So I'm passing out the souvenirs that I bought in Tahoe and I hand Omega a hoodie sweatshirt which she looks over before excitedly reading the printing on the front.
"Lake Tahoe, California... wait... CALIFORNIA?!"
She looks at me like I've played some horrible trick on her.
"Um... yeah?"
"You went to California? You didn't tell me you were going to CALIFORNIA!" she says in her huffy voice.
"Where did you think Lake Tahoe was?" I'm assuming that she probably thinks it's exclusively in Nevada but I'm enjoying the idea that she believes I was in 'California', which to her means Disneyland and beaches and hot surfer boys.
"I thought it was in like Idaho... or maybe Utah. Not California!"
And now I have to cross geography teacher and travel agent as well as pioneer off her list of career possibilities.
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Friday, October 3, 2008
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Whyld Weekend
Okaynotreally wild, but... oh, jeez, I don't have time for adjectives if you want the skinny.
First of all there was the high school homecoming football game... that our team lost. But the cheerleaders were spectacular. This one was my favorite :
First of all there was the high school homecoming football game... that our team lost. But the cheerleaders were spectacular. This one was my favorite :
And there was no homecoming rain for the first time in many years!Then there was Saturday, which was basically Jane running ragged... looking for jewelry, a certain makeup and double-faced tape to keep the dress in place - all necessary prep for the dance on Saturday night. Doesn't sound like much but the jewelry thing was a pain. Omega was at her 'day activity' - part of the daylong date process. Okay, I did sneak in quite a bit of shopping for myself. I didn't buy much but I enjoyed looking.
Then there were the standard manis and pedis to cure, hair to curl, not makeup to do, though. Mom doesn't do the makeup. Omega is quite the picky pants about the makeup.
Look! It's Homecoming Barbie!
And then we took lots of pictures and the boys came and we took even more pictures and then we sent them off:
Awww... so sweet... off to dinner and the dance!
Then I heaved a sigh and prepared to do some serious relaxing... but cleaned house until about 11, when I thought I was going to bed. Turns out the neighbor's dog was barking obnoxiously, which makes it hard to nod off, so Homer decided to go check out the situation. Ten minutes later, Pepperann started barking. Yes barking. It wasn't very loud or practiced but it was persistant. She barked and ran frantically from me to the backdoor to me to the front door back to me barking "Get up,dummy! There's treachery afoot!" Seriously, I expected to find that Timmy had fallen down a well.
Eventually, I got out of bed and I turned on the front lights... nothing. I turned on the back lights... nothing. Well, except for that cop shining a flashlight in Homer's face. And the cop was yelling and Homer was laughing so I opened the door and asked what was going on. The cop asked me if I knew that guy. I swear I only hesitated for like a few seconds before admitting ownership. Turns out someone had reported the barking dog and when the cops showed up, here was Homer hanging over the fence and when the cop shined his flashlight on him, as the cop put it 'He looked like a deer in the headlights'. So I explained to the officer that the dog had been barking and Homer was trying to calm him because the dog likes Homer. The officer was pissed because he was shining the light in Homer's face and Homer was putting his hand up to block the light and the cop told him that if he didn't drop his hand, he was going to have to 'put him down'. Thus the cop yelling and Mr. Bad Judgment laughing at the cop.
After giving Homer severe stink eye, and telling the cop how to block the dog door so the dog would be trapped inside the house next door - hell, I wasn't going to get in the middle of the mess and risk getting 'put down' - I grabbed Homer and pushed him into the house - suppressing the urge to tell the cop he was mentally challenged.
Men, I swear! I'm sure they both were justified in their actions... the cop had no idea what kind of a nut he was dealing with... and Homer probably had every right to look surprised by a flashlight in the face, but I don't even want to think about what would have happened if the Princess hadn't sensed that there was a whole bunch of stupid going on outside.
Sunday was my big day. I went shopping for a clothes washer. Woo hoo. I'm only being slightly facetious. The old Kenmore has put in almost 25 years and it just ain't all that it used to be. I've been drooling over the new high efficiency models and I think I have my new laundry partner picked out. I looked at several retailers around town, who were selling basically all the same stuff but it was Leonard at the H'Depot that captured my heart, because he was the only one who mentioned that I would get $150 in rebates from my local utilities. I *heart* Leonard. I am hoping to *heart* LG very soon.
In other exciting Sunday news, Homer made some awesome shrimp fettucine for dinner, so... I may have to keep him for a bit longer.
And today the countdown begins... FIVE days until vacation! And, be jealous because it's a week-long chick-trip!
Happy Monday every buddy!
Thursday, April 5, 2007
What's in your drawer?
In our living room we have an end table with a drawer. The drawer is useful for storing those odd little living room things like coasters and pens and batteries and paperclips and postcards that are too pretty to throw and, of course, maps of every national park in the western U.S. because you never know when you may get the urge to plan a camping trip to torture the teenagers.
It’s a pretty full drawer but it wasn’t always that way. In simpler times, when we owned barely one child, it was mostly empty.
When Lola was a bit shy of age 2 (I’m guessing here because I am, after all, the non-documenting parent) she had a relationship with that drawer that will stick with me long after Alzheimer’s has erased the memory of breakfast.
Lola used to put things in that drawer and close it and open it to see if the item was still there and when she saw that it was she would be SO surprised and take the item out, look at it and put it back in. Wash, rinse, repeat. Over and over. I vaguely remember some child development axiom that says this is an important step in learning that things which are out of sight, do not actually disappear for good. Whatever. I don’t know nothing about no child development but I do recognize something that will keep a kid entertained for hours.
Harmless fun. Until……
The child decides to put her hand in the drawer. And close it. Well, if it works with the little Weeble toy, it oughta work with your hand, right? Um, no. Which becomes evidenced by the primal screams that send the cat right up the drapes. So, open drawer, remove hand. Close drawer. Wait for pain to subside. Open drawer. Insert hand. Close drawer – not so hard this time because a little something was learned last time. Scream. Open drawer, remove hand. Look at hand. Put back in drawer. Close drawer. More gently this time because that may be the key. Cry in frustration. Stamp foot. Remove hand. Test again with the Weeble…..which works fine so….again.. with.. the.. other.. hand….
You probably wonder where I was in all this. Obviously nearby since I seem to know exactly what happened. Yes, indeed, I stood there watching the whole thing. Part disbelief and part intense curiosity – the very same things that make you unable to turn away from a bad car wreck!
I will admit here and now that very small people frighten me. I have no memory of being that age so I have nothing to work from. Sure I could read books and stuff but who has time for that – unless you don’t have any kids and then what would be the point? I worked full-time and my children were victims of daycare. "OH NO," you say "surely they are headed for rot and ruin." Um, no. So far so good. I think it was the best thing for them. Not because of anything those studies tell you about daycare but because they had teachers that were SO much more competent than their mother in the child development area (we won't even go into their father who thought everything should be done like his parents did it - thith ith ne hoding ny tongue on thath).
But really, daycare is so amazing. You hand over your whole monthly paycheck to these people and they tell you precisely what to worry about and what is normal. It's like a daily visit with the pediatrician. Jeez, they even potty train the kid for you and that would be worth all the rest of my money if I had any when I was done paying for daycare.
But I digress. So there I was watching the whole hand-slamming episode and part of me was thinking “I should take notes so Ms. Bonnie (who is a grandmother) can tell me if all this is normal” and the other part of me was thinking “this is like physics lab for toddlers”. Real hands-on learning, if you will.
Besides, she never once asked for my input and she does still own two fully functional hands leading me to think the lesson was eventually learned... without my help.
So you’re probably wondering "Jane, what does this have to do with anything in the here and now, 15 years later?" I was, too, for a minute but then I remembered where I was headed with this.
I have a drawer of my own. It’s called Wal*mart. As Omega and I left that store last night – without the photos that were ordered 9 days ago but weren’t available as promised, and without all the other things that we had picked out but, instead left at an empty checkout because there were precisely 2 checkouts open and no less than 10 people in each line, I thought about that drawer. I am certainly not condemning all Wal*marts and maybe not even the one in my neighborhood. Maybe I just have hideously bad luck. What I question is why I keep going back to a place that consistently gets me so riled! It really is ‘always something’ and still I GO BACK. I keep slamming my hand in the Wal*mart drawer.
I need to put a big sign on the dash of my car that says “Stay away from Wal*mart, STUPID!
Otherwise, I’m pretty sure my daughters are going to be taking notes so they can ask their Psychology teachers what to worry about and what is normal because there is no daycare for parents that are still employed and own the house you live in.
So, do you have a drawer of your own? Something you can’t seem to get through your head? Maybe you are just as masochistic as me.
It’s a pretty full drawer but it wasn’t always that way. In simpler times, when we owned barely one child, it was mostly empty.
When Lola was a bit shy of age 2 (I’m guessing here because I am, after all, the non-documenting parent) she had a relationship with that drawer that will stick with me long after Alzheimer’s has erased the memory of breakfast.
Lola used to put things in that drawer and close it and open it to see if the item was still there and when she saw that it was she would be SO surprised and take the item out, look at it and put it back in. Wash, rinse, repeat. Over and over. I vaguely remember some child development axiom that says this is an important step in learning that things which are out of sight, do not actually disappear for good. Whatever. I don’t know nothing about no child development but I do recognize something that will keep a kid entertained for hours.
Harmless fun. Until……
The child decides to put her hand in the drawer. And close it. Well, if it works with the little Weeble toy, it oughta work with your hand, right? Um, no. Which becomes evidenced by the primal screams that send the cat right up the drapes. So, open drawer, remove hand. Close drawer. Wait for pain to subside. Open drawer. Insert hand. Close drawer – not so hard this time because a little something was learned last time. Scream. Open drawer, remove hand. Look at hand. Put back in drawer. Close drawer. More gently this time because that may be the key. Cry in frustration. Stamp foot. Remove hand. Test again with the Weeble…..which works fine so….again.. with.. the.. other.. hand….
You probably wonder where I was in all this. Obviously nearby since I seem to know exactly what happened. Yes, indeed, I stood there watching the whole thing. Part disbelief and part intense curiosity – the very same things that make you unable to turn away from a bad car wreck!
I will admit here and now that very small people frighten me. I have no memory of being that age so I have nothing to work from. Sure I could read books and stuff but who has time for that – unless you don’t have any kids and then what would be the point? I worked full-time and my children were victims of daycare. "OH NO," you say "surely they are headed for rot and ruin." Um, no. So far so good. I think it was the best thing for them. Not because of anything those studies tell you about daycare but because they had teachers that were SO much more competent than their mother in the child development area (we won't even go into their father who thought everything should be done like his parents did it - thith ith ne hoding ny tongue on thath).
But really, daycare is so amazing. You hand over your whole monthly paycheck to these people and they tell you precisely what to worry about and what is normal. It's like a daily visit with the pediatrician. Jeez, they even potty train the kid for you and that would be worth all the rest of my money if I had any when I was done paying for daycare.
But I digress. So there I was watching the whole hand-slamming episode and part of me was thinking “I should take notes so Ms. Bonnie (who is a grandmother) can tell me if all this is normal” and the other part of me was thinking “this is like physics lab for toddlers”. Real hands-on learning, if you will.
Besides, she never once asked for my input and she does still own two fully functional hands leading me to think the lesson was eventually learned... without my help.
So you’re probably wondering "Jane, what does this have to do with anything in the here and now, 15 years later?" I was, too, for a minute but then I remembered where I was headed with this.
I have a drawer of my own. It’s called Wal*mart. As Omega and I left that store last night – without the photos that were ordered 9 days ago but weren’t available as promised, and without all the other things that we had picked out but, instead left at an empty checkout because there were precisely 2 checkouts open and no less than 10 people in each line, I thought about that drawer. I am certainly not condemning all Wal*marts and maybe not even the one in my neighborhood. Maybe I just have hideously bad luck. What I question is why I keep going back to a place that consistently gets me so riled! It really is ‘always something’ and still I GO BACK. I keep slamming my hand in the Wal*mart drawer.
I need to put a big sign on the dash of my car that says “Stay away from Wal*mart, STUPID!
Otherwise, I’m pretty sure my daughters are going to be taking notes so they can ask their Psychology teachers what to worry about and what is normal because there is no daycare for parents that are still employed and own the house you live in.
So, do you have a drawer of your own? Something you can’t seem to get through your head? Maybe you are just as masochistic as me.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Motherly Love
March 22
Today as I was giving Junie a ride to meet up with her herd, I asked her if she had her cell phone.
J: Yes, I have my cell phone I put it in my pocket and yes it is charged and remember that time when you were taking me to Whitney's house and you told me THREE times to put my phone in my pocket and I didn't and you dropped me off and I called you on Hannah's phone and asked if you could come back and bring my phone and you said "NO" and when I got home you yelled at me and called me a 'Little son of a B-word' and smacked me and took away my phone and gave me one of those phones that only calls you and 911?
Me (confused and carefully examining her totally serious face): Did you say that was that like a dream?
J: No, it was just my imagination running away with me cuz I like to see if you are really still paying attention or if you are totally gone somewhere else you know cuz that happens alot where I could just say anything and you would never even know.
Me: Well, it is true then.
J: What is?
Me: You are a Little Son of a B-word.
Today as I was giving Junie a ride to meet up with her herd, I asked her if she had her cell phone.
J: Yes, I have my cell phone I put it in my pocket and yes it is charged and remember that time when you were taking me to Whitney's house and you told me THREE times to put my phone in my pocket and I didn't and you dropped me off and I called you on Hannah's phone and asked if you could come back and bring my phone and you said "NO" and when I got home you yelled at me and called me a 'Little son of a B-word' and smacked me and took away my phone and gave me one of those phones that only calls you and 911?
Me (confused and carefully examining her totally serious face): Did you say that was that like a dream?
J: No, it was just my imagination running away with me cuz I like to see if you are really still paying attention or if you are totally gone somewhere else you know cuz that happens alot where I could just say anything and you would never even know.
Me: Well, it is true then.
J: What is?
Me: You are a Little Son of a B-word.
The Cur-sed Piece of.....
March 21
Upon learning of his daughter’s impending major-life-happening, Homer did what any red-blooded American father would do. He whipped out the video camera.
The male techno-creed dictates ‘your children will do it, therefore you must videotape it’. He imagines one day handing over to his daughters a heaping milk crate full of the 8mm tapes which document ALL their major-life-happenings. In response the girls will fawn all over their father and assure him that he was, indeed, the more documenting parent. Exhibit B will be the empty baby books that were MY charge. In my defense, I was just too busy keeping them from putting steak knives in the power outlets and razor blades up their noses – sue me. Besides, Daddy was always there, Handycam complete with date stamp at the ready, to record the momentous occasions and quite a few less, umm…responsible activities – ones usually orchestrated by the videographer. Have I ever mentioned the cat swimming races? I will just say if you ever have occasion to make a wager, put your money on Cattoo. I think Catwon’s fur is too long which kind of messes up his sidestroke. I will also say that these things tend to take place when I am not at home or not sober (kid-ding). But please don’t call the SPCA – they would have no patience to sort through 100+ unmarked videotapes to find the incriminating footage. At least I’m hoping they wouldn’t.
Anyhoodle, Homer bought an 8mm video camera back in the early 90’s when it was all the latest technology and he diligently read all the instructions and zoomed and night-visioned things and was unable to give it over to anyone else lest they take video WITHOUT FADING IN AND FADING OUT! Hitting the stop button without fading was a mortal sin. So said Video-Pope Homer I. He made us crazy. No event was ever so urgent that everyone couldn’t…….pause……while……the man……gets…. the…..camera…..running. No trip was too short, no car was packed too full to EVER consider leaving the video camera at home. Homer was our video Marcus Welby – always with his little black bag.
Ten years and 84 tapes later, the camera suddenly met its demise – launched down 10 concrete steps by an 8-year-old school boy all hepped up on Christmas and too much sugar. The repairman shook his head as he pulled the plug. Time for a replacement. Formats were argued over. Homer’s grand plan in buying a new digital 8mm camera was to enable us to transfer the old tapes to digital as well as acquire new footage in a familiar format. Great. Fine. Except Camera-2 was not made of the steel and stone that Camera-1 was. Although it heralds the same branding, Camera-2 would appear to be made of thin plastic held together with flimsy welds. It has been to the repair shop THREE times. With each $100 repair bill I implore Homer “Buy a new camera to record the major-life-happenings! Save this one for converting the old tapes!” Because I am pretty sure the conversion won’t happen until I either break a leg or am bedridden for a month and that’s not something I can plan for. Hope for, but not plan for.
Here I should point out that Camera-2 has never become Homer's trusty companion. The bond isn’t there, but periodically when the time is right, he brings it out. Usually it is when he can’t make it to a momentous event and so he hands over the camera, without caring about fading in OR out, and asks that I record the event. I would gladly do just that except THE FREEGIN CAMERA NEVER WORKS FOR ME. It carries the same curse as the VCR. It is probably operator error as much as camera error but I am not taking MORE than 50% of the blame. I suspect the camera has a high-tech sensor that shuts down the system when it detects anything important to be videotaped. Whatever, in my eyes it is worthless.
So, through that long and circuitous story we emerge back at the Why house Sunday night. In case you missed Part 1, Junie is about to be kidnapped by rabid cheerleaders and we need some footage to show to the police if she is not promptly returned. Homer presents Camera 2 and plugs it into the charger. I say “What do you plan to do with that Cur-sed Piece of Sh it?” No emotion. No bitterness. I have come to terms with the CPS. It refuses to work for me and I refuse to respect it.
Homer’s eyes widen. “Cur-sed Piece of Sh it? What strong language for an inanimate object.”
I say, “The CPS never works. Why don’t we snag Omega’s little video camera after she goes to sleep?”
He insists on going with the CPS, secretly thinking that this is probably nothing that the Y chromosome can’t overcome.
I’m telling him: CPS. Just saying.
So at 4:15 am, the posse arrives and as they are about to dash down the (very clean) hall, Homer says “Stop! Wait, my camera isn’t working”
Big hairy SUR-PRISE.
They pause, he fiddles. Finally, knowing we are dealing with the CPS, I say “Go ahead” to the posse. Meanwhile, Homer thinks he has it. Good. Whaddayaknow. The kidnapping takes place, I take a few stills, just for insurance and they are off! He pulls the camera from his eye.
“Did you really get all that on tape?” I say amazed.
“Well, I’m not sure, it says ‘cleaning cassette’. What does that mean?”
That means, dear, you are holding a Cur-sed Piece of Sh it.
Upon learning of his daughter’s impending major-life-happening, Homer did what any red-blooded American father would do. He whipped out the video camera.
The male techno-creed dictates ‘your children will do it, therefore you must videotape it’. He imagines one day handing over to his daughters a heaping milk crate full of the 8mm tapes which document ALL their major-life-happenings. In response the girls will fawn all over their father and assure him that he was, indeed, the more documenting parent. Exhibit B will be the empty baby books that were MY charge. In my defense, I was just too busy keeping them from putting steak knives in the power outlets and razor blades up their noses – sue me. Besides, Daddy was always there, Handycam complete with date stamp at the ready, to record the momentous occasions and quite a few less, umm…responsible activities – ones usually orchestrated by the videographer. Have I ever mentioned the cat swimming races? I will just say if you ever have occasion to make a wager, put your money on Cattoo. I think Catwon’s fur is too long which kind of messes up his sidestroke. I will also say that these things tend to take place when I am not at home or not sober (kid-ding). But please don’t call the SPCA – they would have no patience to sort through 100+ unmarked videotapes to find the incriminating footage. At least I’m hoping they wouldn’t.
Anyhoodle, Homer bought an 8mm video camera back in the early 90’s when it was all the latest technology and he diligently read all the instructions and zoomed and night-visioned things and was unable to give it over to anyone else lest they take video WITHOUT FADING IN AND FADING OUT! Hitting the stop button without fading was a mortal sin. So said Video-Pope Homer I. He made us crazy. No event was ever so urgent that everyone couldn’t…….pause……while……the man……gets…. the…..camera…..running. No trip was too short, no car was packed too full to EVER consider leaving the video camera at home. Homer was our video Marcus Welby – always with his little black bag.
Ten years and 84 tapes later, the camera suddenly met its demise – launched down 10 concrete steps by an 8-year-old school boy all hepped up on Christmas and too much sugar. The repairman shook his head as he pulled the plug. Time for a replacement. Formats were argued over. Homer’s grand plan in buying a new digital 8mm camera was to enable us to transfer the old tapes to digital as well as acquire new footage in a familiar format. Great. Fine. Except Camera-2 was not made of the steel and stone that Camera-1 was. Although it heralds the same branding, Camera-2 would appear to be made of thin plastic held together with flimsy welds. It has been to the repair shop THREE times. With each $100 repair bill I implore Homer “Buy a new camera to record the major-life-happenings! Save this one for converting the old tapes!” Because I am pretty sure the conversion won’t happen until I either break a leg or am bedridden for a month and that’s not something I can plan for. Hope for, but not plan for.
Here I should point out that Camera-2 has never become Homer's trusty companion. The bond isn’t there, but periodically when the time is right, he brings it out. Usually it is when he can’t make it to a momentous event and so he hands over the camera, without caring about fading in OR out, and asks that I record the event. I would gladly do just that except THE FREEGIN CAMERA NEVER WORKS FOR ME. It carries the same curse as the VCR. It is probably operator error as much as camera error but I am not taking MORE than 50% of the blame. I suspect the camera has a high-tech sensor that shuts down the system when it detects anything important to be videotaped. Whatever, in my eyes it is worthless.
So, through that long and circuitous story we emerge back at the Why house Sunday night. In case you missed Part 1, Junie is about to be kidnapped by rabid cheerleaders and we need some footage to show to the police if she is not promptly returned. Homer presents Camera 2 and plugs it into the charger. I say “What do you plan to do with that Cur-sed Piece of Sh it?” No emotion. No bitterness. I have come to terms with the CPS. It refuses to work for me and I refuse to respect it.
Homer’s eyes widen. “Cur-sed Piece of Sh it? What strong language for an inanimate object.”
I say, “The CPS never works. Why don’t we snag Omega’s little video camera after she goes to sleep?”
He insists on going with the CPS, secretly thinking that this is probably nothing that the Y chromosome can’t overcome.
I’m telling him: CPS. Just saying.
So at 4:15 am, the posse arrives and as they are about to dash down the (very clean) hall, Homer says “Stop! Wait, my camera isn’t working”
Big hairy SUR-PRISE.
They pause, he fiddles. Finally, knowing we are dealing with the CPS, I say “Go ahead” to the posse. Meanwhile, Homer thinks he has it. Good. Whaddayaknow. The kidnapping takes place, I take a few stills, just for insurance and they are off! He pulls the camera from his eye.
“Did you really get all that on tape?” I say amazed.
“Well, I’m not sure, it says ‘cleaning cassette’. What does that mean?”
That means, dear, you are holding a Cur-sed Piece of Sh it.
Yay, rah, rah
March 20
I have (mostly) recovered from yesterday and the weekend. It was a crazy up and down roller coaster of a weekend when put to the standards of my oatmeal-flavored life.
Since it was an unseasonably gorgeous weekend I opted to spend Saturday and much of Sunday shaping up the outside of the house. I cleaned out some more flower beds, swept the patio and pulled out, and dusted off, the patio furniture. I tidied the yard and trimmed vines and got things looking downright spiffy. I thought ‘spring has sprung’! Woo, hoo! Color me READY! This would be going up the roller coaster.
But all this came, of course, at a price. Inside the house, the weekly damage control was left undone. Well, too bad, there would be rainy days to put toward that mess. I applied my policy of ‘never do today what you can put off ‘til tomorrow’ – going down here.
By Sunday afternoon I was feeling pretty, darn self-satisfied. I was ready to sit back, put up my feet and admire my work. Outside, of course, where it was tidy.
Then the phone rang. It was a very perky high school cheerleader calling to ask if they could kidnap Junie early the next morning and take her to a breakfast for the new cheer team. Very cool, this is the absolute top; Junie has been working her little 14-year-old heart out toward this ultimate goal – being christened a high school cheerleader. It is her sport of choice. And if you do not think cheerleading is a sport then you have never tried a round-off/back-handspring/full or a scorpion with a double down. They are the kind of skills that make cheer moms wish their daughters had chosen to play football.
So, here I am thinking OH! OH!, she will be SO excited and I can’t say a word……. and I am SO not good at keeping secrets.
“But go on, Perky....You will be here at 4:15? AM? Ohhhh…kaaay…… I should just open the door for you and you’ll go get her out of bed? And blindfold her. Uh huh. No, I won’t tell her. Oh, NO problem. What could possibly be a problem?”
I’ll tell you what the problem would be; the house is a mess and there is virtually no path from front door to Junie’s room. Or worse yet, what if they come in the side door? That would lead them through the kitchen which….okay, I am screwed - this is the bottom part. Could I put Junie to bed on the patio and just send them back there? No, it’s definitely not warm enough yet. Well, forget the leisurely Sunday rest; I guess I will be cleaning the house because, yes, darn it, I am still afraid of what high school cheerleaders think of me.
For SIX freakin’ hours I clean the house – motivated by the fear of being judged a crappy housekeeper by silly 18-year-olds in short skirts. Okay, it was a safety issue, too. If strange people are going to be stumbling around my house in the middle of the night then it is probably my responsibility to clear the way. The intense labor also helps me keep my mouth shut with ‘the secret’ firmly inside. God does work in mysterious ways.
Ten o’clock pm – the house looks good, the kid is in bed, I am exhausted and headed there. Yay me, I didn’t spill the beans. I set the alarm for 4am and get 5 hours of sleep. Wake up, turn on front lights and wait. Cheer ambassadors arrive as promised – one girl and one boy, by the way, neither of which seem to give my housework a second look. Well fine. Just remember I had YOUR wellbeing in mind.
It really was fun to watch. Imagine you are not quite 15 and sound asleep in your own bed when two faces, you know only as senior-class critics at 2 weeks of grueling tryouts, now appear over your bed. Lights on! Wake up! Put on the blindfold, you’re coming with us! Personally, I would have wet my pants, thus securing my place on the school bedwetting team. Little Miss Unflappable took it all in stride.
I hope she isn’t always that compliant with kidnappers but I do have to give the kid credit: she demanded a bathroom break before leaving the house which she used instead to brush her hair and apply mascara. As she pointed out “There’s never a good excuse to look bad.”
Yep, I bet her more insecure classmates will still be in therapy 30 years from now. Myself, I need 3 more hours of sleep…. And the therapy. Of course. But, dang, is my house clean!
I have (mostly) recovered from yesterday and the weekend. It was a crazy up and down roller coaster of a weekend when put to the standards of my oatmeal-flavored life.
Since it was an unseasonably gorgeous weekend I opted to spend Saturday and much of Sunday shaping up the outside of the house. I cleaned out some more flower beds, swept the patio and pulled out, and dusted off, the patio furniture. I tidied the yard and trimmed vines and got things looking downright spiffy. I thought ‘spring has sprung’! Woo, hoo! Color me READY! This would be going up the roller coaster.
But all this came, of course, at a price. Inside the house, the weekly damage control was left undone. Well, too bad, there would be rainy days to put toward that mess. I applied my policy of ‘never do today what you can put off ‘til tomorrow’ – going down here.
By Sunday afternoon I was feeling pretty, darn self-satisfied. I was ready to sit back, put up my feet and admire my work. Outside, of course, where it was tidy.
Then the phone rang. It was a very perky high school cheerleader calling to ask if they could kidnap Junie early the next morning and take her to a breakfast for the new cheer team. Very cool, this is the absolute top; Junie has been working her little 14-year-old heart out toward this ultimate goal – being christened a high school cheerleader. It is her sport of choice. And if you do not think cheerleading is a sport then you have never tried a round-off/back-handspring/full or a scorpion with a double down. They are the kind of skills that make cheer moms wish their daughters had chosen to play football.
So, here I am thinking OH! OH!, she will be SO excited and I can’t say a word……. and I am SO not good at keeping secrets.
“But go on, Perky....You will be here at 4:15? AM? Ohhhh…kaaay…… I should just open the door for you and you’ll go get her out of bed? And blindfold her. Uh huh. No, I won’t tell her. Oh, NO problem. What could possibly be a problem?”
I’ll tell you what the problem would be; the house is a mess and there is virtually no path from front door to Junie’s room. Or worse yet, what if they come in the side door? That would lead them through the kitchen which….okay, I am screwed - this is the bottom part. Could I put Junie to bed on the patio and just send them back there? No, it’s definitely not warm enough yet. Well, forget the leisurely Sunday rest; I guess I will be cleaning the house because, yes, darn it, I am still afraid of what high school cheerleaders think of me.
For SIX freakin’ hours I clean the house – motivated by the fear of being judged a crappy housekeeper by silly 18-year-olds in short skirts. Okay, it was a safety issue, too. If strange people are going to be stumbling around my house in the middle of the night then it is probably my responsibility to clear the way. The intense labor also helps me keep my mouth shut with ‘the secret’ firmly inside. God does work in mysterious ways.
Ten o’clock pm – the house looks good, the kid is in bed, I am exhausted and headed there. Yay me, I didn’t spill the beans. I set the alarm for 4am and get 5 hours of sleep. Wake up, turn on front lights and wait. Cheer ambassadors arrive as promised – one girl and one boy, by the way, neither of which seem to give my housework a second look. Well fine. Just remember I had YOUR wellbeing in mind.
It really was fun to watch. Imagine you are not quite 15 and sound asleep in your own bed when two faces, you know only as senior-class critics at 2 weeks of grueling tryouts, now appear over your bed. Lights on! Wake up! Put on the blindfold, you’re coming with us! Personally, I would have wet my pants, thus securing my place on the school bedwetting team. Little Miss Unflappable took it all in stride.
I hope she isn’t always that compliant with kidnappers but I do have to give the kid credit: she demanded a bathroom break before leaving the house which she used instead to brush her hair and apply mascara. As she pointed out “There’s never a good excuse to look bad.”
Yep, I bet her more insecure classmates will still be in therapy 30 years from now. Myself, I need 3 more hours of sleep…. And the therapy. Of course. But, dang, is my house clean!
Thongs are for feet
March 18
About a month ago, I wiped out one of my first posts on my Space so I could use the location to hide my address book. No big deal, I knew if I flushed one blog into cyberspace, two more would quickly fill the hole it left. Besides it was one of the first things I wrote and surely not very important in the giant scheme of things. Right? Umm, wrong, maybe.
Because I am the kind of snoop who likes to snoop on the people who are snooping on me, I peep at my statistics from time to time. There I noticed that I had a visit from someone who Googled ‘thongism’. Huh? I hit the link and it took me to my guestbook. Odd. I went to the Google results – yes, there was a snippet from my old blog. I hit the cache button and there from the sewer of the internet I plucked ‘Why Thongs?' the very first dang thing I ever put on my Space. Now, I really haven’t been in business long enough to be running golden oldies, but I feel a certain responsibility to bring this back into the fold. I mean if the internet is keeping it, I guess I might as well, too. So, because I’m lazy today, and Karma conspired to deliver me from my laziness by letting me peek into the cybertoilet, I give you the #6 Google search result for Thongism:
There has been a sure sign that we are approaching the end of innocence at our house. Over the weekend Junie bought herself some thong underwear. Aaaah!!! I am blaming her sister, Lola, who converted to thongism a few years back. Ick! I swear I am going to stop doing their laundry. My biggest beef, besides the shiver it sends up my spine when I think of string up my crack, is putting them in the washer. There is NO safe place to grab!! I usually grab them with a dirty wash cloth (I give little thought to where that washcloth MIGHT have been, I KNOW where that thong was) just like picking up a dog turd.
See that's why they put those big wide waistbands on men's underwear - so that women know where to touch it! Yeah, I know I sound like the old, out-of-touch fossil that I am but I have spent so much of my life pulling underwear OUT of my crack that I think it is just counter-intuitive to put it IN there.
I know that underwear is a personal choice, most of which I can understand - even the need to go commando. Be shocked - I've done that myself - but only by necessity. I'm a boycut brief woman myself and I won't say that I am too old to change, I will just say that some rear ends need more than one layer of fabric between them and the world (you're welcome).
About a month ago, I wiped out one of my first posts on my Space so I could use the location to hide my address book. No big deal, I knew if I flushed one blog into cyberspace, two more would quickly fill the hole it left. Besides it was one of the first things I wrote and surely not very important in the giant scheme of things. Right? Umm, wrong, maybe.
Because I am the kind of snoop who likes to snoop on the people who are snooping on me, I peep at my statistics from time to time. There I noticed that I had a visit from someone who Googled ‘thongism’. Huh? I hit the link and it took me to my guestbook. Odd. I went to the Google results – yes, there was a snippet from my old blog. I hit the cache button and there from the sewer of the internet I plucked ‘Why Thongs?' the very first dang thing I ever put on my Space. Now, I really haven’t been in business long enough to be running golden oldies, but I feel a certain responsibility to bring this back into the fold. I mean if the internet is keeping it, I guess I might as well, too. So, because I’m lazy today, and Karma conspired to deliver me from my laziness by letting me peek into the cybertoilet, I give you the #6 Google search result for Thongism:
There has been a sure sign that we are approaching the end of innocence at our house. Over the weekend Junie bought herself some thong underwear. Aaaah!!! I am blaming her sister, Lola, who converted to thongism a few years back. Ick! I swear I am going to stop doing their laundry. My biggest beef, besides the shiver it sends up my spine when I think of string up my crack, is putting them in the washer. There is NO safe place to grab!! I usually grab them with a dirty wash cloth (I give little thought to where that washcloth MIGHT have been, I KNOW where that thong was) just like picking up a dog turd.
See that's why they put those big wide waistbands on men's underwear - so that women know where to touch it! Yeah, I know I sound like the old, out-of-touch fossil that I am but I have spent so much of my life pulling underwear OUT of my crack that I think it is just counter-intuitive to put it IN there.
I know that underwear is a personal choice, most of which I can understand - even the need to go commando. Be shocked - I've done that myself - but only by necessity. I'm a boycut brief woman myself and I won't say that I am too old to change, I will just say that some rear ends need more than one layer of fabric between them and the world (you're welcome).
Pi Day
March 15
Pi Day
Did you know that yesterday was Pi day? 3-14 get it? Pi is 3.14.......
Probably doesn't sound important but pi day means PIE day at Junie's junior high. Pies brought to math class on Pi day are worth extra credit points. Junie has never met an extra credit point that she didn't want, especially if they can be BOUGHT with Mom's money instead of EARNED by actual school-type work.
So she calls me at home the night before last. What? You think she should be home, sleeping in her own bed on a school night? Silly, you don't know Junie, do you? Whole 'nother story - maybe later.
Anyhoodle, she calls at 8 pm-ish and asks if I can buy 5 Hos*tess fruit pies for Pi day. I use my best irritated-mom voice to run through the why, and is it really necessary? and who am I, your slave? part. Finally, I tell her I can't because I have no idea what they are.
Me: "Are those from the Twin*kie family?"
You can tell we are not a Host*ess household. I did experiments on Twin*kies in college biology and I haven't forgotten.
She: "I think so. We're going to the grocery store in a bit, I'll see if I can find one and then send you a picture on your phone."
Really? I'm thinking that I have her RIGHT where I want her.
She (calls later): "Albert*son's has them for a dollar. They are in a rectangle package and they say blah, blah, blah......"
That's what I'm hearing because I am just waiting for her to stop talking so I can say....
Me: "Since you are there looking at them, why don't you just BUY them?"
She: "Because I only have FOUR dollars. It takes FIVE pies for extra credit."
The girl has some logic going. I mean if I am going to make a special trip to the store and then make a drop at her school in the morning on my way to work, it would be MUCH more worthwhile for me to be hustling FIVE pies instead of ONE pie. Right? Yeah, whatever, you must be 14, too.
So, because I don't want to cause her to sponge off her friends by making her use her last $4 for her own extra credit, I consent to do the deed, as assigned. Sometimes I hate myself for not being able to stay ahead of teen-logic. I would drink myself silly but that would eliminate the last tiny defense I have: my wits. I would wake up with size 7 cheer-shoe imprints all over my body.
So I trip to the closest Albert*sons and look for the Hos*tess shelf. First I look in the bakery. Nothing. Hmm. I check the snack district. No. The Wonder*bread aisle? Cookie department? Not even close. Could they be with the cleaning supplies? I finally have no choice; "Sir, could you please direct me to the Twinkie display?" His look is a cross between 'I'm so stoned' and 'You're kidding me; you don't know where we keep the Twinkies?' I'm uncomfortable. I expect that he will tell me that what I am looking for is right under my nose, dummy! I bite my lip. I look around. No, not seeing them.
I finally shake mute-boy by the shoulders. "Cmon buddy, where have you hidden the FRUIT PIES?. I need a fix bad. Let me make my connection, make a buy and get outta here before the heat busts in!"
Okaynotreally, but I'm feeling just about that hard up.
"The Twin*kies?" he finally says too loudly, "They're at the end of Aisle 5 (DUH!)". Okaaay. Go to the end of aisle 5. Well, why didn't I think to look between the fresh meat and the frozen food. Makes perfect sense. Cuz that way you can bake 'em with your fish sticks or stuff 'em into your meatloaf.
There are 3 blackberry and 7 chocolate pies left in the pitiful display. It is 9:45pm and apparently most of the pie-addicts have beat me here. I have been cautioned against both these particular flavors but, screw it, I am NOT going through this humiliation at yet another grocery store. I decide on 2 blackberry and 3 chocolate. I put them in the bottom of my basket and quickly cover them with less-embarrassing things like Depends and Lotrimin. I use the self-checkout and escape through the side door. The things we do for love
Pi Day
Did you know that yesterday was Pi day? 3-14 get it? Pi is 3.14.......
Probably doesn't sound important but pi day means PIE day at Junie's junior high. Pies brought to math class on Pi day are worth extra credit points. Junie has never met an extra credit point that she didn't want, especially if they can be BOUGHT with Mom's money instead of EARNED by actual school-type work.
So she calls me at home the night before last. What? You think she should be home, sleeping in her own bed on a school night? Silly, you don't know Junie, do you? Whole 'nother story - maybe later.
Anyhoodle, she calls at 8 pm-ish and asks if I can buy 5 Hos*tess fruit pies for Pi day. I use my best irritated-mom voice to run through the why, and is it really necessary? and who am I, your slave? part. Finally, I tell her I can't because I have no idea what they are.
Me: "Are those from the Twin*kie family?"
You can tell we are not a Host*ess household. I did experiments on Twin*kies in college biology and I haven't forgotten.
She: "I think so. We're going to the grocery store in a bit, I'll see if I can find one and then send you a picture on your phone."
Really? I'm thinking that I have her RIGHT where I want her.
She (calls later): "Albert*son's has them for a dollar. They are in a rectangle package and they say blah, blah, blah......"
That's what I'm hearing because I am just waiting for her to stop talking so I can say....
Me: "Since you are there looking at them, why don't you just BUY them?"
She: "Because I only have FOUR dollars. It takes FIVE pies for extra credit."
The girl has some logic going. I mean if I am going to make a special trip to the store and then make a drop at her school in the morning on my way to work, it would be MUCH more worthwhile for me to be hustling FIVE pies instead of ONE pie. Right? Yeah, whatever, you must be 14, too.
So, because I don't want to cause her to sponge off her friends by making her use her last $4 for her own extra credit, I consent to do the deed, as assigned. Sometimes I hate myself for not being able to stay ahead of teen-logic. I would drink myself silly but that would eliminate the last tiny defense I have: my wits. I would wake up with size 7 cheer-shoe imprints all over my body.
So I trip to the closest Albert*sons and look for the Hos*tess shelf. First I look in the bakery. Nothing. Hmm. I check the snack district. No. The Wonder*bread aisle? Cookie department? Not even close. Could they be with the cleaning supplies? I finally have no choice; "Sir, could you please direct me to the Twinkie display?" His look is a cross between 'I'm so stoned' and 'You're kidding me; you don't know where we keep the Twinkies?' I'm uncomfortable. I expect that he will tell me that what I am looking for is right under my nose, dummy! I bite my lip. I look around. No, not seeing them.
I finally shake mute-boy by the shoulders. "Cmon buddy, where have you hidden the FRUIT PIES?. I need a fix bad. Let me make my connection, make a buy and get outta here before the heat busts in!"
Okaynotreally, but I'm feeling just about that hard up.
"The Twin*kies?" he finally says too loudly, "They're at the end of Aisle 5 (DUH!)". Okaaay. Go to the end of aisle 5. Well, why didn't I think to look between the fresh meat and the frozen food. Makes perfect sense. Cuz that way you can bake 'em with your fish sticks or stuff 'em into your meatloaf.
There are 3 blackberry and 7 chocolate pies left in the pitiful display. It is 9:45pm and apparently most of the pie-addicts have beat me here. I have been cautioned against both these particular flavors but, screw it, I am NOT going through this humiliation at yet another grocery store. I decide on 2 blackberry and 3 chocolate. I put them in the bottom of my basket and quickly cover them with less-embarrassing things like Depends and Lotrimin. I use the self-checkout and escape through the side door. The things we do for love
Swimming in the Dough
YES! The wardrobe changeover is starting to pay off – this morning I found $4.03 in the pocket of a pair of khakis that I haven’t worn since last fall. It doesn’t sound like much but it was $4 that I found AFTER the girls had left for school, so it is $4 that I still have in my possession! Woohoo. I am a simple woman, easily entertained with spring clothes and $4. Escalating the excitement: the weatherman says it is going to be SEVENTY degrees today. SEVENTY!!! Our weatherman has not said SEVENTY since last November.
All that talk of tropical weather has perhaps messed with my head. Last night I dreamed we set up the swimming pool. Don’t get excited and start planning parties at my house. It’s just one of those 15 foot above-ground metal-frame contraptions that the girls bought 4 years ago. Homer and I thought it was the dumbest thing ever but since we believe in letting life’s lessons, which include buyer’s remorse, take their course, we stood back and let it happen. We did steer them away from the inflatable-ring, tub-o-jello kind of pool, since we live on the side of a hill, and we were foresighted enough to imagine what 9000 gallons of water would look like running through our neighbors yards. ALL the way DOWN.
Anyway, ahem, cou*we were wrong*gh! I think we might have actually used it more than the kids. Which is only fair because you can imagine who gets to set it up and fill it and change the filters and buy the chemicals and test the water and clean the darn thing and then take it down. If you said Homer, you would be terribly wrong and not my friend. But my hard work does entitle me to bring a date so; again Homer slides in on my coattails.
But, alas, a $300 pool does not last forever. After four summers (very full, bake in the high-altitude, hot sun and dry air summers) of heavy use we now have a dilemma. The plastic liner is showing its age and I don’t think the filter pump will pump us through another year - it was starting to sound like a feral cat might be caught in there. I realize that replacing parts could quickly send you down that ‘I could have bought a whole new pool’ road. Which is also an option, but this summer the girls will be 15 and 17. Maybe they will be MUCH more interested in going to the neighborhood pool, where they can hang with their friends and toss back their hair in that carefree manner and giggle and do all those teenage things that make laying in the hot, torrid sun, eating Banana Boat tainted Doritos with warm pop seem like what life is really all about.
The rec pool doesn’t hold the same appeal for us parental units. Homer swears that a pre-bedtime dip makes him sleep like a baby in the summer – the public pool closes at 8 or 9 and they like you to wear trunks. As for me, there is something that soothes my soul about laying on my water lounger in the pool with my tankini pulled up to expose my fish-belly stomach so it can catch a few rays – because darker looks smaller, you know. Well, the public pool doesn’t like water lounges or fish bellies and, can you even believe this? They serve NO MARGARITAS and they even have this rule against bringing your own! Mexico is SO much more evolved in some respects.
So last fall as I was dismantling the ol’ watering hole, with mounting despair over its condition, I decided that it was the time to plant a seed. I made my report and cautioned the girls: “sorry, kids, you know the pool is getting quite old and, well, nothing lasts forever but it had a good life and we can remember the good times we had with it and know that we will always have it in our hearts”. Okay, that might be the dying-pet talk but I love anything with more than one use.
Anyhoodle, I was thinking….and that is often where I go wrong.… if they had all winter to save up their hard earned money we could perhaps be financially ready for the spring pool sales!
Well, in my excitement about SEVENTY degrees and my pool dream, I threw the matter out for discussion at the breakfast table this morning. Surely they must be as excited as I am? Have they thought at all about a new pool? I bet Target will be getting pools in any day (oh, who am I kidding, they’ve probably had them out since they took down the Christmas displays). What do you girls think? Huh? I was all smiling and excited and, I remind you this was before 7 am - before 7 am Daylight Savings Time! Yes, happy I was, no ecstatic and hopeful and then they put the knives through my heart.
Lola: “Remember, 1) I'm saving my money for my dream Jeep and 2) I will be working or training or out of town most of the summer. What would I get out of a backyard pool?”
Junie(again with the numbers): “1) I plan to spend most of MY time at my friends’ who have REAL pools and 2) You are pitiful to be trying to squeeze money for your filthy pool habit out of your children.”
Me: “Are you serious? C’mon guys! Didn’t we have fun? What about our whirlpool games and the lazy river? Wasn’t it fun to swirl the water round and round and then watch your dad try not to chum in his little innertube because he can’t handle any spinning motion? And, and…I can’t do my Shamu imitation without a pool! Shamu out of water is just…..pitiful… and NOT very....fun…..or alive.
Homer: “Honey? Honey! It’s okay.
Me: Is it?
Homer: We can still get a new pool.
Me: We can?
Homer: We don’t need those fickle children. The dream isn’t dead……….it’s just coming out of your pocket.
Of course it is.
There goes my $4.
All that talk of tropical weather has perhaps messed with my head. Last night I dreamed we set up the swimming pool. Don’t get excited and start planning parties at my house. It’s just one of those 15 foot above-ground metal-frame contraptions that the girls bought 4 years ago. Homer and I thought it was the dumbest thing ever but since we believe in letting life’s lessons, which include buyer’s remorse, take their course, we stood back and let it happen. We did steer them away from the inflatable-ring, tub-o-jello kind of pool, since we live on the side of a hill, and we were foresighted enough to imagine what 9000 gallons of water would look like running through our neighbors yards. ALL the way DOWN.
Anyway, ahem, cou*we were wrong*gh! I think we might have actually used it more than the kids. Which is only fair because you can imagine who gets to set it up and fill it and change the filters and buy the chemicals and test the water and clean the darn thing and then take it down. If you said Homer, you would be terribly wrong and not my friend. But my hard work does entitle me to bring a date so; again Homer slides in on my coattails.
But, alas, a $300 pool does not last forever. After four summers (very full, bake in the high-altitude, hot sun and dry air summers) of heavy use we now have a dilemma. The plastic liner is showing its age and I don’t think the filter pump will pump us through another year - it was starting to sound like a feral cat might be caught in there. I realize that replacing parts could quickly send you down that ‘I could have bought a whole new pool’ road. Which is also an option, but this summer the girls will be 15 and 17. Maybe they will be MUCH more interested in going to the neighborhood pool, where they can hang with their friends and toss back their hair in that carefree manner and giggle and do all those teenage things that make laying in the hot, torrid sun, eating Banana Boat tainted Doritos with warm pop seem like what life is really all about.
The rec pool doesn’t hold the same appeal for us parental units. Homer swears that a pre-bedtime dip makes him sleep like a baby in the summer – the public pool closes at 8 or 9 and they like you to wear trunks. As for me, there is something that soothes my soul about laying on my water lounger in the pool with my tankini pulled up to expose my fish-belly stomach so it can catch a few rays – because darker looks smaller, you know. Well, the public pool doesn’t like water lounges or fish bellies and, can you even believe this? They serve NO MARGARITAS and they even have this rule against bringing your own! Mexico is SO much more evolved in some respects.
So last fall as I was dismantling the ol’ watering hole, with mounting despair over its condition, I decided that it was the time to plant a seed. I made my report and cautioned the girls: “sorry, kids, you know the pool is getting quite old and, well, nothing lasts forever but it had a good life and we can remember the good times we had with it and know that we will always have it in our hearts”. Okay, that might be the dying-pet talk but I love anything with more than one use.
Anyhoodle, I was thinking….and that is often where I go wrong.… if they had all winter to save up their hard earned money we could perhaps be financially ready for the spring pool sales!
Well, in my excitement about SEVENTY degrees and my pool dream, I threw the matter out for discussion at the breakfast table this morning. Surely they must be as excited as I am? Have they thought at all about a new pool? I bet Target will be getting pools in any day (oh, who am I kidding, they’ve probably had them out since they took down the Christmas displays). What do you girls think? Huh? I was all smiling and excited and, I remind you this was before 7 am - before 7 am Daylight Savings Time! Yes, happy I was, no ecstatic and hopeful and then they put the knives through my heart.
Lola: “Remember, 1) I'm saving my money for my dream Jeep and 2) I will be working or training or out of town most of the summer. What would I get out of a backyard pool?”
Junie(again with the numbers): “1) I plan to spend most of MY time at my friends’ who have REAL pools and 2) You are pitiful to be trying to squeeze money for your filthy pool habit out of your children.”
Me: “Are you serious? C’mon guys! Didn’t we have fun? What about our whirlpool games and the lazy river? Wasn’t it fun to swirl the water round and round and then watch your dad try not to chum in his little innertube because he can’t handle any spinning motion? And, and…I can’t do my Shamu imitation without a pool! Shamu out of water is just…..pitiful… and NOT very....fun…..or alive.
Homer: “Honey? Honey! It’s okay.
Me: Is it?
Homer: We can still get a new pool.
Me: We can?
Homer: We don’t need those fickle children. The dream isn’t dead……….it’s just coming out of your pocket.
Of course it is.
There goes my $4.
Not my kind of Whitman Sampler
Hang with me through this first sentence.
Oh, imputation it shall be when foreordination conspires to lacerate ourselves on the fleshy posterior and spawns our progeny to imagine we resemble buffoons.
Yeah, um, what I meant to say was “It’s a bitch when Karma bites us on the butt and makes us look foolish in front of our children”.
Case Study: Lola called me into the computer room last night with a big dose of distress in her voice.
“Maaaahhhm, I need your help.”
Oh, child you are that flatters me to think I can be of assistance.
I’m tired, on the cusp of dreamland but I’m the mom, it is my job.
I, what reckless optimist that did bound to her side.
I look at the computer. I look at her textbook. Oh, my mother-lovin’....NNNOOOOOO! The fight or flight response kicks in. Every piece of my soul screams “RUN!!!”
But, alas, my heart perceives that I must not abandon my pledge.
This wasn’t supposed to happen until college. Homer and I have diligently contributed to her college savings plan so that this would not happen in our charge! We planned, we budgeted, oh did we sacrifice from the heart that she should attend college out of state and not bring this havoc into our home.
But she is only a high school junior; it’s too early to send her away.
It waxes apparent that thy anticipation of preparedness has been for nil.
BECAUSE: She is required to write an essay on *choke* Walt Whitman.
Not simply on Walt Whitman but specifically his Song of Myself poem.
For those of you as poetry-challenged as I, Whitman is considered the Godfather of unmetered, unrhyming poetry where this means the other thing and mostly sounds just like Cousin Larry when he's had too much hooch and gets to rambling on with the squirrels. For those of you that love this stuff, move along and no one gets hurt.
But....was I not just talking about this? Remember the whole ‘Woodchuck Rant’? This is one of the things I CANNOT DO! My cerebellum does not run this program.
Sadly, this offspring before me is of like intellect. Oh, useless be the embraces and kisses that will heal not thy deficits.
I’m not heartless. I did give it a go. I really did. Until my brain spun out of my head, whacked into the wall and fell to the floor with a sick thud. Bummer.
With apologies fair lassie, that your matriarch should be so simple.
I fear at this point all I can do is excuse the grade she gets on this project and lend my support to any non-poetry extra credit that may be made available to her.
And so I ponder the filthy lucre that may be salvaged by relieving intended obligations for lodging and provisions.
Translation: We're gonna save a butt load on college room and board
Oh, imputation it shall be when foreordination conspires to lacerate ourselves on the fleshy posterior and spawns our progeny to imagine we resemble buffoons.
Yeah, um, what I meant to say was “It’s a bitch when Karma bites us on the butt and makes us look foolish in front of our children”.
Case Study: Lola called me into the computer room last night with a big dose of distress in her voice.
“Maaaahhhm, I need your help.”
Oh, child you are that flatters me to think I can be of assistance.
I’m tired, on the cusp of dreamland but I’m the mom, it is my job.
I, what reckless optimist that did bound to her side.
I look at the computer. I look at her textbook. Oh, my mother-lovin’....NNNOOOOOO! The fight or flight response kicks in. Every piece of my soul screams “RUN!!!”
But, alas, my heart perceives that I must not abandon my pledge.
This wasn’t supposed to happen until college. Homer and I have diligently contributed to her college savings plan so that this would not happen in our charge! We planned, we budgeted, oh did we sacrifice from the heart that she should attend college out of state and not bring this havoc into our home.
But she is only a high school junior; it’s too early to send her away.
It waxes apparent that thy anticipation of preparedness has been for nil.
BECAUSE: She is required to write an essay on *choke* Walt Whitman.
Not simply on Walt Whitman but specifically his Song of Myself poem.
For those of you as poetry-challenged as I, Whitman is considered the Godfather of unmetered, unrhyming poetry where this means the other thing and mostly sounds just like Cousin Larry when he's had too much hooch and gets to rambling on with the squirrels. For those of you that love this stuff, move along and no one gets hurt.
But....was I not just talking about this? Remember the whole ‘Woodchuck Rant’? This is one of the things I CANNOT DO! My cerebellum does not run this program.
Sadly, this offspring before me is of like intellect. Oh, useless be the embraces and kisses that will heal not thy deficits.
I’m not heartless. I did give it a go. I really did. Until my brain spun out of my head, whacked into the wall and fell to the floor with a sick thud. Bummer.
With apologies fair lassie, that your matriarch should be so simple.
I fear at this point all I can do is excuse the grade she gets on this project and lend my support to any non-poetry extra credit that may be made available to her.
And so I ponder the filthy lucre that may be salvaged by relieving intended obligations for lodging and provisions.
Translation: We're gonna save a butt load on college room and board
Monday, March 26, 2007
Turns out you CAN be too careful.
I was watching 20/20 one Friday night. I use the 'watching' term loosely because I tend to turn on the tv just for noise and to pretend it's my friend while I clean, cook, fold clothes - all those chores that send other family members scrambling to anywhere they won't be asked to help. God forbid.
Anyhoodle, I actually watched this time. John Stoessel was doing a great show on fear and worry and unintended consequences. One example (and I quote here):
"Most of us, when we have a new baby in the house, make an extra effort to keep the house especially clean. I was no exception. But now there's research suggesting that kids who are exposed to more endotoxins — mild dust, bacteria, pollen, like kids who go to daycare or have pets or live on farms — are less likely to develop allergies and asthma."
Hallelujah! There's something they didn't put in the baby books. I am proud to say that my children do not have allergies or asthma and they have ME to thank for that. They grew up in a house with a cat, a dog, and many, many (dust) bunnies. They also went to daycare, they did. I'm going to pretend I knew this all along and failed to keep the house immaculately (not even close) clean because I was preparing them for a life of good pulmonary health! I hope my mother and mother-in-law also saw the show. PFFTHT!!!
I found other validation in that show, as well. I tend to be a pretty laid back parent - the bad kind that has a trampoline in the back yard. I know that in most cases what could happen probably won't. I have friends who are strung tighter than piano wire trying to anticipate every danger that might befall their child. It seems to me that when accidents do happen they tend to come from places you never suspected. Or the risk is calculated. You know that bicycles can be dangerous but they also have benefits - transportation, exercise, fun - that in my mind override the fear (ditto with the trampoline). I have tried to be a vigilant helmet-mom but sometimes even I forget to wear one. Well, according to the 20/20 report, helmets aren't all that effective either. This guy they interviewed did research and found that when you wear a helmet, drivers are less careful around you. They also found that helmet wearers tend to take more risks. And, in places where the law requires helmets, head injuries have not dropped because now there are fewer cyclists on the road.
"When people don't cycle, they're not getting exercise," he said. "We know that not getting exercise and being sedentary is incredibly dangerous. You get heart attacks, you get strokes … proven killers that kill thousands of people. So when people make helmets a requirement, with the best intentions, it may actually kill more people."
I am also a big fan of prescription medicines. They can do great things. I know that many have side effects. But if you read the fine print you will also find that people taking placebos experienced side effects. My mother wouldn't take Claritin because of the possible side effects listed on the package. She never experienced any of the side effects because she never took the medicine, even though Claritin was found to have proven benefits for allergy sufferers (her mother was a clean freak, by the way). Score: Fear 1, Mother 0.
Here's what they had to say about that:
"You may have seen the warnings about anti-depressants (causing increased suicide in teenagers). The FDA demanded that a black box be added to every package. The unintended consequence? Prescriptions to anti-depressants dropped 20 percent. And with fewer teenagers taking the medication, many experts say they are seeing more teen suicide."
I read an article a few years ago that bit me to the bone. It was about a toddler who pulled on the cord of an electric frying pan and was covered with boiling oil. I realized that there, but for the grace of God, go I. At some point I probably left a cord dangling. It is pretty dang hard to always be vigilant, always one step ahead of a toddler, child, teenager. It's hard to know how to balance caution and the business of being a kid.
I guess my point is that it was good to hear that you can worry too much. I always felt that I was missing the parental-worry gene so maybe I wasn't supposed to reproduce. My husband is even worse. I don't seriously take credit for raising my children to the good place they are today. I know that it is as much luck as parental care that has made them good, happy, productive kids thus far. I just hope the good luck stays with us.
Anyhoodle, I actually watched this time. John Stoessel was doing a great show on fear and worry and unintended consequences. One example (and I quote here):
"Most of us, when we have a new baby in the house, make an extra effort to keep the house especially clean. I was no exception. But now there's research suggesting that kids who are exposed to more endotoxins — mild dust, bacteria, pollen, like kids who go to daycare or have pets or live on farms — are less likely to develop allergies and asthma."
Hallelujah! There's something they didn't put in the baby books. I am proud to say that my children do not have allergies or asthma and they have ME to thank for that. They grew up in a house with a cat, a dog, and many, many (dust) bunnies. They also went to daycare, they did. I'm going to pretend I knew this all along and failed to keep the house immaculately (not even close) clean because I was preparing them for a life of good pulmonary health! I hope my mother and mother-in-law also saw the show. PFFTHT!!!
I found other validation in that show, as well. I tend to be a pretty laid back parent - the bad kind that has a trampoline in the back yard. I know that in most cases what could happen probably won't. I have friends who are strung tighter than piano wire trying to anticipate every danger that might befall their child. It seems to me that when accidents do happen they tend to come from places you never suspected. Or the risk is calculated. You know that bicycles can be dangerous but they also have benefits - transportation, exercise, fun - that in my mind override the fear (ditto with the trampoline). I have tried to be a vigilant helmet-mom but sometimes even I forget to wear one. Well, according to the 20/20 report, helmets aren't all that effective either. This guy they interviewed did research and found that when you wear a helmet, drivers are less careful around you. They also found that helmet wearers tend to take more risks. And, in places where the law requires helmets, head injuries have not dropped because now there are fewer cyclists on the road.
"When people don't cycle, they're not getting exercise," he said. "We know that not getting exercise and being sedentary is incredibly dangerous. You get heart attacks, you get strokes … proven killers that kill thousands of people. So when people make helmets a requirement, with the best intentions, it may actually kill more people."
I am also a big fan of prescription medicines. They can do great things. I know that many have side effects. But if you read the fine print you will also find that people taking placebos experienced side effects. My mother wouldn't take Claritin because of the possible side effects listed on the package. She never experienced any of the side effects because she never took the medicine, even though Claritin was found to have proven benefits for allergy sufferers (her mother was a clean freak, by the way). Score: Fear 1, Mother 0.
Here's what they had to say about that:
"You may have seen the warnings about anti-depressants (causing increased suicide in teenagers). The FDA demanded that a black box be added to every package. The unintended consequence? Prescriptions to anti-depressants dropped 20 percent. And with fewer teenagers taking the medication, many experts say they are seeing more teen suicide."
I read an article a few years ago that bit me to the bone. It was about a toddler who pulled on the cord of an electric frying pan and was covered with boiling oil. I realized that there, but for the grace of God, go I. At some point I probably left a cord dangling. It is pretty dang hard to always be vigilant, always one step ahead of a toddler, child, teenager. It's hard to know how to balance caution and the business of being a kid.
I guess my point is that it was good to hear that you can worry too much. I always felt that I was missing the parental-worry gene so maybe I wasn't supposed to reproduce. My husband is even worse. I don't seriously take credit for raising my children to the good place they are today. I know that it is as much luck as parental care that has made them good, happy, productive kids thus far. I just hope the good luck stays with us.
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