Last week, we packed up our truck, loaded the kids and headed for Texas. Our drive took us through the length of Illinois, across Missouri, down into Oklahoma and then into Texas. With the exception of the Ozark Mountains that drive is all flat terrain and there isn't much to see unless you count Missouri's miles of churches, firework stores and porn shops. Wait, that's not entirely true, we might have passed a billboard for the world's largest rocking chair. 

That thousand mile drive was made possible by one iPad, two movie players and the shear will to survive. 

Like it or not, driving is the most affordable way to transport a family of five. Before Heidi and Whitney were born we used to fly everywhere. Then the other two came along and we multiplied airfare times five and then we decided that we REALLY LIKE DRIVING!

This is a "working vacation" (details to come) with lots of Oma and Opa time for the kids. So far, the weather has been unbelievably gorgeous and we've tried spending as much time outdoors as possible. The things Texans take for granted, in January, such as sipping a cup of coffee while sitting on the patio, a walk through the park or getting into your car without having to kick five pounds of slush off the bottom of your boots...well, Texas, let me tell you: you need to start yourself a gratitude journal!

As we were pulling out of the Costco parking lot this weekend, Heidi asked if she could have a croissant. Sure, why not? Nothing wrong with a buttery, flaky croissant except I don't make a habit of keeping a croissant on my person. So I told her, "Sorry babe, but I don't have a croissant," and then a blistering rage rolled out of her thirty-five pound body.

The ride home looked something like this:

The whole way home she screamed, and cried, and convulsed, "I WANT A CROISSANT! I WANT A CROISSANT!" Stuff was shooting out of her mouth and her nose. It wasn't until we got home that I realized she hadn't been asking for a croissant, but a Capri-Sun, which I found to be somewhat disappointing. It was bad enough that I'd had to listen to her temper tantrum for ten miles because she couldn't have a fancy, French pastry, but pitching a fit over a bag of juice? It's what the French call malappris, or ill-bred.

I call it: grownin' me some malappris young-ungs.

So I didn’t win the lottery, again. It happens all the time and it’s probably because I never play the lottery and also...because...well....it’s the lottery. No one wins, ever. Except the winner. And how happy for those lottery winners, are we?

One of the grocery store chains here in our town occasionally runs store sponsored scratch-off games. Buy a specific brand of cottage cheese or a minimum amount of groceries and the check-out person presses a thin stack of ‘tickets’ into your hand, along with the grocery receipt.

There’s usually a small pile of those unscratched tickets laying next to my car keys by our front door. Once in a while when I need a non-Internet distraction, I’ll find a quarter and scratch the silver film off the cards to see what I haven’t won.

On Saturday night, I plunked the stack of scratch-off tickets onto the coffee table, gave each of the girls a quarter and showed them how to play a grocery store scratch-off game. (It’s all about education, people.) After we’d scratched off all the losing tickets we piled them into the center of the coffee table and then sat back looking over our heap of failure. After a moment or two, Heidi stood up and walked around the table, collected everyone’s quarters and then headed for her room.

I sat there for another moment and then realized I’d just been pick-pocketed while playing a fixed, carnival game.

If you had to rate my cocktail party skill-set between one and ten it would probably be a negative seven. I don’t mean the drinking part, I can do that. I will drink circles around you and then excuse myself go to the ladies room where I’ll re-apply my eyeliner with the steadiest of hands.

No, I’m talking about the small talk part. Small talk is like ping-pong and I’m no good at ping-pong. Sure I can hit that hollow ball over the net a couple times, but inevitably it comes bouncing back to me wanting to talk about cupcake recipes. At which point I panic and smash the ball until it’s thin enough to fit into my wallet.

I just finished reading Expecting Adam, a memoir about an Ivy League woman and her journey through pregnancy while carrying a baby with Down Syndrome. The author, Martha Beck, received a PhD from Harvard, has written multiple books and speaks Japanese. Just a regular o’ gal like you and me.

In her book, she explains that in Japanese there are two words for thing: koto and mono. Koto means something abstract or tangible whereas mono means something physical. I do better when faced with a koto conversation. I will talk for hours and hours about your ideas, your thoughts on life, however, I don’t want to know why your driveway needs to be repaved.

At one point in her book, the author recounts a conversation between herself (who prefers to discuss koto things) and her in-laws (who’d rather discuss mono things). What follows is that dialog between the author and her in-laws. (It revolves around her mother-in-law’s hair):

John: So, you’ll go over to Jolyn’s (the hairdresser). Does she do a good job?

Faye: Oh, a pretty good job. I like the way she combs it out.

Jay: Huh! Well it looks good.

John: Yeah, Mom, it looks good.

Faye: Yes, Jolyn does a pretty good job.

The author (or me mingling at a party): You know, humans are the only species of primates that don’t do much mutual grooming. I think that’s why women talk so much to their hairdressers. Being groomed sort of triggers the old social-bonding instinct. Don’t you think that’s likely?

That last line is where I smash the ball until it’s bookmark thin. It’s also when the ping-pong table buckles under the awkward silence and falls onto our toes.