CONTROL IS ONLY AN ILLUSION

Hello, my name is Hope, and I am a control freak.

I have been control-free for 32 seconds.

When I was little, my mom was unable to let anyone do anything in her presence with taking over. She could not allow anyone to cook - clean - do the laundry - because they might do it wrong. She drove herself more than slightly crazy by holding down full-time employment and not accepting any help with anything.

So I have been working almost all my life on being control-free - laid-back - going with the flow.

Yesterday, it all came crashing down on me - there are some things that I cannot let go.

1. I cannot deal with poorly designed forms.

It's just like an painting historian looking at the original Mona Lisa with a crudely-drawn mustache scribbled on with a Magic Marker.

When the space bar is used instead of the hard tabs so it doesn't line up correctly when printed, it literally hurts my eyes.

When the font looks like my old manual Royal typewriter, I begin to grind my teeth.

Form creation is a serious art form to me, so this is sacrilege.


and 2. When someone is in a dangerous position around horses.

People can drive without their seat-belts, drink themselves into a stupor and wander out on the interstate, and walk with sharps knifes pointed right at their chest, and eh, it's their lire, it is their choice. Gets the stupid genes out of the pool.

BUT when an inexperience rider has her foot almost completely through the stirrup - when someone wanders just within reach of a horse's kicking range without even attempting to make the horse aware of their presence - when a rider is leading forward over the horse's neck going downhill....

I want to SCREAM.

Not because anyone might get hurt.

Just because it's STUPID and they should KNOW better.

Deep breath.

Yellow Pages.

Now... Twelve Step Programs for Control-Freaks....

SERENDIPITY

Did you know that the word "serendipity" was coined from phrase used in a fairy tale by an Horace Walpole, a British writer and politician (dangerous combination) in the 1700s?

There, don't you feel smarter, knowing that?

Yesterday was an example of serendipitousness.

My church's youth group has an annual Mud Football every summer out at my place. I tear up about a quarter acre of land, soak it for nine to ten days solid, and then allow 40-60 teenagers to spend a couple of hours having more physical contact between the sexes than is allowed in any other church activity we sponsor.

But, obviously, to rip up that much land, I need to rely on machinery rather than brute strength (with a shovel and my 54 year old back, I would need to begin as soon as the game is over to have it ready for neat year).

So I borrow my neighbor's tractor and furrowing attachment.

Here is where the serendipitousness begins.

Cherie is the perfect neighbor. And I mean PERFECT.

She knows just about everything about EVERY animal - she knows when I should call the vet, or just borrow something from her medicinal stash - she is someone I can call at 2 a.m. when I can't get hold of the border patrol or the county sheriff - her kids have taken care of MY animals for years when I am in California or Hawaii (really, people, where else do I go?).

And she has a tractor. A big and REAL John Deere tractor. Which I borrow every year. And sing the "Green Acres" theme song the entire time I am using it to plow the mud football field.

I do feel guilty every year when I call Cherie, after not talking to her over the past year any more than 12 minutes, and ask to borrow the tractor and the attachment. - but only for about 14 seconds (I have an extremely high guilt threshold).

But this year - it just happened that she was helping out a friend with a personal emergency, was going to be probably overnight, and wanted to make certain her kids had several contact numbers JIC (just in case).

And, therefore, I was one of those numbers she needed, just at that particular moment when I was calling to ask HER to borrow the tractor.

Guilt, be GONE!

THE BISBEE POLICE BEAT

I swear these are straight from our local newspaper:

1:49 a.m. - A man reported receiving a call from an unknown man who identified himself as James. James said he had been hired to shoot the man, that he knew where he worked, what vehicle he drove, and he claimed to have had sex with the man's girlfriend. The caller's phone number was blocked. The girlfriend did not know who it could be. The case is suspended pending further leads.

12:39 p.m. - A man was reported causing a disturbance by screaming at people at the bus stop near Circle K. Officers gave him a ride to Goar Park.

2:51 p.m. - A rattlesnake was reported at a residence on the first block of Manzanita Street. An officer responded and disposed of the snake.

* 7:29 p.m. - A nude man was reported in the parking lot of Bisbee Beverage. Officers responded, but the man had already left the area.

7:44 P.m. - A group of juveniles were throwing firecrackers at a resident's door on the 200 block of Van DykeStreet Last week they threw eggs at her door. She followed them to a residence in the 500 block of Ruppe Ave. The officer made contact with the juveniles there and advised them to stop.

* 8:01 p.m. - A homeless man was reported sleeping in the car wash at Plaza Liquor.


And I don't know why, but this last one just tickles me the most:

11:38 p.m. - A patrol officer observed an open garage door. It is unknown who owns the garage. The office secured the door.

Only in southern Arizona.

DON'T BELIEVE EVERYTHING YOU HEAR

I have been called gullible. I have been called naive. I have also been called stupid... but that's not part of this story (at least not yet).

But I assume that when people say something - or write it into a script - that they, at the very least, assume it is true.

Which is completely opposite my husband, who says, "I assume the person is lying to me, and take it from there."

So today I was SHOCKED. Completely SHOCKED.

"You've Got Mail," with Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks, is one of my favorite all time movies (defining 'favorite' as one of several hundred - think very broad here).

And you must understand, that with me, when I like something, I watch/read/experience whatever it is, again.

And again.

And again.

See, if I like it, I don't get bored by the repetition.

It also helps that I have almost no short-term memory. I never remember the end, so am surprised every time. (I'm not joking, folks)

However, I do memorize a lot of lines from all my 'favorite' movies.

One line from "You've Got Mail" which always puzzled me (defining 'puzzled' as actually dwelling on it for more than two nano-seconds) is one of Meg Ryan's which she is emailing out to "the cosmic universe" about a thought about a Joni Mitchell song, with the lyrics, "I wish I had a river I could skate away on."

And Meg Ryan/Kathleen Kennedy STATES in the script: "And the song isn't really about Christmas, but I was thinking about it tonight as I was decorating my tree and missing my mother so much that I couldn't breath."

Nice line.

But I am not enough of a Joni Mitchell fan to know all her songs, so I had no idea which song the she is referring to.

BUT...

Tonight on Sirius radio (one of the best things invented in the past fourteen centuries - I love music with NO/NONE/NADA commercials), I HEARD THE SONG!! That exact song!!

And the song IS about Christmas!!!

Listen!

Or read, I guess:

It's coming on Christmas,

They're cutting down trees,

They're putting up reindeer

And singing songs of joy and peace.

Oh I wish I had a river

I could skate away on.

How could the script editor / authenticity reader / HONESTY staffer NOT catch this?!?

I may never watch that movie again (sniff).

PALOMINAS TRADING POST

When the economy slows, it's interesting to see what business are effected.

My brother, a full-time piano-tuner, can tell you when a whisper of economic distress is in the wind; other than professional musicians, most people can easily and without any pain put off paying $100 for getting their piano tuned.

Restaurants feel the punch, when people discover that, yes, they can eat cheaper at home and no, Kraft Macaroni and Cheese is not just for college kids.

Even with us 'regulars' who frequented the Palominas Trading Post, some of us just weekly for Saturday morning breakfast, some every single morning (grumpy old men huddled over their coffee, reading the local newspaper and communicating only by grunts), the money simply wasn't enough to cover costs.

So Pam, one of my favorite people in the whole world, the owner/cook/manager, decided that she should clear out restaurant stuff and have a 'yard' sale (even though it's being held inside the empty restaurant).

Not a bad idea.

However, Pam also decided this would be a great time to get rid of all the extra stuff FROM HER HOME at the same time.

OMG.

You have to understand, those of you who have not had the honor of seeing the PTP, what the, er, interior design is like.

Popular in many restaurants is the antique, old-utensil decor, in a sharp, expensive Martha Stewart style.

At the PTP, there are many, many antique cooking utensils.

But here, they are USED.

It's not just a look - it's economical.

But it adds up to hundreds of coffee mugs, plate, salt and pepper shakers, napkin holders, bread pans, pots, pans, vases, glasses, syrup dispensers....
Add to this Pam's accumulation of STUFF over the past twenty-years - such a used watercolors, yarns, buttons, slide displays (remember slides? Little itty bitty photos than you needed a projector to look at?), dozens of old VHS videos, photo albums, cassette tape holders....

Then you get an idea of the upcoming yard sale on Saturday.

Please - stop by.

THERE IS A *W*H*A*T* UP MY ASS?!?

WARNING - WARNING - NO ILLUSTRATIONS PROVIDED - If you only like picture books, do not bother reading any further.

"A colonoscopy is used to view the inside of your lower digestive tract (colon and rectum). "

Translation - a CAMERA gets stuck up your BUTT and take PHOTOS which get posted on YouTube, FoxNews and the back of every milk carton in the state of Tennessee.

Okay, maybe not the milk cartons.

But they COULD.

It's suggested that once you hit 50, you should have a colonoscopy done - just to check if cancer is lurking somewhere in your digestive track.

And I have a friend whose father died kinda early from colon cancer, so she has undergone one of these every year since her early forties.

Okay, let's get it over and done with.

My own physician readily agrees, and refers me to the local gastroenterology office (number 1., I can't believe that is a a real word and number 2., yes, I did spell it correctly).

After the first appointment, I should have been smart and simply canceled the whole thing.

Some doctors have a wonderful, welcoming attitude that makes you want to pour out your innermost digestive secrets immediately.

And there are some who don't.

The doctor came into the exam room with an entourage of fluttering nurses surrounding him, wearing a smug face of pure arrogance - was my ass going to be good enough for him to stick his camera up?

While his Porche or Hummer is being paid for by MY health insurances.

Perhaps I had assumed that someone who deals daily with anals, rectums and fecal matter would automatically have some humility.

The procedure was scheduled, and I procured the required medication to begin at 4 p.m. the day preceding the exam.

From here on is where you do not want any illustrations.

Slightly larger than a gallon container of milk, and empty except for an ominous layer of white powder on the bottom, the pharmacist kindly offered to put it in a bag for me.

When I inquired as to why, she blushed and stammered out "well... so people don't know what you are having done!"

After a full day of only fluids, I was able to choose from four different flavorings (I still can't believe they did not have chocolate), filled the container with water, vigorously shook it until all the powder was dissolved and then...

(** shudder **)

... drank a 8 oz. glass of the somewhat thick and mildly repulsive tasting mixture EVERY FIFTEEN MINUTES until the ENTIRE amount was gone.

I didn't throw any of it up... but man, did I want to.

Now the actual procedure was a breeze - I slept through it all. In fact, I was asleep before the anesthesiologist has administered more than a couple of ccs of whatever the white stuff was he put into my I.V.

I didn't even see the arrogant doctor - at ALL.

However, I am counting on all of you to inform me when the photos are posted in any sort of public forum.

A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME

During my first pregnancy, I knew it was a girl I was carrying, and I knew that her name was going to be Alison (only one 'l' - very important, that one 'l').

My husband had been enamored with "Nathan" as our first boy's name for years.

I had learned early on that you need to be very careful to select your battles, and while I was far from thrilled with "Nathan" (image of Elder Tanner would always come to mind - tall, dry, and far to the right), I could live with it.

And maybe I could stick in a cool middle name which (eventually) we could switch to.

But a healthy, 8 lb. 2 oz., 21 inch baby girl was born, a week and a half before her due date (thank goodness) AND . . . .

Damn.

She did not look like an Alison.

At all.

Bill had brought up the name of "Harmony" early in my pregnancy, but I immediately refused. It was so sixties - Bob Dylan lyrics - flower power.

And she would HATE it.

But when this sweet little baby was placed in my arms, I was appalled by one thing only - she looked like a Harmony.

Oh, no.

I held out for about six hours, despite the nurse's repeated urging to get the birth certificate completed.

But then gave in.

Her name was Harmony, and she had only herself to blame.

Turned out not only to be a wonderful name for her, but, as Harmony herself puts it, "you can't make fun of it and it doesn't rhyme with anything!"

Joy, on the other hand...

I thought it would be fairly easy to space our kids apart. I was not ready drop a baby every ten months, but I was also not willing to leave it up to chance. My husband, therefore, was the one required to wear 'protection' (hey, I was nursing, I could take the pill or anything, right?!).

So when the time was 'appropriate' for #2, we began... baby-making.

(It was always interesting how the testosterone levels increase when there is actually a purpose for sex)

I got pregnant, surprisingly, RIGHT away.

(It's been kinda easy to tell when I've 'caught' - morning sickness IMMEDIATELY - like the next morning. I swear that it's just because I am allergic to being in the 'family-way')

But with this one pregnancy, I also shortly miscarried.

And it seemed 'meant to be' - Bill had received his orders, much earlier than we had anticipated, to go to the counter-intelligence school at Fort Huachuca, Arizona (sound familiar? like where he works now?). It was going to be six months in there Arizona, and then on over to Okinawa.

Now, the military usually pays to move the family only when the service member is going to be there for more than six months. Less than six months, golly gee, you just get to hang out where ever you are, or go home to visit your folks.

A pregnancy in the midst of this would be, to say the least, awkward. We had planned on Harmony and I going for the six months that Bill would be in Arizona to stay at my mom's in Torrance.

With a pregnany right in the middle of all this, I would be too far along with the pregnancy to be allowed to fly to Japan when Bill was finished with school, and would have to remain in L.A. to have the baby (although the concept of having another Californian in the family was attractive, I must admit).

So, 'losing' the baby seemed to perhaps by the best way around it.

After Bill left for Arizona, Harmony and I drove up to Michigan to hang out with my dad for a couple of weeks.

My dad has always been one of the neatest people I have known. A musician, a writer, incredibly popular with middle-age female piano students (and a few male one - I mean. his name was Bruce, so yeah, he'd have some guys hit on him) AND ate every single meal OUT at Bill Knapps restaurant (which I honestly don't know if exists anyplace outside of Michigan, Illinois and Indiana), which is GOOD FOOD.

Harmony got introduced to all my dad's Michigan family, and, more importantedly, all dad's STUDENTS. Harmony was my dad's first biological grandchild.

But the whole time in Michigan, I didn't feel great. Like a mild case of the fun - I was just tired, and queasy and moving slow.

My dad asked if there was any chance I could be still be pregnant.

I said, "No, no way... well, maybe..."

So when we got back home to Manhattan (Kansas, not New York), I thought, well, hey, let's make certain.

My neighbors to our immediate left were, as 95% of all our neighbors were, a married couple, both students at Kansas State University. We lived in a complex of rowhouses, which you 'owed' and paid 'mortgage' on. I have absolutely no idea how it worked legally, but we got a tax break living there, and the mortgage/rental price was great for a two bed-room place.

Joy and Dan Thompson were a strong youth Catholic couple - we got into some tepid (as opposed to 'heated') discussions of religious differences between Catholic and Latter-Day Saints).

Joy did volunteer work for "Birth-Right" - a group opposed to abortion that offered alternatives to young women.

And she had access to free pregnancy tests.

Guess what.

Yes.

And yes.

By the time our third pregnancy came around, the "Nathan" name had died out (thank goodness - and without much help on my part), and we kicked around a lot of names still in the hope that this would be a boy (although I would have been perfectly happy with a third girl - her name would have been Patience).

Some German names crept in for about thirty-two seconds (birth was going to be in Frankfurt - although Joy would have been Joy regardless of being born in Torrance or Okinawa... and actually ended up happening in Monchengladback, West Germany).

Joshua was the final choice for a boy's name.

And then Josiah was Bill's great-grandfather's name - and it just sounded cool.

But it was going to be his middle name - it seemed to likely that 'Josiah" would get shortened to "Joe" - which I hated.

Joshua Josiah was born in December of 1983.

And in March of 1984, moved in Michigan.

And in April, Oregon.

In August, Hawaii.

(Really would have been cool if he had been eligible for frequent flyer miles back then)

But when Joshua began pre-school in Honolulu, there were FOUR Joshuas. The name was even listed in "Most Popular Baby Names" books - yuck!

And then in kindergarten, there were FIVE Joshuas.

On the flight in 1989, leaving from Hawaii and moving to Maryland, I asked Joshua if he liked his middle name, Josiah.

He was Josiah from that moment on.