Vacation

Things I learned on vacation:

1. There are few places that highlight the fact that Kids Are Evil as effectively as a cramped hotel room.

2. Car trips will henceforth require the wearing of compression stockings. Every time I drive on a long trip, my right knee hurts and my lower leg gets a little tight and swell-y. The other option would be to let mr b drive more but here’s the thing about that – mr b is Captain Sleepy. I’d have 16 nervous breakdowns per hour if I let him drive. So compression stockings it is. This saddens me, because it makes me feel old and broken and maybe I should just go out and get myself a babushka and some depends to go with my support hose.

3. My kids will fight about ANYTHING. Dear God, the stupid fights. I swear to you, the biggest fight of the week was over a turkey sandwich. Followed closely by a fight about cheese fry sharing etiquette. I was also lucky enough to witness fights over sand, beds, sand IN beds, whose hacky sack was whose, which beach ball was better, which beach ball Mr. Pants (our 16 month old cousin who stayed with us along with his mom – my cousin Lala) liked better, whose faceplant was funnier, ice cream, who messed up the Snoopy tattoo, television, Don’t Touch Me, who farted, who moved my shoes, and HE’S TOUCHING ME! Good times.

4. Diabetics should not walk on hot sand without shoes. Ten minutes after my dad arrived, he walked on the hot sand in his bare feet and ended up with 2nd degree burns on the bottoms of his feet. It was awful – all the skin came off the bottom of his feet and sand got in them. Several trips to a doctor, a couple prescriptions, six days, a whole lot of not walking, and a shit-ton of bandages later and he’s still hurting. It sucks.

5. I really need to replace my broken camera lens before we head to the mountains next month.

6. Finney of the beach photo patrol really, REALLY needs to find another career. Of the 10 or so photos he took, exactly ALL OF THEM were blurry. And I don’t mean slightly out of focus, I mean, so blurry that you can’t tell who is in them. Normally I wouldn’t care but due to my lack of photo-taking, I was hoping for something cute.

7. I need to start way ahead of time on Halloween, since the girl – upon getting Old-Time photos taken – has decided she wants to be a fancy flapper.

8. Old-Time Photo props will be used like every other item that reaches the hands of a child – as a weapon against their sibling. Fake drinks will be “dumped” on each other’s heads. Fake guns will be used to pretend to shoot each other. And everything else will be used to generally maim.

9. On one hand, the beach can make you feel really bad about yourself. On the other hand, the beach can make you feel way better about yourself. It all depends who is on the next blanket.

Despite the hectic and sometimes stressful days and the fact that I never got to meet up with the lovely Amy (because of all the hectic), I still had a wonderful time. And I am so very happy to that we are going away again next month.

I’m planning on the next trip being more relaxing. I’m not sure why, since the kids will once again be there. Plus mr b. Plus a gang of in-laws. So I imagine it will be more of the same – lots of fun, peppered with lots of potential stabification (that’s in the ICD-9, by the way). And since I know it’s coming, I decided to make a list of things that I plan to accomplish while in NC. If I can manage these, I will consider the trip a success, despite the stress:

1. Not killing anyone. No really – did you not hear the part about the kids and the husband and the in-laws?

2. Not dying. Because we have a cabin on a mountain. Which has a deck out into the mountainous abyss. And I will be drinking heavily. And most likely being driven slowly insane by the kids. Not a good combination.

3. Mountain geocaching! I’m very excited to try out our new hobby in an incredibly beautiful setting. I need to stock up on some burgh-related items for trading.

4. Not getting killed/eaten/mauled by a bear. Why on earth would I be worried about this? Well, see my previous item : 1) Geocaching takes place in the woods, 2) Bears live in the woods, 3) I am delicious. To combat the chances of getting killed/eaten/mauled, I’ll be wearing my bells, an anti-bear helmet (which doesn’t exist in reality but in my imagination involves tin foil, hot glue and pebbles. And sometimes – disturbingly – raw meat) and a t-shirt says “I taste like shit.”

5. I also plan on making mr b build a shelter to prove his manly worth. And because of the aforementioned bears, I’ve decided that the shelter must have a security system, indoor plumbing and a chik-fil-a (I know – they aren’t open on Sunday, but he can hunt/gather me something once a week, I think). Aw, who am I kidding? I’d be dead. He’s city boy. Years ago, we rented a cabin out in the woods for a weekend, and on a walk, I picked and ate some wild blueberries. His reaction was to nearly rush me to the hospital because “OMG, those berries might be poison!” I explained that they weren’t poison berries, but delicious blueberries and I was then subjected to 45 minutes of “But how do you know?? So maybe we’ll forget about the wilderness thing and I’ll just take him along as a bear diversionary tactic.

First Name Basis

The girl has been absolutely DYING to call her teacher by her first name for most of the school year. Of course I wouldn’t let her and we started off the year with no problem referring to her as Mrs. Smith (not her real name). But then shortly into the school year, I got to know Mrs. Smith socially and we became friends. So suddenly, Mrs. Smith became Shellie to me. And even though I only referred to her by Mrs. Smith in front of the girl, she soon learned her first name, since she would occasionally hear me call her as Shellie in person, or mention to my husband that I was going to a party at Shellie’s house, etc. And from then on, it was her mission.

She never called her Shellie in school, but one day she told her she knew what her first name was. Shellie told her it was OK to know her name (and she told them what it was), but that they had to call her Mrs. Smith. She continued to obey in school, but she’d come home now and then and make a sly comment about how Shellie wanted me to call her or Shellie said hi. My response was always “Mrs. Smith!”

But she persisted:

Mrs. Smith said she could call her Shellie sometimes.

No.

Mrs. Smith said she could call her Shellie outside of school.

No.

Mrs. Smith said she could call her Shellie when school was over.

No

Finally she let up with it and I thought we were done. HAHAHA.

The girl went on to have a wonderful year and excel in school. She won an award for outstanding academic achievement. And we all know that while smart is good, it can also be trouble.

A mutual friend had a School’s Out party on the last day of school and Mrs. Smith was there. She told me that the last week of school, they were talking about letter sounds and she asked for examples of words that have a short e sound in the middle that she could write on the board. Of course my little genius raised her hand immediately. When Mrs. Smith asked her if she knew one she gave her best shit-eating grin and said, “I know a good one!”

You see where this is going don’t you?

Her word?

Shellie

My Favorite Overheard Conversation of the Weekend

In Pat Catan's Crafts, I overheard a young woman (We'll call her Big Fat Liar) talking to her two older coworkers:



Big Fat Liar: My friend was going through a rough time, so I made her something to cheer her up.

Coworker1: That's nice - what did you make her?

BFL: Well, she's always down on herself, thinking she's not good enough, so I bought a mirror and painted it really pretty, then I stenciled along the bottom, "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me."

Coworkers1&2: AWWWWWW...that is SO SWEET!

BFL: Thanks! I thought it was cute.

Coworker 1: You are so clever! Where did you come up with that?

BFL: I don't know - I've always been really creative. Stuff like that just comes to me.



Oh, really now, Big Fat Liar?

Now That She's a Cheerleader, We're Really Going to Have to Stop Making These Jokes

Yesterday, we went geocaching with my friend Rapunzel and her son. At one point, we ended up by a creek and the kids were looking for salamanders and crawfish. Suddenly, the girl started squealing, "Look, look!" We looked, but didn't see what she was so excited about, so she told us:

The Girl: It's a cheerleader bug!

Me: A what?

The Girl: A cheerleader bug!

Rapunzel: I don't see anything.

The Girl: It's right there!

Me: What makes it a cheerleader bug?

The Girl: There's one bug and then another bug on top of her.

Rapunzel: Yep - that's a cheerleader bug, alright.

And the Winner Is...

Thanks to everyone who donated to the March for Babies! You guys never cease to amaze me!

Anyway - it's time for our winner. I put each entry into a spreadsheet in the order the donations were received (after removing last year's winner who very kindly wanted to give someone else a chance to win):
























Then I used random.org to pick a winner. And the winner is....














OK - that's hard to see. Here's a close-up:























Which makes the winner...Bill! Yay, Bill! Bill is a dear friend's husband and although we have never met in person, I am officially putting him on my BFF list. Bill - give me a week or so to get my Box O' Goodies shopping done and your prize will be on the way!

I Get No Support Whatsoever For My Crazy

Mr b: Oh, I forgot to tell you - the census people came the other day.

Me: What? How could you forget to tell me? You know I have been waiting for the census police to come back since 2000!

Mr b: I don't know. It wasn't a big deal?

Me: Not a big deal? It IS a big deal! What did you tell them?

Mr b: What do you mean? I answered their questions.

Me: You didn't answer ethnicity, did you?

Mr b: I don't know - I just wanted to get rid of them so I could get back to work.

Me: Oh My GOD! You answered ethnicity!! How am I supposed to Fight the Power if you don't help me??"

Mr b: Whatever.

Me: I can NOT work under these conditions.

Mr b: *gets as far away from the crazy as he can*

Thursday Thirteen: Random

How about a Thursday Thirteen, since I’m all full of random thoughts and can’t seem to focus? Okay? Good. So…Thirteen Random Things:

1. I have come to realize that geocaching is my favorite hobby. I used to say reading, but I’ve decided that reading isn’t a hobby, it’s like breathing. So now, it’s geocaching. Big deal, right? Well, considering that it is something that is done in the woods, it IS a big deal. Don’t get me wrong – I love the woods. As a child, I never hesitated to go running off to explore. But then I grew up and became aware of all the scary woods-things. Like spiders. And bears. And HIM. Who is HIM, you ask? Well, HIM is the psycho killer who is in the woods and wants to chop me up into tiny pieces. I know it’s not rational, but it’s always right there at the edge of my consciousness. Yes, in fact camping with me is a delight.

2. I was at the self-scanner at Giant Eagle the other day and I noticed an employee looking at me funny. Then I realized I that the heated argument I was having with the stupid machine was not in my head, but out loud. I can’t help it – I always argue with those self-scanner machines. They are all a) stupid, b) incompetent, and c) trying to start a fight with me. Please tell me you argue with them too.

3. Also on my shit list? “Please take your ticket with you” parking garage machines.

4. And since I’m on a what’s pissing me off roll, let’s talk about the Share the Road signs. I would be happy to share the road with bicycles. It’s the douchebags riding the bicycles that I have a hard time with. Stop means “Stop,” not “Stop, except for the delightful gentleman on the bike.” I’m going to feel bad when I run you over, but it will be your own damned fault.

5. Aaaaaaand, speaking of stop signs, there are a few simple rules that the entire Asshole Traffic Brigade needs to learn: 1) STOP, 2) Just because you stopped when the guy in front of you was at the stop sign - it doesn’t count as YOUR stop!” 3) See the stop sign? The one you just drove six feet past, through the crosswalk and into the intersection? That is where you’re supposed to stop, assclown.

6. My grammar isn’t perfect, and I know it. And yet I really wish facebook had a red pen option. Because while I understand that words like participle and transitive and subjunctive can make anyone’s head spin, seeing some of the shit that people write make my head catch on fire and explode. Also? Spellcheck!

7. The Girl received an academic award at the school board meeting this week. It started at 7:30 and we were expecting to be out of there in time to see Lost at 9:00. I nearly cried when we pulled into the huge parking lot and saw it completely filled up. Turns out there were about 220 awards to pass out. Each child was given a small paper to fill out their activities and hobbies, to be used in their introduction. Had everyone filled them out like we did, with a couple of activities and a couple of hobbies, it would have moved a lot more quickly. However, some of these parents seemed to think that their kids were receiving a Nobel prize and instead turned in a biography. I am totally not exaggerating when I say that there were many that went like this:

“Our next student is Miffy Schmuffkin. Miffy’s hobbies include playing outside, playing in her room, playing with her dolls, jumping up and down, going to the park with Pap, swinging on the swings, baking brownies with Grandma, running around in circles, playing beauty shop and making Mommy and Grammy beautiful, playing with her pets – her dogs Spot and Rover, and her cats Puffy and Fluffy and her seven goldfish and two hamsters Thing 1 and Thing 2, watching movies, watching TV, digging holes in the yard, watching Daddy cut grass, raking leaves, Helping Mommy inn the kitchen, taking walks with the dogs, taking walks without the dogs, playing with her little brother, talking on the phone, going shopping with Mommy, Aunt Judy and Aunt Lisa, having sleepovers with her friends, visiting with her cousins, coloring, reading books with Uncle Bob, riding her bike, flying kites, going on vacation, building sandcastles, going to Build-A-Bear, bungee jumping at the mall when she goes shopping with Mommy, making paper airplanes, singing in the car with her Hannah Montana cd, and eating ice cream.”

WTF??

Needless to say, we left early. I felt a little bad, until I talked to The Girl’s teacher who said her son was up next and when he was done, she was leaving, too. I don’t know how long it went, but we stayed for an hour and they only made it through two grades. There were four more to go.

8. I need a sitter this weekend and I hate finding a sitter. I hate asking people to watch my kids. I mean HATE it. Almost to the point of not wanting to go out to avoid it. I don’t know why, I’m just crazy.

9. A teacher in Alabama was teaching his class geometry and to help them learn about angles, he used the scenario of assassinating the president. You know, I am having a very hard time with the fact that this kind of behavior is escalating and is somehow acceptable.

10. Her dad is as awesome as she is.

11. Being broke sucks. Hard. Whoever said “Money can’t buy happiness” was a douche. I am guessing it was either 1) some poor slob trying to make themselves feel better bout being poor, 2) some unhappy rich person who didn’t know how to properly use their money, or 3) some happy rich person feeling guilty and trying to convince themselves that their happiness wasn’t related to their money. Because while money can’t buy actual happiness, it could buy me a lot of things that would make me happy, like no debt, a nice house, cars that don’t suck, time off to be with my family, a personal chef, and vacations. So suck it stupid quote person.

12. OK- time for some vanity: You know what bugs me the most about getting old (other than the bitchslap of mortality)? No – it’s not the gray hair, or the weight, or the dumbassery. It’s the lashes. I never in my life wore mascara – I had long, thick lashes. People always commented on them. No one could believe that I wasn’t wearing any mascara. And suddenly in the past year or so, I started wearing mascara. I started because I was using powder shadow, and it would drop on my lashes, so they needed mascara for the color. But now I realize that I need it regardless. They are still longer and thicker than many people’s (I mean – I can’t wear some glasses because they bend my lashes), but they aren’t the same as they were in my youth and it pisses me off. I don’t know where this burst of vanity is coming from – I am not generally a vain person. Seriously – I wouldn’t even color my hair if not for walking into my BFF’s salon and having her say, Oh HELL no and throwing color on me. I guess it’s because my eyelashes were always “my thing?” I don’t know. But regardless? Aging is a fucker.

13. Today was The Girl’s kindergarten end-of-year program. Somehow the end of kindergarten is hitting me harder than the beginning. My baby is growing up. Hold me.

Lost - but not the TV kind

On Saturday, The Girl, Rapunzel and I decided to go geocaching. I programmed some caches into the GPS, we packed a picnic lunch and off we went. We decided to do the easiest, single cache first, then stop for lunch, then hit as many of the other as we had time for. And, as is so often the case, fate got wind of our plans and said, HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

We started off up a gravel path, headed for the cache. About halfway up, we had the typical question of “which way?” The GPS points you to the right coordinates as the crow flies, and since that straight line is often through impassible areas, it causes problems. Since we are not crows, nor can we fly, we have to try and figure out which path or trail is going to get us to where we need to go . Sometimes we guess correctly and sometimes some backtracking is required. This time it was the latter. Which is fine – we don’t mind a little extra hiking – it’s good exercise. But we were all a bit hungry and were anxious to get there so we could head back and eat.

Eventually, we reached the inevitable point where we would have to go off-trail. We bush-whacked our way to the general area and after the usual “OMG, we can’t find it” drama, we located the cache, made our trades, signed the log and patted ourselves on the back for being so awesome. Then it all went to shit. We had to climb out of a small ravine, which – the day after heavy rain – was slippery and muddy – at least when going up. I went first to pave the way for The Girl and proceeded to slip and start to fall. As I was falling, I grabbed and roots and branches to catch myself. And as I let go of one of those (sizable) branches, it snapped back and hot me in the face. Directly in the eye. Somehow I managed to not cry like a little baby and got up the bank. I pulled The Girl up and then Rapunzel came. As she was coming through, a large jagger branch swung towards her. I grabbed it to keep it from hitting her in the face. And it turned out to be the kind that releases its thorns. So I cane away with a handful of tiny, sharp splinters. Awesome.

Once I tended to my wounds, we headed out. And then – for the first time in all my years of playing in the woods – I got lost. Not lost, exactly, but I couldn’t find the place where we went off trail. I knew the direction of the trail, but we couldn’t get to it without going through thick, high brush. Clearly, there was a way, since that’s how we got there, but we could not find it. It didn’t help that we were all starving, plus The Girl was whining. Finally, we found a trail, but not the trail we were looking for. We had to decide which way to go. We chose the way that 1) looked like it would lead us to the original gravel path we were on before we backtracked to the dirt trail, and 2) went in the direction closest to the waypoint of the car. But between the whole “crow flies”/GPS issue and the crazy-ass, step-hilled, switchback nature of the trails? We chose wrong.

While we were never really lost since we were on a trail the entire time – it was exhausting and frustrating. And we were too far along on the trail to want to turn back. I knew we’d come out somewhere, but I was afraid of where that would be. We hiked for a LOOOONG time. And the last mile or so of the hike was all uphill. A HUGE hill. Every time the trail looked like it was leveling out, we came around a bend to see yet another steep climb ahead of us. By this time, I had a sinking feeling that I knew exactly where we were going to emerge from the woods and I was right. On a high-traffic state route with no sidewalks – making it a dangerous place to try and walk.

I was never so bummed to be right.

We were happy to be on the main road, but we knew we had another long hail ahead of us. A couple miles down DangerRoad to get to the park access road we needed. Then another mile or so down that road. Then two or more miles through the park (also not easy walking) to get to the car. All of us hungry and tired and lugging backpacks and a pissed off six year old.

Just before we headed off down DangerRoad, I noticed an elderly woman in her driveway across the street and I decided I had better verify that we were going in the right direction before we started walking. She told me we were and we talked for a few minutes. As I ran back across the street, her husband and sister-in-law pulled into the driveway t pick her up and she yelled over and asked if we would like a ride.

I debated a few seconds, because I really didn’t want to teach The Girl that it was OK to take rides from strangers, but quickly came to the conclusion that HELL YES we wanted a ride. I figured I’d talk to The Girl about it afterwards. So we piled in the car with them and spent the next 5 minutes on the most harrowing ride ever. The guy was pushing 90 and he drove not only like a 90 year old, but like an insane, homicidal, 90 year old who spent the morning smoking crack. Seriously – that ride was scarier than the entire lost-in-the-woods hike. Luckily, we made it intact to the head of a trail that led to our car and we only had to walk about a half mile or so to get there.

When we got there, we grabbed our blanket and cooler and got settled in for a picnic lunch. While we were eating we realized that, despite everything that happened, we actually had a really fun day. And a bonus? Food always tastes better after you narrowly avert death.

Sexy Miss USA Pics Don't Change How I Feel About Pageants - I'd Hate Them Anyway

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Don't forget - my March for Maddie Giveaway is still going on. Can you help? Donate and you could WIN!
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So there’s a bit of a controversy going on surrounding the Miss USA pageant. It seems that the pageant has posted photos on its website of the contestants in sexy lingerie. And some people think it’s going too far – too sexy, too sleazy, too…something. But me? I just don’t care. The women that participate in the pageant are all adults. They can make the decision on whether they feel comfortable posing like that. They aren’t being taken advantage of (assuming that they weren’t forced into doing so unwillingly, and since I haven’t heard any reports I am going with the assumption that they were all willing). So no – I don’t dislike the Miss USA pageant because of these photos. I dislike the Miss USA pageant because it’s a pageant.

I’ve always been pretty clear on my feelings about pageants. I’ve seen firsthand a family member pushed into pageants throughout her childhood. It wasn’t pretty – and it wasn’t nearly as extreme as what you see on those revolting Toddlers & Tiaras-type shows. I hate that pageants are teaching young girls that what is important is what’s on the outside – that beauty is far more important than intelligence or kindness or any number of other good qualities. Supporters of pageants like to blab on about how it gives them confidence and poise and strength. They like to talk about how pageants are scholarship contests, not beauty contests. And OK – I’ll give them some of that. I’m sure that being in pageants does help build a girl’s confidence. But so do sports and music lessons and girl scouts. And none of those things require a fake tan. And sure – sometimes the prizes in pageants are scholarships, but back in the day, I did a lot of interviewing for college scholarships and NOT ONE of them required that I wear a bikini. Go figure.

And let’s be honest – remember Miss Teen South Carolina a few years back? She of the following quote:

"I personally believe that U.S. Americans are unable to do so because, um, some people out there in our nation don't have maps and, uh, I believe that our, uh, education like such as, uh, South Africa and, uh, the Iraq and everywhere like such as, and I believe that they should, uh, our education over here in the U.S. should help the U.S., uh, should help South Africa and should help Iraq and the Asian countries, so we will be able to build up our future."

She got THIRD PLACE! Third place out of 51 contestants! How stupid were the other 48 contestants if this is the third place “scholarship” winner?

COME ON! Let’s be honest. Pageants ARE beauty contests. And beauty contests aren’t exactly teaching our girls much of anything beyond the Pretty is Best mentality. And the folks behind them know it or they wouldn’t be so gung-ho on telling us otherwise.

But hey – maybe I’m wrong. Maybe they’re harmless. Maybe it’s OK to put blush and eye-shadow and false eyelashes on a 5-year old, because her own natural beauty isn’t enough.

And maybe it’s OK to give a 2-year old hair extensions because her baby-fine hair isn’t beautiful enough.

And maybe there’s nothing wrong with making a child wear big false teeth and fake tans because proudly showing their first lost baby tooth just isn’t proper pageant decorum. Or because they don’t have teeth yet and as everyone knows, tiny little toothless smiles are hideous, right? And soft, porcelain , undamaged skin? YUCK!

And dressing them up like Vegas showgirls and hookers is totally cute!

And it wouldn't be a pageant if the contestants didn't show off their sexy curves in a bathing suit competition, right?

And of course it’s not at all disturbing to retouch photos until the once beautiful, normal looking little girls look like they are wearing pancake makeup. nothing says "adorable!" like that coffin look.

But the girls like it the pageant people keep telling us. It’s good for them.

And one day these little girls will grow up into bigger girls. Older, more grown-up girls, but still girls. And if they are lucky, they will become a part of the Miss USA family. And they will be seen by the whole world in borderline soft-porn photos, right there on the Miss USA website - which is fine if that;s what they want. But when we look at those photos, my first thought isn't exactly, Wow, they all look very confident.

I'll take this any day - messy, stringy hair, missing tooth, pale skin, no eyeliner to be seen, and the most beautiful thing I've seen today (even in crappy cell phone photo form):

Her Mom Probably Embarrassed HER, Too

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Don't forget - my March for Maddie Giveaway is still going on. Can you help? Donate and you could WIN!
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Yesterday on the way into work, the radio station was asking for embarrassing mom stories and I immediately thought of…oh…one hundred million of them. Seriously. There are so many I couldn’t even narrow it down. I’m sure we all have them and I’m sure our kids will have them, too. Of course, in my case, I sort of get double, since my mom has an identical twin that I am really close to. And since they are together so much: Embarrassing times two.

If I had called in to try and win a prize, I would have been tongue tied trying to decide which one is best – like maybe the time my mom & aunt decided to dance (or actually “dance”) at one of my birthday parties, thought it would be a good idea to finish the big “dance” with a dip, so they yelled out “Dip!” and then both dipped. And fell into the TV. Yeah, that was fun. At least they didn’t fall into my Shaun Cassidy cake (I had him on my cake several years in a row. Shut up). Good times. (You know, now that I am thinking about it, that one wasn’t actually Aunt Twin, but my Aunt Cee, and since she reads this, I probably shouldn’t be telling you about it, but – and I hope you are reading this Cee – TOUGH SHIT! Because even though I love you very much, I still feel the pain and trauma of you de-pantsing me in front of Old Joe and sitting on me and doing that gross spit thing, and let’s not forget the time you locked me out of the house IN THE SNOW! WITHOUT SHOES! And I had to walk a whole block in the snow to get my mom and Gram to come home and fix your ass SO THERE! And also – after you left me pantsless behind the couch while Old Joe was visiting and you took off? He used to give me money! I WIN!!!!)
Ahem

Where was I? Oh yeah – the embarrassing mom stories. There are many, many more. The fact that my mom and Aunt Twin seem to think that if they don’t move their lips when they talk that no one can hear them makes for many, MANY ways to embarrass me. Like when the immigrant cab driver was driving us around Toronto and they were “whispering” about how they thought he was cheating us because “they say” that the cab drivers will do that and even worse, some will abandon you in a bad part of town and make you pay them to get you out, blahblahblah UglyAmericanCakes. Or the loud search for a non-Portuguese cab driver because one person they knew met a Portuguese man and he used her to get into the country (thus all Portuguese men are guilty of this). Not that Portuguese cab drivers are easy to spot or anything.

Or the numerous times she drove me to school in her pajamas (which in the grand scheme of things is not so bad, but when you are 15? Kill me!)

Or the time my we went to the pool and my mom mentioned that she hated walking past the front row of women in lounge chairs because she always felt like they were looking at her and judging her, and Aunt Twin said, “Leave it to me” and proceeded to make a GIANT ASS of herself as we walked by – presumably to make the focus off my mom, but OH! MY! GOD! I wanted to DIE!!

Or the time when my mom got mad at me for something stupid and then my Aunt Cee got mad at her for getting mad at me and then my Nana got upset because everyone was mad. And then my mom was chasing me, so I ran out of the house and up the street to the car (I don’t know – did I think I was going to drive away? I was 12 or 13.), and Cee was chasing her, and Nana was chasing us all. I jumped in the car and my mom jumped in after me and grabbed me by the hair (don’t get all crazy with the abuse claims here – anyone with a teen can relate to at least wanting to pull their hair). So Cee opened the door and grabbed my mom by the hair. And then my mom let go of me and grabbed Cee’s hair and they fell out of the floor onto the street between the car and the curb and rolled around, both refusing to let go of each other’s hair and my Nana was doing a Fred Sanford to get them to stop and I was sinking down in my seat praying no one would see this. And then the next day in school, not one, but TWO people told me they saw me and my aunt and my mom and my great grandma running down the street and when I tried to say they were crazy, they proceeded to describe the entire scene in front of the entire lunch table and then I died of embarrassment. The End.

(I feel the need to say that Cee is appearing in these stories a great deal. Cee – consider yourself ON NOTICE!)

But one of my favorites (??) was the time my Gram was watching me and my cousin Cheryl. I was eight and she was two. We ordered pizza with mushrooms, since it was our favorite topping. We got it from a brand new pizza place called Pizza Shack. In those days, all the pizza shops used canned mushrooms, but Pizza Shack used fresh ones. And if you’ve ever had fresh mushrooms on a pizza, you know they aren’t the prettiest things. Anyway, the pizza was good and we ate most of it. And then my mom and Aunt Twin came home. They took one look at those unpretty mushrooms and decided then and there that Pizza Shack was trying to kill us with spoiled, poisoned mushrooms. My mom called Pizza Shack and ranted at them about the spoiled, poison mushrooms. And though they tried to assure her that their mushrooms were perfectly normal, she was having NONE OF IT.

They were freaking out, crying and saying incoherent things about poison and hospitals and stomach pumping. I heard those words and decided that I would rather die of poisoning than experience that. So I told them I didn’t eat any mushrooms that night – I picked them all off. Somehow they believed me, despite the fact that I LOVE mushrooms, and the fact that there was no evidence of picked-off mushrooms on the plates. They looked at Gram next, but she’s a tough bird and told them to shove it (actually, I think her words were something like “you two are crazy and the mushrooms were fine and I’m watching my show and not going to any damned hospital so shove it up your ass, I need a drink and a cigarette!”). All that was left was poor Cheryl, who - at two - was too young to know what was coming and escape the crazy. The poor thing got packed up into the car and dragged to the hospital, where they had no choice but to believe that she had eaten spoiled, poisoned mushrooms and treated her with a nice big dose of ipecac.

Although I felt bad for her, I was glad I missed that torture. What I didn’t know was that I was in for an even more delightful treat. As we left Gram’s house to head home, my mom grabbed what was left of the pizza. I didn’t understand why, since she was so sure it was poison, but I was hoping maybe I could sneak another piece when we got home. Unfortunately, my mom had other plans. She drove to Pizza Shack. And while I sat in the car under the lights (where I thought everyone in the entire world could see me), my mom proceeded to stand on the front steps of Pizza Shack and announce to the gathered patrons that Pizza Shack served SPOILED POISON MUSHROOMS!! Then she dumped the remaining pizza on the steps and – Good Lord – jumped up and down all over them. Then she realized she couldn’t see me (since I was ducking down in my seat so no one would see me) and started yelling “Gina? GINA!?!” thus killing any chance I had of remaining anonymous.

Looking back I can laugh, of course. But that doesn’t mean I’m not doing my best to make up for it by embarrassing my own kids. It’s the circle of life, people.

Pay It Forward

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Don't forget - my March for Maddie Giveaway is still going on. Can you help? Donate and you could WIN!
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I’ve always been the "sucker". I mean, I don't think I'm a sucker at all - but other people often do. You know – the one who gives the panhandlers money and puts change in the half-assed can on the minimart counter labeled “For Chairity.” I know that many times, I am probably being taken for…well…a sucker. But I don’t care. I’ve always been a firm believer that even if 9 out of 10 of those panhandlers take my money directly to the liquor store, that it still leaves one that I might actually be helping. And helping that one person is more important than not helping the other nine.

I’ve been known to do things that other people think are crazy – buying breakfast and a bus fare for a woman and her mother who were stuck at a hospital all night with no means to get home. They cried and felt bad that they couldn’t pay me back. I told them don’t worry – just pass it in. I once stopped – in the Hill no less – to help a man and his two young grandkids whose car had broken down. I gave him some money to get a cab and he wanted my address so he could send it back to me. I told him to pass it on. I try to help people whenever I can, and my response is always pass it on – pay it forward. I believe that even simple acts of kindness – like taking back someone’s shopping cart, or helping someone carry their groceries, or giving up a seat to someone on a bus – really can change the world. And I believe that it will eventually come back to you.

Many years ago, I was on a business trip in Chicago. Around the time I was there, the city was having a rash of pick-pocketings. Everywhere you went, businesses had signs about holding on to your bags and purses. Restaurants warned women not to hang your purse on the back of your chair. I took the warnings to heart and carried a tiny purse that I wore across my body. It had a button flap and a zipper. It rested right against my hip. It was pick-pocket-proof. Or so I thought.

My last night in the city, I walked a few blocks to a restaurant. I had an amazing, relaxing dinner and asked for my check. When the waiter was getting it for me, I reached into my purse for my card and discovered that my wallet was gone. I had it when I had left the hotel and didn’t take it out along the way. But apparently, somewhere in the crowds on the way to the restaurant, someone did.

I was in a panic. I had visions of washing dishes (like they always do in the sitcoms when they can’t pay the check). I had visions of being arrested. I was terrified. When the waiter came back, I was in tears as I explained what had happened. He told me to come with him and led me to the front desk to speak with the manager. I was literally shaking, worrying not only about the dinner check, but about the fact that my money, my debit card, my company credit card, and my ID were all gone and I had a flight home the next morning.

The manager was a sweet woman who immediately told me not to worry – that she would help me (which of course brought on more tears). She told me not to think twice about my meal – it was on them and they were glad to show me that their city was better than the pickpocket who had ruined my trip. She told me that the waiter would be taken care of when I worried about his tip. She wanted to give me money for a cab back to the hotel but I refused, since it was only a few blocks. She insisted on calling the hotel to let them know what happened, so they wouldn’t think I was trying to get out of paying. I sat at the bar with a (free) glass of wine, watching this amazing and kind woman take care of things for me – talking with the hotel and finding out that they were going to provide me with cab fare back to the airport the next day (because otherwise she intended to do so).

While this was going on, the couple sitting next to me spoke up. They told me they had heard what happened and they were sorry that something like that happened in their city. They told me that they wanted to help me and handed me $40. I refused, saying that I would be fine. But they insisted. They said that I couldn’t go to the airport with no money. They said you never know what might happen and that I might need it. They said I needed to eat something. They said that they wouldn’t be able to sleep that night if they didn’t help me out. So I gave in and took it and asked for their address to pay it pack. They told me they didn’t want me to pay it back, they wanted me to pay it forward. And I’ve been trying to do that ever since.

This post was inspired by Secret Agent L. If you don’t read her blog already, you should check her out, along with It Starts With Us.

And pay it forward whenever you can.

My Fairy Godfather Drank Black Velvet

I posted this Last April and - just like I described in the story - when I called, he came. Shortly after I hit "publish," Walt and I found each other again. We caught up and had a lot of laughs. We've talked on the phone and emailed and chatted on facebook. I was looking forward to getting together with him in the fall for our college homecoming celebration. I laughed as I pictured myself walking around the old campus, yelling, "WALT!" knowing that - as always - he would answer.

But today, I got an email from another old friend telling me the sad news. Walt - my friend - my fairy godfather - passed away on Sunday. He lived in Texas, so I can't be there. I won't see him again. All I can do is tell his story one last time. I'll miss you, Fairy Godfather.


I was having a conversation recently about “the good old days” and we were bringing up people in our past who were “characters” and the one person that always comes to mind for me in that situation is my friend Walt.

Walt was a legend on the campus of my teeny-tiny (first) college. Legend had him anywhere between 21 and 27, depending on who was retelling it. He was an icon. A permanent fixture. Don’t get me wrong, he was a smart guy and loved college. Or “college”, if you will. He was a stocky guy with the white blond hair. He almost always had a smile on his face (probably because he was at least a sheet and a half at any given time).

The first time I met Walt, I was a little intimidated. Here I was, a freshman, a baby, and there HE was - a. . .well. . .I have no idea what he was, since legend had it he was in his 6th or 7th year. But he was older. He was a grownup. As a sophomore, my friend Dave would drag me to Walt’s place to party, and I’d feel uncomfortable the entire time. The crowd there was always (to me, at least) a little older, a little smarter, a lot cooler. I have to admit, the discomfort was totally on my part - everyone there treated me just fine, but I felt inferior and stupid. But in time, Walt became my Fairy Godfather.

I never really thought he noticed me. I figured he saw me as the kid Dave dragged around with him. I didn’t even think he knew my name. But one day, I was walking to Victorian Literature (otherwise known as Stick Hot Pokers into My Ears and Eyes Lest I Explode from Boredom class) and I heard a voice from across the quad yell, “Hey! MaidenName! Let’s go drink a bottle of Black Velvet!” And given the choice of going to the world’s most boring class ever and downing a bottle of Canadian whiskey with a somewhat intimidating near-stranger - no contest!

I sort of thought he was kidding - that he just had some beer or a partial bottle left over from his last party or some good bud and was just looking for some company, but when we got back to his place, he pulled out two shot glasses and a brand new bottle of Black Velvet and we got to drinking. We spent the next couple of hours drinking and talking and having a great time. By the time his roommate (another older, even more intimidating silent-type) got back, along with some of the other of the usual party crowd (including Dave, who was until now, my only ticket into the place), Walt and I were pretty much trashed and laughing like fools. The roomie gave us a raised-eyebrow and everyone else looked a bit surprised. So perhaps I right and they were just tolerating me, or maybe they were just surprised that Walt was drunk on whiskey with a sophomore they all barely knew. Or maybe they were just surprised that I wasn’t with Dave - we were pretty much inseparable and I found out years later that everyone thought we were a couple.

Regardless, from that point forward, Walt became my Fairy Godfather. No matter where I was or what I was doing, if I thought about Walt, he would suddenly be there. We’d be partying in my friend’s dorm room and we’d say, “Walt should be here”, and a minute later the door would open and he’d walk in. Or we’d be at a hotel for homecoming, and wonder where Walt’s room was. So, we’d walk up the halls and just say, “Walt!” In 30 seconds, a door would fly open, and there he’d be. I’d be walking to class and think, “I really don’t feel like going today - I wish Walt would come rescue me” and before I knew it, I’d hear the by-then-infamous, “Hey MaidenName! Let’s go drink a bottle of Black Velvet/tequila/case of beer/” and off we’d go.

My favorite magically-appearing Walt occasion was after he graduated and I had left our small-town college for the last time (as did Dave). It was 1980-something, at a Dead show. It was the first of two shows and I had a ticket for both nights, but my friend Trish only had one for the second night. She came along anyway and we met up with Dave and some of his friends to party. A few hours before the show, we were making our rounds of the parking lot and a few people cut through our group, and in that sea of people, that was all it took to be separated from all my friends. I spent the next couple hours walking around looking for them and occasionally hanging out with some fun strangers. I finally gave up when it was time for the show to start. My ticket was a single, so I couldn’t even find them in their seats, since I had no idea where they were (not to mention, that at a Show? Seats, Schmeats!). I ended up running into a guy I knew who was also on his own, so I hung with him during the show. Afterward, we parted ways and I was once again alone in the lot.

I went to where they had been parked, but they were gone. I spent about an hour walking around, wondering how the hell I was going to get home (it was after city buses quit running, I had no money for a cab and it was way too far to walk, especially since I’d have to make my way through the Hill District to get home). I was feeling pretty freaked out and was about to find a group of folks who would let me hang for the night, when I started thinking about Walt. So I took a chance and said, “Walt!” And I swear - a van door popped open and there he was! That’s when I knew it was official - Walt was my Fairy Godfather.

Since last night, I can’t get him off my mind. We got in touch a few years ago and emailed a few times. He lived several states away and was married with a child. We lost touch again and I regret that. He was a good guy and a lot of fun. He was an unexpected friend. I find myself thinking about him quite often. So I have one thing to say:

“Walt!”

Once in a While You Get Shown the Light in the Strangest of Places if You Look at it Right

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Don't forget - my March for Maddie Giveaway is still going on. Can you help? Donate and you could WIN!
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Man, I have had a few shitty days lately. Lately I feel like I am always a hairsbreadth away from a meltdown. Since mr b lost his job, he’s been working for himself, which mean I never know when and if we’re going to have money coming and how much. This stresses me out. God bless you folks who freelance because I would need to be either institutionalized or incarcerated after a while. Anyway, that bit of stress seems to drain my reserves of sanity, leaving me precious little for the unexpected. And lately, between our crazy schedules, work being insanely busy, the girl and her cheerleading tryouts (she made it), feeling disconnected from a couple people I used to be close to, my mother turning up her Evil-Ray-O-Tron to the Extra Super High setting, and a bunch of other random crap, I have been pretty close to losing it. Monday was the start – work getting out of hand, people being assholes. Then yesterday rolled around, and more of the same and I lost it. I spent a good portion of the day in tears. Not for any reason, and yet for every reason. I closed my office door and kept to myself as best I could.

But then last night, we went to Heinz hall to see the boy perform with his jazz ensemble. First there was a symphony performance and though I have never been much of a symphony-lover, as I sat there listening to the music, with no one throwing work and deadlines at me, no one bossing me into getting them ice cream, no barking assholes, or ringing phones, or critical mothers, or anything other than the music and I suddenly felt better. Not a lot better, but enough to sit back and enjoy and not feel like I was falling apart. By the time the jazz performance started, I decided that today, despite having the same problem I had yesterday and the day before and the day before that, I was going to focus on things that make me happy. And I am doing just that. Here are some of them:

Jerry Garcia & John Kahn: When I Paint my Masterpiece (my actual favorite performance of this would be at The Ritz on 01/27/86, but I can’t find it so this is close enough)




Cousins:



Golden Chocolate Oreos (the cookies formerly known as Uh-Oh Oreos). You can keep your regular Oreos. But these I can NOT resist:



How ridiculously much he loves these sunglasses:




One of my new favorite blogs: Hyperbole and a Half. I dare you not to laugh like a mental patient over this. I DARE YOU!


My baby playing at Heinz Hall:





Our new favorite family hobby: geocaching. We’ve gone several times now and it’s a LOT of fun. Despite the time we parked in the wrong place and had to climb a big, giant, dangerous, man-eating mountain (OK, not quite, but still – it was HARD), and the time the girl fell in a creek, and the horrible jagger (you burgh people know what I’m talking about, right?) scars on my legs, and the giant thorns that embedded themselves in my face, and that thing that was most likely a jagger, but may have been a creature that I think made a burrow in my arm and raised a family there and is eating me alive as I speak, and the fact that people leave sucky bullshit trades in the caches which pisses off the six year old looking for treasure, we actually love really love it!





This jackass:



One of my favorite Grateful Dead shows ever (and definitely my favorite versions of my favorite song – can you guess which one it is?): Beacon Theater, 01/27/1986

/
1 Cold Rain And Snow
2 Mama Tried
3 Banter
4 Row Jimmy
5 Cassidy
6 Brown Eyed Women
7 Big River
8 Might As Well
9 Lazy Lightnin'
10 Supplication
11 Tennessee Jed
12 Playin' In The Band
13 The Wheel
14 Samson and Delilah
15 High Time
16 The Music Never Stopped
17 Crazy Fingers
18 Drums > Dancin' in the Streets
19 Cosmic Charlie
20 Help On the Way
21 Slipknot!
22 Franklin's Tower
23 Around and Around
24 U.S. Blues

March for Maddie Giveaway 2010

For the second year in a row, I (along with the most excellent Burgh Team) will be participating in the March of Dimes Pittsburgh March for Babies on May 23rd in memory of Madeline Spohr, who passed away on April 7th, 2009.

For those who don’t know about Maddie – she was born on November 11th, 2007 – more than 11 weeks too early. She spent 68 days in the NICU while her parents feared for her life. Luckily, Maddie made it through that tough time and was a beautiful vibrant, happy little girl, until that terrible day last April when she came down with the respiratory infection that took her life.

Sadly, the Spohr’s aren’t the only family to go through something like this. Every year, too many babies are born too early. Too many babies are born with birth defects. Some survive and some don’t.

My own grandmother went through something very similar to what the Spohrs went through. Her first child, a son named Donny was born back in the 1940’s. Like Maddie, he was a happy, vibrant, smiling little boy whom everyone loved. But he was born with Spina Bifida. My grandma struggled to keep him healthy. She took him to every doctor she could find, every specialist that would see her. She spent days on a dirty train taking him to the mayo clinic to be seen. But sadly, all those experts said the same thing – he would not survive very long.



As he got older, and sicker, a doctor told my grandma that he would most likely not survive his next illness, like a cold. Imagine the terror my grandma felt, trying to keep her son healthy – trying to keep him alive. And as hard as she tried, she couldn’t. No one could. And when he was only a toddler – somewhere around the age of two – Donny died.



But the March of Dimes is trying to change things for the better, and it’s working. And with our help, things can only get even better.

Like last year, I am holding a giveaway to help raise money for this wonderful, worthy cause.
For any donation of $5 to my walk page (click the button at the bottom), I will enter you into a drawing to win a Box ‘O Goodies. That means you get an entry for each $5 you donate – So $10 gets you two entries, $15 gets you three, and so on.

And like last year, the Box O’ Goodies will include a variety of goodies that will include:

* A $50 Target gift card

* A $15 Starbucks gift card

* Assorted goodies to be determined after I pick the winner (so I can gear it towards the winner a little based on gender, location, etc) but will include at least one book, something yummy, something weird (because…duh), something kid-related if you have any, and who knows what else, but I’m good at gift baskets so fear not.

(One of my favorite bloggers won last year and after receiving the package, proclaimed it a “treasure chest,” so it’s definitely a good prize)

Once you donate, please leave a comment here so I can figure out who is who (if you want to remain somewhat anonymous on the amount of your donation, you can comment here that you donated, and then email me to let me know who you are and the amount so I can give you the appropriate number of entries (sugarmag_at_live_dot_com).

You don’t have to know me to enter. I don’t care if you’ve never commented before. I don’t care if you’ve never been here before. What I care about is doing the best we can to help a great cause. Because no one should ever go through what my grandma, and the Spohrs, and so many other families have endured.

Although I love to give people stuff and usually die of anticipation before every birthday or holiday, I am going to drag this one out a little to give more folks a chance. The walk is on May 23rd, and I will keep the contest open until the week before to make sure we can raise as much money as we can for the March of Dimes.

Help out if you can and feel free to pass this along.

THANKS!!

The Hoarder Room

When we moved into our house, it was a tiny little matchbox with no closets. Yeah, you heard me right – No Closets! I have no idea where the former owners pout their stuff, but it certainly wasn’t in a closet. We have since added on to the house – including two bedrooms for the kids (with big closets) and a nice long hallway (with a big closet) and another bathroom (big closet), but the original part of the house remains closetless. The two original bedroom were actually connected (one was built at a later time), and mr b and I had plans to turn them into one larger bedroom (and add a closet). But of course, that kind of thing takes time and money and we never seem to have enough of either. So for the time being, one of those rooms has been serving as the bedroom (as in, a room with an actual bed in it) and the other – which started out as a “dressing room” of sorts, where all of our clothes and stuff were kept – has become…dunh dunh duuuuuunnnnhhh…The Hoarder Room.

I’d like to blame the whole no-closet thing on the fact that I have a Hoarder Room, but anyone who has ever seen my school locker, dorm room, or college apartment knows that would be a lie – I have to admit, I’m a bit of a slob, so it’s a combination of the two. Needless to say, The Hoarder Room was in serious need of a cleaning, and I decided that this weekend was the time to take it on.

Holy Shitballs there was a lot of stuff in there. I would have taken before and after photos, but my shamelessness does, in fact, have limits. But I’m not too proud to share with you a (sadly, only partial) list of the strange discoveries I made on my Hoarder Room Adventure. I found:

One powerball ticket, which I am going to have to check because it may be my big break

Five unscratched West Virginia (???) scratch-off lottery tickets. Luckily there were no winners, because if they had been winners, I would have almost certainly ended up in tears since they are most likely null and void, being approximately four years old.

One jar of baby food (macaroni with beef and noodles). I have NO idea what this is about, since a) it was a brand I never bought for either of my kids and b) the room became a hoarder room long after either child was eating baby food.

A bunch of unused birthday and thank-you cards (yay – I can use those).

A bunch of clothes that are too small since I have gained weight and refuse to get rid of them, since they are some of my favorites.

Several pairs of pants & some shirts that still have tags on them and are too small because my mother is still doing that previously mentioned and super endearing Buy Things Too Small and Then Say “I thought you were going to lose weight” thing.

A dress with tags still on it (also courtesy of mom) because even if I lost enough weight to be a size 2, these boobs were not made for that dress, no matter how much she refuses to face the fact.

This sticker:

and matching pin. Bought entirely in jest, as anyone who has ever heard my (motherfucking) mouth knows.

A pile of too-big hand-me-downs for the girl.

A pile of too-small clothes for the girl that need to go to goodwill.

Four lipsticks- never used.

Eight gift bags.

A Christmas shape muffin tin. I was totally going to make those at Christmas.

Approximately 30 pounds of craft supplies.

The part I have been missing from my sewing machine for more than a year.

Novelty photos from Myrtle Beach (2007) that I had printed to give to everyone for Christmas. Fail.

An uncashed check from April 2007 for $5.00.

An uncashed check from March 2008 for $0.88.

An unopened can of Pringles.

An open bag of salt and vinegar chips.

Dove chocolate.

17 labeled cds.

9 unlabeled mystery cds.

3 dvds – one coated in something sticky.

4 tubes of glow bracelets (I obviously have a thing about glow bracelets)

Approximately 2,346 hangers – some of which are not even broken.

Laundry!

Hello Kitty arm floaties, which I am totally saving and wearing to next years Polar Bear Plunge.

Several dead stinkbugs.

Several dead ladybugs.

A feather which appears to have come from a pigeon. I know!

Fruit Stripe Gum wrapper tattoos, lovingly sent to me by Hedge.

An empty spice rack (I don’t even know…)

A bottle of Advil.

A tube of Neosporin.

Enough Immodium to clearly illustrate my fear of shitting myself.

A pack of water balloons (minus the water, of course).



What I did not find:

Money (not counting the $3.47 in change and the potential powerball millions) BOO!

Dead bodies – human or otherwise. YAY!

Cat poop. YAAAAAAAYYYYYYYY!!!!

Friday 5: Multimedia

I have been blogging a little more regularly lately and I want to keep it up. But I'm extra work busy (damn work interfering with my fun) and don't have a lot of time. Thus, a Friday 5.

1. What Rolling Stones song best summarizes the week you just had?

Back to Zero. Because there is someone in my life that I love who continues to disappoint me. And every time we get together, I start to feel like things are picking up – that maybe this person is OK after all. And then they show that hurtful side of themselves to me and it’s right back to zero.


2. What movie reminds you most of your childhood?

Hmmm. I can’t come up with one, really. I’m sure after I hit publish I will think of a ton. As for my teen years, it would be Spanglish. Remember that scene when the mother goes shopping and buys her daughter a bunch of new clothes? And the daughter is really excited? And then in the next instant is devastated because the mother bought them a size too small because she hoped the daughter would lose weight? Yeah.


3. What part of the newspaper do you never (or almost never) read?

Sports. I will watch sports, but I never read about them afterwards. Unless there is a “human interest” aspect to the story, I don’t care about scores or stats, or any of that.


4. What television show is a lot better than you thought it would be?

Dude – I love TV. If it distracts and even slightly entertains me, I’m in.


5. What station is the radio nearest you set on at this moment?

There isn’t a radio anywhere near me, actually. I don’t think we have a working radio anywhere in the house.

Potty Training was Easy Compared to This

I took The Girl somewhere super scary last night. No, not a cemetery. Nope, not a haunted house. Not a Scientology Center, either. It’s way scarier than that. Last night, I took my baby to…

Dun dun duuuuuuunnnnnhhhhhh…

Cheerleading sign-ups.

My baby wants to be a cheerleader. And since I am not one to stop my kids from doing what they want (within reason), if they want to join karate, they can. If they want to put eye shadow on the dog, they can. If they want to ride the pitfall 1,000 times in a row, they can (OK, that’s just me). And by god, if they want to be a cheerleader, they can.

I’m just not cut out for this shit. I live in a small town and sports and activities in small towns are so full of strife and drama. I hate strife and drama. But for many years now, I have been sucking t up for the sake of my kids.

But this cheerleading thing has me feeling a little uncomfortable, because it’s not just a sign-up that we went to last night. It was a sign-up to try out. And that makes me a little queasy. Don’t get me wrong – I think that at a certain age, kids benefit from having to try out – they need to learn that everything can’t be handed to you. That you have to work for things. That not everyone can win. But I have a hard time believing that 5 or 6 years old is that age.

I don’t know how many girls will try out – I’ll find out next week. But I imagine it will be more than just the fifteen that will be chosen for the squad. And the thought of one (or ten or twenty) tiny little girls being devastated because they aren’t good enough breaks my heart into a million little pom-pom shaped pieces.

And one thing that is really bugging me about this is that this is the cheer squad for the midget football team, and the boy’s sign-up was at the same time. And those boys? Are signing up, versus trying out. Every one of those boys will be on the team. They might not all get to play, but they will be on the team, uniforms and banquets and parades and the whole nine yards. But the girls? Exclusive City. I don’t get it - why the double-standard?

Here’s a confession: I tried out for cheerleading back in my first year of junior high. I tried hard and worked hard and thought I had a chance because I was a good gymnast. But I didn’t make it. And I can still remember being in that gym, standing in a line as they called numbers to step forward. I can remember the feeling when my number wasn’t called. I can remember getting into my mom’s car afterward and my heart breaking, crying all the way home. I don’t want my baby’s heart to break like that.

And looking back, what I didn’t realize at the time was that my mom’s heart was probably breaking, too. And I know that if she doesn’t make it and she feels the heartbreak that I felt, mine will too. But even though I want to shield her from that, I can’t. I explained to her that not everyone will make it, including her, and yet she still wants to try. This makes me proud of her – her willingness to try. But I still hope we can avoid the broken heart. And even if we do, I know there will be other brokenhearted girls out there, and that bothers me too.

I hate that at this young, innocent age, there is something that - no matter what - will result in a sad ending and hurt feelings for some of them. I know I’m idealistic in thinking that I can protect them from that, but you can’t blame me for wanting to.

Operation Sweet Sixteen update (again)

OK - I have sent out emails & Twitter DMs with the address. if I missed you, it means I don't have your email to send it to (or I just missed it - sorry!). If that is the case, please email me at sugarmag at live dot com and I will send the info along. Thanks again for helping!! You guys are awesome!

Operation Sweet Sixteen Update

Some things:

1. You guys are SO awesome to want to participate.

2. I have decided it can't be totally anonymous, since it might freak this very nice family out that a bunch of strangers have their daughter's name and address, so I will have them sent in care of me and I will deliver them. We still won't mention the party, but I plan to say something along the lines of that I told my internet friends it was her sweet sixteen and people wanted to help make it special. I just want to make sure it doesn't sound like pity in any way.

3. I will get the info out to you all on Monday. I am sick and I have about seventy million things to do today and tomorrow.

4. Several of you left comments, but I don't have your email addresses. If you didn't enter an email address in your comment, please either comment again or email me at sugarmag at live dot com and I will send the info.

5. Seriously? You guys are the best.

Operation Sweet Sixteen

Tonight I went to a Sweet Sixteen party. I wasn't feeling well and wasn't in the mood, but I went because the girl is special and deserves to have everyone she loves help her celebrate. Her parents rented a small hall and hired a DJ. And ONLY ONE OF HER FRIENDS SHOWED UP!

The poor girl was devastated - hurt by her so-called friends and embarrassed in front of her family. It took me back to the heartbreak of being a teen. I am sure we all have some not-so-nice memories of that day. For me, it was around that age that the group of friends I had for years decided I wasn't one of them any more. I found new (and most decidedly better) friends, but that didn't take the pain away.

We're all grown up and we can look back on those days and know that we didn't deserve it - that those kind of people aren't friends anyway. We know that people like that aren't worth feeling bad over. But that's now - five and ten and fifteen and twenty and OMG I'M OLD years later. But when you're sixteen and it's happening to you, it feels like the end of the world.

I'm asking if you will help me.

I think it would be a really amazing gesture if I could get a bunch of people from all over the place to send this girl a birthday card and let her know how special and awesome she is.

Here is the thing: I DON'T want the cards to mention the party or her friends - I DON'T WANT IT TO COME ACROSS AS PITY! Also - I DON'T want the cards to mention me at all - again - I don't want it to seem like pity, and also I think that if they all come without any mention of how they got there, it will be more magical - like she has guardian angels all around the country who are looking out for her.

If you would be willing to help out with this project, please leave a comment, or email me at sugarmag at live dot com. If I can get at least ten people to do this (the more the better - I want to send her as much magic and kindness as we can) and I will send you the info.

All you need to do is send a birthday card (or even just a note)that wishes her a happy sixteenth birthday and tells her she is special or awesome, or any other good thought (while not mentioning me or the party or her friends). You can sign your 1st name and city (Jane from Pittsburgh) Or just leave it anonymous if you want.

Think of how fun it is to get unexpected mail. Now put yourself in her shoes and imagine how fun it would be to get a SHITLOAD of unexpected mail.

Let's make someone's day!

Jackhammersasses

You know what can ruin a perfectly delightful evening at the theater? A shitload of jackhammers that’s what!

I took The Girl to see The Wizard of Oz at Heinz Hall last night. She had no idea what we were doing, but she was thrilled to just go to Lulu’s for dinner. Then to follow it up with her favorite movie live on stage? Wooo, was she a happy girl. We had a great “girl’s night” as she calls them.

After the show was over, we made our way down to the lobby and as soon as we got near the front door, we heard it. TETETETETETETETETETETETETET!! (I don’t know how to represent the sound of a jackhammer in text – that’s the best I can do. But you know what I mean). And it was LOUD. Louder than any jackhammer I had ever heard. Not only could you hear it, you could feel it. It was so loud that you couldn’t hear each other talking. So loud that people were looking around for the mysterious invisible jackhammers and covering their ears. We couldn’t wait to get to the car and get our of there.

We got into the parking garage and headed fore the stairs, since we didn’t want to wait for the elevator. It became immediately clear that the horrible, terrible, no-good, very bad noise was coming from inside the garage. And it got worse as we neared our floor. And wouldn’t you know it, we opened the door to discover the loudest, most horrifying construction site ever. Right there on the floor where we were parked, right near our car where six (SIX!) guys running jackhammers.

It was, by far, the loudest, most annoying sound I have ever heard. The girl immediately started crying because it was hurting her ears (even though she had them covered). And the other charming effect of jackhammering? The dust. The nasty, thick, not-exactly-healthy cement dust was so thick, you could hardly see. Even though a parking garage is technically open-air, without any type of exhaust system, that dust just hung there in the air.

I wrapped my sweater around The Girl’s face to keep her from breathing it in, but I didn’t have any way to protect myself. It not only burned my eyes and my throat – I could actually taste it and feel it in my mouth and nose as I breathed. It was gritty and nasty. We were both coughing, trying to hold out ears, and she was crying, and the douchebags just kept on with their TETETETETETETETETETETETETET!!

We finally got to the car (it took longer than it should have because carrying a bunch of stuff, including a six year old while coughing, blinking, and trying to hold your ears will slow you down), only to find that it was completely covered in a thick layer of the devil dust. By the time we pulled out of our spot, The Girl was complaining of a headache and a stomachache. I had a headache. And since I have been suffering from asthma-like issues ever since I had the flu, I woke up this morning feeling like there was a cinderblock on my chest. My throat and chest hurt and I have a terrible cough/irritation in my lungs. Isn’t that nice?

I can’t being to tell you how pissed off I am about this. I understand that they need to get this type of work done and it can’t be done during working hours. But considering that this is the closest garage to Heinz hall, perhaps they should rethink the idea of doing it just as a show is letting out. Especially a show that will attract a lot of children. If they have to do it, they should have at least stopped for 30 minutes or an hour after the show was over to give people a chance to get out of there without putting their health at risk.

At the very least, there should have been signs before you entered the garage letting you know that this was going to be happening. And why in the HOLY BLUE FUCK wouldn’t they shut down parking on the floor it was happening on? FUCKING IDIOTS!
Thanks a lot, Alco Parking, for being the Douchebag of the Day!