2 weeks ago
Sunday, September 04, 2005
Friday, September 02, 2005
At the office
School is in, and that means that I am back at the office. Had an in-service yesterday that was ever so joyful – particularly when one crabapple threw a fit when our supervisor neglected to purchase a “team” shirt for her. Ms. Crabbypants only works on site five hours a week, so she doesn’t get a shirt. Neither did any of the other five hour a weekers.
I offered to give Ms. C the shirt off my back, but my supervisor wouldn’t have it. Work could have been fun yesterday, but, alas, I had to keep my shirt on.
I guess Ms. C is just another one of those angry “man-haters.” Does she wonder why her divorce was ever so ugly?
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Triple Threat
I don’t know what was going on yesterday in the cosmosphere, but things were strange to quite strange around here.
It all fell apart when I came home from work with kids in tow to find that our dog was at the front door to greet us. And there was a nice collection of miscellaneous people belongings at the base of the stairs. Champ is only five months old, so when we leave the house, we put him in his oversized dog crate – which is also where he sleeps at night.
At first I thought, “Crap, we didn’t shut the door to the crate all the way!” Upon closer inspection, the dog door was closed completely and the food dish was placed neatly inside the crate. Hmmm…we never put his food inside there – I was puzzled. Plus, there is no way Champ could break out of the crate and then securely refasten the door. I knew someone had been in our house.
After a quick inventory, I assessed that nothing was missing. “Who in the hell would come into our house and let out our dog but not take anything?!” I thought.
The mystery was solved when my four-year-old’s little friend stopped by at our back porch. I asked Cory if he had come to our house earlier that day. He said, “Yes, me and Jerry (his cousin) came over, but you weren’t home.”
“Oh, and how did you know that, Cory?”
“Because we looked all through your house, and you weren’t there. We even looked in the front yard, and you weren’t there either.”
“How did you get to our front yard?” I questioned.
“Through your front door.”
“Did I leave the back door unlocked?”
“Yes, and I helped Jerry let Champ out of his crate too.”
“Oh, well don’t ever do that again, okay Cory?”
I’ll be double-checking to make sure I’ve locked all of my doors the next time I leave the house.
Later on, while six kids were playing on our play structure, a huge chunk of a hornet’s next wiggled itself out of the play set. The constant swinging below seemed to jiggle that sucker loose. With all of those angry buggers swarming around the crime scene, I’m surprised to report that no one was stung.
But this last incident takes the cake. I’ve mentioned previously that I have this neighbor who is a very unhappy individual. He has it out for my nine-year-old daughter because she speaks her mind to his eight-year-old son. I’ve been on the receiving end of his intimidating confrontations more than once (so much so that Poetroad was ready to kick his ass last time, and I have strict orders to inform Bob that any problems he has with our kids must be deferred to Poetroad). Bob is a sad man for many reasons – which I won’t get in to presently. But he is much more sad now I’m sure after yesterday’s fiasco.
The houses on my side of the street are built on a hill, and our driveways have a considerable incline. Bob, however, parks his car in his garage. Nevertheless, he is positive that the car was in park with the emergency break was on.
Tell that to the people who live below him whose bay window is now a new access to their home. I guess the rear end of Bob’s car was completely in the house. There was shattered glass and wood everywhere, and Poetroad said that the leather furniture in that room is totaled as well due to the shards of glass puncturing the fabric. Thank the Lord that the kids were playing in the back room when all of this happened.
Apparently the damages could have been a lot worse though had the car not been slowed by the small tree and large rock in the neighbor below’s front yard. Also, had the car not veered off its original trajectory after it hit the curb on the other side of the street, Bob’s car would have careened into the neighbor’s garage and brand new Lexus GX.
So I guess things could have been worse. But this does explain why we found the Lexus parked in front of our house when I got home and the huge tarp that was covering the front of my neighbor’s house.
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Storage Unit King
One of my best buddies made a cross country move last weekend. She had to catch a flight early Saturday morning, so Poetroad and I let the movers into the storage unit to pack up the rest of the under-estimated load.
The best part of the deal was being able to see the Manager’s home there in the middle of this asphalt jungle. It was doublewide trailer - ehhm, manufactured home – made complete with the king-sized Jacuzzi parked out back. The Jacuzzi sat on the frame of a trailer (the kind of trailer that can be pulled by a truck), so even it was on wheels.
But that’s not all.
This portable Jacuzzi contraption was hooked up to – this is no lie – a mint condition sunfire-orange Ford Pinto.
This is one of those moments in my life that I wished I had my camera with me. I’m seriously thinking about going back there with my camera in hand because you really have to see it to believe it. I’m even thinking of going to pick up a storage application just so I can get this pic.
Until then, the portable Jacuzzi will just have to remain an urban legend.
Saturday, August 27, 2005
Speaking of bad gift giving...
A good friend of mine is married to a wonderful guy who is a terrible gift giver. He’s getting better at it, but when a person is scraping the bottom, any improvement at all is a move in the right direction and therefore is “better.”
On their first Christmas as a married couple, there is just no good excuse for “Ron” other than the guy is completely clueless when it comes to knowing what women want. “Mandy” told me that she was dropping hints like crazy regarding what she would really like for Christmas. She showed Ron ads, and when they went out shopping together, she took him to possible gifts and said, “Ron, I would really like this for Christmas,” etc., etc.
Basically, she held up her end of the bargain as far as laying out the entire gift giving options for him.
So when Christmas morning rolled around, Mandy was really excited about the opportunity to share this special day with her husband of one month. She was even more excited to give Ron his gift, and she was just as excited at whatever surprise he might have in store for her. She knew that she would love whatever she got because it would be from her beloved.
Not able to wait, she gave Ron her gift to him first – a new wake board (one of his favorite sports).
Then Ron gave Mandy his gift to her. It was a smaller rectangular package. “Could it be jewelry?” she almost thought out loud. Jewelry would be a perfect gift for a young bride! Not able to hold back her anticipation any longer, Mandy tore into the gift leaving shreds of paper in her wake.
And to her horror, she tore off the wrapping to find that she was holding a big, white ostrich sized plastic egg in her hands – the kind that those clever marketers use to package pantyhose. Pantyhose? Pantyhose?! “He did not just give me pantyhose for Christmas,” she thought.
But when she opened the egg in all it’s glory, out popped a tight wad of securely rolled leg-ware. It was pantyhose. Mandy wept.
She didn’t love his gift.
And it was the only gift that Ron had bought Mandy for Christmas that year. Apparently he overheard her say to herself that she needed to get a new pair of pantyhose one day after a long day of waitressing.
You’ll be glad to know that Ron has improved since then in the gift-giving department. Mandy got jewelry and a leather coat last Christmas. And Ron now knows to leave all pantyhose purchasing to his wife.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
Hail to the Mini Queen
Just so you know, Selene and Gracie have flown south to welcome their new little niece who is on her way into the world as I write this. It may be a day or two before we will get a chance to hear from Selene and Gracie.
I did have a chance to chat with Gracie while she was waiting to catch her flight. Seems that she had an interesting experience with the security gal. An extra-special pat down, she said. I didn't get any details, though, so you'll just have to wait to hear about it upon her return.
Please won't you be my neighbor
I saw my ex-neighbor the other day. He was checking on his house that is back up for sale.
Somehow they got rid of the tenants who were leasing the house until next January. Well, they scared the tenants away – although I’m sure it wasn’t too difficult to get the tenants to leave since I heard that there were problems with the house (surprise, surprise).
When Josh and Katie (the tenants) came to tell me they were moving about a month back, I said, “The Mom was too much, wasn’t she.” They replied, “You don’t know the half of it. Plus we didn’t have any hot water in the kitchen and other stuff like that.”
“No hot water in the kitchen?! Why not? What did you do for hot water?”
“There was a leak in the hot water pipe, so they just capped it off instead of fixing it. We got hot water from the bathroom.”
Nice. I wonder how they washed their dishes?
Back to my ex-neighbor. There he stood shoeless and shirtless scratching his big hairy belly. Since his kids were down for the weekend, I asked if his daughter could hang out with us for a while. Then I made polite conversation.
“Hey, how are you doing?” I asked cordially.
“Good, good. I was thinking of moving back into my house, but now I’m thinking about moving to Nevada or Arizona.”
“Great idea! That sounds like fun,” I tried not to sound too excited.
“You look great. Really good.”
“Uhh…thanks. Well gotta be going. I’ll have your daughter back by noon.”
Of course when I went by his mother’s house later (which is where he lives), no one was home. And as the day stretched into the night, I finally had the daughter call again to see if her dad could pick her up.
“Well, I’ll have to call my grandma to see if she can pick me up. My dad can’t drive ‘cause if he gets caught by the police he’ll get arrested.”
“Why?” I asked
“He has too many tickets.”
“Wait a minute…then why was your dad driving this morning?”
“Uh, I don’t know.”
Eventually grandma came in her PT Cruiser to pick up her granddaughter – sans T-bone (remember the ancient free-range Rottweiler that tagged my lawn as his pooping place?). Ding, dong, the dog is dead!
No word yet regarding if the cross-country move will actually take place. But I'm eagerly seeking prospective buyers for the vacant house next door.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
All about Breasts
Just so you know, I Googled it, and the average size for American women used to be 34 B. Now it's grown to 36 C due to the increase in implants and chunky girls.
For the Queen
I know they aren't tulips, but Happy Birthday anyway! Lots of love from Poetroad and me! xoxoxoxoxo
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
The Insult
The Insult
Last week a much younger gal dropped by my house to pick up some baby clothes I had packed up to give away. Yes, FOUR is enough, thank you Dick Van Patten. Barely a twenty year old with an infant son and one on the way, this gal and I have known each other since she was about nine. We aren’t really friends, but we are more than acquaintances. The mom-kid has always been a little strange. Okay, a lot strange. At least she lacks some of the more important social skills anyway.
So she drops by my house to pick up some baby clothes I had boxed up for her, and over the course of the half-hour she was here, she managed to insult my boobs.
I won’t tell you all that she said word for word, but it was something to the effect of, “I can’t believe you’ve nursed four kids with the size of your boobs.”
At first, I thought she was giving me a complement, but as she was tactlessly trying to back out of the pile she seemed to step into, I realized it was not a compliment.
I’m no member of the “Itty bitty committee” people; I’m still a respectable 34 C. Remember when boobs that size used to be the “average” size? Well I guess with all this super-sizing in America, a 34 C is now small.
Of course her boobs are naturally larger than mine, but she is almost five months pregnant.
Anyway, who complements boobs? Better yet, who insults them?
Talk about my boobs behind my back all you want, friends, but do not dis the girls in front of my face.
Think about it, guys. What if in the locker room after toweling off, one of your guy friends turns to you and says, “With a penis that big, it’s a wonder you have any kids.”
Sure, at first it seems like a compliment, but then you get to thinking…
It would be enough to make you obsess a little, wouldn’t it? Next thing you know, you are Googling “Average Penis Size” just to be sure you fall within acceptable size limits. Bonus if you find that you are slightly above average.
But a guy would never say that. He instinctively knows that some topics of conversation are just OFF LIMITS. Guys know to compare in silence or to just live in a fantasy world where the average penis size is three to five inches tops.
Someday I may get that “lift” job to rein the girls in, but even then, just keep your comments to yourselves.
And no, you can’t see them to get an idea of what we are talking about here.
Monday, August 22, 2005
It happened again
I attract Cowboys like a hot dog attracts hornets. It’s a strange phenomenon, really. Most of all, it’s strange because I am just an average looking gal. I’m certainly not ugly, but I’m no movie star. Also, I do not have a Cowgirl butt. You know the kind – long and flat. Looks good in pocketless Rocky Mountain Jeans. Mine is more of a J-Lo butt…on the big and round side. Most importantly, I don’t have the Country Girl big hair that I think is pretty much a requirement to be a Country Girl. Decades pass, and those Country Girls still strut the same over-processed, big banged, poofy doos year after year after year. My hair is straight and flat.
So last Saturday, with hair hastily fastened in a ponytail, I took all for kids to a birthday party for their friend. It was a Cowboy themed party – barbeque, pony ride, hayride and such. The dude leading the pony looked to be about nineteen. He was a handsome boy – all tan from working long days on the ranch, tall, muscular, handsome face. He did have one flaw – bad teeth. The falling out, cavity filled kind.
Anyway, he flashed a big smile at me from a distance as my girls were running to get in line for a ride. I wondered at first if I knew this kid from somewhere. One of my previous students, perhaps?
Of course I was friendly to the kid, and I thought that he was just being friendly too. Throughout the party, though, this boy stood next to me when he was on break, chatted with me, was ultra-nice to my daughters (ogling over them and not any of the other kids at the party), and unsolicited brought the pony over to me so I could pet it. It was getting to the point that I was starting to feel a little self conscious about the attention.
Eventually, he offered – even pressed a little - to give me a turn to ride the pony.
I declined.
When it was time to leave, he made a point of yelling, “Goodbye! Have a great weekend!” to me from across the way.
And as my four kids and I drove off in our minivan into the sunset, he stuck his head and arm out his boss’s truck and waved goodbye.
Crazy cowboy kid.
Friday, August 19, 2005
RIP 2
Another sad day in Bloggersville as there is another casualty of the Internet Super Highway to report. Mimi’s Secret Garden has disappeared into the night.
Early reports by an anonymous source say that while playing pinball under the influence, MSG was inadvertently crushed when the legs supporting the machine gave way. It seems that when said pinball machine owner was refurbishing the machine, he unknowingly used a paint that was much heavier than what was originally used on the machine. With the added ounces, the machine legs buckled under the weight. Now flat as a pancake, MSG is set to be scraped from the basement floor, cremated, and his ashes will be sprinkled…in the garden.
Still, there are other rumors floating around that MSG was abducted by aliens and forced into an OPCA program (Obsessive Pinball Collectors Anonymous).
The sole survivor, Mimi, has gone fishing.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Mama's Little Helper
What ever happened to the secret mom’s club of mid-afternoon Martini drinkers so Mama could calm her nerves before the kids returned home from school? Forget about the being politically correct; it’s time to bring back “Mama’s little helper.” Ahh, those were the good old days when a woman could be a quiet drunk, and no one said a thing (mostly because they were busy taking a sips from their own little nippy bottles).
I think that should be a category on Match.com – the “Quiet Drunk.” It says, “I drink to get through the day, but I’m not a sloppy drunk.” If you see that someone has checked that box, then there will be no surprises when your date seems unmoved after downing her sixth pint of Guinness.
Come to think of it, “Barf out my nose drunk” would be another helpful drinking distinguisher. It could either be a warning or a barometer (“If I’m not barfing out my nose, I’m not drunk enough yet”).
It all depends on how you want to look at it, I guess.
Anyway, I’ve been meaning to start drinking and smoking. Since I don’t do either really, I’m planning on starting out small and working my way up.
For drinking, I’ll start with the fluffy stuff – the Hard Lemonade junk. If I start with four a year and double that every year, by the time I’m 60, I’ll have worked my way up to being that nice quiet drunk.
For smoking, I’m going to build up my nicotine tolerance with the patch first. I figure a year or two from now, I’ll graduate to actually taking a drag on a cigarette. Wait, scratch that. I’m not sure I’ll actually smoke because I don’t want to get lung cancer. So I’ll work my way up to the patch.
Hmmm, I’ll have to think about that some more.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Technically speaking
My seven year old and my nine year old were fighting the other day. There was a growl, a thump, and the sound of the breath being knocked out of someone. When my oldest started crying, I pretty much surmised what happened.
It was confirmed with a tearful, “Mom, KJ pushed me down!”
Of course I reprimanded from two rooms away, “KJ, don’t push your sister down!”
“But I didn’t push her down!” she cried.
Irritated, I met that with, “Don’t tell me you didn’t do it because I heard the whole thing!”
“But MOM! I did not push her down,” she explained, “I pushed her, and she sort of fell forward. She did not fall down.”
So am I raising a lawyer or a potential president?
You've got mail
A guy – James – who is one of the “Buildings and Grounds” guys where my husband works finally decides that he needs to get an e-mail account. So James checks with the computer guy and finds out that he’s had an e-mail account with the organization since 2001. “Well, let’s take a look at that,” the computer guy says. Turns out that, “He’s got mail.” Ten thousand e-mails waiting to be read. That’s right, ten thousand. Definitely bogging down the company mail system there.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
The Memorial
Just wanted to let everyone know that we held a nice memorial service for OIAM even though there is a question about her being completely dead. Rumor has it that she is involved in the blogger re-location program.
I won’t give you all the details of the service, but here are some highlights:
The guys from the East Coast brought the flowers – all tulips. The tulips were beautiful! PJD and Maria gave a nice eulogy…short and sweet as it was a haiku. After the service we ate tacos and a nice Mexican soup (thank you Maria – delicious). Mimi provided the entertainment (pinball, of course).
Things started to fall apart, however, after the DJ – some guy named Horace – had a few too many drinks. He got into it with this guy hobbling around in a cast and pulling a huge bouncy slide behind him (it was very strange). Mr. Bouncy Slide apparently didn’t like all the drunken name-dropping Horace was doing, and in a rage Mr. BS was chasing Horace around and trying to kick Horace with the casted foot.
Another gal in a cowboy hat, very weepy, was passing out flyers for some kind of “ladies” party. Then, as a deep-voiced husky woman – Rudith – kept trying to console the party gal in a too-close-for-comfort way, an unusually persistent overnight delivery guy was trying to cut in on the action.
As all this was going down, some guy-member of a “bar band” dropped the slinkiest “yam” in the girl’s toilet, and the stink was beginning to permeate the place. Party gal got a whiff, barfed on overnight delivery guy and Rudith. At that same moment, Mr. BS (still chasing Horace) ran by and slipped in the barf, grabbed the nearby drapes to break his fall, and pulled them down on himself and on this crying “Cowboy” model/restaurant owner guy. They collided, Mr. BS, drapes, and all, knocking Cowboy guy out cold. Mr. BS broke his other leg in the collision.
A drunk Russian Dentist was first on the scene in an apparent attempt to help in the chaos, but instead he just stood there and yelled at everyone to, “Stop crying like baby!”
The cops arrived shortly thereafter, and a few of us were able to sneak out the back as they were busting in the front door to the place.
After that, all hell broke loose. It was mayhem. A very fitting end to OIAM, really.
Friday, August 12, 2005
RIP
Today a much-loved blog, One in a Million, was quietly laid to rest. A youngster in many respects, OIAM died of natural causes nonetheless. Many will miss it. OIAM is survived by the author, Chandy, a sister blog, ML, and various secret/super-secret siblings (which may or may not really exist - it's hard to say). There will be no services held as requested by OIAM. All contributions can be made to the Chimpanzee Wildlife Refuge of America Foundation and to the Fun With Dirt Childhood Education Division.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
One for the team
I’m not really into watching baseball (so sorry to you baseball nuts), but I thought of a few team mascots that we need to see more of out there:
The Sloths (the team that is slow yet steady)
The Nutrias (the team that is friendly and minds it’s own business, but will turn tail and run if challenged)
The OPP (stands for Old Poisoned Potatoes; they will do in a pinch, but the team is prone explosive diarrhea and vomiting)
The Pizza Makers (they promise to deliver a game that is saucy and satisfying)
The Adjunct Professors (boasts a team line up full of pinch hitters, although several players may not actually know how to play his position)
And these are just my top five ideas…scary…
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Too serious
Okay, this blog is getting way too serious. The problem is that I don't really have anything funny to observe of late.
I did succumb to the pitch of a door-to-door salesman yesterday. I bought a magazine subscription for basically the cover price, but my thinking was that I was helping this guy in his effort to work his way out of the "hood" (in his words). The guy was really nice and seemed very honest. We talked for over twenty-minutes, and he answered all of my questions (where are you from, how did you get involved with this organization, what are your plans for the future, tell me about your son, your mom, etc.). The conversation went all over the place really. So in the end, I think I unintentionally took up enough of his time to get my moneys worth.
In the middle of the night, though, I woke up scared. I was terrified that the guy was secretly casing the joint for a robbery. He reminded me a lot of this neighbor I had as a kid who has now, unfortunately, spent more of his life in prison than out of it.
Not that we have anything to steal. I think I proved that point when I paid for the subscription in change. Literally, I was scraping up loose change from any place I thought it might be - couch cushions, junk drawer, the place where Poetroad empties his pockets each night, etc.
Still, it took me over an hour to get back to sleep.
Monday, August 08, 2005
Ignoring the truth
Last week was a fascinating week. It’s so interesting that even with the little bit of description I gave in my last post that you all pretty much nailed the personality of Mrs. NeatN’Natural. I didn’t even blog 1/3rd of our conversations over the week. Not that all “neat n’ natural” people are preoccupied with fulfilling their own need of “belonging” through their children, but it certainly seemed to be the case here.
One thing that was confirmed to me is that I really like to listen to people. I spent the entire week chatting with several different people, and until the very last day none of them really knew anything about me. In fact, when I told them what I did and what my husband did for a living, I think I heard a collective “gasp” and “I had no idea!” I guess I don’t quite fit the stereotype that I should for my profession.
So while I pretty much had an idea as to who these people were upon first impression, the rest of the week confirmed that impression as it unfolded the truth of who they are – or at least with the public personality that each felt comfortable sharing. But it’s not difficult to find out “more.” Like a scientist, I spend a lot of time in conversations asking probing questions, observing behavior, and gathering data. I’m not sure why I gather the data, except as in an effort to build a character study for the novel I always talk about writing but probably never will. And, again, I like to listen to what people want to say.
Not everyone is good at “diagnosing” a personality from the first impression, though. Some people are naturally more perceptive than others. But perception, I think, is a skill that can be developed by spending some time observing behaviors and really listening to what people say. Also, it helps to have a certain amount of empathy.
I do not see, as some might, that diagnosing a situation or a personality as “wrong.” Some people might call that “being judgmental.” Call it what you may, but I have a firm belief that people pretty much let you know who they are if you are willing to listen and see what they are saying.
Our hidden self wants to be known I guess, and it will find it’s way to the surface somehow.
Many people write off odd behaviors or things that are said as “out of character,” and perhaps they shouldn’t. Perhaps the “odd” is that person’s true character. I tend to like “odd.” I do not like “mean” or “violent.”
I don’t really know where I am going with this. I am one of the most “odd” persons I know. Not that there is anything wrong with that.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Neat and Natural
I signed up my two older kids for a day camp at the local children’s museum this week. The oldest is taking, “Artistic Expressions,” and the seven year old is taking, “Irish Dance.” I know – typical classes for a person who lives in hippie country.
But before you chastise me, know that I needed something for my kids to do this summer…it was the day camp thing or the prospect of investing in a back yard portable boxing ring and letting them duke it out for the rest of the summer. Well, it wasn’t getting quite that bad around here, but they are pretty tired of hanging out with each other 24/7.
Hey, that boxing ring thing isn’t such a bad idea…gonna have to look into that…
Anyway, back to the morning at the museum yesterday. So the other mothers and I are standing around the outdoor play area waiting for one of the classes to begin, and this one mom who is holding her barefoot three year old in one of those side-swaddling baby sling do dads (the kind of thing you see in the National Geographic pictures of women in the Congo packing their children in as they walk back to the village balancing clay jars of water on their heads), brings up breast feeding. How long did you nurse your children? Do you still nurse? Etc.
She didn’t look to be the “neat and natural” type – you know the type who thinks it’s fun to whip out a boob on any occasion and nurse her five year old. Cute tan Gap Capris, cute pink tee; I think I have the same outfit, in fact. Not the usual unshaven hairy pits, tie-dye shirt, gypsy skirt, and birks usually associated with the neat and natural crowd.
Then she says, “Oh I nursed my oldest until she was two years and eleven months, and I was sad to stop. This guy is three and he still nurses.”
I choke back nervous laughter and try hard not to blurt out, “What the hell? I was potty training my kids when they were that age, not weaning them!”
But all smiles, I say something to the effect of, “Oh…wow…oh.”
And she continues with the details and then says, “I figure, hey, they’ve got to get fluids somewhere, and there is probably more nutrients in my breast milk than anything I could get from a cow,” and the last phrase she says with particular distain as if she were a vegetarian or something.
“Right, that breast milk is easier to digest I hear,” I reply. That’s about all I could muster in that conversation.
Very awkward….veeery awkward…
It gets better.
On our way out of the museum, she says out of the blue, “Wanna try my sling?”
“Huh?” I say, taken aback.
“My sling – wanna try it out? I have lots of them at home. It’s no problem, really.”
Still not getting it, “What?” I say in a puzzled voice.
Slightly offended, she says, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to – I don’t want to force it on you or anything.”
With nervous laughter I say, “Oh, no, it’s okay, I just thought that you wanted to take the one off you are using right now and…” My voice trails off as she – clearly having her own agenda – is taking her three year old out of her sling and then proceeds to place the contraption over my head.
I don’t really know what to say at this point. Not wanting to offend the gal, I consent graciously. Not because I am a gracious person, mind you, but because I am not interested in offending anyone at that moment or making a public scene over this.
So there I am smiling awkwardly in the neat and natural sling, and this lady is just beaming at the thought of having a new convert.
“Try it, enjoy it for a few days. Give it back to me on Friday. I have lots of these at home, so I won’t miss it at all,” she says.
Thank you, but no, I think.
Fast forward to this morning. When I see the neat and natural lady, I make polite conversation, and then I nonchalantly give her back her sling. “Thanks a ton for letting me try this out, but it just didn’t work for me. My 11 month old is just too squirmy. I bet it would have worked great had I used it when she was younger,” I say.
I see by her red face that she is a little embarrassed.
“Thanks again for letting me try it out – it was very kind of you!”
“Oh, no problem,” she says.
And then I smile and turn and leave with my boobs in my shirt and my kids sitting contently in the double stroller.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
My Dog Champ
Here is the long awaited pic of our dog, Champ. This picture was taken when he was 10 weeks old (at the beginning of June). Although he is a pure bred champion line Springer Spaniel, we got him for a steal (aka free) because he is the runt of his litter and he was strangled by the umbilical chord at birth. Champ (short for Champion - the breeders named him, and it stuck) is the son I never had. :) The girls love him, and he is a great family dog.
Monday, July 25, 2005
monday morning coffee blues
Desperate times require desperate measures. We ran out of coffee four days ago, and no one has made it to the store to buy more since. So it was this morning after enduring four mornings straight without coffee that I did the unthinkable. I made a pot of Folger’s. And I drank some. Now I wouldn’t say I am an addict (no caffeine withdrawals of note), but for those mornings when one of the four children wakes me up somewhere around dawn (which seems to be everyday lately), caffeine helps.
And why does this coffee snob have Folger’s in her cupboard? It was one of those one-pot bags that our neighbors snagged from a hotel room, and since they are non-coffeeites, they gave it to us. I remember saying, “Gee thanks,” and thinking, “There is no way in hell I will ever drink this!” Today I am glad that I didn’t throw it away…almost. I have to admit it has been a tad hot around here, so maybe I’m a little closer to hell than I thought.
Was the coffee good? No way. Not even close. It tasted very much like a warm cup of dirt filtered through a used gym sock. With a hint of vanilla. It had that funky aftertaste, too, that one tastes after taking a bite of sugar free pudding.
Ironically, I strangely felt the same way after drinking a cup of Folger’s Dirt ‘0 Brew as I do after I take a bite of sugar free pudding. The anticipation is there, it looks like yummy pudding (except for those chunky lumps that just aren’t there in real pudding), and the initial bite is delicious. Okay, not quite delicious, but it’s not horrible…wait a few seconds, swallow…ewww, tastes like poop. That’s pretty much how every gulp of coffee went down this morning.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
For Pete
Maybe it would help if you thought of him as "the happy President"?
I know...it's so wrong of me to even suggest that, but I couldn't resist.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Christmas in July?
Santa has a summer gig that has nothing to do with the North Pole or kids or presents. It’s true. Apparently his other line of work is concrete. Three new houses are under construction just down the street. I saw him yesterday in his signature color – though he was wearing a battered red tank top rather than the red and white fur trimmed winter attire – pouring a driveway. Oh, and he was also wearing shorts and flops. But I knew who he was. The fact that he was looking a little grungy and was covered with a light layer of cement dust didn’t fool me. Long white full beard, big belly, slight man boobs – yes, it was Santa all right.
Monday, July 18, 2005
In Memory
It’s been a few weeks since I’ve posted last. I’m not sure exactly why that is, but it’s probably more than a coincidence that the day of my last post is the day I found out that my college mentor had moved to heaven.
Thirty years my senior, Melba was a “tell it like it is” kind of woman who actually made a polyester pants suit seem perky attire. A petite woman with one of those easy to manage salt and pepper hair dos and ‘70s style huge lens glasses, she was as direct in her walk as she was in speech. And although she spoke to all in a no nonsense kind of tone, Melba always seemed to have a chuckle in her voice as if she knew something entirely hilarious about the situation that the rest of the world didn’t see. In fact, she had the gait and manner of a woman that one would expect to see in a college basketball coach rather than in a public relations director for an out in the middle of nowhere, tiny private college.
I got to know Melba when I worked in the public relations department while I was earning my BA at that school. In her other career, she was an English teacher, so she let me know right away that my writing sucked – and she took the time to put me on the path to becoming a better writer. We talked about all kinds of stuff those many hours as we worked in that tiny closet of a public relations office. Most importantly, she taught me how to use a copier, a computer, and Word at a time when much of the world was still technologically in the dark. I listened intently while she directed and instructed me in things relating to work and school.
But soon enough my learning extended beyond the context of work and school. Melba was in need of a housekeeper. Her house wasn’t messy, mind you, but it was big enough that the vacuuming, mopping, and deep cleaning of the bathrooms, etc. was getting to be quite a chore. So a few days a month, Chandy and I teamed our efforts to clean for Melba. I wasn’t a novice to household chores, but she gave us all kinds of tips for doing our tasks better and faster. I even learned how to replace a plug on a worn out appliance cord once. It’s kind of funny how she was able to diagnose the problem for the ill working appliance and had all the necessary replacement parts and the know how to fix it now that I think of it.
At her home is where Melba became my friend. We often chatted about life and such after the workday was over while she fed Chandy and I lunch. We raked piles and piles of leaves in the fall, scrubbed down miles of windows in the spring, and listened along the way to the touching narrative of a woman struggling to give the necessary support to her four grown up daughters and to nurse her elderly father-in-law with all the love and patience a person can muster in tough times.
When I was ready to move away from that college town after I earned my degree, Melba gave me one of her prize textbooks. Seeing it reminds me of how she casually intervened in a power struggle between Dr. Clinger and I, the professor who was in charge of the student teachers at my school. Dr. Clinger was one of Melba’s chums, and over tea confided to Melba how she didn’t really care for my teaching style or for me. (I was not surprised to find that out at all; in fact, I feared that my grade would suffer because of it – which is something that had happened to one of my friends who was a good teacher but was disliked by Dr. C.) Melba let me know that she came to my defense that day. “Well that may be, Pat,” Melba pressed her, “but you have to admit that she’s going to be a master teacher some day.” Finally Dr. C relented and conceded, “Yes, but she’s got a lot to learn.” I earned an A- for my student teaching that semester.
Even though Melba had a profound impact on my life, I didn’t really keep in touch with her. I saw her when I went back to visit a few times, but I’ve allowed myself to be too caught up with daily surviving to keep in touch. She sent me a Christmas card a few years back, and I had been meaning to call her. Last year my family even drove though her town, but we were too busy visiting my husband’s family to make time to see her.
Melba died of cancer last month. I didn’t get to say goodbye or to tell her how much she meant to me. Somehow, though, in all her confidence, I am sure she knew. I am also sure that she is having a hoot in heaven – and she is probably teaching the angels a thing or two about the developing a better layout and design for the Heavenly Newsletter or maximizing the shine on those pearly gates.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
The Habit
I have a confession to make. I am a user…a make-up user, that is. At first I just used a little mascara every once in a while just for fun. It made me feel “grown up.” Next thing I know, I was using mascara daily – even if I didn’t plan on seeing anyone special that day.
But soon mascara alone wasn’t enough to satiate my need to use. I noticed that the natural glow in my cheeks was fading, so I tried using a little rouge. Before I realized it, I was doing rouge and mascara every morning. Sometimes I was even sneaking in another application late in the afternoon.
And then I went over the edge; I began to use lipstick and foundation. And eye shadow. I just couldn’t help myself. Choosing different colors of lipstick and rouge and eye shadow to match my outfits – or my mood – well the combinations are endless.
Since my habit has gotten pretty serious, I no longer rely on the cheap drugstore brands. I buy exclusively from my dealer. Cute little perky thing, she is.
She isn’t making it any easier for me to quit or cut back either – not that I want to. The almost monthly catalog taunts me with the latest colors. Also, if I purchase a mere $40 worth of product, there seems to be a little “gift” I can earn.
Oh, I just saw the mail carrier…gotta check and see if that new catalog is here…
Saturday, June 25, 2005
The Gift that Keeps on Giving
It occurred to me (probably because flu season has come and gone) that I haven’t talked enough about vomit lately. Since I know you are all dying to know (or are terribly bored, and this is why you are continuing to read) what horrible event might have triggered the painful crawl into my phobic behavior, now seems as good a time as any to spill the beans – or up-chuck the details, rather.
First off, let me remind you that I haven’t thrown up since 1978. I remember that episode vividly since I was staying the night with neighborhood friends. The entire event involved tomato soup, bed jumping, and a stain on the carpet that my long ago friend was careful to remind me for years to come that I ruined her carpet. To vomit is scary enough, but to spew at someone else’s house – now that is just horrifying.
But this monologue isn’t about the event that I remember most vividly. Instead, it is about an episode that I don’t remember at all. Perhaps I was too young to remember. Perhaps I have been blocking it out for years – and will continue to do so to avoid any unnecessary trauma.
From the time I was born until I was four, I shared a room with my two older brothers. Ray, the oldest, is just over five years my senior. Scott trumps me by four years. The classic middle child, Scott has always found a way to assure that he isn’t lost in the mix. But most of his attention grabbing behaviors were done subconsciously (which is still the case today), and sometimes circumstances beyond his control thrust him into the spotlight. He almost died at age four from complications from his tonsillectomy. The surgery wound sprung a leak in the middle of the night; he has a rare blood type, and the hospital was having trouble finding blood that his body would not reject. Combing the vicinity for possible blood donors, they were finally able to locate one in the wee hours of the morning just before my brother was about to drift off into eternity. His first words after the life saving transfusion were, “I’m hungry.”
My mother has always somehow felt responsible for my brother’s near death experience.
Anyhow, whether it was because of the near-fatal tonsillectomy tragedy or the silent triggering of an undetected recessive gene, my brother has had a propensity to vomit any time anywhere from then on.
When I was two or three, I discovered the truth of his “gift.” Apparently one night in the middle of the night my brother got out of bed, walked over to MY dresser, opened the drawer, threw up in it, closed the drawer, got back into bed, and continued sleeping. In the morning when I was ready to get dressed, I found the stale vomit in my dresser. That’s my mom’s best guess as to how I developed this phobia, anyhow.
Although the reality is that other events in my life more dark than this one are probably what eventually thrust me into the darkness, this episode definitely planted the seed. Plus wherever a major vomiting event happened to happen at home or school, I was in close proximity. But in order to move on from unpleasant life experiences, people have to cope with tragedy somehow. I guess developing a minor phobia is as good as any other way to cope.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Man Boobs and other Sagginess
It's come to my attention of late that we begin and end our lives looking just about the same. In the womb, for a time we appear to be androgynous until the sex organs develop. At 90+, that androgyny revisits our tired bodies. Although the primary sex organs change little, there is a question about what happens to the boobs.
Women eventually will have saggy boobs - there is no epiphany with this point. Even those who have surgery will have to face the inevitable fact that the older we get, the more resolutely our boobs work their way south. Even the perkiest specimens cannot defy gravity for eternity.
Wait, it gets worse. I've heard stories of women who eventually have "cinnamon roll" boobs - you know, the sort that must be rolled up and stuffed into a bra. I've seen plenty of melons, too, that look as if they are weighting down the toe end of a pair of nylons. And let's not forget that horrifying “old-wrinkled-boob-flash” scene in "There's Something About Mary." Frightening.
So women, we can - we must - do something about this problem. Make a pact with your friends, your children, your neighbors - whoever will listen and remember - that when you begin to accidentally tuck your boobs into the waistband of your comfort-elastic slacks, someone will take you down to the department store to be properly fitted for the right bra. Then have your loved ones check periodically to be sure that the straps are adjusted to assure "lift."
But what happens to men? Can the "man boob" be avoided? Be warned, young men - working out the pecs is a double-edged sword. Being toned and having definition in your chest muscles is one thing, but think twice about pumping the iron hard. Is bigger really better? It's a serious question to visit before you take the next step to artificially enhance those pecs. You could end up looking like one former Mr. Universe (AKA Governor Arnold). Our man Fabio thinks he has problems now with the uneven nipples? Wait until those nipples are hanging to his waistline...
In the end, it seems as if our boobs will all look the same - men and women alike. I almost find comfort in that fact.
Monday, June 20, 2005
Go gentle into that good night, Spring
I watched a thunderhead build in the distance tonight. As the cloud billowed higher and higher, the setting sun seemed to sear its outer edges. A rope of neon orange was embellishing the perimeter of the cloud while the body of the cloud remained a smoky white. But the cloud, stretching into the sky, eventually became saturated with the warm glow of the sun. A translucent white turned fiery. It was as if a smoldering ember ignited somewhere in that cloud and lit it afire. I couldn't help to notice that the vapors above my house too were tinged with hot pink.
fists of cotton mop
teary mascara, rouge stains;
clouds in the sunset
The rain set in - a slight drizzle really - but life doesn't stop for rain here. We topped off the night by going out on the back porch and puffing on a vanilla-tipped cigar. "Now that's a nice, easy-going cigar," Poetroad sighed. "I don't know what I'm doing," I laughed as I took my puffs. I'm a cautious cigar smoker. I once made myself green by inhaling deeply one too many times while smoking with Chandy.
Even though my bare foot stepped on a slug on the way back in, tonight was divine.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
The Best Student Poem...
I should be irritated with this, but it truly made me laugh. What guts this girl has - and ironically I think it shows some creativity.
This is a haiku.
I made it for English class.
Just so I could pass.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Priceless
A magnitude 7.4 earthquake hit off the California coast earlier this evening, and naturally a tsunami warning was issued as a precaution. Different from a “tsunami watch,” the “warning” indicates that action should be taken to evacuate any low -lying coastal areas immediately. We all saw the devastating aftermath of the tsunami that hit Banda Aceh, Sumatra, Thailand, and other locations in that vicinity earlier this year. Even places as far away from the epicenter such as the coasts of India and Africa were battered by the powerful tsunami surge. Thousands upon thousands of lives were lost – adults and children were literally plucked up from the sandy beaches, with the ease one might pluck up a tiny stone, and they were hurled out to sea in a matter of seconds. The visions caught on tape by chance were for sure frightening. The aftermath was almost unbelievable.
So how do our West Coast friends respond to the warning? Do they grab their kids, throw them in the Suburban, and make a beeline for higher ground? Surely they know from the past that tsunamis do hit the West Coast too.
No, my friends. Instead, they grab their lawn chairs, throw them in the back of the pick up truck, and head down to the sand to watch the tsunami hit. I kid you not. This is the kind of idiocy that happens here.
Unbelievable.
Sunday, June 05, 2005
Here is something crazy...
In the midst of finals and year-end grading, we got a puppy! He is a docile Springer Spaniel. Very cute and fun!
Friday, June 03, 2005
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Here is what I've been up to...
grading, grading and
more grading of papers; sigh
three more weeks to go
Friday, May 13, 2005
C'mon, you had to KNOW this was gonna happen...
Turns out this nasty stomach thing is highly contagious. We all got it to some degree - but no one contracted a worse case than JG, the three year old. My nine-year-old did give me a run for my money, however. Bellyache at 4:30 AM, puking at 5:00 AM, crying and wailing from the belly pain on and off from 5:30 AM to 6:00 PM. No, of course I didn't puke. Neither did KJ. She knows just how to make her mom happy.
I doubt there are many other bloggers that are preoccupied with the ins and outs of undigested food. Well, many who are not bulemic anyway.
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
I'm still here...
I just wanted it to be known that I am alive and I have survived – so far, that is. J.G. was very ill with the stomach flu from Thursday until yesterday. In fact, this is the first day she has really been her perky self again. Serious stuff. She is a tiny little three-year-old to begin with, so losing four pounds of body fluids over five days took her down to 28 lbs. It was a very scary weekend – I won’t give all the details, but a hospital visit was averted.
Oh, and my niece puked at the Mother’s Day barbeque at my parent’s house.
That’s all I’ve got for now – I’m spent.
Thursday, May 05, 2005
News Flash!
Singing about diarrhea – that’s funny. Having it – not so much fun. Cleaning up someone else’s diarrhea, well that’s neither funny nor fun. And when undigested food is squirting out both ends of your three year old who hasn’t had enough viral experience to know to do this in the bathroom, well let me tell you that it has an appeal factor of about –50. Of course that is just a rough guesstimate. The actual appeal factor probably rates much lower than that. I am tired. I am tired of doing laundry (you would be surprised at how much soiled laundry one little kid can generate). My hands are raw from in-between contact scrubs.
My husband will not be back for another week.
I have an undiagnosed case of emetophobia (aka puke-a-phobia). I am thinking that this is God’s funny way of desensitizing me to vomit. God is right; puke that is water is not half as scary as chunky puke.
Sickness, please do go quickly into that good night…
Oh, and by the way…fellow bloggers (all three of you), I have read some fantabulous posts over the past week that I’ve been itching to respond to, but just know that I probably won’t get around to commenting on all of those posts until next week.
Saturday, April 30, 2005
Pageantry
My husband’s secretary competed in the “Mrs.” state pageant this weekend, and if she wins she will be in contention to win the Mrs. America crown. He doesn’t think that she will fare well, however, at the state pageant. The good looks and poise and brains she’s got plenty of, but her “platform” has problems; hers is, “Encourage Morality in Women.” While it is a valiant cause, the motto just doesn’t have any panache. Besides, ladies who win these things here are passionate to, “Stamp out Cancer,” or “Save the Salmon.” My husband’s idea: “Up with People.” “Oh yes, anything to do with the advancement of people, that’s what I’m for.” Come to think of it, that would be a pretty good Presidential platform too.
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
More about the office...
Last Friday when I came home, I was fuming about the situation at work. I actually had it in my mind that I would send an e-mail to everyone in the room that day and to the principal that read something such as,
“I apologize if I offended anyone with my conversation about the “World Population Crisis” today. It was never my intention to create a hostile work environment or make anyone feel uncomfortable during that five-minute conversation with Park.
In the future, might I suggest - since we are all adults here - that if a person takes offence by a workplace conversation, he or she would please just say so on the spot. Then, if the situation isn’t resolved to your satisfaction, go ahead and involve the higher-ups. In return, can we all agree to be courteous to the offended party?
It would also be good to remember that we have an open office space. Although we should be conscientious in that our conversations can be heard by all, also keep in mind that unless we have a “no talking” or a “whisper only” policy, voices will be heard in your work space.”
Of course after I vented to my husband about this and told him about my idea, he pretty much put the kibosh on that [Note: my theory about the affect of non-reading on the sense of perception is on hold too; G-man basically helped me see that I still need to think about that one some more]. Anyway, G said, “BSP, I don’t think that would be a good idea. You know what happened, don’t you? An employee complained, and so the principal felt that she had to do something about it to cover her ass. She is done with it; you should be too. Let it go.”
You know what, he is right. It’s nice to have a voice of reason around (and that will come in handy once or twice with five women in the house). MJ, my principal, didn’t care what was said, and she didn’t care who said it. She made an appearance, did the token reprimand, and I’m sure she’s forgotten all about it. It’s not like I’m bogging down the entire school phone system with my “full” voice-mail box (lol – just had to get that in). [Note: glad they didn’t give me voice mail so I don’t have to deal with that]
So yes, last Friday was irritating. I wish I had been able to read Pete’s “Working in a Bathroom Stall” post before I went into work that day – it would have given me some perspective. But now I have some suggestions to make to improve our work space environment that include a powerful sound system and a CD of a vacuum cleaner running…
Saturday, April 23, 2005
What an interesting time at the office yesterday.
For those who don’t know, I work part time for a local school district. I teach for the online high school [reason one for the anonymity…], and I develop English curriculum for the school that helps virtual students learn what is essentially taught in the classroom. I know, really exciting.
Things I love about my job:
*I am allowed to work from home most of the week, and that allows me to set my own schedule.
*I am more of a writing/literature mentor than teacher; I truly have the opportunity to tailor the education to the student.
*Ironically, I know more of my students better now than I did in the classroom.
*I don’t have to deal with classroom discipline.
Things I hate about my job:
*I am required to go into the office one day a week. The computer I was working on until last week did not have a word processing program on it (did I mention I was an English teacher?), was not hooked up to a printer (good God Almighty, I might want to have a hard copy or two of student work, grade reports, attendance reports – yes, we have to take attendance; don’t ask – or anything else I might have the notion to print out), and actually has a slower internet connection than what I have at home (I swear I feel like I am hooked back up to a dial up modem when I am there – did I mention that I am an online teacher = lots of time on the Internet?).
*Most of my time is spent grading papers, and that is not the most fun part of teaching English.
*It takes longer to grade a paper because not only do I need to take more time to be succinct, but I also need to wrap every criticism with “pillows and marshmallows” so that students will receive my input without being offended. Doing all of that = huge chunk of time spent on my job = more hours doing my job than would be required in the traditional setting.
*Unlike a college course where students have the ability to read a few chapters and respond to it in a two-page paper, I am teaching the nitty-gritty so that my students can be prepared to do that very thing (have the ability to respond to a few chapters in a two page paper). The curriculum consists of achievable chunks of learning that build upon one another so that the end result is a well-written essay, a well-organized, well-thought out criticism/evaluation of literature, or a well-researched, well-organized research project. Each course has approximately 35 assignments to be completed, each assignment takes from five minutes to thirty minutes to grade (refer to “pillows and marshmallows”), and each course has approximately 35 students in it. I teach three classes. Do the math, and you’ll get an idea of how much my job consumes my life.
*The public education system here is very intolerant of people who are critical about “left-wing” anything. Forget about the First Amendment if the main stream doesn’t agree with your point of view.
Which brings me to my day at work yesterday…
Two other employees were having a heated debate about President Bush signing the new bill regarding bankruptcy. One for, one against. Best line of the conversation: female employee says, “I’ve had lots and lots of sex over the years, and not once have I been pregnant. Preventing pregnancy is not that difficult.”
I listened to the conversation intently with amusement while I carried on with my work. I was in and out of the room several times during the course of the conversation taking care of other aspects of my job (the face-to-face meetings with students on occasion, giving opportunities for speeches, arranging time and space for kids to take proficiency exams, etc.).
When I got back into the room, another teacher chimes regarding the “World Population Crisis.” If you’ve read any of my post this year, then you know how I feel about that (sorry, but I can’t remember where I posted the rant about the Population Crisis or I would link you to that post). I just couldn’t resist chiming in at that point. For about five minutes – no more than that – I went on a rant about how the United Nations itself has not denied the fact that developed nations will actually decrease in population over the next fifty years, blah, blah, blah, yadda, yadda, yadda. In that five-minute diatribe, the principal enters the room to pull out one employee from the first conversation.
When she returns, I am back to work, and she asks to speak to me outside of the room. Apparently, the conversation in the room is creating a “hostile work environment” she says, and another employee is offended. Shut up and get back to work. “MJ,” I say in aghast, “I’ve only been chatting for five minutes!” Her reply is, “That may be, but you are here to do your job. Get back to work.”
Nice.
Nice that educators cannot take time out for intelligent conversation. Nice that another employee cannot simply say, “Hey, take your conversation to another room or shut up.” Nice that there are tattle-tales who go straight to the principal. Nice that the conservative, dissenting opinion is not tolerated. All nice. [Being able to bitch about this and to have a dissenting opinion, reason two for the anonymity…]
Needless to say, I probably have a black mark next to my name in the employee handbook. Black = creating hostile work environment. I always have had a problem with bucking the system.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
“Houston, we have a Pope,” or Pope-ouri
True story…In high school I had a friend named Tracy who was a chatterbox. She was from Korea. I learned really quickly that English colloquialisms do not translate into Korean very well. Tracy asked me a question one day, and my response was going to be, “Of course it is!” Instead, I said, “Is the Pope Catholic?!” Tracy looked confused and said, “What’s a Pope?”
Today the Pope was elected. Catholic or not, the election is a historic world event. John Paul was a dope Pope, and in honor of his passing and the election of Benedict XVI, my husband and I have decided that the word “Pope” deserves to be Pope for the day. There is no denying it; Pope is just a cool word to say.
And so the irreverent reverence begins…because there is more than one way to skin a Pope.
“What are you doing?” “Oh, you know, just Pope-in’ it.”
“Nice Popes.”
“Crazy – he must have been smokin’ Popey weed.”
“That’s a load of Pope!”
“This is pure Colombian Pope!”
“All we are saying is give Pope a chance…”
“Geeze – zip up your pants. I think I saw your Pope.”
“It was so sad! I got all Pope-ed up.”
“What in the Pope are you talking about?!”
“Quit Pope-ing around and get to work!”
“There’s no Pope like home.”
“I just Pope-ed my pants.”
“My, don’t you look Popely today.”
“What’s wrong? Feeling down in the Pope today?”
“How’s it Pope-in’?”
“What the Pope were you thinking?!”
“Is that a Pope in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”
“You are so full of Pope!”
“Ooops! You stepped in a pile of Pope.”
“That’s the Popiest thing I’ve ever heard!”
“Go Pope yourself!”
“Pope you!”
Thursday, April 07, 2005
They called again!!!
This is hardly believable, but I just had this conversation with someone from “Fidelity such and Such Financial Services.”
“Hello, Mrs. So and So. I’m Noardi from ‘Fidelity yadda yadda.’”
‘No way!” I thought to myself. ‘This guy couldn’t actually have the nerve to call back after I put him through the ringer yesterday!’ So cautiously I asked, “Didn’t I just talk to you yesterday?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“No, I talked to someone from ‘Fidelity yadda yadda’ just yesterday.”
“Really?”
“Yes, and it was a very funny conversation too.”
“Well, yes, this is a fun bunch to work with. These guys are pretty funny,” he laughed.
“He was quite a salesman too. He tried to sell me a mortgage and a credit card and a vacation plan…”
“Oh, that must have been Alex. I keep telling Alex, ‘Nobody wants to hear about your vacation plans.” But he just keeps on trying to sell them anyway,” he laughed.
“Well tell him I enjoyed our conversation yesterday. It made me laugh!”
“Yes, I’ll tell him!”
“And sorry, but I don’t need a new mortgage rate or a new credit card or a vacation plan. But I’m sure I’ll talk to you later!”
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Fun with Phone Solicitation
A guy called from “Fidelity Such and Such Financial Services,” and his intent was to offer me a lower rate for our mortgage. I pulled a “Chandy” on him. Our conversation went something like this:
“Hello, Mrs. So and So. I’m Alex from “Fidelity yadda yadda.” I think we’ve spoken before?
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Oh yes, I think we’ve spoke before.”
PAUSE – and then I went in for the kill…
“Oh YEAH – HI ALEX! How have you been doing?
Caught off guard, he chuckled, “Great. Now Mrs. So and So, what rate are you currently paying for your mortgage?”
“Oh, you know, Alex! The same rate I had the last time we talked!”
“Pardon?”
“I said I have the same rate as the last time we talked! It hasn’t changed.”
“Oh, uh…I don’t remember what that…Uh, Mrs. So and So… [Insert “uneasy” chuckle here] what I meant to say was that we might have talked before. I don’t really know if we’ve talked before, so I don’t know what that rate is…”
“Oh, so you are saying that we haven’t talked before?”
“Yes, I don’t think we’ve talked before. [More uneasy laughter] Mrs. So and So, can you tell me what your current mortgage rate is?”
“One percent fixed for the life of the loan. Can you beat that?”
“Now, c’mon Mrs. So and So, let’s be serious here. [More laughter] Is that what you are paying?”
“I’m not lying,” I lied, “One percent fixed for the life of the loan. Can you beat that?”
“No, Mrs. So and So, I can’t beat that; you should stick with that rate. It’s a good one.” [Insert “slightly annoyed” chuckle here] “So you wouldn’t happen to have any other debts…any car loans or high interest credit cards?”
“No,” I lied.
“No credit cards? No loans?”
“No.”
“Mrs. So and So, have you considered going on a vacation? How about a vacation?”
“No, I don’t want to go on a vacation.”
“You don’t want to go on a vacation?! Why wouldn’t you want to go on a vacation???”
“Well, I have too much to do here.”
“Mrs. So and So, I’m afraid I don’t have anything to offer you today.”
“That’s fine. I’ll talk to you again real soon!”
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
The Contest
Have you ever received one of those e-mails that said, in effect, fill out this survey and win “(fill in the blank)”? The survey was soooooo long, and I thought it might never end. I really wasn’t interested in signing up for yet another credit card just to get the free thing. And when the “Enter a Poetry Contest” choice came up, I thought, “Hey, maybe I will get to skip to the end if I pander to one of the sponsors.” What I didn’t realize was that I would have to write a poem there on the spot and enter it before I could continue the survey. So in about five minutes, I wrote this:
Fear
Uncontrollable
Upside down, total blackness
Rising, rising
Frigid waters, power locks
Uncontrollable
In a corner, total blackness
gasping, gasping
One hundred stories up
This is the way love is.
Now please, please don’t tell me that it’s a “good” poem. Clearly, it isn’t. It was borne of neither sincere effort nor inspiration. Instead, it was connived and contrived in the mind of a teacher that has been thoroughly schooled in the common traits many lauded poems tend to have.
Still, I was surprised to get an e-mail the next week explaining that my poem was one of two-hundred chosen to appear in a “Classic, coffee-table quality hard-bound volume [featured] on a full page by itself…Printed on fine-milled paper specifically selected to last for generations.” This book in the series, Eternal Portraits , could be mine for a mere 49.95$. Right then and there I made a vow that in the future I would only agree to be published if they paid me and not vice versa. At that point, I could have requested to not have my poem published in the book and to be taken off the mailing list.
But I wanted to put all of my chips on the table and let it ride; there was a chance that my little piece of poetry could win me some serious cash. So I continued to receive the e-mails and letters even though I knew the promise of being a published poet was only a racket – it was kind-of like being one of a select 10,000 in the “Who’s Who” of poetry. Lord knows there must have been at least 10,001 entries.
Anyhow, after a week or two of being hounded about buying a copy of the book and more offers to publish a book of my own (I pay for it, of course) and to have my poetry recorded on a CD, I finally discovered the pinnacle of the racket: I was invited to attend a Convention for Poets for only 500$ - not including the air-fare to Florida, no less. So for a thousand dollars, there could be a chance that I could win some cash.
I have to admit, it was a tempting offer - and not because of the promise of fame or fortune, mind you. At this point, I didn’t really care about winning anymore. I might pay a thousand dollars, however, to see who attends this sort of thing. A Convention for Poets. What would that look like? It would be an interesting character study. And there was the promise that Carol Brady herself – the talented Florence Henderson – would be there. I silently wondered what Florence would have to say about poetry to a bunch of poets. Was she a poet herself?
Sadly, I didn’t go, and I didn’t win, and the e-mails stopped. Secretly I was glad. I really wanted to believe that if there was going to be a poetry contest that there were some kind of standards guiding this thing. That it wasn’t just about money.
Who knows, maybe I’ll enter the contest again some day.
Monday, April 04, 2005
More on poetry...
Into the Wasteland Elliot did go,
And Dante sojourned the Inferno.
Let’s not forget that Chaucer as well
Went on and on until he told his ‘Tales.’
Homer, too, the king of verse,
Took two trips; he was not terse,
So long or short, with words I’ll sew
A quilt of verse for the average Joe.
Where in Hell are you?
Oh, here is a hilarious time waster...speaking of Dante, you, too, can find out which level of Hell you could go to according to the Inferno:
The Dante's Inferno Test has sent you to Purgatory!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:
| Level | Score |
|---|---|
| Purgatory (Repenting Believers) | Very High |
| Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers) | Very Low |
| Level 2 (Lustful) | High |
| Level 3 (Gluttonous) | Moderate |
| Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious) | Low |
| Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy) | Moderate |
| Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics) | Very Low |
| Level 7 (Violent) | Moderate |
| Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers) | High |
| Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous) | Low |
Take the Dante Inferno Hell Test
Sunday, April 03, 2005
The Art of Being Brief
I have a long-term goal of learning to express myself succinctly and briefly. Oh, I can be succinct, but I have trouble being brief. Typically, I ramble on and on, raging on this tangent and that, before I finally finish my point - but I digress. That's why I am not a poet. You see, a great poet has refined the "Art of Brevity." My plan is to start out as a blogger (getting better), turn into a novelist (I'm not doing so swell with that yet), and then eventually whittle my verbiage into poetry (not even close).
Saturday, April 02, 2005
And there is more...
Here is the synopsis of the test:
Advanced Global Personality Test Results
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And I had a great laugh about the words that describe my personality:
Trait Snapshot
|
Paranoid - yes, anxious - yes, worrying - yes, phobic - yes. Those descriptors are true, but they are humorous too. All that I worry about and am phobic of I spend 90% of the time laughing about it. Only when I am, for example, hugging the toilet yet not allowing myself to puke is when it isn't funny. That's when I'm crying. That is a rarity. The other traits could be me at my VERY WORST; I won't deny the fact that I could go there. But I don't. Basically, the "traits" make me sound like I am a psycho. Not that there is anything wrong with that...
Enough about me, let's talk about me
Here is my personality profile:
Advanced Global Personality Test Results
|
personality tests by similarminds.com
Thursday, March 31, 2005
"This is your life, are you who you want to be..."
It isn’t easy separating who you are from what you do. Or should I say that it isn’t easy separating who I am from what I do. Mimi, you are correct when you suggested – in a very kind way might I add – that my priorities are a little out of whack. I’ve been thinking about that all month. Is what I say that is important – my faith, my family – being usurped by my need to be praised?
So far, I’ve let what I do define who I am. I am a mother and a teacher. I would love to be just a mother. That’s a lie. I would love to be a writer and a mother, but there is a reason why I am not a writer. It has to do with my theory of writing and writers, and I’ll divulge more about that at a later date.
For now, my attentions are divided. I can’t do what I want because I have to work. Rather, to maintain my current lifestyle, I have to work. Most who say that live in bigger houses, have nicer cars, live in more affluent communities, and have more toys. My husband and I do not live extravagantly. It’s a rarity that I buy something that is not on sale. Sure, we could live more frugally, but we both own used cars, we are a family of six and we live in a 1500 square foot home in a “Middle-Class” neighborhood in a average town in an state that has a higher than average unemployment rate. Currently, we pay $2.11 per gallon for unleaded gasoline.
Nevertheless, my family lives nearby, and it is important to my husband and I that our children spend time with their doting grandparents. The rest of my family is a little wacky – no, they really are. And I am no less wacky than they. But weirdly we want our kids to have a connection with my extended family, who also live in the vicinity, because it builds character to know and love strange people.
And my husband has a good job here. He is truly gifted at what he does. Also, his job pays a decent enough wage; his salary is probably better than any other un-famous musician can earn. He could be famous at the expense of being a good father and husband, but he chose, “the road less traveled.” [Thought – why is being a good father and husband not the popular path?] Instead he labors with a passion and excellence that the world may never recognize. Clearly he has made many sacrifices for me, so I work.
Which brings me to my point: because I can do my job and parent my children simultaneously, I choose to do both. But I do neither well. I personally can’t be the best at something unless I can put 100% into it. So in effect, I choose to do nothing well. That’s why I embrace my mediocrity. That is the one thing I can do 100%. Ironically, I am very good at being mediocre. These are my life choices. This is what I have to live with. I’ve accepted that.
Still, it is very difficult to separate who I am from what I do. It’s difficult to accept that about myself and to not feel – well – less of a person. All of those things that I enjoy doing – playing soccer, singing, writing – I would be lying if I said that I wouldn’t love the accolades for a job well done in those areas. But you are correct, Mimi. In the scheme of things, those are talents; my talents do not define me. My talents may define my borders, but what is external is only an expression of who I am – a faint expression at best.
So now that I’ve lived at least three-and-a-half decades, it’s finally time to start defining what is important. Life is too short to be worrying about how badly I do everything. These are not the last mistakes I will make, and my children will surely come back to me in 20 years and tell my how I’ve undeniably screwed them up. That’s what children do.
Hopefully, they will also discover that who they are is not what I’ve made them either. Right now I feel a little sad, a little confused, but very hopeful. My birthday present to myself is that this next part of my life I pledge to not make life so complicated, to not worry about the “cannots,” and to embrace the simplicity and contentment I desire.
Thursday, March 10, 2005
Friday, March 04, 2005
Neighbor Hater
Around five o'clock that evening (see last post), the same nice red Ford pulled up again, but this time there were two familiar faces inside. I recognized both as mothers of children in my oldest daughter's class at school. KS was so excited that she immediately threw on her flops and headed out to say hi. My seven year old was not far behind.
It seems as though the two - one the wife of the renter/buyer and the other her friend - were checking out the place, possibly taking measurements or something like that. My daughters briefly chatted with the Moms, and then KS and KJ came back inside. I tried to send my daughters back out with a plate of freshly baked cookies for the Moms, but the truck was already gone.
No less than two hours later, Drew called. He sounded strange.
"Hey, uh, did you, uh, see some people looking at the house a few hours ago?"
"Yeah! We know them - well our daughters are in class together. What a coincidence!"
"Yeah, she said that she talked to you and your daughters..."
"No," I interrupted, "I didn't talk to her, but my daughters did. Why? What's up?"
I was starting to get a sick, sinking feeling.
"They backed out of the deal."
"You're kidding!!"
"It's so weird. I just don't know what to think. They were so excited to see the house for sale; they said that they wanted to buy the house three years ago when it originally was up for sale. They said it was a dream come true. They gave me a huge down payment and everything."
"Wow, that is strange."
"Yeah. So I was wondering if you said anything to her or your daughters..."
"Like I said, I didn't talk to her."
"Yeah, well the whole thing is just so strange. I don't know what to think. Maybe she said something to your daughters?"
"Well, what did they tell you? Why did they say they were backing out?"
"Oh, I don't know. Something like she just didn't want to move right now - it was too much of a hassle or something."
"I don't know what my daughters talked about with them, but it sounds as if something else is going on here, Drew. Maybe her husband lost his job or something? That happened to a friend of mine one day before she was supposed to close on a house."
"I don't know. I mean, now I have to go put the signs back up and everything. It's all just such a hassle. Your daughters didn't say anything?"
"Sorry, Drew. I can't help you there. I can't imagine what they would say to make those people back out of the deal. I'm sorry the deal fell through, though."
"Oh, that's okay. Yeah, you're probably right. Sorry to bother you about this. Oh well, I guess I'll be putting the signs up again."
"Okay, Drew. See you later."
Just as weirdly as it began, the conversation was over.
Now I don't know what kind of wacky weed my ex-neighbor is smoking, but could he seriously have thought that either my daughters or I would have purposely gone out there and talked these people out of the deal? Worse yet, did he think that we would have gone out there and berated these people or cursed at them until they were thoroughly offended enough to back out of the deal? Even stranger than that, is it possible that my ex-neighbor crazily thought that we "had it in for him" so we said bad things about him or his family until these people were so thoroughly disgusted that they backed out of the deal? None of these scenarios are pretty. To be silently accused of such mischief is frightening.
Or did the would be new neighbors get a glimpse of who lived next door - namely me and my family - and couldn't stand the thought of spending the next decade next door? Well that is a deal breaker. Better that they found out now before they moved all of their furniture into the house. It's surprisingly difficult to maneuver a mattress up a flight of stairs.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
New Neighbor?
More about my neighbor...as if I don't have anything more interesting to discuss. Okay, so I don't, but that's just the way it is some times.
Anyhow, last week my ex-neighbor, "Drew," posted a "For Rent" sign in front of his house. If I thought that the guy would be diligent enough to check for priors on Meth lab busts, I wouldn't give it a second thought. But Drew just gave his wife full custody of his kids, in his own words, "to call her bluff," since what she really wanted was joint custody.
Oh yeah, that will teach her a lesson.
Needless to say, his logic is a little off here. All I'm saying is that I don't want to pay the price if my ex-neighbor decides to teach a "Green-River-Killer-type" a lesson by renting the house to him.
That's just the beginning of my story. Two days ago, I saw Drew showing the home to some folks. When he took the signs down, I assumed that a buyer or renter took the bait. My suspicions were confirmed when later that day the same nice new red Ford F-10 from that morning showed up, and papers were signed right there in the driveway.
Of course I immediately wondered why a person with that nice of a truck would be buying the "Very Brady" split-level next door. Brand new houses go for the same or less than what my neighbor was asking. Maybe it's the nostalgia factor? Who knows.
So I conveniently dashed outside to check my mail when I spied Drew doing the same before he took off. As we passed each other, casually I probed, "Hey, it looks like you sold your house."
"Yeah, someone is going to rent it for a year and then buy it."
"Cool! Well that's great news! Do they have any kids?"
"As a matter of fact they do. Three little girls."
"What do you know?! My girls will be excited to hear that! But please keep in touch. We will especially miss your kids. Make sure you bring them around next time they are in town."
"Will do."
And then Drew got into his mother's PT Cruiser and drove off into the horizon.
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