This Dog Won't Hunt

When I take my dogs for a walk I like to let them loose in the empty field of our neighborhood. There they sniff out the resident bunnies and transient mice, catching a whiff of a few wandering deer.  Our dogs are Labrador Retrievers, a breed known for its hunting skills.  My husband takes them hunting for pheasant, ducks and geese, so these two are trained to pick up scents, flush prey, and then, well, retrieve.  As I watch them do their bird dog-thing, I think about how happy this makes them.  This is literally what they were born to do.  They lift their noses to the wind, interpreting smells (and sometimes rolling in them) and then twitch their ears around to detect the sound of scurrying feet or flapping wings.  At that moment their lives are complete.

Wouldn't it be great, I think, if  humans could have the same experience?  If you knew instinctively, through hundreds years of evolution, what you were born to do?  And then were able to do it?

I am not a hunting dog (and I would hope that is obvious to all of you). If my ancestors were selectively mating to ensure a certain skill or trait that would lead to a perfect career, they didn't mention it in any will or Ouija board seance.  What was I born to do?

Hunting is definitely out--you have to get up way too early, it's usually dark and cold, and I don't care for wild game.  I like my food full of steroids and wrapped in cellophane, thank you very much, just as God intended.

I love words and books and thesauruses
(or is it thesauri?) .  Of course, I also love chocolate.  And shoes; I always feel one with the universe when I get a new pair of cute shoes.

I know I was meant to be a mother.  (Whether or not I was meant to be a good mother is still up for discussion.  My kids remain skeptical.)  But I always knew, without being able to give a concrete reason, that I wanted to have kids.  They'll wreck my body and spend all my hard earned money? Sign me up!

I was not bred to have any sort of athletic talent.  Or to even particularly enjoy watching any sort of sporting event, unless it involves one of my offspring (see previous entry). This is another reason my siblings are convinced I was adopted.

I seem to have a sixth sense for sarcasm.  It comes very naturally for me and required no special training. How this translates into a life's purpose I have yet to discover, but I remain hopeful.

Some days I think I was born to write and read and to share the funny and wonderful things I come across in my life. Other days, not so much.  But I come from a family of artists and teachers, musicians and poets.  I have apparently been bred to be a thinker of thoughts who dabbles in words.

But I will not hunt.

Graduation Ready

My oldest graduates from high school in two days, people, TWO DAYS.  And you know what will happen once he has that diploma in his hand?  He will be impossible to live with, which  is why God created college.  Yeah, yeah, higher learning, improved job outlook, blah-blah-blah.  Four year universities were created so mothers would not kill their newly independent offspring.  And by "independent" I mean thinks he knows it all and can do whatever he wants, but still complains about the selection in the fridge and would like you to wash his favorite shirt. Today.

I am trying to keep it together.  As he likes to remind me, graduating from high school is not that hard, it's no big deal.  Except it is. 

When I went to the parent orientation for high school the spring of his 8th grade year, I remember the principal telling us that the most important key to your child's high school success was showing up.  That's it?  All he has to do make it to class?  Wow, they're not setting their standards very high.  And honestly, there are days when that's all the effort my my son would put into it.  But show up he did and graduate he will.

So I'm trying not to make a big deal of the whole event.  There will be no lavish party (he's going to numerous of his friends parties and doesn't want to hang out with us anyway) and no new car with a bow on it in the driveway.

Talking to other senior parents about what their kids are doing next year reminds me of the conversations we all had as they were moving out of preschool up into grade school.  What school will they be going to, have you met the teacher, yes I've heard they have a good program there.  But this time they are all going off to do it on their own.  It feels like some crazy parallel universe where your baby is taller than you with more expensive shoes and a better laptop..

I should note that I missed my son's first couple days of kindergarten because of the arrival of his new baby sister.  He could do kindergarten with out me, surely he can make it to college too.

Epilogue:  I started writing this post last spring and never finished it.  I am happy to report that both my son and I are enjoying his college experience.  You'd think I'd miss him like crazy this first year, worrying if he's okay or eating enough.  But he's having the time of his life. (and just maybe he's learning a little something in those classes) and when I do see him I get to treat it like it's a special occasion.  And I don't have to worry about having just the teenage boy approved food in the fridge all the time. 

OGD: Obsessive Grammar Disorder

I've seen a lot on social media lately criticizing people's grammar and, honestly, it's time to cut everyone a little slack. The Your/You're/There/Their/They're thing has been done to death. I understand when to use an apostrophe, when a quotation mark is called for, and who's on first. But typos happen, brain farts happen.  Bad grammar happens.


As an English major-turned-blogger, you'd think I would be all about the grammar.  But we didn't study dangling participles or dependent clauses in my college classes--I guess they thought we already knew all that.  I have a confession to make:  I couldn't diagram a sentence to save my life.  (Please don't tell the English Department at UW, because they might revoke my diploma.)  My 7th grade daughter recently asked for help with language homework that involved predicates and subordinating conjunctions. (Cue chirping crickets.) Not a clue...

I have probably broken three major grammar rules in this post alone--I couldn't tell you which, of course, since I am not a Grammar Nazi. This is not to say I don't think good grammar is important, but an occasional slip here and there does not doom one to Punctuation Purgatory.  I will not think you're stupid if you misuse parts of speech, but it's quite possible that I won't  understand you. "They're dog was over their with there cat" would leave me puzzling for days.  I know it's a personality flaw of mine--being so literal means I spend way too much time obsessing over such things.

Hello, my name is Kristin and I suffer from Obsessive Grammar Disorder.

I love words and how, when combined just right (and with a little pixie dust) they can create magic.  While growing up (the youngest in a family of five) I realized that I was never going to best my brothers at anything physical, so I decided to out-vocabulary them. (See, I'm pretty sure that was not the correct way to say that, but I'm going to call it "Poetic License" and move on.)  I started looking up words in the dictionary and dropping them casually into conversation.  I once told my brother that he was obtuse and he stared at me with such a mixture of such frustration and loathing that I felt a little giddy inside.

When used correctly, words can exert tremendous power; when used incorrectly, they create confusion.  And it drives me insane.

There was a construction site near our house last summer that posted a sign along the road that read "Truck's Crossing". Every time I drove by there I went a little crazy trying to figure WHAT THEY WERE SAYING. Was there just one truck that somehow owned that part of road?  Could I not cross there? Curse you, OGD!


There are many examples of grammar gone bad on Pinterest.  I came across this beauty recently: "Southern Born/ Southern Bread/ and/ Southern Girl/ Til I'm Dead."  I got to the "bread" part and was prepared for a clever play on words, but instead was sadly disappointed with plain old bad grammar.  She, of course, meant "bred," but there I was trying to figure out what southern bread was (biscuits maybe?) and obsessing over what could made this into something funny. ("Southern Baked/Southern Bread/and/ Southern Girl/ 'Til I'm Fed," maybe?)

Web MD defines Obsessvie Compulsive Disorder as a "potentially disabling illness that traps people in endless cycles of repetitive thoughts and behaviors."  Much like its counterpart, Obsessive Grammar Disorder causes those afflicted to compulsively try to extract meaning from bad grammar. Treatment involves a dictionary, a thesaurus, and spell check.  Or you can go with the holistic approach:  read three books and call me in the morning.

Six Weeks in a Desert

Lent begins tomorrow and so I begin my annual Facebook Fast.

My second grade teacher at St. Joseph's parochial school, Sister Judith, told us that we were to give something up for Lent so we would understand the suffering of Christ as he was crucified.  (She was not known for her warm demeanor, but for the Vulcan death grip she applied to unruly children.)

Somehow I don't think not being able to see funny cat videos on Facebook or take a quiz to see which Disney princess I would be (Belle) quite equates to being having your hands and feet being nailed to a cross. But giving up Facebook is hard for me.  And I don't think a loving God, such as my man Jesus, really wants me to experience the same pain He did. (That and He sometimes laughs at my status updates about grumpy teenagers because he remembers how moody I was.)

The first year I gave up Facebook for Lent it was mostly to prove I could.  I guess my friends and family felt I shared a little too much in my timeline posts and  didn't believe I'd last the 40 days.  Well, I fasted in that internet desert of no status updates and rose again as a blogger.

Last year I didn't Facebook fast--I thought I'd try a six week program of exercise and healthy eating instead.  That lasted about a week and a half.

The year before that, however, proved enlightening.  I had been Facebook-less for about four weeks and had convinced myself I'd never do it again.  What was I getting out of it, anyway, besides being cat-video-free?  In a bout of boredom I started perusing Pinterest (another internet time-suck).  There I snooped through my teen daughter's boards (which in Pinterest-ese is a grouping of like things, or "pins") titled "bucket list." On that board was a pin about meeting her favorite author.  Hmm, that was kind of interesting.  I found the website for the current author of choice and saw she was doing a tour to promote her newest title.  AND she would be a bookstore in Seattle in a few weeks time. So I took my daughter and friend to see the author she loved and became, for one short moment, not the worst mother ever.  All because I'd given up Facebook.

It may not have been what Sister Judith had in mind, but it was pretty darn cool.

Writing from the Dark Side

The other night I watched a movie about a woman who was having a hard time being a stay-at-home parent ("Mom's Night Out"--don't waste your time, even if you get it free from the library like I did). She found herself hiding from her kids in the closet, sobbing into her glass of wine, until she learned to deal with her stress by writing a blog.  Then her days were filled with sunshine and rainbows.

If only life was more like the movies...

This made me realize, however, that most of these so-called "mommy bloggers" are parenting small children, babies to elementary-school-age.  You don't see many bloggers waxing poetic about the joys of teenage offspring--why do you suppose that is?

Mother/Son Bonding

I, myself, am up to my eyeballs in teenagers (well, more like several inches over my head, since two of the three are taller than me) so I have a few ideas on the subject.

1) Teenagers are on the internet.  They do not take kindly to their parents broadcasting to the world-wide-web that Johnny just got his first pimple, or that that Suzy is hormonal and is being a major pain in the butt.  If you want to live with your offspring for the next several years without WWIII taking place in your living room, you just can't even go there.  If you want to write about your kids, your only option is to create decoy titles for your posts, like "Why the 80's Were So Cool" or "Retirement Planning for the Active Mom."  Throw them off the scent, as it were.

I don't know you.

2)  Raising teenagers is not for sissies.  While writing about young children can involve all sorts of cute and funny stories, it's hard to come up with a delightful anecdote of how your sixteen-year-old slammed the door in your face after yelling he hates you, or a heart warming tale of a teen daughter freaking out because you went into her room after dirty laundry.  It's sometimes dark on this side of parenting.  You say things you don't mean, you yell, and you make mistakes.  There comes a day when you realize you only have a year or two left to turn this swirling mass of hormones and body odor into a functioning adult. And you panic. We are not laughing at these events, and quite honestly we'd rather no one else knew about them.

3)  We are crazy busy.  Don't get me wrong, parents of littles are also trying to juggle all sorts of stuff: tying shoes, finding binkies, washing load after load after load of tiny socks and shirts.   You'd think parents of teens, with their kids half grown and able to feed themselves,  would have all the time in the world to spin tales of their parenting glories. But right now we're just trying to keep it together as we drop off and pick up, drop off and pick up, fending off major teenage attitude all the while. We are coordinating school sports with driver's ed and dinner and the tenth load of laundry filled with stained team uniforms and the oldest's favorite shirt.  We are filling out forms for college applications and graduation requirements and the permission for the HIV class at school. And we are reminding (nagging), counseling (bossing), and reminding/nagging again trying to make sure our kids get it all done.  The teenage years are crunch time for parents--did I mention they have to be functioning adults in a year or two?

Don't Talk to Me

I don't consider myself a mommy blogger because I sometimes write about my kids, anymore than I ever considered myself to be a soccer mom because my kids all played soccer.  I did a quick search for blogs about parenting teens and they all sounded equally serious and dull.  These years can be tricky, but if you don't have a sense of humor as a parent, you'll never survive.  I once told my son that getting through his teen years was going to require either military school for him or AA for me.  Luckily we didn't have to resort to either.  Yet.

Cult of the 12th Man

Being a non-football fan while the Seahawks are in the playoffs is kind of like being a Buddhist at Christmas.

Right now people across the Pacific Northwest are gearing up for the big game (against who I do not know).  Whole families dressed in 12th Man gear are flooding the grocery stores to stock up on chips and drinks and anything decorated in blue and green.  Faces are painted and flags are flying. Meanwhile, at the Graf house, we are spending a lazy Saturday watching movies and reading.  Not a single Seahawk logo to be seen.  Why, oh why, does everyone else seem ga-ga over this sports team, but we could care less?

Last year as the Seahawks played their way to the Super Bowl, I wrote a piece about my ambivalence for the game  ("Only the Lonely").  It's not that I hate it, I just don't get it.  And quite honestly, the crowds of people decked out in team gear everywhere I go is starting to creep me out a little.  Is this a cult or something?

Merriam-Webster defines "cult" (in the non-religious sense) as:
 a :  great devotion to a person, idea, object, movement, or work (as a film or    book); especially :  such devotion regarded as a literary or intellectual fad
 b :  the object of such devotion

 c :  a usually small group of people characterized by such devotion

So yeah, it's a cult. (Except for the small group part.)

When I googled "why do people like football?" I came across this article at Discovery.com that claims it's mostly testosterone.  All that charging and tackling and manly behavior.  Also it gives guys something to bond over.  But what about the women?  I know plenty of females who love the actual game itself just as much as they love the socializing that goes with it.  Who knows what sort of chromosome I am missing that prevents me from bonding with football. (Though my siblings claim it's further proof I was secretly adopted.)

Sure, I see everyone getting behind the local team who's winning.  And, hey, think of all the tax revenue it's bringing to our state (Seahawks win = more money for schools!) And I think many of the team's players are very fine inividuals:  from weekly visits to Seattle's Children Hospital, to their time spent with the local  Marysville Pilchuck team that was devastated by the shooting at their school, these men really have shown how to be a sports hero.

So there's this giant, happy blue and green cult going on and I just don't fit in.  I will never a member, I will never drink the kool aid. But somehow I ended up in a place where everyone not only gets it, but LOVES it.  Sometimes to the extreme.  From the  couple named their baby girl "Cydnee Leigh 12th Mann", to the guy who got the Seahawk logo stamped on his prosthetic eyeball.  And yes I know die-hard football fans everywhere do crazy things, but usually I don't have to live among them.

The bright side of all this for the non-football fan:  come game time the grocery store is practically deserted.  I can happily trip up and down the produce aisle with nary a sighting of those blue and green jerseys.  Just a few stragglers who forgot dip.  And to those tardy few 12th Men (and Women) I can shake my head and smile.  Yes, you, the 12th Man, just paid for my kids' education.

The Meaning of Thanksgiving

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, the ignored middle child of holidays.  Before Halloween has even come and gone, many stores start displaying their Christmas merchandise without so much as a thought for Turkey Day.  As the supply of princess costumes and mini Snickers starts to dwindle, people start looking forward to what's considered the holiest of holidays (from both a religious and a retail perspective). It's possible if you look hard you might find a few Thanksgiving decorations, but how can other holidays compete with Santa Claus, birth of a Savior, and Hallmark Channel's "Countdown to Christmas" made-for-TV movies?

Can we all just stop for a moment before the Black Friday sales begin and remember what Thanksgiving is all about?

Pie.  Thanksgiving is about pie.  

Go back with me for a minute to the very first Thanksgiving, celebrated by the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag Indians.  These natives had just saved the Pilgrims' heinies by not letting them all starve to death. (An act they may have regretted later.  "I told you not to feed them--now we'll never get rid of them!")  About half of the Pilgrims who set out on the Mayflower didn't live to see this first harvest festival, so those who did must have been very thankful, indeed.  Historians seem doubtful that any sort of dessert was served at this meal, but if there had been pie perhaps the relationship between the settlers and the Native Americans would have remained harmonious past the breaking of the wishbone.

My Grandma Mabel was never known for her cooking skills (a trait I seem to have inherited), but the one dish that all us grandkids loved was her Chocolate Chip Pie. 

This heavenly concoction consists of Cool Whip (not real whip cream, mind you, but Cool Whip, the non-dairy, hydrogenated vegetable oil whipped topping), marshmallows, and chocolate chips in a graham cracker crust.  (Grandma Mabel, not surprisingly, later became diabetic.) While we were growing up I always thought this was my grandmother's secret recipe--I even have it on a note card in her old fashioned handwriting.  Imagine my surprise when I saw the same recipe on the back of a graham cracker box.

Grandma Mabel was a first generation Norwegian American who lived through two world wars and the depression.  To me, that pie is a symbol of all that is great about our nation:  not only was Grandma's family able to thrive in this country, not only were they able to feed themselves, but they had dessert as well.  A dessert that required Cool Whip. From the store.  You know you've made it as an American when you serve processed food products for dessert. You couldn't do that back in the old country, now could you?

Pie could also be seen as a metaphor for what our country has become today:  a collection of several different ingredients (people from different walks of life) coming together for the greater good (pie). Sometimes involving hydrogenated vegetable oil.

So as you sit down to your meal on Thursday, there is no need to count your blessings or plan your Black Friday shopping strategy. (And for the love of God, do not finish your turkey and mashed potatoes and head straight to the mall!)  Instead, stay home with your family and your dessert--and just be thankful for pie.

Disclaimer:  While all types of pie deserve our recognition for its role in shaping our great country, Grandma Mabel's offering remains my favorite.  I share her recipe here with you.