One of the guys

December 16, 2009 at 3:29 pm (Scheir Madness)
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“I don’t want to be like, a guy here, you know? Like, Stanley is the ‘crossword puzzle guy.’ And Angela has cats. I don’t want to have a thing… here. You know, I don’t want to be the ’something’ guy.”    
         
-Ryan “the temp” Howard, in The Office episode,
The Fire

I guess you never know when you’re going to become the “something” guy. Back at school, I remember somebody we called the “pirate guy,” and at church for a while we had the “Donny Osmond guy” and the “happy singing guy” (note: not the same person, but oddly in the same vein). If you’re lucky enough to have a specialized profession at which you are successful, then you may become known as “the man,” like our exterminator (aka, Bob the “Bug man”), our tree-trimmer (Kevin, the “Tree man”), or any anonymous driver who rings the bells on his treat truck (Yes, he’s the “ice cream man”). There’s also my compulsive, former neighbor, whom we all avoided…and called “Lawn man.”

In the interest of equal time, on the female side, there are the ladies: the “ticket lady,” the “cleaning lady,” the “crazy cat lady,” the “check-out lady,” the “lady with the big hat,” the “lady who cut me off in the parking lot who keyed my car because she thought it was me who cut her off.”

I don’t know why, but I always pictured my son Jake as the “guy who dances alone at weddings with a foamy drink in his hand,” but I am relieved to see that he’s carved out a place for himself somewhere else in the “guy” landscape: he’s now the homemade, video game character t-shirt guy.

It seems that Jake’s been wearing his own homemade Zelda-themed shirt to theater rehearsals (it’s got a belt drawn in with fabric markers—isn’t that cute?). The teenager who’s playing Father Christmas in the production told Jake that he liked his shirt and asked if Jake could make him one with a Mario Brothers theme. (Jake was tickled over giving Santa Claus a present for a change—oh, the irony.) Anyway, I wasn’t sure if the kid was just being nice or if he really wanted the shirt, but I figured that drawing Mario and mushrooms on a t-shirt would be an enriching Saturday afternoon activity for a Jake, so I picked up one white T and let him have at it.

Turns out that Alex (aka Fr. Xmas) LOVED the shirt, wore it under his Santa suit for the performance, and was still sporting it at the pizza parlor after-party. Also, Jake received orders with detailed specs from three other kids. He’s got himself a little cottage industry going.

Too bad that at $1.50 in profit per shirt (as long as the shirts are on sale), he will have to make about 80,000 shirts to get himself through the college of his choice. Still, I figure, it’s good that he’s starting young.


 

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Cookies for a cause

December 8, 2009 at 10:08 am (Scheir Madness)
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OK, I promise that the 12 Days of Cookies will be over soon, but I just had to share the latest in the Cheryl’s Christmas Cookies saga. First, some background.

My friend Becky is involved with an organization called Prison Fellowship, which is a religious outreach to people in prison. Becky, her husband, and other volunteers in our area have forged relationships with many prisoners, and, for some of them, it’s hope-giving and life-changing to have someone “on the outside” who cares about their well-being.

So what does this have to do with cookies? Well, Becky’s husband, George, has put out a call for 35 dozen cookies for packaging and distribution to the prisoners this Christmas season. As you may expect, this was both hope-giving and life-changing for me!! Now I can bake for people who will (a) appreciate what I’ve done and (b) never have the opportunity to complain to me about the nuts vs. no nuts thing. Who knows, perhaps in prison cookies with nuts are not only tasty, but a rare, tradable commodity, something akin to cigarettes. Perhaps by baking, I’ll be giving some downtrodden, aspiring, incarcerated entrepreneur a leg up. One can only hope.

What I’ve enjoyed perhaps the most about the prison cookie connection is my daughter’s strange thrill about the possible criminal profiles of our anonymous cookie recipients. “Just think, Mom,” she said. “A murderer will be eating these cookies.” Not to burst her bubble, but I did point out that there aren’t just murderers in prison. There are drug dealers and petty thieves there too. Drug dealers and petty thieves who may receive a little baggie of cookies, see my specialty, and break down sobbing and thanking God because Grandma back home used to make those very same cookies, and this must be a sign from God spelling reform and restoration in a life that’s otherwise gone hopelessly wrong.

Then again, maybe cookies in prison are just like cookies at the Christmas table. Maybe in 2009 beggars too can be just as choosy as the rest of us, and they’ll throw the cookies back through the bars and into the distributor’s basket because they’ve got peanut butter or raspberry jelly or (heaven forbid) coconut in them. Still the way I look at it, no matter who you are or what your crime, you just can’t argue with free cookies. You’ll take ‘em, you’ll eat ‘em, and whether you like ‘em or not, you’ll know that someone, somewhere, thought you were worth it.

With that, here’s a link to my recipe for Chocolate Penitentiary Pixies, courtesy of the lovely people at Land O Lakes. Enjoy!

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Cookie monster

December 2, 2009 at 3:18 pm (Scheir Madness)
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I used to make cookies for Christmas. Lots of cookies. Pardon me, but lots and lots of cookies. I don’t believe in freezing cookies (don’t ask me why), so I would make these mountains of cookies very close to Christmas. And I don’t believe in storing them together in containers or on trays, so the mountains of cookies were in mountains of separate containers, piled up on the basement workbench—which is where everyone’s cookies belong, right?

I kind of hate giving Christmas gifts—not because I’m stingy, but because over the years I’ve had more and more trouble figuring out what in the world all of us already overstuffed Americans really want, need, can use, or will find under the growing masses of stuff we’ve already got. So for a while I gave cookies. I’d make a list of all the people I give to, then figure out what cookie in my repertoire suited that person the best, and then I’d give each person his or her own bag of a dozen and a half baked-with-love, hand-packed, ribbon-tied treats.

Once I even jumped the tradition tracks and brought a tray of my cookies to Christmas dinner. And do you know how many disappeared that magical Christmas night? None at all.

For me, this was a most troubling development. I’m the kind of girl who is suspicious of kids who turn down cake and ice cream. I’m also the kind of girl who can barely resist a cookie, even if it tastes bad. So for me, having tray of my homemade cookies sitting on the dessert buffet staring up at me, untouched, made me feel like sweet, normal Marilyn Munster being rejected, evicted, and kicked out on her butt by Aunt Lily and Uncle Herman.

So, needless to say, I stopped making cookies. At least I stopped for a year, then went through a period of withdrawal, to the point that last Christmas I packed all of my cookie ingredients in a travel bag and dragged them to my mother-in-law’s house, where, on the day after Christmas, I baked like 12 dozen cookies, none of which I was planning on eating. Let me tell you, I enjoyed every freaking minute of it.

This year, I find myself at a crossroads. I wonder, shall I bake, or not? If I do, shall I give, or not? On my way to a party shall I bring a savory (a stretch) or a sweet (my specialty)? I don’t know.

What I do know is that Jocelyn, the lovely volunteer director for my daughter’s drama class will be receiving a thank you gift from me tomorrow night, consisting of a Polish pottery platter with a bag of Betty Crocker Gingerbread cookie baking mix lovingly glue dotted to its center. A cookie compromise? Yes. But I figure, she’s a big girl. She can handle it.

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Drama Junkie

November 19, 2009 at 10:43 am (Scheir Madness)
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Yup, that’s me. I just realized it yesterday. As much as I dislike drama and its accompanying tension, emotion, and no-win decision-making, I find that I also kind of dig it—not in a weird, ambulance chaser kind of way, though. Maybe in more of an “I’m stressed, therefore I am” kind of way.

Imagine this scene. My poor husband, down since Friday night with a non-hospitalization-requiring case of H1N1, had to sit through me ranting and raving Tuesday morning—before 8 am, I might add—because I just had to, had to, had to get all my Boy Scout concerns off my chest. Why? Because a Boy Scout friend of my son’s said, “Dude, you need to go on the camping trip this weekend. That’s when you get your requirements signed off!” I don’t know what requirements the kid was talking about. I didn’t even know there was a camping trip coming up. But in no time, my fear that my son would never amount to anything rose up in me, breathed fire on my otherwise sensible brain, and convinced me that the world would come to an end if he didn’t go camping—and NOW!

I’m sure you’d agree that mental priority number one for my in-bed all week spouse is cramming a 2-night camping trip into his big recovery weekend when we already have a birthday sleepover, a theater outing, Junior Orchestra rehearsal, grandparents coming, faux Thanksgiving on Saturday, Junior Orchestra performance, Mom’s Symphony dress rehearsal, and Mom’s Symphony performance already.

No wonder his fever returned.

My stress, my constant companion, the recurring theme of this blog, my universe, and everything has been with me since I was a kid. Sometimes disguised as academic anxiety, sometimes as insomnia and nightmares, sometimes as pure, classic overreaction, my stress has periodically asked me, “You seem awfully calm right now—shouldn’t you be worrying about something? There’s always something to worry about.” Then I’d think for a moment and realize, yes, there is a test coming up or there is that kid who teases me on the bus or, barring anything else, there’s always those deadly diseases and random accidents lurking where you least expect them. And then, ahhh, I was somehow comforted to know that I wouldn’t have to grope my way through an unfamiliar, disturbingly peaceful, stress-free day.

Freakish, I know.

Now here I am, all grown up, with my drama potential multiplied by three other people, a dog, and their respective pandemic viruses, mean girl issues, pressure-perpetuating Boy Scout buddies, and enormous dietary missteps. But when you’re hammering a guy with a low grade fever and grade A bedhead about how he absolutely must e-mail the scoutmaster right now to see whether we can get in on 6 ½ hours of a 48 hour camping trip, the handwriting’s kind of on the wall.

So I’m officially declaring a 30-day rehab—maybe 45: drama-free through Christmas. I’m going to try it. My higher power and my higher reasoning should be enough to stave off my higher blood pressure. In the immortal words of Huey Lewis and the News, I want a new drug. Maybe instead of drama, I’ll get hooked on lateness, the result of no longer rushing everywhere, all the time. Maybe I’ll start running addictively—for exercise, that is. Maybe I’ll start overdoing it on sleep—that’d be a switch.

Whatever it is, it’ll be better for me, my family, and everybody. Except maybe all of you. I mean, without the stress, what will there be to write about?

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Can I rant?

November 6, 2009 at 10:46 am (Scheir Madness)
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Big Boom

Minor kaboom this morning in daughter Hayley’s room—

It seems that her weekly, hours’ long, quasi-efforts at room cleaning have been helped along by a healthy dose of stuff-shoving, as evidenced by a pile of under-bed junk the likes of which has not been seen since I myself hoarded up my own pile of under-bed junk as a kid back in the 1970’s.

Admitting it is the first step, right?

All the clothes, books, dolls, etc, etc, etc from under her bed is now spread out all over the carpet as if TV slob Oscar Madison had been evicted from his apartment. Hayley is on some serious probation, considering that she’d been hearing Mom and Dad’s “no shoving” clause for months and chose to ignore it. Now she has to pay the piper, in the form of skipping one of two super-fun evening activities tonight and getting the job done. Too bad, as her dad and I were planning on dining out alone during one of them (sorry, Craig). Looks like we all lose on this one. Rats.

It’s not the mess so much as the lying that’s getting me, though as I say that, I think it sounds like, “It’s not the heat, as much as the humidity,” or “It’s not so much dropping out of the sky; it’s more the sudden stop when you hit the ground.” It’s both, really, but somehow it’s comforting to prioritize.

I have to say that this issue comes not long after another disturbing encounter. The other day, Jake owed Hayley some money, but didn’t have enough to cover the entire debt. I paid the remainder and said Jake could owe me. Then Hayley said, “It’s better to owe Mom, because she forgets about it.”

My response: “?!?!!?”

You better believe I followed up on that debt, taking a Reese’s peanut butter cup from Jake’s Halloween candy stash in lieu of the 50 cents I was owed. I had his permission, of course, because, hey, someone’s got to be honest around here.

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Still scary after all these years

October 16, 2009 at 8:17 am (Scheir Madness)
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oz

I was watching my daughter’s rehearsal of The Wizard of Oz last night at the The Children’s Theatre here in Dover, and (dork that I am) I seriously started to cry right along with Dorothy when she was trapped in the witch’s castle and wishing, oh wishing, for home. Don’t get me wrong—the teenager playing Dorothy is very good, but thinking back about it now, I’m pretty sure that it wasn’t her acting that got me going.

The truth is, I am not a fan of The Wizard of Oz film. When I was a kid, I thought it was the creepiest thing I had ever seen (the creepiest, that is, next to all those previews of 1970’s Stephen King horror adaptations; prom queen Carrie, drenched in blood—yeah, that’s what your scaredy cat seven-year-old wants to see right before she goes to bed). I’d try to watch the pre-VCR/DVD/DVR annual showing of Wizard of Oz on TV, but try as I might, I’d barely get through that scene in the forest where the witch is on the rooftop cackling her head off; I don’t know about the scarecrow, but she sure scared the stuffing out of me. Once a year I’d give it a try, I’d get to that scene, and I wouldn’t sleep for a week.

I’m not going to tell my daughter that, though. She’s a flying monkey in this children’s production, which would give me the creeps if she weren’t so darn cute. Thankfully, my son pointed out to me that the flying monkeys aren’t really bad; they just work for whoever will pay them, and if the wicked witch is their gravy train then so be it.

I know I’m in the minority here on the Oz front, but in my book, tornadoes, kidnapping, death threats, melting flesh, and mercenary monkeys do not an endearing family classic make. So if you happen to come to The Children’s Theatre production (10/24, 10/25 and 11/1), just do me this one favor: pay no attention to the Mom whimpering behind the curtain.

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The rules don’t apply to me

October 13, 2009 at 2:23 pm (Scheir Madness)
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break the rules

I’ve said it for a long time. It’s kind of my personal slogan. It’s what makes me an anti-institutional rebel despite all appearances to the contrary. For those of you who may not have already guessed, I’m Cheryl, and the rules don’t apply to me.

Now before you get all finger wagging at me, let me just say, yes, there are many, MANY rules that apply to me. I meet my writing deadlines. I pay my taxes (and I don’t shade the truth, however painful). When I fly, I put all my liquids and gels into a quart size plastic bag (though I still have it out for that airport security guy who made me toss my apricot-scented antibacterial hand lotion because he just didn’t get it). I certainly obey traffic laws (except for that one way sign behind the TJ Maxx on Route 13 because it simply makes no sense). And call me a dork if you will, but I do pay for online music.

At this point in my life, though, I’m trying not to get wrapped around the axle about certain man-made (i.e., not God-given) rules, possibly to the dismay of many people around me. I try to get books back to the library on time, but I don’t sweat a fine here or there. I fill out permission slips to the best of my ability, but I may bypass the channels here or there because of this or that. I park on the wrong side of the street on street cleaning days (and I haven’t gotten a ticket yet).

Pretty much I look at lots of policies as flexible…unless they’re posted in writing…next to a metal detector.

Just the other day, in fact, I wouldn’t take “no” for an answer from a pizza parlor girl who said that I couldn’t order my pizza by phone, show up to meet it, and then eat in the restaurant instead of taking it home. This from a girl who, when I asked her how big the medium pizza was, told me it was 6 slices. I wonder, if I was really hungry, could she make it 12?

I remember learning years ago about philosopher Immanuel Kant’s approach to ethical decision-making. In short and in my words, he said that if you’re trying to determine which rules or moral principles to live by, just ask yourself, if everyone followed this principle all the time, then would that be OK with me? Sadly, I fear that the rule of “the rules don’t apply to me,” pitifully fails this test.

Just think, if everyone ordered their pizzas to eat in, then surely the heads of pizza parlor hostesses around the world would simply explode. And you and I both know, we can’t have that.

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This ignorant American, enlightened

September 29, 2009 at 4:56 pm (Scheir Madness)
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stumped

“This is the world famous Rockefeller Center. Founded of course by Theodore Rockefeller. This is the skating rink, and I think the Rangers practice there sometimes.”

–Michael Scott from The Office, demonstrating his vast insider knowledge of New York City for the show’s documentary camera

Since Saturday I’ve been showing Australian friends Dieter and Lorraine around historic and interesting sites in our wonderful East Coast middle state area, and I swear, I feel like I am so not smarter than a fifth grader.

Yes, when we visited Independence Hall, it could have told you that the Declaration of Independence was signed in 1776. But it took me a minute to remember that the Constitution was signed in 1787. And I’d have never gotten that one if it weren’t for Schoolhouse Rock.

I had no idea when the interstate highway system was built, but thanks to my civil engineer/Delaware Department of Transportation employee sister for a good pick-up on that one. Eisenhower was the president (if I’m remembering correctly…which I might not be). But the year? Gone.

I know that the Washington Monument (which we visited on Sunday) is 555 feet tall (Forgot about the 5 1/8 inches, though. Darn!). However, I choked on why the thing two-tone. I had pretty much no idea. It seems that the project ran out of money after the first third was built and, when the project was restarted 24 years later, the stone came from a different quarry. See, everybody? At least I was listening on the tour.

I confessed as we walked up to the Korean War Memorial that while I find it very moving, I have no clue about the details of the U.S. involvement in the Korean War (to which my lovely friend Dieter replied, “Didn’t you watch M*A*S*H*?”).

Thankfully, while we were at the World War II Memorial I was able to confirm that Hawaii was indeed admitted for statehood in the 1950’s, and again, for that I have TV to thank (Remember the Hawaii Statehood Party on Happy Days? Strangely educational.)

Yesterday in Rehoboth Beach, DE, I was stumped as to the names of the shells that we were picking up, didn’t know why there were pipes going into the water, and could not, in any way, put a description of salt water taffy into words.

On the bright side, I am very hip to the Walter, the Farting Dog picture book series, and was able to snag a few books for my friend Lorraine to take back to her classroom. She said the boys will love it.

Score one for the ignorant American.

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What’s the worst that can happen?

September 21, 2009 at 8:45 am (Scheir Madness)
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Ghostbusters

Spengler: Don’t cross the streams.
Venkman: Why?
Spengler: It would be bad.
Venkman: I’m fuzzy on the whole good/bad thing. What do you mean, “bad”?
Spengler: Try to imagine all life as you know it stopping instantaneously and every molecule in your body exploding at the speed of light.
Stantz: Total protonic reversal.
Venkman: Right. That’s bad. Okay. All right. Important safety tip. Thanks, Egon.

I realized this morning as I was sitting on my bottom step waiting for Hayley to locate her shoes, put on her sweater, organize her backpack, inventory her snack pack, zip everything up and move it on out the door, that even though we were kissing our drop dead departure time for school, I hadn’t detected the usual mini-spike in my morning blood pressure. Last year’s me would have been much more aggressive in the “we gotta go” department, but I guess I’ve grown. If Hayley misses the bus, then, I ask, so what? It’s not like we’re headed for total protonic reversal.

My realization is very much in keeping with some tips I picked up on a radio talk show the other day. It seems that the army, responding to the rising tide of post-traumatic stress disorders among members of its current fighting force, is now incorporating stress response into basic training. The drill goes something like this: You call home and no one answers. You immediately think, “My wife has cleared out the kids and the dog and LEFT ME!!” Yup, that’s the worst case scenario. But what’s the best case? Something like, she’s won the lottery and is right now down at the local convenience store holding a press conference. What’s the most likely explanation? She’s in the basement and couldn’t hear the phone.

Applied to my late for school issue, the logic goes something like this: worst case, we miss the bus and drive to school, with plenty of time to spare. Best case, our extra couple of minutes makes us miss out on participating in a cataclysmic traffic accident. Most likely case, we have a couple fewer minutes to spend with each other waiting at the bus stop.

Notice how the worst case is never life as we know it stopping instantaneously and every molecule in your body exploding at the speed of light? Barack Obama’s got those kind of worries, I guess. But me? Not so much.

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A TIME to Twitter

September 9, 2009 at 2:57 pm (Scheir Madness)
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shaq_vs_boykinsI was in the doctor’s office today, waiting twenty minutes for the nurse, who first called me ‘Nancy Shurr’ and then ‘Carol Share,’ until I perked up and spoke aloud as none of the other patients ever seem to do and said, “I’m Cheryl. Do you want me?” She did, but, that aside, in the meanwhile, I was catching up on good old TIME magazine, which I only read while waiting (which honestly isn’t a very good advertisement for TIME, now is it?)

In my semi-annual reading of TIME, I learned of the death of dapper author/journalist Dominick Donne (which struck me as interesting, as he is the brother-in-law of Joan Didion, whose book, The Year of Magical Thinking, chronicles her year after the sudden death of his brother, her husband). I discovered (to my cheer) that Delaware is no longer the first state of cancer (a distinction which now belongs to Kentucky). I read page after page about why Leno’s new 10 pm variety show on NBC is doooooomed to fail—but destined to go on.

I should mention too that TIME informed me that currently indicted, longtime Republican, and former US Representative Tom DeLay will be appearing on the next season of Dancing with the Stars, a show I will not not not not not not not ever be watching (no matter which political points of view may be represented).

The most interesting piece I came across this TIME was an essay by erstwhile (love that word) E! reporter Joel Stein, entitled “Shaq vs. Joel,” in which Stein discusses Shaquille O’Neal’s new show Shaq Vs.. The idea of the show is this: Shaq challenges champions at that which they are best: Shaq swims vs. Michael Phelps; Shaq spikes vs. Misty May-Treanor and Kerri Walsh; Shaq cha-chas vs. Tom DeLay (ugh, no.). The idea of Stein’s essay is this: Shaq writes vs. Joel Stein.

The subject matter of the writing contest is Twitter (the social networking/share your every fleeting thought site on which I have never been). Shaq is the Number 10 most followed figure on Twitter. Stein is Number 195. (Readers of this blog may be wondering where Roger Federer ranks on the Twitter front, but I’ve got no solid numbers on that one.) The challenge, thrown down by Stein, is 400 words on Twitter, with the winner decided by an online vote.

When you check out the essays, you’ll find that Stein is a pretty snappy writer. You’ll find that Shaq seems to have stopped using the letter ‘w.’ You’ll find that Stein may become a challenge if you have rated G sensibilities (yes, if that’s you, stop reading Stein right after he mentions E!’s Hottest Hotties of Hotliwood; I may vote for Shaq just because of the nonsense that follows). You may really enjoy Shaq’s endearing honesty and dedication to his Twitter following…almost as much as you enjoy the way Shaq refers to himself as ‘diesel’ (at least I think that’s what he was talking about).

As for me, I’d like to challenge prima donna Shaq to the ultimate waiting room challenge: see how long you can sit there without Twitter to keep you company. I have a feeling that for Shaq it might be a welcome change.

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