The Way It Is: Lessons from YouTube

With my kid brother preparing for his first year of college, I'm convinced my parents are already suffering the effects of ENS. Empty Nest Syndrome.

"What's your schedule look like for Father's Day," my mother asked during one of our daily phone conversations.

I had plans to get some work done in the office and a few things around the house, but things quickly changed.

"Well, your dad and I bought a boat and plan to take it out for the first time on Sunday," Mom pronounced.

A boat? What? They'd gone 25 years with my brother and I begging them to get a boat. We move out and poof, they buy a boat.

I quickly cleared my calendar of any activities for Sunday afternoon and pulled my swimsuit from the jaws of The Laundry Monster.

"I can't wait for you to see it," Mom chirped on one of our next phone conversations. "I learned that it needed deoxidized, and you should see it now."

Realizing that my parents knew next to nothing about boat ownership prior to buying their first boat, I began to fear for my safety on said Father's Day adventure.

"Your dad has been a nervous wreck, so he's doing a ton of research online and reading magazines and books," she said, trying to be reassuring.

When the big day finally arrived, Dad had managed to launch the boat with little help from the kid brother, who left his cell phone on the dock causing a minor catastrophe.

As my male counterpart and I neared the lake we were greeted with the site of my absentminded sibling skidding across the water as his tube wavered behind the boat.

Guess Dad got his revenge.

We boarded the boat for hours of water fun before deciding to head home.

"Who's gonna steer the boat while I back the trailer down," Dad asked?

Steer the boat? What did he mean steer the boat?

Mom reminded him that in his moment of nervousness, he had failed to allow any of us to drive the boat.

Luckily, my male counterpart had spent an entire summer driving boats a few years back and quickly volunteered.

Tightening the straps of my life jacket, I bravely asked, "Does Dad know what he's doing with the trailer?"
Mom's reply?

"Sure, he's watched a ton of YouTube videos."

Avoiding "The Laundry Monster"

Daily Forum column for 6-17

I've never really feared the monsters lurking in my closet or the boogie man in the basement — one quick flick of the light switch and those guys are history.

It's the multicolored mammoth made of cotton and polyester that makes my skin curl.

Around my home, its name is The Laundry Monster, and every two to three weeks it decides to take a nap near my washing machine.

About the time my male counterpart runs out of clean socks, the monster really starts to roar.
Fearing for my life, I take refuge in the empty closet.

When I was little, I never had to fear The Laundry Monster. My dad took care of that.

Having what my family considers borderline OCD for doing laundry, I lucked out and never saw that on my chore list.

As a college student, I helped feed my dad's obsession and made sure to bring home my dirty laundry on the weekends.

Now that I'm older and Dad is more than 100 miles away, I face The Laundry Monster with nothing more than basket and some fabric softener, or just run and hide until my disgruntled, sock-less roommate takes over.

I can do laundry. I know that whites require hot water and that a laundry sack is God's gift to delicates. It's The Laundry Monster's request to be folded, hung and put away that does me in.

Several weeks ago I decided to take down The Laundry Monster in celebratory fashion. With satellite radio blaring through the house, I piled the contents of four or so clean laundry baskets onto my freshly vacuumed, living room floor.

With plenty of space to sort and "get jiggy" while I completed the tedious task, I singlehandedly defeated the monster.

A few weeks later, the demon once again showed its ugly head.

"Let's have a laundry party," I pronounced, making it sound way more fun than I knew it would be.

Halfway through the pile, my partner jumped ship and retreated to the closet. I gathered up the remains and shoved them back in the laundry basket for another day. Round 2 went to The Laundry Monster.

So when I arrived home from work earlier this week, I was greeted to a man with a laundry basket. Never the sight you want to come home to after a long hard day at the office.

"Let me grab a bite to eat and I'll come help," I stated as he began to fold.

With the remains of my sandwich in hand, I peaked into the bedroom.

Excuse number two — "Since you've already got a handle on that, I'm going to vacuum real quick and then I'll come help."

After vacuuming the entire house, I peaked in again.

"I'm not sure what that spot is on the floor, I'm going to get the shampooer out."

A few hours and a spotless floor later, the laundry was folded.

"Don't think you got off that easy," my laundry maid stated. "Your stuff's in the basket."

There in the corner, The Laundry Monster let out a growl from a stack of my folded clothing left to be put away.

The Way It Is: Embracing my hereditary randomness

Daily Forum Column for 6-9-11

My mother started it, so it's all her fault. As it usually is.

It's no secret to any person with a pulse, who knows me and has met my mother, that I am exactly like her. Exactly.

My own father, brother, grandmother and grandfather have confused us on the phone, and often in person.

So the other day, my mother started something that got me thinking.

There on Facebook, for the world to see, my mother created a post about being random. As in, a random person.

She blamed my kid brother for randomly telling her that she was "the most random person he knew."

Can't say I disagree with the kid. I'm actually kind of impressed that the kid who once refused to call Frosted Flakes anything but tiger flakes and actually thought he was Darth Vader a time or two, realized our mother's randomness on his own.

She is pretty random, but as I always referred to it as crazy.

My mother, who is by far the most organized person I know, is in fact the most random person I know.

I recall moments of confusion as a kid when my mother would so rudely barge into the bathroom during my relaxing shower to vent a frustration, or simply tell me something she had forgotten to before.

Conversations about our day could turn to stories about bodily gasses or the weird things people wear in an instant. Nothing is out of the ordinary when it comes to my mom.

But reflecting on her randomness has lead me to the conclusion that being random may just be hereditary, like Canavan's disease or going bald.

I've already inherited her dashingly good looks, ability to multi-task and love for pickles; why not her randomness too?

Often times I have been pegged goofy or unique for my abilities to verbalize a random thought at very quiet moments around the office.

Take for example my random outburst, to anyone who was listening, that "Oh, my, God! June 22 is National Onion Rings Day!" And with that, I went back to work.

Just the other day I caught myself committing a crime I had once charged her with and blamed on insanity.

As I barged in on my unsuspecting, male counterpart during his time in the shower to tell him what cool new thing our saltwater fish had done, it hit me. I'm just as random as my mother.

I fired off the talents of our new Nemo at warp speeds and darted out of the bathroom as quickly as I had entered. It was off to the next random thing on my to-do list.

The Way It Is: A "what were we thinking" moment

Daily Forum Column for 6-2

You know those times when you stop and ask yourself "what was I thinking?" Well, this one was one of those times.

As the very excited, four-legged fur ball stood shaking on my chest, the lack of light entering the seams of our curtains told me it was early. Too early.

It was obvious that the bedroom intruder needed to go outside and realizing it was just 3 a.m., I couldn't help but wonder "what was I thinking?"

My other half and I had agreed to puppy-sit for his parents 1-year-old Shih Tzu — for an entire week.

As if the early morning intrusion wasn't enough, the little Shih chewed up a few living room fixtures, also while we were sleeping.

What were we thinking?

The next night went much the same with a few added moments of frustration as the little guy couldn't find his way onto our bed after jumping off, several times.

I was awakened, a final time, by the sound of the little guy getting a stern talking to from the other half.

"Bunker! That's bad!" he hollered from the living room.

After deciding one of them probably needed rescued, I reached for my glasses and went to assess the situation.

There was Bunker, tail wagging with excitement, holding a plastic, fish aquarium plant within his crooked little teeth, oblivious to the fact that he was being scolded.

I'm still not entirely sure where he found the aquarium greenery but it was dry, so the fish appeared to have escaped any major turmoil, this time.

What were we thinking?

"He never does that at home," his doggie mommy pronounced from her sunny Florida vacation spot.

As luck would have it, I remembered her also making mention of his favorite bed at one time or another. It was more like a thick, wool dish towel after his daily use had worn the stuffing to nothing, but a dog bed nonetheless.

Her stories of the bed involved Bunker dragging the thing into their bedroom and onto their bed each night. I could only hope the beloved wool scrap would allow us to get some sleep.

We already knew we were crazy for taking on what equaled a third dog inside our house, going out of the way to get the dog his bed hardly seemed nuts.

So the third night, with Bunker's bed placed firmly atop our comforter, the little guy snuggled in at my feet. Our Shih Tzu princess, Stella, decided it was finally safe to emerge from her hiding place underneath the bed and reclaim her spot near my pillow. Things were looking up.

With minimal, midnight intrusions and nothing strung across the living room floor, the doggie bed proved its worth.

We made it though the next few nights only to find a few socks and flip flops strung thought the house and
"Bunker! That's bad!" was only uttered another time or two.

The little guy was given a brush though and sprayed with a bit of Stella's pooch perfume — to cover the smell of slobber that he was covered in from a week's worth of canine capers — before being sent home to mom.

What were we thinking?

The Way It Is: When it rains on your parade

Daily Forum column for 5-26

Nothing brings out the true colors of family more than an entire weekend of togetherness.
As typical, Midwest thunderstorms fell over southwest Iowa on the day of my kid brother's graduation reception, the women of my family sprang into action.

Communicating solely with what I believe to be a form of ESP that only women understand, Mom raced to rescue the tables and chairs with Dad in tow. Grandma made a run to the nearest dollar store for additional supplies while I quickly got to bossing around my other half. He's so handy sometimes.

With just hours remaining before the scheduled start of the party, the clan came to a heartbreaking consensus that the rental tent set up in the back yard would need to be moved.

After all, we didn't want Great Grandma trudging through what was now a swamp to get to the pasta bar.

So, after a call for reinforcements, a break in the weather and with the six family members present at the time, we each grabbed a support pole of the miniature circus tent.

While the family dogs found it fun to dodge in and out of plastic flaps, we marched in unison the way troops do after receiving orders.

Guiding the large white marquee around the lilacs and between the dog kennels, making sure Grandma didn't step in the rabbit hole, the men of the family "steered the bus" through the flower bed to the front of the house. Guess that's what we get for letting the men "drive."

My brother's friend was left nearly decapitated by a large bush and someone smelled of dog doo as we collectively released our grip.

The yard party that my mother had spent weeks weeding, planting and planning, would now be a garage party. Darn rain anyway.

We each had our own idea as to how the tent should be stationed near the garage entrance and the first of many family feuds ensued.

With raindrops beginning to fall, once again, the eight of us grabbed a pole and turned it lengthwise, then widthwise and back again.

Dad eventually won the battle and the support cables were staked in place just as a clap of thunder crackled over head.

Being the streamer master of the family, I began twisting the colored tissue while my other half used his height to secure them to the garage ceiling.

Within the hour the streamers nearly touched the ground, damp with the lingering humidity. Darn rain anyway.

Inside, my mother's friends took charge of the food. Giant pots of alfredo and marinara sauce bubbled on the stove while garlic bread nearly caught fire in the oven.

Grandma handed over the tongs and waved her white flag, retreating to the garage.

With just an hour to spare Dad and the brother fought over the single shower while my other half cracked open his first beer. Guess he'd earned that one after two days with my family.

The Way It Is: Once a Bearcat, Always a Bearcat

Daily Forum column for 5-19-11

I always thought that "Once a Bearcat, always a Bearcat" saying they say was a little cliche and well, corny, but apparently they, whoever "they" are, were really on to something.

With a deep love for my alma mater and proud supporter of those fierce and feisty kitty cats, that saying just sounded like a bit of a no brainer. Of course I'll be a Bearcat forever, what else would I be? A Griffon? I don't think so, but I won't even begin to open that can of worms.

As a fairly recent member of the Northwest alumni, maybe I just hadn't had a chance for that well-known saying to sink in, until a recent luncheon.

As it were, my grandmother came to town, as she so often does to visit her "favorite, oldest granddaughter;" but this time, she brought a friend.

Driving Miss Daisy, and her friend, from here to there around Maryville, we began making small talk as we waited at the South Main stop light — you know that light that takes an eternity to change.

Come to find out, grandma's companion, a frail woman who wore her life's stories along her smile lines, was a fellow Bearcat.

As we drove along, the memories came flooding back to her 70-something memory.

This woman, who claimed that she had not been on campus since the 1950s, could still pinpoint the exact window of her dorm room in Roberta Hall — but it wasn't Roberta back then.

She recalled living in Kansas City at the time of the infamous explosion of the then women's residence hall that killed Roberta Steel in April of 1951, and her moving to town, where she rented a single bedroom of a house on Fourth Street — the house is still standing.

With a newfound sense of pride for the campus I once called home, that I so often take for granted, we continued our journey on the time-machine through campus.

Several things had changed since my fellow alumna's last visit.

As she struggled to recall what it looked like in her day, facing the newly-constructed Hudson and Perrin Halls, she was quick to point out the exact location where her husband had proposed to her more than 60 years ago. Thankfully, it had not been replaced with a concrete structure and though a light pole remained, I highly doubt it was the same light pole he used to steady himself before taking a knee.

Turns out, we Bearcat women both found our significant others as a student and shared many of the same experiences though decades that separated our adventures. Many of her family members also share the Bearcat pride and even hold small marks on the history that is the Northwest.

While the Administration Building "looks just the way it did back then," the bell tower was non-existent in her memory.

We continued around the loop, each sharing memories and reminiscing.

Come to find out, we had a sorority rivalry in the making. I never thought, as a proud member of Northwest's Sigma Sigma Sigma sorority, that I would get into scuffle as to who the better women were with an 77-year-old member of Alpha Sigma Alpha. I'm not sure we decided who won that argument — the football field distracted us.

As I was forced to leave my new friend and head back to the confine that is a reporter’s desk, I couldn't help but think "Once a Bearcat, always a Bearcat," and I let out a whispered "B-E-A-R...."

–Megan Tilk is a reporter and weekly columnist for the Mary ville Daily Forum. She can be reached at mtilk@maryvilledailyforum.com or follow her columns at www.megantilk.blogspot.com.

The Way It Is: Glitter, Glitz and Potty Breaks

Daily Forum column for 5-12-11.

We'd prepared for months, but following four years of experience, I knew that no amount of practice would help me fully know what to expect.

I'm a dance instructor, part-time, and know full well to expect the unexpected when it comes to recitals.

More than 100 children of all ages, sparkly costumes, loud music, sugar and a whole lot of waiting. It's a recipe for disaster.

My older, more experienced children left me with little to worry about other than making sure their costumes weren't tucked into their tights or that they had the right shoes on — or that they had their shoes on. Sometimes I wonder where their thoughts go.

It's the little ones that never cease to amaze me.

Good rehearsals lead to...

My final run through with said little one — a 4-year-old blonde named Allison, with a streak of independence — worried me.

They say that good rehearsals lead to bad performances and Miss Allison and I had just had a wonderful stage rehearsal together.

For her tumbling routine, she hopped like a bunny, rolled like a log, did the crab walk and even did the "big-girl" somersaults, all by herself.

Our next meeting added a bit of pressure.

Complete with a full costume — the glittery, pink kind — Miss Allison was to perform her routine on stage, with a smaller version of a audience, during dress rehearsal.

Now during practice, Miss Allison had a tendency to force poor Miss Megan, being me, into performing all requested dance moves with no regard to my age or physical ability.

"Miss Megan, you do it," she would giggle. And together, we would get to all fours and crab walk across the studio.

I was completely mortified that she would make such a request during the actual recital performance. Did I mention, in front of an audience of 200 people?

On with the show-

The night of Miss Allison's stage debut began as most dance recitals I know tend to.... mass chaos.

Dance moms chased half-naked children around the dressing room in an attempt to outfit them with the itchy, glittery tutus. Dads and grandparents wandered aimlessly looking for the best spot to perch the family video camera.

Back stage, Miss Allison and I exchanged our "good luck gifts" and I prepped her with the classic warning I got more than 20 years ago from my instructor.

"Now, Miss Allison, if our shoe falls off on stage what do we do," I asked?

"Oh well, keep on dancing," she replied.

"And if we forget to do that last somersault, what do we do?"

"Oh well, keep on dancing."

This kid was good.

I took her hand and lead her back stage.

As the audience applauded the group before us and I reminded Miss Allison that we were next, out came the unexpected.
"Miss Megan, I have to potty!"

Needless to say, we cut her performance a bit short — one less log roll here, two less cartwheels there — it was then, on with the show.

–Megan Tilk is a reporter and weekly columnist for the Mary ville Daily Forum. She can be reached at mtilk@maryvilledailyforum.com or follow her columns at www.megantilk.blogspot.com.