In Your Head Syndrome

I have a problem. A delusion, if you will. I call it In My Head Syndrome. You see, in my head, I can do things. Things I can’t do in reality. It’s kind of like when you decide to paint a room (or finish a craft project or organize a closet), and as you are planning it (in your head), you think, “This will be a breeze. I’ll be done by lunchtime and then I’ll have the whole day to lay on the couch watching old 90210 reruns and eating bon-bons get other things done.” And then you start painting and you think, “Hmmm…this is taking a little longer than I expected.” And then hours and hours go by and you are not even close to being done and you’re getting pissed off because your couch and Kelly’s drug problem and a box of bon-bons your other chores are waiting and you can’t believe you ever thought you could get it done by lunchtime.

If this (or something similar) has ever happened to you, you are afflicted with In My Head Syndrome.

In My Head Syndrome tends to affect us older folks more than the younger set. It’s not that younger folks are more in touch with reality, it’s just that they may have fewer responsibilities getting in the way of getting things done. Or they have more free time to work with. Or – and this is the big one – their bodies haven’t betrayed them like ours have.

Now, I mentioned bodies betraying us and you might be wondering what that has to do with painting or crafting or organizing. But you see – the biggest and most dangerous symptoms of In My Head Syndrome are physical. In the most severe cases, the results can be physically painful. Both severe and mild cases are emotionally painful.

In case I have any young people reading who don’t think In My Head Syndrome affects them, let me offer you some proof that it does. Remember when you went to your second cousin’s wedding and your parents started dancing. The way parents dance? In My Head Syndrome. And remember when your uncle went sled-riding with you and crashed into a creek and just laid there for a while? In My Head Syndrome. And I KNOW you remember your ninth birthday party when your mom and aunt decided to show off their ballroom moves and fell into the TV in front of all your friends? You guessed it - In My Head Syndrome. See – these examples were emotionally painful, although not so much for the afflicted person, but those around them – so like it or not, YOU are affected by In My Head Syndrome.

The severe cases can be very painful. I know this from experience. I was much more athletic growing up (which admittedly isn’t saying much. A cactus is more athletic than I am now). I took gymnastics from the time I was four through high school. I was a diver all through high school and two years of college. And even though it’s been years and many pounds, I am apparently still under the impression that I can do a back handspring or a full-twisting 1 ½ back dive. Now I’m sure this won’t be as much of a surprise to you as it was to me, but: I cannot.

Certain things can cause In My Head Syndrome to flare up – taking the kids to gymnastics/baton/etc, looking at old photos & videos , class reunions, alcohol, and many more. Right now, there is a serious In My Head Syndrome epidemic due to the Winter Olympics. If you are anything like, you will watch the ski-jumping and luge and half-pipe and think to yourself, “That looks easy. I could so do that!”

And like me, you would most likely be wrong. Because In My Head Syndrome means that you are way faster, stronger, smarter, more graceful, more motivated, cooler and more awesome IN YOUR HEAD than you are in reality.

Sadly, there is no cure.

Good Afternoon. Not Greyhound Speaking.

This is a conversation that I have every single day that I am in the office. In fact, most days I have it many times:

“Rrrrrriiiinnnnggg”

“Good Morning, Awesome Company, can I help you?”

“Yeah, what time is the bus to Cleveland?”

“I’m sorry, you must have the wrong number”

“Oh. I need the bus schedules number. Give that to me”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. You have called the wrong number.”

“This isn’t Greyhound?”

“No, I’m sorry, it’s not.”

“Well, then, who is it?”

“Awesome Company.”

“Who?”

“Awesome Company”

“And you can’t tell me when to get the bus to Cleveland?”

“No, I’m sorry. We don’t have anything to do with Greyhound.”

“Well, are you involved in travel at all?”

“No.”

“Is this 1-800-XXX-XXXX?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Well, can you transfer me to the right person?”

“No. Like I said, we aren’t affiliated with Greyhound at all. You’ll have to recheck the number and try again.”

“Hmmm. . .”

“OK. Sorry I can’t help you. You have a nice day anyway.”

“So you can’t help me with the bus?”

“No.”

“Do you know who could?”

“Well, Greyhound, I assume. Which we are not. You’ll have to call the correct number for that”

“Do you have that number?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t”

“OK, then. . .bye”

“Bye”


40 seconds later. . .

“Rrrrriiiinnnggg”

“Good Morning, Awesome Company. Can I help you?”

“WHO is it, now?”

“Awesome Company.”

“Huh?”

“Awesome Company.”

“You’re not Greyhound?”

“No.”

**click**

This happens approximately eleventy-seventeen times a day. Now, I don’t mind wrong numbers. It happens to the best of us. But when you call, and I say the company’s name when I answer and said name is not Greyhound? You can pretty much assume that YOU HAVE NOT REACHED GREYHOUND!!!!!!

Asking “Is this Greyhound” fifteen times will not change anything. I will be much less friendly after the first time and we will still be NOT GREYHOUND. Please try to understand this. It would mean so much to me if you would learn that unless I answer the phone with, “Good Morning. Greyhound”, that I don’t know when the bus to Cleveland leaves. And I don’t know what to do about lost luggage. And I don’t know the price of a roundtrip ticket to Detroit. And we are NOT GREYHOUND!

If you don’t cut it out, I’m going to have to start answering your questions, even though I don’t have a clue. I’ll give you the wrong times, the wrong prices and maybe start taking credit card numbers. Then I’ll jump on my one-way bus ride to Hell. But I’ll enjoy the ride.

16 Days

Hello? Tap tap. Is this thing on?

Yeah – I’ve pretty much been MIA for way too long around here. Work has been so insane lately that after spending 15 or 26 hours attached to this computer, the last thing I want to do is be attached to it for even a minute more. And then the snowmageddon came and I was trapped in this house with my entire delightful and not at all annoying family and even if I wanted to update, I am surrounded by several not at all nosy people who are not at all looking over my shoulder.

OK, that is a total lie – first off – I don’t care how delightful these people actually are - being cooped up with them for 24 hours a day for an entire week can turn even the most delightful family into a bunch of rabid wolverines. Wolverines who won’t let you do a damned thing without asking you 11,000 questions, or climbing on you, or fighting with each other (I know – I said “each other” implying that I am not involved with the fighting, but I have two words for that: Friendly Fire), or – my personal favorite – looking over my shoulder to see what I am doing. In fact, there is one particular member of my delightful family who will go as far as to pretend to want tohug his mother in order to stick his nosy nose into her computer screen and see what she is reading and/or writing. But that particular member shall remain unnamed.

And now, as if I haven’t been sucking at blogging anyway, I am faced with the biggest obstacle of all to getting anydamnthing done – The Olympics. The Olympics make it impossible for me to do anything, except scour the television, internet, & newspapers for any Olympic-related thing I can find.

There is something about the Olympics that is absolutely irresistible to me – despite the fact that you would never see me watching any of this stuff any other time of year (or years, in this case). I’ve always been fascinated by the Olympics. As a kid, I imagined being there as an athlete. Now, I have the very different experience of seeing it though a parent’s eyes – I get choked up for every single athlete – I see their parent there and cry as if they were my own. I get excited and cheer for sports I have never even seen before – it doesn’t matter, I’m rooting for someone – anyone - everyone.

There’s something so basic about the Olympics – even in the very commercialized version we’re seeing these days. Once you look past the labels on the helmets and the seemingly ten-thousand Olympic-themed commercials, at the heart of the Olympics lies spirit and youth and hopes and dreams and despite being a competition between countries, you see friendship and camaraderie. Athletes supporting each other. Fans from all nations cheering for athletes from other – because they’re the “home” team; because they’re the underdog; because they’re just so damned amazing that they deserve nothing less.

So that’s what I’ll be doing for the next couple of weeks, watching sports I’d otherwise never watch. Not only watching, but cheering. And not only cheering, but giving a shit. And then it will be over and I’ll go back to hating ice skating and not knowing short track from long track and not really caring. Until the next Olympics rolls around and I’m hypnotized all over again.

Though I’ll admit, the magic hasn’t quite spread to ice dancing. You can keep that shit.

.

It's All Downhill From Here

It started earlier this year – I noticed that when faced with teeny tiny print, it seemed like my eyes took a couple seconds to focus. It wasn’t a big deal, though – after a split second, I could see just fine. Then in October, I took Hedge out to dinner for her birthday. The restaurant was dim and when they brought the menus, Hedge and I looked at them, then looked at each other and laughed – we’re old, haha, we can’t see, heehee. It was funny at the time – a joke (this may have something to do with the mojitos).

Then just after the first of the year, I got the plague flu and found myself camped out on the couch with tea and blankets and approximately 15 different over-the-counter medications. All of which have teeny, tiny print. I laid there on my deathbed sickbed and tried to figure out if I needed one pill or two, if I could take it again in four hours or six. And I couldn’t. I seriously could not read the backs of those pill bottles. But I wrote it off as the lighting – it was dim in the room. Yeah – that’s it.

Earlier this month, I got a new cell phone. I love it especially because I can check my email and catch up on twitter, etc when I don’t feel like pulling the laptop out. I would sit here for hours in the evening, reading emails and blogs while I watched TV. And then suddenly I couldn’t see the teeny tiny words anymore. And I DO mean suddenly – as in one day I could see it just fine and the next, I couldn’t.

As I sat here in shock that my eyes could fail me so quickly, I noticed that my aunt had left a pair of reading glasses on my coffee table.

Hmmm…

I thought about it, then rejected it. I do NOT need reading glasses. Then about an hour later, I tried again. And still, I couldn’t see it. And I thought, well, maybe. Maybe I’ll just try them, so I can prove that they are too much, that I won’t be able to see with them ON. I don’t need reading glasses.

I think we all know where this is going, don’t we?

I put those glasses on and I swear, I heard angels singing. It was like the heavens opened up and bestowed on me PERFECT VISION.

Sigh. It's all downhill from here.

Patriotism My Ass

Six years ago, I received a forwarded email (one of many, sadly) that was one of those rotten, hateful rants disguised as patriotism. It pissed me off so much that I had to respond to it on my blog, hoping and dreaming of the day when we could grow learn to love instead of hate. And yet here we are SIX YEARS LATER and we haven't grown a goddamned bit.

A blogger I adore received this same email all these years later, and being a good, kind person, it outraged her as much as it did me. And I feel the need to re-post what i wrote all those years ago:

I received an absolutely OFFENSIVE email yesterday. I am SO SICK of hateful diatribes being sent around via email, thinly disguised as patriotism. The people who start these things need to think a little harder about the meaning of patriotism. As far as I know, it doesn't include hate and bigotry. In fact, for those too stupid to look it up, here's the dictionary definition:

"Love of country; devotion to the welfare of one's country; the virtues and actions of a patriot; the passion which inspires one to serve one's country"

Love of country. Hmmm, I don't think that requires hating others based on their religion. Devotion to the welfare of one's country. These assholes may think they are devoted to our welfare, but if you ask me, hate really isn't good for the country as a whole. In fact, I think that hate and prejudice will do the exact opposite. They'll tear this country apart. So stop it. Now. Anyway, for your reading displeasure, here is the email:

USPS New Stamp

Looks pretty doesn’t it? Pretty deceiving….
PLEASE, DON’T USE THESE STAMPS! NOT FOR VALENTINE’S,
NOT FOR ANY MAIL!!

USPS 44-Cent Stamp Celebrates Muslim holidays Eid Al-Fitr and Eid Al-Adha .

If there is only ONE thing you forward today… let it be this!

REMEMBER to adamantly & vocally BOYCOTT this stamp, when you are
purchasing your stamps at the post office.

All you have to say is “No thank you, I do not want that Muslim Stamp
on my letters!”

To use this stamp would be a slap in the face to all those AMERICANS
who died at the hands of those whom this stamp honors.

REMEMBER the MUSLIM bombing of PanAm Flight 103!

REMEMBER the MUSLIM bombing of the World Trade Center in 1993!

REMEMBER the MUSLIM bombing of the Marine barracks in Lebanon!

REMEMBER the MUSLIM bombing of the military barracks in Saudi Arabia!

REMEMBER the MUSLIM bombing of the American Embassies in Africa!

REMEMBER the MUSLIM bombing of the USS COLE!

REMEMBER the MUSLIM attack on the Twin Towers on 9/11/2001!

REMEMBER all the AMERICAN lives that were lost in those vicious MUSLIM attacks!

Now the United States Postal Service REMEMBERS and HONORS the EID MUSLIM holiday season with a commemorative first class holiday postage stamp.

REMEMBER to adamantly and vocally BOYCOTT this stamp when purchasing your stamps at the post office. To use this stamp would be a slap in the face to all those AMERICANS who died at the ands of those whom this stamp honors.

REMEMBER to pass this along to every patriotic AMERICAN you know and get the
word out! Honor the United States of America!

Lovely, isn't it? Now I feel the need to respond to the ASSWAD who wrote this hateful, racist, bigoted, small-minded FLAMING BAG OF CRAP:

I DO remember the many atrocities committed by MUSLIMS. And by CHRISTIANS. And JEWS. By CATHOLICS and by PROTESTANTS. By WHITES and by BLACKS. By MEN and by WOMEN.

And I also REMEMBER the JEWISH boy who was the son of God. He told me to love, not hate. He would not approve.

I REMEMBER a BAPTIST minister who had a dream. He would not approve.

I REMEMBER a BUDDHIST monk whose struggle remains "non-violent and free of hatred". He would not approve.

I REMEMBER a PROTESTANT woman who devoted most of her short life to helping those of all religions and backgrounds. She would not approve.

I REMEMBER a HINDU man who died for his unwavering belief in religious freedom. He would not approve.

I REMEMBER a CHRISTIAN man who spent 27 years in prison fighting for freedom and equality. He would not approve.

I REMEMBER a CATHOLIC nun who gave up all she had to live among and help the poor, the sick and the "different". She would not approve.

Neither do I.

Now go read what Mrs. Chili has to say.

It's been seventy hundred years since I have written anything and damn it’s hard to get back into it. I’ve had the flu, and I hate Hate HATE blogging about being sick, so I had nothing to say. Actually I had a LOT to say about how fucking sick I was, again, I hate blogging about being sick. Finally, I am feeling a little better, but sitting here thinking I have nothing to say. Perfect.

Oooo…wait. I do have something to say about being sick. I knew it when I did The Plunge that I would get sick sometime in the following few weeks and then people would start in on how I got sick from jumping in the river. I just knew it. And to those people: SUCK IT!! The flu comes from germs. From other people with the flu. Not from being cold. Hell, if that river was going to give me anything, it would have been superpowers. Which - I feel the need to point out – it did NOT! (WTF, river??)

Anyway, let’s see…um…nothing going on. At least nothing that doesn’t involve violent coughing jags and my poor, childbirth-ravaged bladder. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – those kids better study hard and get good jobs, because they OWE ME!

Oh, I know! We got a new cat. A couple of days before Christmas, I was in Petco buying presents for the pets, and as always, I had to head over and look at the Animal Rescue League cats they have for adoption. As soon as I got over there, I noticed a little black cat. I have a weakness for black cats – they have a special personality. Both of my previous cats (one gone, one still with us) have been black cats. Because of my Can’t Resist a Black Cat Disease, I decided to put my blinders on and walk right past the little thing. But she had other ideas. As I was walking past, she stuck her arm through the bars of her cage and grabbed my coat. And she would not let go. I stopped to look at her and immediately fell in love. She was tiny and cute and playful. She reminded me a lot of our first cat, Pussty – she had the same little bald-ish eye-to-ear stripes and the same long body, tail and legs. And then I noticed the sign on her cage saying she was a polydactyl and that she had two extra toes on each front paw and one extra on each back. I was SOLD.

I went home and had the following conversation with mr b:



Me: I found our cat.

Mr b: What? Angus? Was he outside?

Me: No, not Angus. Our new cat.

Mr b: oh, OK…wait, WHAT?

Me: Well, I was in petco today and…

Mr b: No

Me: …they had Animal Rescue League cats and…

Mr b: NO!

Me: …one of them looked JUST LIKE PUSSTY!

Mr b: Huh? Really? (I knew I had a chance at this point – I had his attention)

Me: Yep – she’s so sweet and tiny, and she’s a little evil and she grabbed me.

Mr b: We don’t need another cat.

Me: But she PICKED ME!

Mr b: I don’t c…

Me: She picked me with her crazy long arms. They’re abnormally long, just like Pussty’s! And she was swinging them around like weapons!

Mr b: But…

Me: She has the KUNG FU! Imagine her with Fat Angus! Or the dog! She could seriously fuck with the dog!

Mr b: We do not…

Me: SHE HAS EXTRA TOES!

Mr b: What?

Me: Extra toes. A whole shitload of them! It’s like a sign from God - we HAVE TO have her!

Mr b: How exactly is that a sign from God?

Me: Because God knows how much we would love a cat with extra toes!! Duh!!!

Mr b: Welllll…

Me: Her feet are huge! Like huge flippers! Huge, giant, dog-grabbing, magic, KUNG FU FLIPPERS!!

Mr b: Go get her.



I rushed back to Petco to get there before the ARL folks got there at 6:00. The whole way, all I could think was pleasepleaseplease don’t let anyone beat me to my cat (I was already thinking of her as MY cat). I got there at 5:45 and ran straight to the adoption cats, only to find that there was a couple looking at and *GASP* playing with MY CAT!

I tried to be subtle and hang back and wait for them to move it along, but those of you who know me are thinking, “subtle? Hahahaha!” Instead, I moseyed on up behind them and waited for my chance. When the woman leaned to the side a little, I shoved my face right in between them (I know! If the tables were turned, I’d be here ranting about the crazy ass pushy bitch in the Petco. But I don’t care. She was MY cat. She chose me.) I was trying to give them the jeebies so they’d leave, but they were jeebie-proofed. Finally, I heard the man say, “I’d take you home if I could.” And I relaxed a little. But just a little, because I knew firsthand that this cat had magical mind-changing powers.

Eventually, the couple left and I grabbed a nearby folding chair and planted myself in front of the cage, marking my territory and acting like a crazy person every time someone came near, talking loudly to the cat about how I was TAKING HER HOME! WITH ME!!!

Finally, the ARL people showed up and eleventeen thousand hours of questions and forms later, I had my cat. I walked into the house with the box behind my back and yelled to the kids, “Who wants an early Christmas present?” They came running (of course) and I set the box down and took her out. The dog came over to see what was going on and she immediately went kung fu on his ass and we all knew we had our cat.

She was already named Mittens and we thought about changing it, but one look at her paws and you realize she has to be called Mittens. Either Mittens or Holy Shit That’s Messed Up!

See? I was powerless to resist:


No, seriously:

I Did It!

Let me start by saying that i never, EVER post photos of myself in a swimsuit, but this is too big not to. Try to erase the images from your minds when you're done.

I jumped into the frigid Monongahela River on New Year’s Day and lived to tell about it. Hedge came over on New Year’s Eve and we spent the night drinking champagne and eating all kinds of good food, just in case it turned out to be our last meal. Then we got up when it was still dark out - on New Year’s Day. That may have been crazier than the actual river-jumping.

Party!


Too early to be up on New Year's Day



Leading up to it, people kept saying we’d chicken out. But these people are dicks. Because once I say I’m doing it, I will do it. And besides - I really wanted to do it – I was actually looking forward to it. Of course, some of those people have heard me bitching about how cold it was in the house, in the restaurant, in someone else’s house, outside, in the car, in the office, in the mall, the store, another restaurant and several more houses. See – I hate the cold, so I guess it makes sense that I wouldn’t want to jump in the river. Back when we had a pool, if the water was less that mid-80s, I thought it was cold. Because of that, I’ll give those naysayers a pass.

We got to the Mon Wharf pretty early – there were only a few cars there. We walked around a bit, looking for The Crappys and checking out the river. We saw some insane brave folks walking around in bathrobes and flip-flops, but we stayed bundled up for the time being.


Still-empty lot



We can't even believe we're jumping in there



Pretty soon, the place started filling up with cars and people – some were obvious jumpers – they had robes and towels and crazy looks in their eyes. Other were clearly observers, wearing jeans and earmuffs and gloves and looks on non-crazy contentment.

Pretty soon, The Crappys showed up, and the tailgating began as more folks trickled in. There was some “special” hot coffee, but Hedge and I both passed on the theory that if we got all warm and toasty it would feel worse when we went in.

Some of the group


Slowly, We started to get ready – we put on our swim caps, and they were quite beautiful. We got them for fun, but they turned out to be an awesome anti-cold measure – they kept our hair dry – I’m not a won’t-get-my-head-wet kind of girl, but my years of swim team taught me that wet hair+ cold air = frozen head and a chill that’s hard to shake. Plus, the caps were pretty thick rubber and actually kept our heads warm like hats would.

Next, we took our coats off, so we could start to get used to the cold (though admittedly, the air temperature was not too bad – had the jump been yesterday, I would have died. I’m sure the adrenaline and nerves over the crazy thing you’re about to do helps a little, too, though. At this point, you start to think, OK, let’s just get this show in the road – waiting for jump time is nerve-wracking.

Finally, it was time to move the party up to the water’s edge. Hedge and I came up with a genius idea for getting warm after we got out of the water – we bought a shitload of Hot Hands hand warmers and we wrapped comforters up with them tucked inside. Then we put both comforters in a big plastic tote. We did this before we left the house at 7:00, so by 9:00, the tote was actually warm to the touch. So we dragged the tote and a couple of towel with us to the water and got ready. First, the pants came off. Then a few minutes later, the shirts. Then we died and froze the end.

HOTT!




OK, not really, but when I said it wasn’t TOO cold, I was right – as long as you were wearing clothes and a coat. In a bathing suit? COOOOOOOOOOLD.

After a couple of minutes, we heard the “GO!” and people started jumping. Hedge and I waited until someone in front of us got out, because we didn’t want to jump too near anyone else – we wanted to avoid any accidental elbowing or other minor things that would be no big deal under normal conditions, but in these conditions might contribute to our deaths.

Getting ready to jump




Once the guy ahead of us got out, we held hands and jumped.

We were like, "OK, on three. One, Two..." and then we forgot how to count and just jumped


Going under



Also – this is about the time that The Grimace took up residence on my face. The Grimace was an involuntary facial contortion that in no way represented how I was feeling. I was happy - thrilled in fact, that I had just done it. But my face was saying “Shoot me now!” I was trying to smile and trying to thank @pgha for being our photographer, but my body would not let me. No, my body was all Grimace! Try To Breathe! (Did I mention that jumping in water that cold takes your breath away? It does.)

The beginning of The Grimace


Grimacing



We got to the shore and the next challenge was getting out. It’s a challenge because the “shore” is actually steeply slanted concrete – under the water it’s slippery, and out of the water, it’s high and steep and there’s nothing to grab onto. Plus – lead muscles. Luckily, I looked up and saw an angel - in the form of a swim-suited, be-toweled man – reaching out to help me out. He pulled me out of the water before I died and I wanted to thank him, but see: Grimace. Getting out was great, but once I was out, the cold wind hit me and I forgot all about hedge – she could have been drowning behind me, but all my body would allow me to do was a) Grimace and b) run for the warm blankets. Luckily, the Angel saved her, too.

Still Grimacing



My Angel - dude - if you are reading - THANK YOU!



Holy Grimace!



Hasn't died, despite my lack of giving a shit at that moment



We got to the tote, threw it open and pulled on our warm blankets and immediately felt great. I wasn’t cold thanks to the blankets and my warm, dry head. The Grimace faded, and I was finally able to say thanks to @pgha, who very sweetly kept taking photos. We stood around and watched some of the other folks jumping, climbing, freezing (I don’t know that anyone else was Grimacing quite the way I was, though)

Happy and warm - relatively


So happy we did it



Once everyone had plunged, we headed back to the parking lot to drink warm up and get out of our wet swimsuits. And let me tell you – when you have just jumped into a freezing river and are standing in the freezing cold with wind chill, modesty goes right out the window. I imagine that no less than 6 people are scarred for life after getting a glimpse of me trying to change under a blanket next to my car.

We put on some warm clothes, thick socks and slippers, and headed to the Hard Rock for some much needed food and a drink or two – mojitos for Hedge and me.

It was a great time, and I plan on doing it every year now – it’s an awesome way to start off the new year.

Awesome folks


More awesome folks



And more awesome folks



Still more awesome folks





Now this is the part where I tell you what a jackass I am. Here’s the thing with me and blogs, twitter, plurk, etc. I “meet” people online – I like them, I talk to them, it’s great. Then, I go somewhere and see these same people in person and I turn into a complete idiot. I am not a shy person – in fact, I am outgoing. If they were all strangers, I would have no problems. But somehow, since I sort of “know” them already, I get all weird. There are the folks that I “know” online, but don’t realize who they are when I meet them. There are the ones I suspect I know who they are, but I feel weird asking – I think that it is part of the “I’m old and out of touch and they won’t know me anyway because I am not a rock star like them” complex that I seem to have (and guys – if you happen to be reading this – you ARE rock stars – every single one of you).

So, I sit back and think, is that so and so? Oh, wait, maybe that’s so and so. And I don’t introduce myself and probably come off as an unfriendly douchebag and then I kick myself for days afterward because I really like these people! And I love meeting new people. And we just had a great time together. And yet I douchily let the opportunity to put faces with names pass because I have some weird old-lady inferiority complex.

So maybe I talked to you briefly, or maybe I took your photo, or maybe I don’t know your name even thought I met you once before and douchily didn’t introduce myself then either, or maybe you took photos for me, or maybe I shared some hot hands with you, or maybe I stood next to you while we waited, or maybe I was near you in the group photo, or maybe you complimented my swim cap, or maybe I just stupidly smiled (or Grimaced) at you. But if you read this – know that I am not as douchey as I seemed – I was thrilled to spend that time and that great experience with all of you. YOU ARE ALL AWESOME! And if you are reading this and have a minute, leave me a comment and introduce yourself, so I can finally know exactly who all you awesome folks are. And next year (or hopefully before then) when I see you all again, I promise I won’t be such a jackass.

I can’t promise I won’t Grimace again, though, because that shit is cold

Yes, I know I hate the cold...so what??

When I was a kid, our school district was broken down into small neighborhood elementary schools. I went to one in my neighborhood that had kindergarten through 3^rd grade. It was a great way to go to school as a child – we all walked together in big groups, sometimes we walked home for lunch (how on earth did we have the time for that?) often bringing friend along.

It was a brand new school building. Actually, my kindergarten year it was still the “old” school – the building where many of our parents went to high school – big and ornate, with stairs that ran all along the hallways so the rooms were elevated. That summer they built the new sleek, modern school, with new desks and fold-up cafeteria tables, so it could more easily convert to a gymnasium.

I was happy there – we had recess and long lunches and art classes more than just once a week. And the teachers were great. There was my kindergarten teacher, who was also the principal. She was a kind older lady, who still understood young children. Even the next year – when my friend Tammy and I got caught carving Gina and Tammy love Donny Osmond in a door with a pop-top (remember those?) – and we ended up in her office, she knew that we really didn’t get it and treated us gently, just wanting us to understand why it was wrong, instead of worrying about punishment.

There was my beloved first grade teacher, who rarely had to raise her voice at anyone – she was so sweet, you just wanted to please her. I remember the last day of school, when I forgot to bring her gift and I cried and cried, so my mom took me to her house that afternoon to drop it off. She invited us I and gave us tea and cookies. If I hadn’t already loved her unconditionally, I would have then.

There was my second grade teacher, who…will, OK, my second grade teacher was kind of a douche – I still remember my friend Marsha and I getting in trouble for something we didn’t do and she simply wouldn’t listen.

But my third grade teacher? Oh my god did she ever make up for any ill will I picked up the year before. I credit her for my love of books. She read to us every day – long chapter books that left you crazy with anticipation for the next day’s installment. And if she saw that you took to reading, she did everything she could to encourage you – like she did for me. She took us on imaginary trips to far off places – we’d get out airline wings on and fly. Then we’d listen to the music and eat the foods and learn so much more than if we had just learned it from a lesson plan.

Plus, we had a great support staff at the school – the gentle nurse, who was forever getting my long eyelashes out of my eyes, the office ladies who knew you by name, and the librarian who made sure we had the greatest books available to us.

But the first person I think of when I think about that school is our custodian, Gus. Gus was the friendliest, sweetest, most caring person. He was always smiling, and always had time for you. When a kid had a problem, or was feeling down about something, they’d go to Gus before they’d go to anyone else. He was as likely as the nurse to put a band-aid on, and quicker than a teacher to break up any hallway squabbles. He knew everyone’s name and their parents’ names and their grandparents’ names too.

His “office” was the supply closet. Any time the classroom needed something, we kids would climb all over each other to raise our hand the highest - everyone wanted to be picked to be the one to go visit Gus. Because you knew that you would be getting more than some colored paper or crayons – you’d get a cheery hello, a compliment on what you were wearing or your latest artwork hanging in the hall. You’d have a real conversation with a grown-up who treated you like you mattered – like you had something important to say. And sometimes, you’d even get a candy to take home and eat later. Gus was everyone’s best friend.

It was a few years before we all found out that Gus was famous. We already adored him as much as humanly possible, but knowing this thrilled us. Our Gus was an even bigger hero in our eyes.

His name was Gus Br1ckner, and he was a swimmer. Not just any swimmer, though – he was best known for long, LONG distance swimming and very cold water swims. He was the original Human Polar Bear. He started the tradition of jumping into the city’s icy rivers on New Year’s Day in 1949 (though he didn’t limit his own activities to just one day a year). He would bring old filmstrips in for us to watch of him swimming in the icy rivers and rolling around in the snow. He held Guinness World Records for cold swims (6 minutes 22 seconds in -18 degree water) and total lifetime distance swim (38,512 miles – the last of these miles were recorded at age 75). He attempted to swim the English Channel 2 times – each time making it mere yards from shore (after swimming 34 miles and 15 hours) before having health issues that required he be pulled out. He wanted to try again in 1960, but it was called off by the authorities because of the conditions.

When I joined the swim team in high school, I was a diver, but being in a small district meant a small team and my coach didn’t like to see empty lanes. So I sometimes was called on to swim backstroke or in the freestyle relay. I took to the backstroke pretty well, but freestyle – Oh My God, I thought I would die. And while I was barely struggling along hating every minute of it (while Gus’ son was serving as an official) I would think of Gus – and how he swam way longer when he was way older. When we’d have to show up for practice at 5:30 in the morning in the freezing Pennsylvania winter, I’d think of Gus rolling around in the snow in those old movies. And I’d make it. He never knew how he inspired me.

When I heard he died back in the winter of 1991, I cried for the sweet, caring, kind man I used to know – even though I hadn’t seen him in many, many years. And I thought that someday I’d like to be a Polar Bear just like Gus was. Last year, I was a relatively new reader of Uncle Crappy’s blog, and when I saw his post on his New Year’s Day plunge, of course, I thought of Gus. I found myself wishing I had known Uncle Crappy better or sooner, because maybe I could have gone (actually, I wished I had known him sooner because he’s awesome). Well, kids – I know him longer and better this time around. And I have met some of the others planning to go. So by god, I’m doing it. On New Year’s Day, I am jumping in the icy cold Mon. And just before you hear my girly scream upon hitting the cold water, you’ll most likely hear me yell, “This is for you, Gus!”

I am the BOSS! And don't you forget it!

The girl came home from school yesterday with some interesting artwork. These are keepers. Click to see them in their full glory.

The one where I just fucking deal

So I decided to delete the last post. I'm not comfortable being that much of a whiny baby, especially when I know how blessed I am. Plus - I'm not wild about saying anything even remotely negative about Awesome Company, because a) "dooced" and b) they truly are awesome. I am so lucky to have a job that I love, doing work that I feel is meaningful. I work with a group of brilliant, hilarious people. I work for a group of brilliant, hilarious, generous people, and I don't want it to seem like this one struggle that I am having reflects on the company or my experience with them as a whole, because it certainly does not. Regardless of what happens, I will manage to work things out. Thanks for the support and advice, though - I do appreciate it.

Anyway, since I want to wipe the negativity off my front page but I don't have anything else written yet, I am going to re-run something fun - last year's take on Christmas music:



Things I've learned from listening to the All Christmas Music All the Time channel:

- When it comes to the standards, the originals are almost always the best. No on can rock around the Christmas Tree like Brenda Lee, Gene Autry is the only one I want to hear sing Rudolph, and no matter what an asshole he purportedly was, Bing Crosby simply IS White Christmas.

-Pretty much all Christmas music gets me weepy, but Old Toy Trains really does it. Because it makes me think about when the boy was little and he's not anymore, and...waaaaaahhh.

- Occasionally, though, the remakes are better. Willie Nelson made Pretty Paper.

- There are so many, many ways to fuck up Silent Night.

- To wit: Christine Aguilera has a set of pipes, but someone needs to explain to her that "peace" does not have 17 syllables.

- I don't like my Christmas songs to be fucked with very much. Jazz them up, rock them out, whatever, but don't fuck with the basic song in ways that make them un-sing-along-able. And Christmas songs are made for singing along.

- Medleys suck. While we're on the topic of singing along, it sucks when you're just about to rock out the second verse of O Come All Ye Faithful, and suddenly you're in the Little Town of Bethlehem and thinking, "Did I just black out?"

- Hard Candy Christmas is seriously underrated.

- So is Fum, Fum Fum.

- With a few exceptions, the awesomeness of the 80s did not carry over into Christmas Music.

- Even at Christmas, the entire concept of John Tesh makes me want to vomit.

- Suzy snowflake is what second graders sing in music class. It does not belong on the radio. Ever.

- Merry Christmas from the Family sounds more like my family every year.

- No matter how much eggnog* I drink, I still think Bruce Springsteen sucks. Santa Claus is coming to town sounds like something your chain-smoking drunk uncle forgot the words to. (*OK, rum and coke. But in a festive holiday glass.)

- Santa Looked a Lot Like Daddy makes me nervous when the girl is listening. Because I'm crazy and I don't have enough ridiculous shit to worry about.

- Synthesizers + Christmas music = Baby Jesus Crying

- Please - no more barking damned dogs (though when I was a kid, they had a version of it with laughing and it was infectious).

- Vince Guaraldi? Genius. So pretty and nostalgic.

- And on the Peanuts topic, Snoopy's Christmas is pretty cool, too.

- And of course all the Grinch music. I mean, anytime one can work "three decker toadstool and sauerkraut sandwich with arsenic sauce" into a song - I'm in.

- You can't go wrong with Dominick the Donkey.

- Embarrassingly enough, I'm still a sucker for the chipmunks.

- Madonna is no Eartha Kitt. Neither are the rest of the skanks who have tried, and failed, to do Santa Baby justice.

- Who the fuck wants a hippopotamus for Christmas? What, are they on crack? Hippos kill motherfuckers! You do not want a hippo!

- Angels among us isn't really a Christmas song, but I love it anyway.

- I really HATE the songs about poor little street urchins who are starving and Jesus disguised as a homeless person and God help me, if I hear Christmas shoes one more time, I'm going to hunt down the person who wrote it and run them down with my sleigh. Then beat them with those fucking shoes. Just in case they meet Jesus tonight.

NEOL

I was at my mom’s house this weekend and she had my very favorite ornament hanging on her tree - it is a stuffed, cartoon-ish reindeer in scarf and hat and gloves, holding a Christmas sign. It warmed the cockles of my heart to see those four letters: “NEOL”




Neol, indeed - it’s the season to disguise Christmas (and Hanukkah and Kwanzaa) as some sort of general winter holiday, which never fails to piss me off. Personally, I don’t care if you believe in God or Jesus - whatever. If you want to celebrate a completely pagan-ized version of Christmas, that’s fine, too. I really, truly don’t care - you have a right to do as you please. While I do believe that you can’t have Christmas without Christ, I will support and defend your right to do/celebrate/believe what you want. Because as long as I can do what I want, too, we’re fine. And what I want to do is feel the true spirit of the season (though I will readily admit to getting caught up in the commercialized trappings of the season). And if that involves wearing my “Jesus is the Reason” pin and putting a nativity on my desk, etc, that’s what I’ll damned well do.

I get so sick of this group or that group getting upset and pissed off over Christmas decorations. OK, at city hall, I can see the point - separation of church and state and all. Of course, I am a card-carrying liberal and still have no problem with holiday decorations at school or city hall. I don’t care if they are Christian, Jewish, whatever. It’s a special time of year. As long as you cover them all - whatever. I don’t necessarily want to see a crucifix all year, but a damned Christmas tree or a menorah isn’t hurting me or anybody else. But I can accept that with all the things I believe in regarding church/state separation, come things like this. I can suck it up. I have my own tree at home to enjoy.

But I really don’t get when people get shit for having decorations for their own holiday on their own private property. I know people who don’t think anyone should have anything outside where others might see it and get offended. Please. If seeing a damned Santa offends you, you’re in big trouble, pal. Because life in general? Full of the offensive. Get over it. And to bitch about a church having a nativity (which, yes, I have heard)? Are you an idiot? Seriously? Do you know of this thing called a church? Geez. I’m “offended” by all the hanging-out ass I have to look at driving through campus. I’m “offended” by the Asshole Traffic Brigade. I’m “offended” by Jon Gosselin. And yet I have to face all that shit daily. Who can I sue?

There is a local family that is pretty well-off that over the past 20 years or so, have been very prominent in leading the marches and suits and fights to stop having Christmas decorations in the city buildings. OK, whatever - to each his own. The city offered to put up menorahs, etc, to appease all groups, but this family was having no parts of it. The Christmas stuff offended their non-Christian beliefs. Again - whatever. But there’s one part of the story you don’t know. This family also owns a chain of stores that sell outdoor summary stuff in the warm months, but come fall? A giant Santa shows up on the roof of the businesses. And they sell Christmas trees and ornaments and outdoor decorations and garland and wrapping and all the detritus of the holiday. Big, fat hypocrites, much?

The security guard in the building where I work used to decorate his desk with a tree and a Santa Claus. He isn’t allowed to anymore because someone complained. Not because it was a religious freedoms type thing. But because Santa was white. Yes, because he did not have a multi-ethnic, trans-gendered, handicapped, deaf, blind, brain-damaged, immigrant, female Santa, he offended someone and had to take it down. How fucked up is this? The man is bringing you free gifts, people!! Do you really care what color he is? He could have two heads, purple skin, antennae and a big, green ass but if he comes bearing an ipod, then COME ON IN, FAT MAN!!

Veteran's Day (I know, I'm way late here)

So I’m a little late with this, but I have to tell you about my experience at our local Veteran’s Day ceremonies. I say ceremonies because our town is made of several small communities and five of them have memorials, so every year on Veteran’s Day and Memorial Day, a group of folks, including veterans from the American Legion, VFW, Biker Vets (I don’t know what they’re called but that’s what they are), Rifle Squad (or whatever they’re called – I suck at this), ladies Auxiliary groups, and boy and girl scouts make rounds to each of the memorials for a ceremony. Since the boy is a scout, we always go.

Four of the memorials are smaller, and the ceremonies go pretty quickly, but the “main” one in town is generally a little larger. Usually I enjoy the ceremonies – the laying of the flags, reading of the names, and the 21-gun salute are touching. Taps makes me cry every time. But it can be a little boring after you hear the same prayers, the same speech, the same poem at each and every ceremony. But you suck it up and pay your respects. This year, however, it was a little irritating.

The lady who read the poem started off by giving a little speech about honoring veterans. It was mostly nice until she started bitching – I mean raised voice bitching – about the low turnout. She went on and on about how years ago more people turned out and now it’s sickening that people don’t. I have a couple of problems with this. First off – years ago, it was a big deal – I mean – there were bigger ceremonies – they were publicized. Now, unless you’re in the groups that are a part of it, you don’t even know about them. And if you don’t know, you can’t come. Two – with Veteran’s Day especially – people work. I am lucky enough to be off that day, but I know plenty of people who couldn’t come if they wanted to because they are working. And finally – hello? Preaching to the choir! We’re here. Don’t bitch and yell at us about apathy because each and every one of us dragged our asses (and often our kids’ asses) out of bed at the buttcrack of dawn, got dressed and ready, and stood outside in the cold listening to the same speeches over and over again. Don’t bitch at us! Write a letter to the editor or something, but please – shut up.

But the thing that really pissed me off this year was the main speaker at the “big” ceremony. We got done with the 3^rd one and it was early, so I figured we had plenty of time to attend the 4^th one (the “big” one) and still make our plans for the day. It was only about 10:00 when we headed out on the less than 5 minute drive to the next memorial. It got started about 10:30, and went through the same speeches, prayers and poem, and then they had a speaker. And I wanted to punch him in the face.

He started off talking about honoring veterans. It was nice. And then…oh, and then he got political and religious. He started going on and on about what a terrible country we have become and how all the veterans who gave their lives were rolling over in their graves over what was going on in this country. That they would be so disappointed in our leaders, and so on and so on and holy fucking shit, he is still going on. Rush Limbaugh couldn’t have done a better job at being an asshole.

I was absolutely offended. And not because his politics clearly differed greatly from mine – I would have been pissed if he agreed with everything I believe, too. I was pissed because this was supposed to be about honoring veterans. This was not mean to be a political rally. And it’s offensive that you should assume that everyone in the audience agrees with your views. It’s a slap in the face to the men and women who have served and/or given their lives for this country to use their day to do this. I have known a lot of veterans in my lifetime, and at least half of them would have vehemently disagreed with his political views. And it is incredibly ignorant to claim that they are or would be disappointed in this country currently. I’m getting awfully sick of the assumption that Conservative=Patriotic and Liberal=Country-hating, veteran-mocker.

His speech went on and one and on. At this point, it was at least 30 minutes – 25 of which had nothing to do with Veteran’s Day and everything to do with watching Fox news too fucking much. And just as we thought it was going to end ( he kept saying, “in conclusion” and then going on and on some more), he decided to shift from what a commie pinko country we have become and focus on what godless heathens we are. He talked and yelled and railed on about the loss of God in public schools, the lack of mandatory prayer, the abandonment of Jesus.

Again, this was a huge slap in the face to the many, many men and women who have fought sacrificed for our freedom – for his freedom who are and were Jews and Muslims and Buddhists and atheists. Does their sacrifice mean less because they didn’t die praying to the same god? Or any god?

I walked way at this point. I know it wasn’t the most respectful thing to do, but I couldn’t take any more. I was so offended I was actually in tears. I was just waiting for the god hates fags chorus to kick in and I didn’t want to be there to hear it. By the time he was done, he had spent 45 or 50 minutes raining his fire and brimstone down on us and maybe five to ten minutes had anything to do with the actual purpose of the day.

When he finally did finish spewing his nonsense, both he and the man who took the podium after him offered information on his youth group, inviting people to join. Yeah, I’ll get right on that, hater.

So, a little late – I want to say that I have a huge amount of respect and awe for the people who have served this country. I am not nearly as brave. I am not nearly as noble. They may not all be perfect, but they are willing to defend me and this country and for that, I honor them. They make little money. They don’t get nearly enough respect. They spend time away from their families and homes. They lose hope and limbs and precious, precious time. And for those who gave their lives – there is nothing I could do that could equal that sacrifice. Even when I don’t support the war, I always, ALWAYS, support the soldiers. I don’t care who they pray to, or if they pray at all. I don’t care who they voted for. And I hope that next time, the town finds a speaker who doesn’t care either.

Superhero

My mom is like a superhero. Only instead of strength or speed or ability to fly, she has other powers. Like the ability to insult me without speaking a word. Or her super X-Ray vision that helps her to spot a single errant sesame seed, tipping her off to the recent presence of fast food. But one of my favorite of her powers is her ability to make everything and anything sound like an accusation.

I take the kids to her house every morning when I leave for work (or lately, the girl, since the boy has jazz band practice in the wee hours). I have been doing this for years. For 11 years, I’ve been dropping them off at the same time, every day, close to 5 days a week. Eleven years. Same 15-minute range of time. And yet Every! Single! Day! she ends up calling the house just when things are at their most hectic – I’m carrying bags to the car, trying to get The Girl’s shoes on, locating backpacks, signing papers, yelling out instructions to mr b and The Boy, packing snacks, and trying to get out the door. And just as I am in full stress mode, hands full, holding a kid…the fucking phone starts ringing!
“Aren’t you bringing the kids down?”

Yes mother yes I am. The same as I did yesterday and the day before, and Friday and the entire week before that, and the past ELEVEN FUCKING YEARS!!!!!! I AM COMING!!!

Sweet Chocolate Jesus, why does she have to call every single day?? She knows I am coming. And she says it in an accusing voice, as if I am late or somehow failing. All it serves to do if add more stress to my morning.

She doesn’t limit the use of her super powers to the morning only, though. She’s got another delightful use for it that I hatefully mockingly affectionately call, “Where were you?”

"Where were you?" is one that goes WAY back. See, my mom is very suspicious and defensive by nature. And that combination makes for some awfully fun phone conversations. It started when I was in college and she would call me when I wasn’t in my room. I’d call her back later and get “Where were you?” It didn’t matter what day or time it was - I could have been in class, at dinner, up the hall in a friend’s room – whatever. But if I wasn’t there to answer her call, she took it personally. If the call had come during the day, I said I was in class (because even if I were in the dining hall, I wasn’t going to tell her that, since that would open up the door for her to sing her favorite song, “You Know, You Should Really Try To Get Out And Exercise And The Weathers Getting Warmer So It’s Easier And You Want To Wear Cute Summer Clothes Don’t You And Really, I Am Not Doing This Because Of Your Weight I Just Really Want You To Be Healthy So Why Don’t You Go Walking And You Should Eat More Vegetables And I Only Want What’s Best For You.” God, I hate that song. If the call came during the evening (or early morning) hours – it was a whole new ballgame. And since “drinking,” “getting high,””skipping class” and “fucking” were not acceptable answers I generally when with, “At the library, Mom!” Needless to say, she was quite confused when my grades came in looking very un-library-like.

This continued on all through getting my shit together and graduating and getting on with my life, and then the defensive side joined in with the suspicious. Once I met mr b, I immediately got close to his family and started spending time with them. For one thing, they lived close by – it was easy and convenient to get together with them. For another, I liked them. So she’d call and I wouldn’t be home. Later I’d tell her I had been at SIL’s house, and I’d get, “Oh. You always have time for them.” Isn’t she sweet?

Truly, it wouldn’t matter if I had been with her the last 364 days, because that one day with “them” would piss her off regardless.

Over the years, I dealt with it in various way, including making excuses for why I was there, lying and saying I was elsewhere, and eventually, saying fuck it and not giving a shit what she said or thought. Eventually she learned to (mostly) accept it and truthfully, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass either way.

But she can’t quite let go of the “Where were you?” game. She like the Bret Favre of “Where were you?” And the prevalence of cell phones makes it even easier to spread her particular brand of joy. Because if she doesn’t reach me on the home phone, she will call my cell. This happened last night:

Her: I called you at home, but no one answered!

Me: That’s because we aren’t home.

Her: Where are you?

Me: Sigh.

(Oh – and also she can’t hear, so these conversations usually devolve into, “We’re at scouts.” “Where?” “Scouts.” “Stouts?” “No, SCOUTS!” “What? You’re out?” “Jesus CHRIST woman – we’re at SCOUTS! SCOUTS!!!!”)

It’s hard to convey it in writing – in writing it sounds like she is simply asking where I am, which is no big deal. But it’s the tone that makes it so special. The accusing, suspicious, put-upon tone. Like I am somehow failing her by not being home. As if I am out for the specific purpose of not being there when the queen beckons. God, it tires me out.

The irony of it is that my mom is the least homebody-ish person in all the land. From the time I was pretty young, she was always on the go. I would try to call her from school to let her know I had to stay for practice or see if I could go somewhere with friends and she wouldn’t be home. And in the pre-cell phone days, this was pretty damned inconvenient. Eventually I got tired of missing out on stuff and learned to go over her head call my gram – HER mother (who was and is a total badass) and she would give me the OK and then defend me if and when my mom tried to give me any shit about it.

I don’t want to make her sound neglectful, because she wasn’t – she was around when I needed her – she cooked and cleaned and came to all my activities and events without being overbearing (in that aspect of my life anyway), but she had her own life and she lived it. I spent a lot of time alone, but never minded it – I liked it. Except for when I needed to reach her and couldn’t. So it KILLS ME when she gets all indignant because she called me and I wasn’t home.

She can’t even help herself, though. It’s her superpower, after all.

Accessorized!

They say when you dress, you should put on all the accessories you plan on wearing and then remove one piece for the perfect look.

The Girl does not subscribe to that theory...

Tweedle Drunk

I’m a bit crabby today. The past few days have been those kind of high stress parenting days. The ones where the kids drive you absolutely nuts with their fighting and bitching and nonsense and bullshit. And if your kids don’t fight and bitch and aren’t full of all kinds of nonsense and bullshit, I don’t want to hear about it. I won’t believe you anyway. Besides - your kids are probably cute, right? Well, we all think our kids are cute, me included. And when they are babies, we look at them and think, Man, I’m so happy I have a cute kid. But I have learned something - don’t be happy you have a cute kid. Because the cuteness of the child is directly proportional to the evil. That’s why god made them cute - so you LET THEM LIVE when they are puling all the fighting and bitching and nonsense and bullshit.

I've been home with a semi-sick child the past two days and it’s been delightful. Really. She’s at that point of being just sick enough to have to stay home from school, but not sick enough that she doesn’t want to whine at me all day, tear up my house, make demands and boss. And then the boy comes home and she pokes him and then he pokes her and then I want to poke the both of them.

*******

Some of the stress is internal – it comes from the whole working from home guilt. I am lucky enough to be able to work from home when necessary, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel like a heel when I have to. Part of that is me, but part comes from the childless contingent. We have all seen the fallout of the working vs stay at home mommy wars, but I am telling you – the parents vs childless in the workplace wars are just as brutal.

I work with a few people who get an attitude about people who take off/work from home/whatever because of their kids. Meanwhile, I have a ton of days to take if I need them. I get my work done from home. I never do anything that isn’t approved by the higher ups. And yet, there’s still that…I don’t know…air of disapproval. One person in particular has actually said things to me about other parents. Of course this person isn’t talking about me though. I’m not like them. Fuck that. I am like them. I’m a parent who has a career. someone who has to make difficult choices about work and family. Insult them and you are insulting me, no matter what you might say. FUCK THAT.

*******

I was talking to some coworkers about people sending their kids to school sick. While I understand the outrage over it, I can also sympathize with the parents. I am lucky enough to have vacation time. I am lucky enough to be able to work from home. But there are a lot of parents out there (especially in these times) who don’t have any options – who won’t get paid or will lose their jobs if they don’t show up. I don’t want a sick kid going into school, but I can’t crucify the parents, either. I’m sure some of them are just assholes (@RockingPony gave a good example of this today on twitter), but I know some are between a big fucking rock and a very hard place and I sympathize with them. Hell – even though I do have options, I am feeling the pressure after 2 days of working from home. I have the familiar dilemma of whether she’s well enough to go to school or if I am taking advantage of my lenient workplace if I stay home with her another day. It sucks.

*******

And speaking of the childless, I had a friend tell me today about a coworker who is one of those know-it-all types about kids. I hate those. Apparently this woman is one of the “My child will never” types. Fine, let her enjoy her little “MY child will never. . .” fantasy. Because those of us in the know are well aware that that one goes right out the window along at least once or twice. Like “MY child won’t be eating McDonald’s (Yes. Yes she will. Because there will come a time when you just don’t care what they eat as long as there’s something in their mouth and you can’t hear the screaming)”, “MY child isn’t going to watching TV (When the choice is TV or killing them because they won’t leave you alone for ONE FUCKING SECOND, much less long enough t have sex ever again? TV it is)”, “MY child will eat whatever I put in front of her (HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!)”, “I’LL never use a video as a babysitter (you will if you ever want to take a shit in piece again)” and “MY child will never sleep in my bed (Go to sleep. Go To Sleep. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, CHILD, IF I DON’T SLEEP SOON I’M GOING TO DIE. FINE, COME IN HERE AND JUST SHUT UP AND GO TO SLEEP!)”

*******

The past week hasn’t been entirely bad, though. We marched in the Halloween parade:

We went trick or treating with the little bride:

We celebrated the girl’s sixth birthday several times, including one magnificent cake thanks to my SIL Weenie:

And we went to the Annual Scabs the Clown Drunken Halloween Extravaganza (wearing our fed-up response to the skanky costume trend):

Just call us Tweedle Drunk and Tweedle Drunker

A Halloween Tip

It's fine if you are handing out treats - really, it is. There are valid reasons not to. It can be a pain. It's tiring. It costs a lot of money these days (especially in this neighborhood that gets several hundred kids every year). So I won't judge you if you aren't participating.

HOWEVER....If you aren't handing out candy on Trick or Treat night, hanging around outside in your yard raking leaves? Just makes you seem like kind of a douchebag.

Just a tip.

Thursday Thirteen: The Girl edition

In honor of today being The Girl’s sixth birthday, my Thursday Thirteen will be about her today.

Thirteen of The Girl’s Greatest Hits:

1: October 2009:

(OK, I just posted this the other day, but it’s funny) - My aunt and cousin were in from Virginia recently and my other aunt decided to have an early birthday cake for the girl and another cousin while they were here. Among other presents, the girl got a gift card and some cash. While my boy and the little birthday boy were playing with one of his new toys – something loud and annoying – they decided to focus their annoying on the girl. She started to get mad and came into the kitchen and said, “Mom, Brother is being mean. I don’t have to share my gift card and money with him, do I?” I told her that they were hers and she most certainly didn’t have to share them. This made her happy and she marched back into the bedroom to inform him that he gets nothing. Of course, they boy didn’t care and continued to annoy her until a few minutes later when she came back into the kitchen with an evil gleam in her eye and in the sweetest voice asked me, “Mom, when we go shopping with my gift card and money, can brother come?” Sure, baby. “Good. I want him to come and watch while I spend it and HE GETS NOTHING!!!” Ahh....Grasshopper, I have taught you well.

2. October 2009:

"Hey Mom, you know what's weird? We had two Gavins in Pre-school, and we have two Noahs in Kindergarten. We'll probably have two Franks in 1st grade."

3. September 2009:

My aunt just asked the girl what she is learning in school and she replied, "The nature of buttocks."

4. July 2009:

The Girl: "Mom, I'm going to the school dance (whispered: we're pretending, OK?), so do you think I should go in a taxi or a limbo?"

5. June 2009:

Me: That’s a pain in the ass.

The Girl: You shouldn’t say that.

Random relative: Yeah, you should say pain in the butt.

The Girl: No – you should have said that balls thing.

Me: That’s a pain in the balls?

The Girl: Yeah, but that other word…Ssss…Scr….Scr…

Me: Scrotum?

The Girl: Yeah! You should have said, ‘That’s a pain in the scrotum!’

Random relative: Oh my God.

6. June 2009:

The Girl: There’s something I want to say.

Me: What?

The Girl: I can’t say it.

Me: What??

The Girl: Can I just say it once?

Me What??

The Girl: Asshat! Asshat, Asshat, Asshat!

Me: Are you done?

The Girl. Yeah.

7. June 2009:

The Girl: Those old men were looking at me! (talking about 2 old men sitting on a porch as we drove by)

Me: Oh yeah?

The Girl: Yep. And I heard one of them say…um…‘That little girl looks so cute.’

The Boy: What?

The Girl. OK, I totally made that up. But they were looking at me.

8. March 2008:

Me: “Bean – why is the dog barking? Can you look and see if someone is coming”
The Girl: (To me)“OK, Mom”…(to the dog) “Stop barking! There’s no one coming, you jackass

9. February 2008:

Last night, the girl handed me a piece of paper and a pencil, said, “Write a letter for me”, and dictated - word for word - the following:

Dear Troy,
I love you. I’m going to kiss you. I love you.
Love,
Bean

10. May 2007:

A conversation in the grocery store:

The boy: "Mom, where's the turkey you got?"
Me: *ignoring boy while I speak to the deli worker*
The boy: "Mom! Did you get turkey? Where is the turkey?"
The girl: Hey! I know where the turkey is!!
The boy: "Where?"
The girl: "In your ass!"

11. Feb 2007:

Girl: I spelled you with my stickers.
Boy: That doesn't spell my name. (said while implementing "the silent 'duh'") That spells HSKTJB!
Girl: I spelled you! It spells Stupid!
Boy: Moooommmm!

12. Feb 2007:

Boy: You stink.
Girl: You stink.
Boy: You smell like poop.
Girl: You're made of poop!
Boy: You're made of farts!
Girl: You're made of farts! And boogers!
Boy:………
Girl: Aaaaaannnnnd, you're made of girls!

13. July 2006:

*various crunching, crinkling, banging sounds from kitchen*

Me: “Beansie! (girl nickname) Get out of the kitchen!”

The Girl: “I’m not in the kitchen”

*bang crinkle crunch pop.*

Me: “What are you doing?”

The Girl: “Nothing.”

* pop crinkle bang crunch.*

Me: “Beans, Are you in the kitchen?”

The Girl: “No!”

*crinkle crinkle bang crunch*

Me: “Brother!”

Brother: “ ”

Me: “Brother - what are you doing?”

Brother: “ ”

*crunch bang crunch crinkle*

Me: “Beans - you’re in that kitchen, aren’t you?”

The Girl: “NO!”

Me: “Brother, are you in the kitchen?”

The Girl: “BROTHER’S NOT IN HERE, EITHER!!”

13. November 2005:

The girl has a new catchphrase: “Oh my dammit!” (with the emphasis on the dammit part). I have never heard anyone say that before, so I don’t know where she got it. Either she heard it elsewhere or she’s as adept as her mother in the Creating New Ways to Curse department. Whatever, it’s now her favorite expression of emotion. Sometimes she uses it in context, like, “Oh my dammit, I dropped my pocable! (popsicle)” or “Oh my dammit, the dog ate my chicken finger!” And sometimes it’s just a general exclamation like, “Oh my dammit, Dora’s coming on! ” Now given my love of profanity, all I can say is that it must be genetic. And of course, if it is genetic then I had to get it from somewhere too and am thus innocent. I think I’ll blame my mother.

13: November 2005

She’s also getting smart in the Get Your Brother in Trouble department. When we were getting ready on Sunday, she was in the boy’s way and he gave her a gentle push out of his way. She started to fake cry and when I asked what was wrong, she told me “He called me Butthole”. I said, “He did?”, and she said, “Yeah. And he went chhrrcchhh (this “crunching” sort of sound effect was accompanied by a bizarre neck/shoulder cringe/shrug) on my ear!” Now, I was right there when it all went down and I can attest to the fact that there was no butthole-calling or ear-chhrrcchhh-ing.

We’ll just go ahead and pretend that I didn’t have three 13s, OK?