Tag: humor

Call Me Ripley, Dammit

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 3 Comments

The swirl of life can be all-consuming. Just the regular ToDos can make one day blur into another. Throw in a few curve balls, and some days it feels like your best option is to duck. Amidst all that hubbub, it’s easy to forget to have a little fun every now and then.

This weekend was my son’s birthday party for his friends, and the main event was laser tag. As things got underway, the host said to my husband and me, “You know, you guys get to play, too.” My eyes immediately lit up, but my husband was concerned we might put a damper on the boys’ game. Of course not, I told him—besides, we’ll mainly shoot at each other! And so we suited up.

I must admit, I had some seriously ridiculous fun. The place used strobe and black lights, plus it pulsed with the intense music of a Hollywood blockbuster. I let my mind only concentrate on the moment, and it reminded me of days where running around and playing Police Woman was a whole lot of fun.

Of course, I was in heeled flip-flops, so the men had a bit of an advantage on me, and my husband definitely took me up on the “we’ll just shoot at each other part,” as he shot me continuously. No matter where I turned, there he was, blasting away. I have to think it was a kind of marital therapy for him.

Look out, boys--Ripley is here!
Look out, boys–Ripley is here!

The completion of the first round gave us our stats, and I took…last place. We had a lot of fun comparing numbers, and as we poured over the info, I saw that we were all given names as players. The boys shared theirs: Tron, Spyder, Blade, Hammer…my husband’s was Alpha…What was mine you ask? Shaggy. Shaggy. That’s right—the dude from Scooby Doo known for uttering “Zoinks!” and always being hungry and afraid. What the hell kind of fighting name was that?! No wonder I was last place. Now if I had been named Ripley, then I would have showed those stealthy 10-year-old boys who was boss! Shaggy. Yeesh.

But the bottom line is that embracing the silly is good for the soul. I was never one for being too serious, but sometimes with all of life’s responsibilities, I forget to let myself just be plain old silly. Letting the troubles of the day wait a bit while I engage in a few minutes of play helps me to better deal with those troubles when I have to let them back in.

I’m sure that those folks looking through the window of the laser tag arena and seeing a 45yo woman (and a strange man with an evil grin stalking her!) amidst a bunch of 10yo boys having their own fun must have thought me pretty wacky. And that’s okay. I’m no stranger to wacky…and I thank God for that.

Maturity By Way of a Dingleberry

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 2 Comments

Parenting bright spots can come in some funny ways. As I wrote last week, my son is newly 10. Most days he makes choices that make me wonder if he will ever register on the maturity scale. Of course, there are those lovely glimmers of the man that he may become, like when I see how sweet and attentive he can be to younger children, I believe that someday he will make one heck of a dad. But on the average day, he exemplifies “typical boy.”

We had a mature moment this past week, though…maybe it is because he has now entered the realm of double digits. Or maybe it was just a blip on the radar to be followed by many more head-scratching moments. Nonetheless, I believe in taking the bright spots and running with them!

The Culprit
The Culprit

We were leaving our vet’s office with our dog, who had been there all day to have a procedure done. My son wanted to hold him on his lap. Since he did a good job bringing him to the vet, I figured if the dog was doing okay it should be just fine. Off we went. I would check my rear view mirror here and there, and all was seemingly well. But then I looked over my shoulder, and I swore I saw a little smear of something on the towel we were using for the dog. As I was processing this, I looked up to see my son’s eyes as big as hockey pucks staring at the poop on his hands. In a nanosecond, he cried out, “Mom! He’s got a dingleberry!”

Now, for those of you who are unfamiliar with what a dingleberry is, go Google it. My son was using it very accurately. I had to get my eyes back up front not only because I was driving (though we were stuck in parking lot traffic), but also I had to hide my chuckle. Even though I knew that a poop-cleaning catastrophe lay ahead, I couldn’t help but be amused by the visual that had just played out before me.

What I found so impressive is that my son kept his head. He didn’t push the dog away or freak out. He did say, “Can’t you pull over and clean this?” to which I reassured him that I would as soon as I could safely turn off. But he really held it together (not the dingleberry—just his attitude).

In a couple minutes I was able to pull into a corporate parking lot. No bathrooms available, but we were able to clean all things to a reasonable point, thanks to a bottle of Perrier, hand sanitizer, and paper towels. We then journeyed on and hosed ourselves down when we got home.

I couldn’t help but be impressed at how my son handled the whole experience. From the smearing to the cleaning, he handled a crappy situation like a pro. (Please tell me you got that pun right away.) He even continued to take care of our dog—now dingleberry-free—for the rest of the ride home.

I shared with him how much I appreciated the way he dealt with the situation, and how proud I was of him for being so mature. He brightened up and had that look that’s says, “Yeah, I did do a good job, didn’t I?” It was a precious moment of seeing my kid understand his own capabilities and growth.

Who knew that because of a wild dingleberry, a boy might stand a little taller?

Stop and See the Eggs

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 7 Comments

Today is my son’s 10th birthday. As a parent, there are so many life lessons I want to share with him…from why morning breath isn’t “cool” to the importance of kindness. And I always hope that the good parts of what I say stick, and the less than ideal ones fall away.

But some lessons I aim to share with him are ones that I need to hear myself. Over and over again.

Though I’m told it’s typical behavior for a boy his age to need to be told everything at least three times, I really want him to be better connected to the world around him. For instance, after taking a trip dozens of times, the other day he asked, “Are we going the right way?” illustrating that he hadn’t been paying any attention. This is just a tiny example of how he is in his own little bubble that I would like to pop. Many times we have had “conversations” (read: nag-a-thons) of how he needs to pay attention to what’s going on around him.

But what about me?

Though I may know the route I’ve taken dozens of times, how connected am I to the actual moment I’m in? We who struggle with the juggle of life also struggle with the clichéd stopping and smelling of the roses.

Our little nest.
Our little nest.

Recently my husband discovered a robin’s nest in the pine tree right outside our kitchen window. After we all enjoyed seeing the beautiful blue eggs, the mama robin nestled in. She had expertly camouflaged the nest, and when she covered the eggs with her body, there was no way any of us would have known what miracles lurked beneath. I realized that it was the exact right perspective at the exact right time that clued us in to this exciting little world. My husband’s height gave him the angle to see, and the fact that the mom was out stretching her wings gave him the opportunity to discover. It came together in one ideal moment. Now we all know where to look and are enjoying watching our new little neighbors grow.

But what do I miss because I am not looking at the right angle at the right moment? I wonder.

Too often I have my “busy-busy blinders” on…on one mission after another, I power through and forge ahead. My bubble may move faster than my kid’s, but it’s still a bubble.

Thankfully, there are times of self-awareness where I simply make myself stop. Stop the swirl. And in those moments, inevitably I find something worth looking at…truly seeing. Maybe it’s enjoying my favorite goldfinches dart and weave after getting a nibble at our feeder…or maybe it’s seeing my son practice his piano with his bare feet (growing bigger by the day) keeping time while his tongue peeks out from his pink lips and tries to help him along.

The older he gets, the more I am trying to savor those moments. It was only yesterday, it seems, that he let go of my leg and walked his first steps. Only yesterday that he waved goodbye to us on his very first day of school. Only yesterday that he would pummel me with questions like, “Mom, does the sky end? Does the grass end? Do our days ever end?” Only yesterday.

boy and tree
As Gretchen Rubin says, “the days are long, but the years are short.” If I can get my little man to understand this sooner rather than later, then I will have helped him in a big way. I know I need to be a better model to help him see this truth more clearly. I better get my act together.

My stubborn self knows this is a life lesson I need to teach myself over and again. I guess the silver lining is that we learn best what we teach, so maybe there‘s hope for me yet.

Happy birthday to our beautiful, not-so-little-anymore boy who is loved tons and tons forever and always by his crazy mom and dad. You make the world a better place to be.

I Am Not a Tigger

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 10 Comments

I bounce a lot. But unlike Tigger, it is not a source of joy and exuberance but one of increasing insanity.

Years ago, I used to point out to my husband that women were much better multi-taskers than men. Not only did he not appreciate my air of superiority, he also believed multi-tasking to be the devil. What?! Well, it turns out that my husband was on the cutting edge of being a know-it-all. Studies now show that multi-tasking is actually counterproductive. And at this point in my life, I absolutely agree. There’s just one problem: my brain bounces whether I want it to or not.

I suspect I am not alone.

tabs open

I work a flex schedule, and it is a blessing in many ways. It allows me to work at my job, take care of our home and kid, as well as be an on-call daughter to an aging mother. (Disclaimer: I am NOT implying that someone who has a full-time-at-the-office job cannot do these things. Relax. I’m merely pointing out that, for me, flex time enables me to, well, have a FLEXIBLE SCHEDULE.) But a flex schedule also enables bouncing, bouncing, bouncing.

I feel like I’m in a pinball machine, only Pinball Wizard I am not. Bouncing is wearing me down and adding to my crazy. Maybe at this point you’re asking, “What the heck is she talking about??” By bouncing I mean that I as I plan my day with the highest of hopes, the result is that I have worked all day but don’t really know what I’ve accomplished.

For example, as I have sat down to write this post, I have stopped to make three doctors calls, update my calendar, remembered to pay some bills, put another load of laundry in, let the dogs out, tried to figure out what’s for dinner, open the mail (from Saturday. Saturday’s bouncing did not include mail opening, apparently), and written 17 notes to myself (give or take). And this is just the bouncing I remember.

Unlike the “real” Tigger, my Tigger looks and feels like a chewed up dog toy.
Unlike the “real” Tigger, my Tigger looks and feels like a chewed up dog toy.

Yes, I know I should shut out distractions. But easier said than done. I love when I “get in the zone,” but the older I get, the rarer it seems. I think the focusing part of my brain is atrophying. I need a personal trainer to work away the flab. “Give me 20 more deep thoughts! Come on! You can do it! Focus! Focus! Focus!”

I’m not sure how to get out of my bounce-a-lot world, but I do know it’s in my best interest. Though maybe bouncing will be a good attribute when I finally make it to my padded room. Either that, or I have to buy a rubber suit so that as I bounce away, I’m at least getting better spring action.

I Fall to Pieces (or Pop Goes the Knee-sel)

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 2 Comments

It was 13 years ago that I first uttered a variation of a phrase I use. I said, “Mind’s 18, body’s 32” when I returned to the softball field after many years away, having bolted out of the batter’s box upon hitting the ball. Why did I say it? Because my instincts kicked in to burst into a sprint to first base, but the 32-year-old quad of my left leg wasn’t so game. Ripppp.

See, my cocky little self didn’t understand the value of warming up as someone in their right mind in their fourth decade of life should. Well, battling that tear all season, I became a devout convert to running warm-ups prior to game time. In my mind, I was still 18. But my body had—and has—other ideas.

My soon-to-be 87-year-old mom has uttered the phrase “growing old isn’t for wimps” many times over the last several years. As she is battling her current and most significant health challenge, I know she did not reach this age by being a weenie. I hope that some of those genes are coursing through my body. So far, I think I’m heading in that direction, which is good because I apparently am a slow learner regarding the brain/body connection.

This was my sweet move--except this is not me. Other than that, iDENtical.
This was my sweet move–except, what with him being a guy and all, this is not me. Other than that, iDENtical.

My latest time to use the aforementioned phrase was a few months ago…except this time it went, “Mind’s 18, body’s 45.” And this time it was a soccer field. And a kids vs parents game. I instinctually tried this sweet roundhouse kick move only to hear my knee pop. It felt like everything below my knee was glass and just shattered down to my toes.

As I crumpled to the ground, my husband looked over to me and asked if I was okay. “Uh…I think I’m done for the game.” I was pretty certain it would not be a good idea for me to shake it off and get back in there. Of course, all the rest of the parents immediately shifted their playing into low gear, intent on keeping the body count at one.

The real deal.
The real deal.

Long story not so long, I recently had knee surgery to take care of the damage that was caused when a 45yo woman tried to kick a soccer ball in midair while playing her son’s 8-9yo team.

I know, I know. That’s my point. My brain has not caught up to the idea that I’m getting old. Until now. I think. Within a month and a half I’ve had my gallbladder out and my knee “cleaned up.” I’ve definitely been feeling my age—and I think I may be feeling other people’s age, too—like I’m just gathering up years to heap on my mind so that it doesn’t pull this crap again.

Only, I don’t want to.

Even though I’ve been hobbling around and wincing or in pain for one reason or another for the last several months, I’m just not ready to throw in the towel and act my age. It’s just that it’s getting harder to ignore.

Thankfully, I’m a hardhead with strong instincts. After all, mind over matter, right? And maybe I will continue to use this phrase until, Lord willing, I’m an octogenarian like my mom, and I’ll be saying, “Mind’s 18, body’s 87.” Of course, at that point I may be in a full body cast, but deep down inside there will be a part of me that is smiling, knowing that the towel hasn’t been thrown in but is still in my corner, right where it belongs.

Spaz Hands

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 5 Comments

Cspaz handlutch shots are key in the world of professional sports. Adam Scott is wearing the green jacket after his pivotal shots at the Masters yesterday. But I am absolutely 100% certain that if I ever had the skills to put me in that realm of sports, my spaz hands would see to it that no victory would come my way.

No sunken putt to clinch the tournament.

No 300 game in bowling.

Never mind a no-hitter.

Of course, just imagining I had the physical prowess to get to such a level is silly, but even if that was all in place, my spaz hands would ensure that I could never achieve such glory. Are you familiar with spaz hands? Well, how about jazz hands? You know, the flashing little palms upright move that adds a little panache to just about anything?

(I have no intent to PR this show—it was just the best short version of “jazz hands” I could find on YouTube. And trust me, there were some “interesting” choices!)

For me, spaz hands is like a distant cousin seventeen times removed. It’s that energy that courses through my body when I get to thinking too much in such situations, and then it hits like lightning, thereby ensuring a spastic burst when the exact opposite is needed.

So if I was indeed lined up to try for that 300 game in bowling and it came down to the last ball…I’m pretty certain my spaz hands would strike—no, not cause me to roll a strike…but come upon me and cause me to throw the ball directly into the gutter. Maybe even overhand. Cause that’s how I roll. Literally.

And my spaz hands aren’t just involved in sports. Ask my husband what it’s like to walk into a room where my back is turned. Let’s just say I’m a little jumpy. He’ll often turn the lights off and on upon entering to give me a heads up, or lately he’s taken to walking in while gently saying, “I live here…I’m your husband…don’t be startled…” Poor guy. But I just can’t help it.

As long as I have this “special” quality, it would be awesome if it burned off a bunch of calories. After all, if reaching your target heart rate is the point of cardio, then like Ellen DeGeneres says, you should be able to just stand in front of an oncoming bus to achieve maximum results. Or, for me, have someone sneak up on me. And by “sneak up,” I mean just normally walk into a room. That should do the trick.

So I have spaz hands. Yeah, I know I probably need to calm down. (And that’s exactly what a person who needs to calm down wants to hear, too. “Hey, you need to calm down,” and—like a faucet—I will just turn off the crazy and calm down. Done deal.)

On the bright side, if there ever was a burglar who came upon me, I just might be able to spaz hand him into submission—you know, just like a Taser, but with flailing arms of hysteria. Shut up. It could happen.

Oh, well—I’m a spaz. It’s just another nuance of the special crazy that I am. What’s a part of your special crazy?