The Life of Amy

The clock is ticking again

Jack is back and I’m feeling great.
After something like 15 months, which actually seemed like 15 years, “24” had its seventh season opener Sunday night.
And, what a great 120 minutes it was.
Even though Jack Bauer, former Counter Terrorist Unit agent (the agency is defunct) threatened to stab a guy in the temple with an ink pen, this opener seemed to keep violence to a minimum, which should appease critics who thought there was too much of it in the past.
For me, there is just something about getting caught up in the world of Jack Bauer. I have friends who have given up on the show because they feel it’s predictable.
There are times you can guess what’s up next and be right. But I find a lot more surprises around the corner than certainties.
It’s ironic that I won’t commit to TV mini-series because I feel I won’t be able to find the time.
But, in six seasons of “24” I’ve only missed watching one episode as it aired. Of course, it was taped for later viewing.
Now you know where my priorities are.

Remembering the important things

I like to say “of all the things I’ve lost, I miss my mind the most.” The other day I ran to a local store, purchased some necessary items, left, and thought everything was OK. When I got home, my daughters started asking where was the lead for their mechanical pencils. I told them to look in bag. They did, then said it wasn’t there. I made them search again. The response was the same. I figured it must have fallen out in the car, so I check on the seat and the floor, to no avail. Then, it dawned it me much more was missing, including a can of starch, which if it were to drop, would probably make a sound I could hear. There were other items I couldn’t find. Air freshners, suction cups, etc. The answer was pretty simple by this time: I left a sack at the store. I returned the next day to inquire about my purchase. I explained to the courtesy clerk my dilemma. She reached for a big box containing about a handful of bags, including one with a pillow. I saw mine at the bottom of the pile. Using my best recall, I began naming off what was contained within. I was quickly reunited with my goods, sack and all. Is there a moral to this tale, you may ask. While I may not remember an all-important appointment, I’ll never forget what I purchase at the store.

My adivce to Gene Simmons

I’ve just learned that today marks the 25th anniversary of Kiss appearing for the first time, as a group without makeup, on MTV. And, there have been repeated requests, I believe several times a day, for the members to put the makeup back on. As those who tune into “Gene Simmons Family Jewels” on A&E know, Gene had a facelift recently. And, like many people, especially celebs, who undergo this procedure, the result was — well, questionable. You kind of have to give on to Gene. While he may be the moniker behind Kiss, at home, or at least while the TV cameras are rolling, he seems to be low man on the totem pole, judging by the way the rest of the family seems to rule the roost. He does seem to come up with a fair share of business ideas that tend to walk a little on the wild side. So, maybe, Gene it’s time to put on the makeup again and start your own line of Gene Simmons’ mineral cosmetics. QVC is waiting.

It's news to me

It appears I have been deceiving you and lying to myself. Until a few days ago, I believed I had twin daughters, who will mark their 11th birthday in November. Not according to my health insurance company. I received a letter saying I needed to prove Garbrielle, who the letter said was born in November, 1989, was a full-time college student or she’d lose her coverage. This was also news to Gabrielle, as for the past 10-plus years, she was told she was a twin. To assure you, Gabrielle is a full-time student as she is only in fifth grade. At least I drop her off at school every weekday morning along with her sister Bethany, whom, by the way, happens to look just like her. Now Gabrielle is slightly taller than Bethany, but not enough to account for an 8-year age difference. Somewhere I have an ultrasound picture of two babies in one womb. Does this mean it’s a fake? Did the picture belong to some else? Was I so under the influence of water during my ultrasounds that I don’t remember being told I was having a singleton? I think back to labor and delivery. I did it sans pain medication, so I can’t blame any memory loss on that. Maybe I was just so high in the moment I dreamt giving birth to twins. But I swear I came home from the hospital with two girls. I remember having two cribs in my house, a side-by-side stroller and two high chairs. I have pictures of two girls, who look just alike, on my walls at home and work. They are Bethany and Gabrielle’s faces. But are they really? Am I now living in the Twilight Zone? Gabrielle now wants her adult rights, like driving a car, etc. OK, she’s just joking about that. However, since Bethany has learned her supposed twin is now 18, she’s apparently decided it’s a good time to up her age, too. She has settled on being 14.

A secret compartment for single socks

The other day, while searching the car for something about the size of a pencil eraser. I made a discovery. Something I didn’t know had existed, despite the fact I’ve owned the car for 2.5 years. I folded down one of the back seats and found a loop attached to the carpet in the hatch area. What’s this I wondered. Was it a hidden third row, which we didn’t purchase as an extra option on the vehicle. Did it hold the part of my earbuds I was so desperately looking for so I wouldn’t have to spend another $20 to comfortably listen to my iPod while walking? I slowly tugged on the loop, Up came the carpet. Underneath, a secret storage compartment. It had gathered a few dust bunnies over the course of my ownership. I looked at it and contemplated how it had remained hidden so long. There was unused space in my car. Space out of public view. At this point, I don’t feel a need to put something in it, because it’s a little work to get in there. I think I will leave it be for a little bit and hope it soon becomes the spot all the unmatched socks that come out of the dryer call home.

Bidding adieu to the Bollmanns

The e-mail subject line read “the day has come.” It was sent from my friend Tricia. With Tricia, I’m never quite sure what to expect, except the unexpected. With the enticing subject matter I started gathering random thoughts on what she must be sharing. We share the same political views, maybe the e-mail contained something in the realm of political news. Maybe she had decided to rejoin the local twins club. After all, that’s how I met her. The news wasn’t what I had hoped for. After 14 years, and four children born on Travis Air Force Base, Tricia, her husband Eric, identical twin sons Daniel and Aaron, and daughters Kelly and Holly will soon be calling Tennessee home. While Tricia and I haven’t spent as much time together the last few years as we should have, we’ve managed to stay in touch and always amuse each other. Tricia and Eric and my husband Jim and I met at meeting in September (maybe October) 1997 as both of us were expecting twins. In addition to serving proudly in the Air Force, Eric also delivered the Daily Republic for some extra income. Our twins were born a mere three days apart. Fate put us together. Tricia and I helped each other survive that first year. And, we became good friends in the process. There was even a joke in the twins club that we were lesbian lovers. That spurred from the fact that when we went to mothers of twins conventions, we would share a room, and often a bed, to save money. Twice, after said conventions, Tricia announced she was pregnant. The joke was they were my children, not Eric’s. I remember heading out to Travis Air Force Base at 2 or 3 a.m. to stay with Daniel and Aaron while she gave birth to Holly. I think I may have taken care of all three when she gave birth to Kelly. Daniel and Aaron and my girls, Bethany and Gabrielle were like brothers and sisters for the first five or six years. Then there interests became different and Bethany and Gabrielle decided to play with Holly and Kelly instead. Ironically, Bethany and Gabrielle are probably more like Daniel and Aaron today than earlier since my girls are tomboys. I can’t even begin to count the fun memories I have shared with Tricia. The heart-to-heart talks. We go on base and trick-or-treat with the family then go back to their house for popcorn and hot chocolate. We went to movies together. I remember myself, Eric Tricia, my girls and their four children watching “Polar Express” at the base theater. After such a long stint stationed at Travis, I figured the Bollmanns would stay here forever. The United States government says otherwise. I beg to differ.

Tip jars are taking over this town

What’s up with everyone wanting tips these days? I recently had lunch at a place where you order at the counter, wait for the chow to be cooked and then carry it to the table yourself. And, if you are nice, you clear the table when you are done. I would pretty much call that self-service. Yet, next to the cash register, was a small box asking for tips. Tips for what? It seems I’m doing all the work but ringing up the sale and cooking it. I consider myself a fairly generous tipper, especially when I received good service, which, for me, really means taking my order, getting me my food in a timely manner and refilling my water glass. I recently stopped at an ice cream counter. The clerk scooped the fudge ripple, put it on a cone, took my money, and gave me change. But, there, on top of the ice cream case— you guessed it — a cup for tips. Maybe if I’d thrown in some change, I would have received two scoops instead of one. The fact of the matter was, I really didn’t need one either. But I wanted one. Then, there’s a chain of coffee places where you drive up to the menu board, give your order, drive up to the window, pay, get your order and take off. And, there’s a tip box right outside the window. Outside of the pleasure of sitting in a long line cars and wasting over-priced gas, why should I leave a tip? A tip, or gratuity, is most often described as a payment made to certain service sector workers beyond the advertised price. Service is the key word here. I don’t consider it “service” when I order food at the cash register and have to pick it up myself. However, if I sit at a table and someone takes my order and brings it to me, that to me is “service.” A tip is most likely warranted. 

I've survived the first year without my dad

Monday marks the one-year anniversary of my father’s death. I am at the point where I can write and talk about it with minimal tears. I’ve made the passage through all the “firsts” like first Christmas without him, first birthday of his without him, etc. But I still think of him daily. In fact, several times a day. In my laundry hang a pair of his pants that I had washed for him. I just never got around to taking them back to him before he passed away. I have left them in the same spot for more than a year now. There is a sense of peace in seeing that familiar pair of pants that he wore often because they were comfortable. Now they bring comfort to me. When I visit mom, I usually find a few minutes just to sit in dad’s chair. I swear I can sometimes I smell him. There’s a real sense of security when I just sit there. My mom has only parted with a handful of my father’s things. I’m glad because it means there are physical memories for me. My daughters now have one of his favorite pair of suspenders. And, I have the pants. But we all have more than that. We were given a lasting legacy of a man who never made the headlines but has filled our lives with warm memories and even more love.

Just let me know about 'greenbacks'

The flavor of the month has been clogging up my e-mail box for about the last week. And, I’m not talking news from Baskin-Robbins. It seems like everyone and their brother, neighbors, etc. feels they need to push their “green” products on this journalist. In my trash folder, I have four e-mails from the same public relations firm, on the same subject: eco-friendly back to school ideas. I say send the kids with a chalkboard, chalk and eraser. Forget the lined paper and save a tree. Even Yahoo! has gotten in on the act with this e-mail pitch: “For many parents, back-to-school means green -- spending green that is. However, back-to-school can mean a different kind of green. As families plan for back-to-school, Yahoo!’s green expert has tips and tools to help families become and stay green throughout the school year. From school supplies to carpool, Yahoo! has the inside scoop on going green.” Here’s another, from a different entity, “Book bags, gym bags and sports equipment are thrown everywhere and are often covered in germs. Unfortunately, germs can create bad odors. Odorzout is a natural green answer that will get the smell out! It doesn’t mask, perfume or cover up an odor, it just eliminates it!” It does go on to say the retail price is $9.99 and up. Hey, if this some of this stuff can be thrown in the washing machine, with an eco-friendly detergent, why not try that? Let the other stuff hang outside to air out. And, here’s the real spoiler: A “green” birthday party where children invite party guests to contribute money online. The Web site behind this then pools and divides the fund with half going toward the purchase of “ONE memorable gift for the birthday child and the other half going to a charity of their choice.” They talking two kinds of “green here.” as in green for the environment and green in “greenbacks” slang for paper currency. I say send out Evites and let the kid have their birthday money. If they want to donate it, that’s their choice. But if it’s a smart kid, they, themselves, will be their favorite charity. I’m taking a hiatus from reading e-mails with “green” in the subject line from addresses I don’t recognize. However, I will continue to read about “greenbacks.”

Tell it to the person, not to Ann Landers

It’s amazing the things people will tell Ann Landers. OK, they are not really talking to Ann Landers, or I don’t think so, because she’s dead. But people are still sending her tales of woe that are published under the banner of “Annie’s Mailbox.” One woman writes in to complain that her son’s female friend doesn’t brush her teeth. And, she’s wondering if there is some type of mental illness that keeps her from oral hygiene. The reply included possible phobias that could keep the toothbrush and toothpaste at bay. There’s even mention that the young female chooses not clean her teeth because she’s been abused. This is a lot of information garnered from a few short paragraphs. Could it be that the young woman is forgetful? Maybe the tooth fairy never visited her. And, maybe, just maybe, she doesn’t like brushing her teeth. After all, they are her teeth and she is free to with them what she wishes. My advice to the letter writer: Butt out. And be grateful the young woman doesn’t knock out your pearly whites for writing this letter. Or, she can visit http://nicecritic.com/ and send an anonymous and free e-mail to the young woman. Better yet, why doesn’t she just talk to her face to face.