time moves according to the thickness of molasses — teenage amusement ride attendees move much slower in January.  By the time we got on and off the Merry-Go-Round, we only had time for one more ride.  Tink’s selection: the Hot Air Balloons.  We thought we remembered the entrance location.  We didn’t.  Grandparent’s minds work slower in January, too.  We walked the perimeter of the indoor park one and a half times before we found it — at the hour we should have taken her home.

While we stood in line, I asked if she’d like both of us to ride with her or just Papa, since I joined her on the Merry Go Round.  “Just Papa,” she said.  “Otherwise, who’s going to take pictures?”

The attendant had a broken foot. Oh no!  The good news: the ride held approximately 20 big and little people.  The bad news: Tink and Grandpa were  customers 21 and 22.  After 12 and a half excruciatingly slow rotations, they boarded.

Tink had a funny incident descending the American Girl Doll escalator before, so I was happy for her uneventful ride with Grandpa.

After 12 and a half more flights around the pole and 25 blurry pictures, we swept Tink off to the nearest escalator to the ice cream concession.  No time to ask what dessert she preferred.

As we enjoyed our sweets, a little girl, about seven, sat beside Tink.   Obviously, a serious dance competitor or child beauty contestant  in her short sequined dress and giant bow, the girl polished a small trophy, hoping to win Tink’s adulation.  Unsuccessful, she batted her false eyelashes — the ones below her blue eyeshadow, and above cheeks of rouge.

“Oh, brother,” I thought, “Tink’s parents are going to kill us if Tink decides she needs make-up or false anything.”

Luckily, Tink’s half of a mint ice cream chocolate cookie sandwich won her adulation instead.

Even though we knew it was late, we couldn’t forego the dollar store sibling gifts.  Tink selected a bottle top necklace kit for sibling number one, a paint set for her younger sister, miniature dinosaurs for her toddler brother, and Tinkerbell coloring pages for herself.  She even found Valentine candy for her parents.  (Coincidentally — Tink’s favorites.)

As we drove her home, I thought about how Tink had rarely been anywhere without a sibling.  I’m sure it seemed weird, riding alone in the dark back seat with Grandpa and Grandma up front, so I turned and mouthed “I love you” with each passing mile — amidst insincere, giggly protests.

We thought Grandpa and I would be grounded for missing Tink’s curfew by an hour, but her parents were surprisingly calm.  The whole family swarmed us as Tink proudly distributed her gifts.

Tink and Katie hugged — an atypical occurrence. “Do you like your present?” Tink asked.

“I LOVE it,” Katie gushed.

Tink beamed. Grandpa beamed. Grandma beamed.

Hmmm…Strategic spontaneity still works — even when it’s a repeat performance in the dark.

Critique session attitude

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Sometimes when I have a new manuscript critiqued, I envision myself pushing a boulder up a hill. Making headway depends upon my attitude more than what others say.

If I don’t bring humility, open to revision suggestions, defensiveness can make me let go of the boulder.  It squashes me like Wile E. Coyote and I lift my head only to watch my boulder roll back down the hill.  Smoke trails out my ears as I stomp down to push again — by myself.  Sometimes I even curse the boulder and threaten to leave it — which is a good idea when my attitude is bad.

If I go to a critique session ready to accept the gifts of advice and encouragement, other hands help me push.  It becomes a community project.  Humility begets progress — sometimes inches — sometimes miles — but the boulder keeps moving upward.  The journey grows sweeter and the view looks better when shared with friends.

Whatever boulder you’re pushing — don’t try going it alone.  It’s lonely in the valley — not to mention, exhausting.

Self-pity is the response of pride to suffering. ~ John Piper

Shoulda-Coulda-Woulda

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Now is the season to change our Shoulda-Coulda-Woulda blues to Do-I-Did-I-Did-I’ve-Done-‘N-Did-That-Too (sung to the tune of Doo-Wah-Diddy by Manfred Man, of course).

For instance, I wanted to listen more and talk less in 2012. (Part of the whole “love better” goal.)

  • I shoulda. Listening isn’t rocket science.
  • I coulda, if I’d have just shut my pie hole.
  • I woulda, with a little discipline.

I just could not shut up for the life of me.  Obviously, I need to go to Wal-Mart for the Ears of Steel DVD.

A friend told me a story that offers the motivation to remedy my verbal diarrhea problem, but I hadn’t listened well, she doesn’t answer my calls (since I never let her talk), and I can’t find the story on the Internet.  Nonetheless, I’m going to share my flawed, paraphrased  understanding of her story, because it inspires me and I hope it will inspire you.

Once upon a time a female reporter enjoyed the prestigious honor of sitting between two extraordinary men at a banquet.  On her left was the most interesting man she had ever met.  He fascinated her with colorful stories of African safaris, world leaders he had influenced, and global events he had affected. Despite this man’s astounding accomplishments, her favorite dinner companion was on her right — for he was most interested — in her.

The man on her left:                                              The man on her right:

On a similar note, years ago I asked an author friend, “How can I become a better writer?”

Her answer? “Write.”

I expected something more philosophical and complex, like: “Climb a mountain, jump out of an airplane, walk in the footsteps of Ernest Hemingway, contemplate the pyramids, then pat your head while making circles on your belly.”

“Write” is so simple, yet so hard.  I just cannot shut off my distracted mind for the life of me.  A typical morning at my desk:  “Did I forget to shave one leg?  Oh look, the neighbor’s on our front yard, bringing his adorable dog to leave a present. I’ll have to bring our adorable grandson and his potty chair (without the ‘catch receptacle’) to the neighbor’s yard to return the favor. Ouch! What’s that on my chin — a cactus sticker?…”

Sigh. It’d be easy to become discouraged.  But, my wise, successful friends stand as beacons of light. My Shoulda-Coulda-Woulda defeats of 2012 can be changed to Do-I-Did-I-Did-I’ve-Done-‘N-Did-That-Too victories in 2013 via profoundly simple solutions.  Hence, my annual to-do list looks just like a best-selling book cover/Julia Roberts movie title — only the list has different words — in different order — and there’s no one around here who looks like Julia Roberts.  Here it is: Drumroll please.

Love
Listen
Write

See. What’d I say?

In my hopeful zeal, I’ve even added a sublist — items that should improve my prospects of accomplishing the first list.  This list looks more like orders from Mr. Miyagi (Pat Morita) in Karate Kid:

Shut Up
Wax
Move

Sugar Regret and Rationalization

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Sugar Regret or Sugar Rationalization? It’s all in the way you look at it.

Okay, I’m still recuperating from my New Year’s Eve Christmas cookie/candy clean-up tradition.  I awoke January 1, 2012 with a sugar hangover — a Pepto Bismol nightmare — not the visions of dancing sugar plums I’d aspired and clung to.

You may be wondering — why do I insist on consuming so much junk food every December 31st?

  • Because I wants it. I needs it.  I likes sugar and chocolate, My Precious.
  • And, doggone it, I worked hard to make those Christmas delicacies.
  • Wasting is wrong.  My dad said so.  There are starving children in Bangladesh — and my mom taught me that cream cheese won’t keep well in the mail, so we can’t mail homemade Oreos to them.
  • And, there’s usually a positive outcome.  For instance, snacking now seems disdainful; hence, keeping my New Year’s resolution of moderation has been easy — at least for the first day or two.
  • Celery and carrots now makes me salivate.
  • Starting the new year with a clean fridge and a clean slate — no problem. My husband and I just pack the leftover leftover cookies and candy and give them to someone else.  They thank us for our generosity.  We smile, inwardly congratulating ourselves for our superhuman willpower, and wait at least a week before we ask if they have any snacks they don’t want.

Don’t knock our New Year’s Eve Christmas cookie/candy clean-up tradition until you try it.  And, by the way, can we stop by your house?  We have some Christmas treats to give you.