An open letter to an uncaring Universe

Dear Universe,

We haven't always seen eye to eye, have we? The whole me not ending up 5-foot-10 wasn't quite like the deal we had, and I'm pretty sure there was some unfulfilled obligations on your part regarding the whole "Blondes have more fun" concept. I'd hire me a lawyer if I knew where to send the resulting court-related paperwork.

But this latest shenanigan of yours really takes the cake. Cake . . . yeah, that's the idea.

You see, dear Universe, dear sweet, well-organized-and-yet-cruelly-humorous Universe, I am starving. Unfortunately, perhaps, not literally.

Here's how it all started:
I woke up this morning, according to the rhythms of life which you ordained, and nearly scared myself out of my wits. I had inadvertently looked in the mirror, and saw not the lovely, svelte 25-year-old I am used to seeing, but something hideously distorted. When, O Universe, did I get this old and this fat?

Oh, sure, I may have craved the products of Messrs. Ben and Jerry--your evil minions of all that is yummy--through my first pregnancy, the resulting post-partum period, as well as my son's infancy, toddlerhood, and early childhood. I may have become the best homemade-bread baker in the world--or at least on my street. I may have indulged from time to time in a small snack or thirty of whatever chocolate was lying around the grocery store. (Not that I stole it--I've always been scrupulously honest about my commercial activities. I just bought in bulk. Thank you, Costco--I'm drafting my letter to you next!) I'm willing to admit my part in the current fiasco. But the majority of the blame lies with you, dear Universe.

Did you have to make chocolate and carbs so tasty and broccoli so green? Whose idea was it to make the dressing more enjoyable than the salad it drenches? Why can we send a robot to Mars, but not perfect the no-cal sundae? Seriously, what were you thinking?

And so I have been forced to take action. I have parted from the loves of my fat life: chocolate, bread, anything enjoyable, and have sentenced myself to veggies, chicken chests, and water. Humph! I'm hungry, and it's all your fault. I'm suffering for your sins.

I'm willing to negotiate. I'll stick this out for as long as I can, and in return, you'll remove the calories from cheesecake. We'll call it even. If you have a counter-offer, you know where to find me. And this time it won't be in the snack aisle.

Chubbily but determinedly yours,
Melia

An overly long explanation of why the pictures at the end of the post look suspiciously like they were taken at a party

(Note: the picture above is not a spoiler. I just thought he looked cute. Look at those little legs flail! And it's my blog, so I can do what I want with it. Even post random, non-related photos. Deal with it. I don't whine when I read your blog, do I?)

Having four children can be a lot like being head of the circus. It gets crazy some times--nap times, breakfast times, dinner times, schoolwork times, etc. We don't live in a house so much as on a permanent three-ring stage. We have our resident monkeys, our occasional lion-taming act, our clowns, and even side-shows. (I have done my time as the fat lady, and Roberto does a pretty good zombie act--usually around four a.m. when the performers demand attention.)

That's all par for the course around here. We're used to it--even if the neighbors call to complain about the occasional stench or escaped animals.

What throws us for a loop is when we open the big-top flaps to audiences. Like, say, when we have a party. We're good in rehearsal, but poor in performance, if you catch my metaphoric drift.

The boys have been--I'd say pestering, but that has such a negative connotation, no?--attempting to coax us persistently to have a party for some time now. Every time a birthday would come up--nearly every month between October and April--they'd ask with big, wide, puppy-dog eyes (who taught them that trick? You know who you are, and you're on my "bad" list!) "Are we having a party for me?" Flutter, flutter of the eyelashes, winsome smile in place.

Unfortunately they tended to ask on the day on the anticipated event, and we--fat lady and zombie dude--would be caught in their traps, exposed as the rotten parents our children think we are. "Oh," we said, desperately looking for an escape route. "That's an iinteresting idea. But you just had a party sometime in the previous decade, and we're trying to keep it all even between you. You know how bad the others would feel if we threw a party for you and didn't throw one for them. And your sister didn't get one this year." (Ha! Quick thinking--use the old let's-make-it-even junk they toss at us regularly. How do you like it now, buster?????!) That worked for a whole year, thank you very much. You may congratulate us on our narrow escape.

Somehow, though, this year they caught on. (Drat those intelligent genes we passed on! This is one situation when slightly less-smart children would be a plus. As it would when I try to sneak-eat chocolate around them. The children who refuse to do math homework put two and two together pretty quickly in those cases.)

"MOM!," one overly-analytical child would state/shout, absolutely gleeful in his realization. "None of us has had a party, so we can start all over again and it'll still be even ." Foiled again.

So we compromised: no birthday parties, but we'd throw an end-of-the-school-year party at the appropriate time. (Which, interestingly enough, became subject to interpretation and debate. March, they pointed out, more than once, was close to the end of the school year, as was April. We had to define the party parameters more strictly.)

Slight problem: the only date available for an end-of-the-school-year party, actually near the end of the school year but not actually when school was out--dear goodness my fingers are knotted up after that sentence fragment!--was this weekend. Right between Saturday the pre-camp certification day and Saturday the pre-camp fundraiser day. Also it was after a week when Roberto had been out of town. Good planning.

But we persisted. Goaded on by our party-desperate children, we sent out (limited) invitations--no way was I going to invite all 49 of my boys' nearest and dearest classmates to a party in our minuscule backyard. We began accumulating party supplies--which in this case meant collecting water balloons and bags of ice. (It's full summer here, and the only way to survive is to get soaked regularly. And I don't mean by the prices at the grocery store. That has the opposite effect.) Also, I learned how to make origami boats. Because nothing says PARTAY! like an origami boat-making lesson.

And then the big-top went up, and the crowds filtered in to see the spectacle. The monkeys and the clowns were very much present--and the fat lady and zombie dude did their best to keep it together despite. It was 102 degrees, but the show went on. Balloons were tossed; water weapons were squirted; ice was picked up by toes. Ice cream, cookies, and watermelon were consumed. Fun was had.

And now we can use the experience to beg out of a whole year of pleading looks. Success!

Not quite W.T., but slowly sliding that way

So the Southwest is known for a few things:

• heat (it's 100 degrees out there today, and we still have six months to go. If we're lucky. We wore flip-flops to Thanksgiving dinner last year. Heck, we wear flip-flops year round. At least my sister who lives in the Midwest insists on doing so when she visits. Even if her toes are turning blue, they're a lot warmer than they'd be in Missouri.)


• cactus--some of which my neighbor insisted on planting too close to the sidewalk, and now her yard is a threat to our clothing and skin when we walk to church. Some days I wish we lived where people landscaped with lilacs and juniper. Make that most days, except in winter, because I don't do the whole freeze-your-tush-off thing anymore, as proven by my very existent tush.


• gated communities

As for the latter, it's not like people here are less friendly that they would be in other regions of this great country. It's just a bonus that developers like to include in order to convince buyers that they're moving into an exclusive enclave--one that will encourage a certain life-style, while discouraging riff-raff and pizza-delivery persons. I'm not sure what the life-style it's meant to encourage is, unless it's the life-style lived by those who don't mind attempting to punch in access numbers to open a gate at three in the morning after a long car trip to the nether ends of the civilized world with a screaming baby and whiny kids who just want to get into their own beds! Sounds like a treat! Sign me up!



As for me and my house, well, we're not quite so fancy. Said house is in an older section of town--one that is becoming more economically diverse, interpret as you will. Our street is straight and runs due east and west--no hoity-toity curves for us! It has no landscape flora-/olde English-/quasi Mediterranean-inspired name. Plain old numbered streets will do for the plain old likes of us! Houses on this street are completely individualized. There are two two-storied homes--both of which I've lived in (such nomads we are!), one cream-stuccoed house, several block/brick homes. There are no gates, except leading into the back yards. Trust me, no developer every took a gander at this site.



Every now and then I get posh neighborhood envy. "Look at them there," I think to myself, "with their cozy, curvy streets and their private community parks. Look at the landscaping on that block--such precisely-trimmed cypresses. And how quaintly named they are! I want to live in Meadowgreeene Towne Village and Estates." Rats.



I got back a little of my own this week. HA!



With Anders crawling around here like a slightly shaky but very determined millipede (seriously, I have no idea how he coordinates those hands and feet, except that there is a rather deliberate placement of each) we have had to take defensive action. Non-board books have been banished from the lower shelves. Floors are patrolled with extra vigilance for Legos, marbles, and stray hair chihuahuas.



But my finest moment was the move I made when I realized electrical wires had the same attraction for the tiny tiger that ice cream and brownie dough have for me:







Even if I don't live in a gated community, I live with a gated desk. I'm moving up in the world.

Chez Melia

Confession:

When Rob is out of town I sometimes lower the standards a bit.

Tonight's high point: dinner a la frazzlement:

Elegant dining at its finest!

We're Baaaaaack!

I wanted to write last night--really I did. My brain tried to talk me into it.

"C'mon, Melia, you'll feel great once you get going; it's only the beginning that hurts a but. Just think of how accomplished you'll feel afterward, and you could really use a chance to burn off some frustration." Oddly enough, my brain tries the same speech when it wants me to exercise, with identical results. That's why no entry was posted last night, and it's also why I'm still carrying baby fat from a pregnancy ten years ago. (Apparently it's the last fifty pounds that are the hardest to lose. Who knew?) My brain, it seems, is a poor motivational speaker.

The brain was willing, but the rest of me didn't give a flying fig.

Actually, for a flying fig I might have made an effort, but alas, no figs, and therefore no altitude gain from said nonexistent fruit. (Note to brain: Next spring, if you still hold out optimism to get me on the treadmill, remind me to plant as fig tree first. Apparently I'll do anything for seedy purplish fruit with unsuspected aviation talents.)

Still, fig or no fig, why would I have passed up a chance to broadcast my every insignificant thought? (I have no pretensions about my place in the grand scheme of the collective cultural consciousness--the blog name says it all.) After all, it's not like I've shown any hesitancy before in commenting endlessly on the trivial minutiae of Melia. Ah, but this time I had a good excuse. His name is Anders, and he's a tiny cranky tiger.

I thought he was just getting feistier when he punched me in the face from three a.m. until five-thirty. (Perhaps he's having extra-tigerish dreams. Awwww, isn't that cute.)

I passed it off as grooming reminder and nothing else when he spent an entire evening clawing the skin off my chin. (Time to trim those nails. Dear me, how quickly they grow.)

But when he spent an entire sacrament meeting asleep I knew something was wrong. This is the boy who spent the previous Sunday using the sweet sister who sits behind us as his personal jumpy seat. This is the child who has to be pulled out from under the table twenty times in one dinner--not bad when you consider that our average family meal only lasts ten minutes. (They're polite, but chewing just isn't their style.) This is a baby who will not quit. Until Sunday.

And of course, he had to do it the day before his father left for a four-day trip to New York. He has timing. (Take your pick as to the antecedent on that sentence; it applies equally well to both.)

So I've spent the last three days trying to keep the older three children occupied, organized, and on schedule while constantly jiggling up and down to soothe a crabby tiger. It has not been pretty. Avoid the mental image if you can.--Sorry, too late.

I dosed with Tylenol. I administered ibuprofen. I encouraged liquids--thank goodness that's the accepted wisdom, because encouraging a steak dinner would be impossible at this age. Monday night I got desperate for relief--his and mine--and wrapped him in wet towels. We spent a soggy, sleepless night on the couch. I believe we dozed between one and two a.m.

It seems I don't function well with that little sleep.

So there was no way in a small town in Michigan that I could have constructed a coherent sentence yesterday. (Yeah, I know, it's never stopped me before. But this time it was exhaustion rather than just mental catharsis that I had to consider. I was being kind to everyone involved.)

Today, though, is another story. I had a full TWO hours of sleep last night, and Anders' fever broke sometime around three a.m. We're both back in action.

Roberto owes me BIG TIME for this week.

Feeling fine and back to chewing on innocent insectoids.

Anders isn't too bad. either.

Questions for the universe

• Why does the baby only feel better after barfing all over me?

• How do one hundred pounds of children translate into two tons of laundry?

• Can I pass off the dog-snot smear on the windows as a new "frosted" look, or will I have to clean it today?

• Why is mac and cheese with hot dogs hot stuff, when mac and cheese with ham is kid cuisine suicide?

• How is it that after five sweepings I STILL have dust bunnies playing tag on the family room floor?

• Where does my patience go when I lose it completely? And why doesn't my weight accompany it?

My Life in 21,000 words or less

It's funny how life sort of takes odd turns. There you are, metaphorically walking down some shady lane, thinking, "this is pretty good--I could deal with for a while," and then <KAPLOOOIE> the shady lane become a roaring highway and you, my friend, are the roadkill du jour. Things never quite turn out the way you planned them.

Take me for instance. Please. Take me somewhere--especially if you have Hawaii in mind, or maybe a walking tour in Yorkshire. (I promise to bring lots of blister ointment!) Because there are things in my life I'm certain I did not sign up for.

For instance, I'm reasonably certain that when the buyer's form which detailed my life was brought to me in the pre-existence, I did not read a sub-paragraph about living in the desert for the rest of my mortal experience. I would have definitely stricken that bit out and initialed very neatly my having done so, just like my business law teacher taught us to do in high school. And I would have done so because I am not really adapted to desert living. I am, in fact, a vary pale person. So pale as to be ethnically impossible. If there is a race of glow-in-the-dark cave people, science hasn't found them yet--but if they do, I will become a footnote in the monograph written shortly after their discovery. I'll be cited as the link between the "glowies", as they will be called in the popular press, and the rest of humanity. So, no, desert living is not optional for me. (I get sunburns from sitting too close to North-facing windows in July, for Pete's sake!) I had planned to live in a slightly shadier clime--London or Colossal Caverns, for example. Some place where my shadow would be a semi-occasional visitor. But here I am, living in the very sweaty armpit of the American Southwest, and anticipating the inevitable skin cancer for the sake of my family, immediate and extended.

But the thing that really blows my mind--or at least makes me consider the whole "life is funny" thing--is the fact that I am the de facto roadshow writer for my ward. (This is almost as hilarious as the previous casting of me as branch/ward/ all-purpose pianist--all too funny for those in the congregation, not at all for me. ) I am not a writer through any effort or training of my own. (If, though, the ward had perennial need of a costume designer, well then, I'd consider myself to be first on the list of people to call. That was what I intended to do all along--or at least the along part after high school graduation and before marriage.) Me playing the role of writer gets me all kerfuffled.

Here's what I think happened: genetics--or at least the LDS concept of adaptive genetics. Allow me to boil it down for you who may be new to or hazy on the idea.

Let's say a woman, call her Sister Suzy, has a mother who is known for her amazing funeral potatoes. It then stands to reason that Suzy will always be assumed to make amazing funeral fare, even if the poor woman cannot create a stable dish of jello without extensive coaching. Cheesy funeral potatoes are in her genealogy; they are her eternal destiny. And if several generations of her family are known for the impossible cheesiness of their potato casserole, then plead though she may, no one will ask her to do anything else. Ever.

My apparent destiny comes courtesy of my grandma. The woman is incredible. Whoever said Mormon women are oppressed never met a Merkley, and certainly never conversed with my grandma. She tells whomever whatever needs to be said, gently and sweetly of course, but never with a hint of submissiveness. Don't try to tell her you have no time to do your family history work--you court disaster in the attempt. She tells a mean, if somewhat interestingly-timed joke. Her ability with a camera is (in)famous. But her forte--her pinnacle of power--is roadshows. She wrote them for longer than I can remember, and they won prizes almost every time. There were roadshows with Western themes: "Stringtown Tied in Knots." There were romances: "How Peanut Butter and Jelly Got Together." There were dancing mice and my father as Twinkletoes.

And when I grew up, I moved into the ward she had vacated.

When roadshow time rolled around, it was a case of, "Hey, she's vaguely Merkley-ish. She can do it." And I did. It was not a stellar achievement. (Consider the following elements, and YOU be the judge: a Greek chorus, a biker group called "The Wails", and a reluctant fellow named Jonah. Not my finest work.)

Ha! I am a failure, and no one will ask me to do it again, I thought. It was the only time I have revelled in failure. It was my deliverance from something that seared my guts and disturbed my ability to breathe.

Wrong. Three years later roadshow season came again. And I made the mistake of answering the phone. The requirement were simple: one fifteen-minute playlet, on the theme of Emergency Preparedness, and remember to make it a musical. And just for kicks, be sure to use the following props: a tree (???), a vacuum cleaner (?!?), and a mattress (!!!!!!!!!).

I wrote it while in line at a book sale, woke up every night screaming the tunes to corny 70s songs with poorly-altered lyrics, and performed a re-write in twenty minutes the week before the performance.

I barely survived.

And now roadshows are coming up again. They aren't due to be presented until October, but I have been informed that my talents (ha!) are requested. I know somewhere at the Stake Center the following conversation is happening:

"So, thought about the theme for this year's roadshows?"

"I was going along the lines of Etiquette Do's and Don'ts."

"That could be fun--nothing perks up a roadshow like songs about the proper addressing of thank-you cards."

"And we should require some wacky props. Otherwise it'll be too easy for the writers."

"Sure, why not? We could ask each ward to use a caged monkey, an inner tube from a semi, and an 1880s bank vault. Those're sure to be real crowd-pleasers."

My genetics are out to get me.