I got a phone call from my mom a while ago.
Mom: "Your dad wants to know if Selene is going to be in town this weekend."
BSP: "Why?"
Mom: "Well, the boat show is coming to town, and he wants to know if she would like to go."
BSP: "What a coincidence! I think she will be up this way to visit her parents."
Poetroad was out of town for five days, and being a single parent of four those few short days did not wear well on my nerves. I sincerely don’t know how you single parents survive; you are my heroes. Oh, things started out well, but life slowly descended into a mime-loving, decapitating, hellish existence with the final hours definitely being the worst.
Pick-up time for Poetroad’s flight was approximately 9:00 PM. My plan was to glide through the evening – perhaps get a few things done while the older two were at Girl Scouts, get all the children into their pajamas, and then at 8 o’clock jet on over to the airport that is a good hour drive from here.
The unraveling really began around 5:30 PM when I couldn’t get everyone to eat at suppertime. If I were wise, I would have packed a snack so that the four-year-old who did not eat could snack on something while we sat through the Girl Scouts parent meeting. I was not that wise.
So at the meeting, JG could not be happy. The whine was relentless, and my usual powers to comfort and distract an unhappy child were crippled due to the proximity to kryptonite (aka the extreme embarrassment of being the parent of the obnoxious, disruptive child in the room). My admonitions for her to “Shush” weren’t enough to scare her into silence (does that ever work?), so I did the only thing I knew how to do – exit the room in full shame.
The descent was gaining momentum. In mid-dash to our car during a torrential downpour, JG stopped in here tracks and wouldn’t move. I kept going. But there she stood with hands in the air holding what was left of a torn, rain-soaked, sagging cookie order form while screaming as loudly as her little vocal chords could manage.
After I quickly buckled one child into a car seat, I ran back to fetch the drenched JG – seriously, she looked as if I had dumped a bucket of water on her. She looked much like a cat after it fell into a bathtub.
Things got worse from there. I won’t go into all the details, but eventually I found myself screaming, “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” from the other room. Being that is the “s” word in our house, I had clearly crossed the line. It wasn’t pretty for all who were involved.
Then from out of the stunned silence in the other room, I heard a meek yet resigned voice say, “Mom, Santa won’t be giving you any presents because you are on the naughty list now.”
That was fine because I was quite frankly in no mood to be on the good list.
Eventually, after I gathered my wits, got some food into her system, and calmed down, I apologized for yelling and for using the “s” word (“shut-up”). JG acknowledged my apology with, “Good, mom! Now you can be on the good list again! Now Santa can bring you presents.”
Later that evening, we were able to successfully pick up Poetroad with out too much drama (my biggest worry was being able to avoid the local flooding and navigate through the downpours).
And I spent the rest of the night – which continued until 1:00 AM - getting back onto the naughty list. It was very nice indeed. Good times.
I know I mentioned this previously, but only in passing. I forgot to dish the details! So sorry!
For Christmas, Poetroad took me to the U2 concert (their last stop of the tour for the year). Since I have such a long-standing and vast love for the band (particularly Larry Mullen Jr. - I've always had an affinity for drummers), this was the best Christmas present ever.
When we got to the concert, I was surprised to see the diversity in age. Both young and old were there - some people even brought their children. Just as varied was the flavor of concertgoers. From the multi-tattooed, fish-net-stocking, black lipstick wearing peops to the overly dressed sparkle shirted high-heeled big hair multi large jewelry wearing folk, all types were enjoying the same tunes.
Of course I felt in kindred spirit with those who cheered and grooved and sung out the words to songs from the early albums (Boy, October, Under a Blood Red Sky, Unforgettable Fire, etc.). And they played a lot of the old tunes too. This concert did have a decidedly political message, but what can you do? The Irish know how to promote a cause.
So for over two and a half hours we soaked up the music and media presentation - it was divine. After the concert, Poetroad bought us concert t-shirts. Then we spent over an hour and a half getting back to our ride that was parked in the city. Thank you public transportation planners. Perhaps you people could plan to have the public transport come a little more frequently than every half hour after a huge concert? Luckily, we were able to squeeze onto the third tram.
Anyway, Poetroad, you did good. You know what I like! (Oh, and the jewelry and the new U2 cd were just a bonus on Christmas morning). How did I get so blessed as to catch him?
Awhile back I had to take a trip to the Social Security office. Trips to government offices are always loads of fun - interesting people watching spot, that's for sure. Anyway, while I was waiting in line (a forty-five minute wait it was for a three minute transaction), I noticed this pamphlet:
"Social Security: If You Are Blind Or Have Low Vision - How We Can Help"
First of all, if a person were blind, he or she would not be able to see the pamphlet let alone read it. So why, "If You Are Blind..." Might I suggest, "If Someone You Know Is Blind."
Second...okay, there really is no second point. That first one was my point. But if you turn to page two, there is a special note that reads:
"Note: This publication is also available in Braille and on cassette tape. SEE Pages 31-32."
Again, a blind person would not be able to "see" pages 31-32 to know how to order the Braille or cassette tape publication because he or she is, uh, BLIND. Sure, there are the "low vision" types that potentially could read pages 31-32, but if your vision is so low that you need to read in Braille, chances are that you wouldn't be able to read the instructions on pages 31-32 (or even be able to see that there is a pamphlet that is addressed to the "Blind [and] Low Vision") to find out how to call and order such publication.
Which brings me to this point: why are we so crazy in America to have things "in writing." In most courts here, a firm verbal agreement has value (but not as much value if the printed word is notarized and signed in blood - even if the document is a farce).
Maybe I'm just fooling myself, but it seems to me that we hold to much stock in print - and this is coming from an Englishy type, mind you. There were many great works that survived via ye ole Oral Tradition (not to be confused with Orai Leland, who was a missionary in Africa). And the Word of God was written on our hearts (that's Truth with a capital "T") long before printing presses were ever invented. So to say that a word has worth only if it is written is an overstatement of the value of the printed word. Words first exist in our brains, do they not?
One time I worked as a banker. I was, in fact the Vault Teller. A stringy haired grungy looking guy in rumpled clothing walked up to the Drive Thru and wanted to deposit a wad of cash. I took the cash over to my drawer, counted it, and noticed that he was fifty dollars short. I walked back to the Drive Thru and let him know. "What?! What did you do with my fifty dollars?! When I counted it this morning, there was 1,500.00 there."
To make a long story short, the Manager told me that I had to take him at his word since I didn't count the money right in front of him - even though he could see me counting it at my till from the Drive Thru window. I couldn't argue with that. She was right. I made a mistake. I "ate" fifty dollars that day, and I had to be written up for it.
So you see, a person's word does have worth - no matter who speaks it. Of course, not everyone will tell the truth, but chances are that doesn’t change whether the word is written or spoken. Not everything has to be “in writing.” Yes, there is great comfort in things we can “see,” but argue that with a blind person.
Still in cleaning mode here. Emptying a house of clutter is a ginormous task (ginormous is my four-year-old's new favorite word, btw). On Monday, we officially moved the TV into the front room, and turned the family room into a play area. The drums are set up in the corner of the new play area, and the couch will be leaving that room at the end of this month (the soonest I could arrange for a Salvation Army pick up). Woo hoo!
Basically, I am quite happy about the results of the purge so far even though the organizing is only partially complete. In fact, in general, I am by far the happiest I have ever been during the rainy season. I would even go as far to say that I am content...and those of you who know me know that is saying quite a bit.
Why am I content? That's a loaded question. Nothing has really changed externally. As I mentioned a few months back, though, I've made an internal change - a commitment to get rid of fear and to listen to the Lord - not just to speak to Him, but also to listen. My New Year's resolution is to continue on that path. Of course this means that I've had to leave the mediocrity behind because even though every thing I do may appear to be half-ass, I am no longer striving for half-ass. Goodbye fear.
Intention - that's the key change. But the follow through is what counts.
Which reminds me...has anyone ever seen the "infomercial" on PBS for the guy who espouses, "The Power of Intention." What a joke. I could "intend" to do a ton of things. That's my problem, really. I intend to do things all day. What I really need is a program for, "The Power of 'Follow Through.'" Give me ten steps to do that, why don't ya.
Anyway, I'd love to chat, but I have to get back to my other daily duty as the house laundrarian.
