Mother's Day Angst

I was lucky. I had a really great mom. The downfall of that was that I had a sucktastic, mostly absent, dad. Because my mom was overly busy busting her hump to get those proverbial ends to get to know each other (ends meeting wasn't really an option), I missed out on a ton of time with my really great mom. It didn't mean she was less great, just that I was robbed of time by my sucktastic dad. Happy ending is, I was doubly lucky in that I had my grandmother, who became as influential in my life as my mom was. I lucked out even more, because in my life were other women who helped my mom pick up the slack of life. Some were her friends, some were my friends' moms, but they all shaped me into the mom I am today.

On Facebook, this article has been going about, heralding about how recognition of moms on Mother's Day can make those who had crap moms, or those who wish they were moms, or even gals who never wanted to be moms feel lesser than the rest of their peers. I call it hogwash. Mothering is, without a doubt in my mind, the hardest, dirtiest, most vexing thing I have ever done or will ever hope to do. The rewards are enormous, but it keeps me up at night, even when kids aren't knocking at my door with an illness, a bad dream, or a trip to the bathroom gone wrong. It's back breaking, mind numbing, frustrating, and it's all done in a society that thinks it can weigh in whenever it wants to tell us we're doing it wrong. Damn right I want recognition! I want my holiday! Shower me with adoration! I need it at least ONE day a year!

One of the other things the author of the piece, Anne Lamott, doesn't really see, even though she mentions having many others who acted as mothers in her life, is that asking mothers to stand in a church setting isn't just about recognizing moms. It's about letting everyone else know who they can go to in their time of need. Because the great moms? They're like a never-ending hug. They're the people who always have room for one more kid at the table, usually not their own. They're the ones you can count on to hold your hand, pull you close when you cry and stroke your hair, whispering it will all be okay. Real moms don't have to even give birth. Some mother their communities, some are just those people who see a need and step in without a second thought to their needs. We need those people to appear in our lives, and miraculously they do, because that's what moms do. For those of us whose mothers are gone? We miss them, but Mother's Day doesn't signal an endless well of grief. It marks a day when we have lovely memories of celebrating Mother's Days in the past.

The thing is, we need a network of mothers. No one is a perfect mom. If you breastfed or didn't breastfeed your kids, if you can or can't go to every event, if you're single or married, if you're a step-parent, an adoptive parent, or a biological parent, no one person can cover all the experiences of mom. Me? I'd rather gouge out an eye than do another craft project, but I can cook up a storm of favorite meals, and I do a mean living room dance party. If I'd only had my mom, I would never have learned to cook, to camp, to fish. My mom taught me a lot, but she didn't teach me any of those things.

If you're lucky enough to have a mom to give a card to--even if she's not "your" mom--try listing all the things you know how to do because of her, then thank her. Then go out and mother someone else. Everybody needs a mom sometimes.

I get to play Marco Polo EVERY day

To recap, I have a blind mini chocolate poodle. He's done okay with it, mainly when he wants to. He knows when the kids are home that all he has to do is stand at the edge of the couch or bed and bark for one of them to come running to assist him up or down. He sticks close to walls and--I think on purpose--every now and again bonks his head into an open door or closet. This makes the children pick him up and coo over him. Both kids have told me, however, if Coco hears me coming in the door, he will trot, without mishap, through three rooms. I'm sensing a drama queen.

Coco has his own service dog in Cally, my uncle's white German Shepard. She likes to heard him in or out. For the last week, though, I've sensed she's unhappy with her role, as I've found her actively blocking Coco from going places. 

We also have a doggy door so the pooches can come and go at will into the fenced back yard. Neither dog is a digger, so it works. For the last few days, for some reason, Coco has decided to venture out much further in the yard than he has since becoming blind. Previously, he only went about three feet from the door and the short deck, easily coming back in. Many days in the past week, I'll realize I hear Coco barking, look in the yard, and he's at least 10-12 feet out. The problem is, I think he gets turned around and can't remember which way is back in. That means I get to yell through the door, "Coco! Come on, boy! Over here!" Until he trots to the deck, jumps up and comes in. Fun.

Today was even worse, because Cally heard all the nonsense and went out there. I don't know if she was trying to protect Coco from running into the deck or what, but she kept herding him AWAY from the deck, not toward. So I had to go to another door (doggy door is semi-permanently wedged into an unmoveable location) to go out and rescue Coco.

I'm not even fond of negotiating my kids' disagreements. Now I have to negotiate the DOGS'? I'm not happy.

My Poor Boy is Oblivious

I've mentioned in multiple places that Brett is growing weed-like, topping my height of 5'5" a few months ago and will, I'm sure, close in on his dad's 6'2" with alarming speed. His shoulders have broadened in the last year too, and even though his 14th birthday just happened, he's definitely got more of a "guy" look these days.

Megan and I had other plans yesterday for her birthday, Scott was at work, so Brett and Uncle Bob were off to do "manly things." Apparently, "manly things" include eating at Taco Bell. I was told when they walked in, Uncle Bob excused himself to wash his hands, leaving Brett to lean against a counter and wait. Apparently, the girl behind the counter looked him up and down and asked "you work at Gamestop, don't you?"

When telling this tale, Brett thought she asked this question because he was wearing a Call of Duty t-shirt. Right. He responded with "no, I'm only 14." Uncle Bob came out just in time to hear the girl make a "pffft" sound and turn away.

I tried to tell him I know what that was. That's what we call "an opening." Brett wanted to know and opening for what.

Dear God, please keep him clueless for four, five more years, tops.

It's Hollywood, right?

Let me preface this post with the fact that I don't watch the Oscars. To me, the music and jokes are fun and all, but in recent years, they don't outweigh the fact that I don't even know most of the movies exist--unless they have fun, colorful, animated characters or are about superheroes--and I couldn't care less about what goes on. The ONLY Oscars I ever saw from start to finish, I happened to be at a friend's house, she served dinner, another friend was there, I was vastly pregnant with my son, and the chair was comfy.

I've seen the comments through my Facebook feed scrolling on through, and more and more, I'm confused. Granted, this is a commentary/summary kind of thing, but still. I thought Sean Penn was all Mr. Activist? But he's making GREEN CARD jokes? Huh? Gotta say, Sean, that's pulling a total Spiccoli there. Patricia Arquette. She's still ALIVE? Good for her! I always put her firmly in the "whackadoodle" category for some reason. I'm unconvinced birthing of babies, though, while nifty and all, makes for a better actor. Whatevs. Rock on.

I'm also seeing in my feed many posts supporting AND denigrating people of color for attending the Oscars. I know the issue is the lack of nominees for people of color. I get it. Be an activist, state your truth as loud as you can. In the words of one of my longtime favorite musicians "If you can't stand for something, you're gonna fall for anything." I think that's true. But I find this judging others because they are or aren't doing what one group or another thinks is right tiring. They have their own path to follow, and those on the outside can't see into others and know what is going on. You want to abstain and make it known why? That's a great idea. Others do things differently, and that's on them, not on you.

So, now, that the confusing Oscar nonsense is done, what else will blow up my Facebook feed? Hmm?

My Dog, the Thespian

I think my newly-blind dog is milking his disability. That's right, you heard me. My 9 pound miniature chocolate Poodle is totally using his blindness to his advantage, most specifically against his nemesis, my uncle's 84 pound German Shepard.

First, it's a tenuous friendship the two have. Even after months together, they aren't curl up in a ball and snuggle kind of friends. When Cally barks at joggers and bikers through the window, Coco barks in sympathy, but generally, he knows this is Cally's domain, and he doesn't interfere with it. Cally, for her part, is quite jealous that Coco is allowed on furniture, even SLEEPING with the humans. She sniffs him down from head to toe, much to his dismay, looking for some anomaly that allows him onto the furniture.

Admittedly, there is more babying of Coco going on now that he's blind. I had to admonish the kids to stop carrying him around, as he needs to learn the lay of the land. They still snuggle him and give him kisses more now that he's blind.

Both dogs have their own dishes in separate parts of the house, and mostly all is good. Since the blindness, however, even though Coco has the. exact. same. food. in. his. dish. he likes to take his life into his furry little paws and eat from Cally's dish. He only drinks from his own dish, so he knows exactly what he's doing. Oddly enough, Cally can't be bothered at certain times of day to care. She knows, she sees, but she has bigger fish to fry. But if we are eating at the table or moving around, she will suddenly get all possessive of her food, and she'll nip at Coco. When she does, Coco keens pitifully, and will roll over and pant, as if in pain. If no one is watching (he thinks), he'll get up and add a limp until he finds someone, then flops onto the floor. Of course, choruses of "bad dog" and "no, Cally, he's your friend" ensue, and Cally is sent to her cage, Coco is picked up and cuddled.

I'm just hoping Coco doesn't turn on us one day.

Clearly, I Jumped the Gun

Background information for this post is that my uncle, like me, is a lover of gadgets. He, Brett, and I could spend HOURS oogling, trying, chuckling over, and generally geeking out at objects meant to do what humans used to. It is, apparently, a genetic sickness deep in our DNA. Scott and Megan neither understand or are amused by our ways.

In the mudroom area, where entry to the house and laundry both take place, it can get a bit stinky. Instead of using a plain old can of air freshener, Uncle Bob got one of those automatic sprayer thingys. I'm not sure if it senses motion or smell, but every now and again, it emits a shot of scent. Where the gadget love goes awry is that the initial gadget cost is usually minimal, but the REFILLS! Oh, they get you on the refill cost! Luckily, bargain shopper that I am, I found some close out refills, but we were stuck with "vanilla cupcake" as the scent for the area.

Fast forward a few weeks, and I've already forgotten about the scent thingy. I'm calmly putting laundry into the washing machine. I'm almost done when I hear a hissing sound. HISSING! Is it a snake (we ARE in Louisiana now)?! Where IS the snake?! How did a snake get IN THE HOUSE?! Could it be behind the dryer? Because snakes love nice warm spots to curl up in during the day. Wait, I smell cupcakes??? Why do I smell cupcakes? What the. . . oh. cupcakes. Never mind.

Apparently, I'm a bit amped up over the new bug and reptile communities I've been encountering since in Louisiana.

I'm a Local

In my short time living in the south, I've learned a very important lesson. It doesn't matter what your driver's license says, nor does it matter where you get your mail delivered. It is ONLY when you start running into people you know at the Winn-Dixie that you really and truly are a local. I've learned it's not church or bars or even people's homes where great conversations are had, it's at the Winn-Dixie.

Going to the Winn-Dixie on a Sunday afternoon is at times, ludicrous, hilarious, disconcerting, and quite fun. The Sunday afternoon crowd has been to church, eaten their lunch--in this town either at the Forest, a nice restaurant, or City Buffet, a Chinese food buffet that's quite good--and they are ready to pick up their staples and engage in conversation with anyone they didn't run into at the aforementioned restaurants. Forget a "quick stop" on Sundays, even with all five lines (you read that right FIVE LINES) working hard, "quick" cannot be done. Walking by, I've heard conversations focusing on the sermon at church, who's died, who's still holding on, who's been arrested, who's pregnant, who's married, who should NEVER have gotten married, who's still holding on in a different way, whose children don't care about their mothers, whose children are or aren't doing well in school, and all other topics under the sun. I really should take notes for that book I'm writing some day.

I've also learned that even though only about 1/3 of my total students, which only comes to 12, truly live in Franklin since we're a charter school 15 miles away, now that I'm a teacher, I had better look my best if I even THINK of darkening the door of the Winn-Dixie. It is inevitable I will run into a student. Sometimes, I don't even see them, but I hear the hushed whisper of "that's my TEACHER!" Usually, depending upon the behavior (not the grades) of said student, I may or may not have a parent come over and introduce themselves. More likely, from many feet away, I get frantic waves accompanied by "Hi, Miss Donna!"

The Winn-Dixie, truly a microcosm of humanity.

My Favorite Kid Christmas

As I've noted before, mine was a very lean household. My dad, thinking obviously kids don't need to eat or have new clothing, never really managed to pay child support. Back then, the state wasn't really a partner in making parents pay, so my mom never took him to court to up the amount. As she said, "a larger chunk of zero is still zero." It made for a number of lean Christmases. My grandparents would help by getting me clothing and necessary items, a bit more than my cousins, so my mom could focus on the fun stuff.

One Christmas I wanted a particular doll, a doll called Velvet.  She had blond hair that would be long, but then you could turn a dial in her back, and her hair would get short. Depress a button where the belly button would be, and voila, long hair again. I was mad with desire for this doll. It was horrifically expensive in relation to my mom's budget. I don't know how or where she found it, but she found one in horrible shape. The hair was matted, she didn't have shoes or clothes. Garage sale? Maybe. I don't know.

What my mom did was put her in a dolly chair one of her friend's husbands had made, and she wrote a letter from Santa and attached it to Velvet. The letter said Velvet was almost left behind because the elves hadn't quite gotten her ready in the Christmas time crunch, but Santa heard her crying. When Santa went to her, Velvet lamented that she'd never have a little girl to play with, because next year was just too late. Santa hurriedly took Velvet with and gave her to me, because she knew I wouldn't mind, and I would take extra special care of her.

Of course, I did. Velvet stayed in my possession long after other dolls were given away, and I still have the letter somewhere. For my mom, a logical, reasoned, absolutely by the numbers kind of person, it was the best Christmas gift I ever got.

You Can Take the Gal out of Chicago. . .

But we all know you can't take the Chicago out of the gal. Ugh.

For the most part, I've enjoyed living in the south and the truly massive life changes that have gone along with it. I think we've adjusted pretty well. I've slowed down my speaking speed, counting to ten between sentences and after someone else speaks to respond. I've accepted I WILL run into someone I know at the Winn-Dixie and around town, which means no errand is as quick as I hope it will be. We've all tried all kinds of new foods (jambalaya and chicken stew get thumbs up, gumbo TOTALLY depends on the recipe). I've even started saying hello to complete and total strangers, just because they're walking a few feet away from me (that was a hard one for this suspicious former Chicagoan).

The one issue I'm having troubles with is the lack of desire to problem solve when things go wrong. I mean, that's right in my wheelhouse. I aim to be a problem solver. Here, I get a shrug of the shoulders and a "what ya gonna do" look. I almost had a full-on conniption fit at Autozone Saturday. Good thing this town is small, and there were only three witnesses, two of them employees.

Our car needed a new battery. We charged it to get it over to the place, Scott paid, and THEN they told him they didn't have anyone to install it because they couldn't leave one person alone in the (empty) store. Fair enough. He had to go to work, so he brought the car home (only a five minute drive), told me to run over there after 9am. I waited until after 10, arrived, was told they still didn't have a third person and got THE shrug. I asked if they knew when third person would arrive. The shrug. I said I really didn't feel comfortable going home, since I had to charge this to get it here, but I also couldn't wait all day. The shrug. Then the counter person made the mistake of telling me "Don't know what to tell ya, baby." I KNOW sometimes the "baby" is a southern thing, like "honey" or "sweetie" but I snapped. I actually had to walk outside and take deep breaths.

I then went back in, where I informed the staff they needed to get the manager on the phone by any means necessary (turns out HE was the one who was AWOL), that I would be getting a discount refunded to me, and that if workers could stand outside the store with the door open EIGHT FEET away from where my car was in the parking lot to SMOKE CIGARETTES (three in the time I was there), then they could dang well put my battery in while I held the door and kept watch over the lone employee. I insisted I would keep her safe from the four customers who had swarmed the place in the time I'd been there.

Luckily, there did not have to be a showdown, as an employee who was scheduled later happened to come in early, and he put in my battery. He actually started in fright when he looked at me, and he was about 6'6" and 350lbs. He actually had to swap out the battery for a more expensive one, because their computer was wrong. I assured him the manager was picking up the difference. The shrug AGAIN. I hate the shrug.

Adjusting, it's a work in progress.

Combat Naps

I am the keeper of the clock, the sounder of the alarm. I also sleep like I'm a Navy SEAL taking a combat nap, in little blocks, literally anywhere. Back in the day, I was bored waiting while a buddy was flirting with a guy at Neo in Chicago. I fell asleep on the carpeted risers and had to be shaken awake, music was blaring, and I was near sober at the time.

My alarm goes off, and I wake up everyone in turn, except my Uncle Bob, who has his routine.  He's pretty much on the other side of the house, but because there's only one shower, we have a lovely syncopated dance of people in and out of the bathroom. It's been working. Knowing we have a very regimented system, that often commences with my directive to people under the age of fourteen to "eat breakfast! brush teeth! Move! Move! MOVE!" he was concerned when I seemed to be still lounging in bed ten minutes after I should have been. He waited another five minutes, then came to wake me up. In error, I hadn't set my alarm, so I'm glad he did.

However.

Uncle Bob had never awakened me, and he wasn't really aware of my sleeping habits. He gently shook my happily sleeping shoulder. I jumped up, again, like a Navy SEAL in full battle mode, out of bed in one leap, looking for the proverbial fire to put out. I scared him, and rightly so. He told me next time maybe he'll just call my phone.

Cue the Gone with the Wind Music

I had what I would call the most purely southern moment since I've been down here recently, and as with all things in the modern south, it happened at the grocery store. I've learned the local grocery store is at the epicenter of southern interaction. Forget the telephone! Leave emails and texts to those Yankees! If you want to have a veritable cocktail party, hit the Winn-Dixie! I don't even KNOW most people in town, and every time we've gone, I've run into neighbors, people we've seen at church, families from the kids' school. I've taken to going by myself on Fridays, because this whole thing freaks me out a little.

I'm happily filling my cart and checking things off my list, when I hit a necessary item--frozen vegetables--on sale. As is the same, north or south, the sale items were a jumbled mess, plus it was a humid day, which meant I couldn't see a thing through the freezer case. I was head and shoulders into a freezer case, trying to find my items, when, I swear, I'm not making this up, a woman's voice, veritably dripping with honey sopped up by a biscuit, announces in a loud voice "Well, I declare!" Of course, no "r" sound was pronounced. It was more "declay-ah" than anything. She was speaking to another female patron, and she continued with "I haven't seen you in I do not KNOW how long (made into two syllables, that word). Truth be told, I thought you'd passed." At this point, I'm trying really hard to keep a straight face, good thing I'm out of sight. I continued on with my vegetable search as they shared small talk, promising to catch up more soon.

The delightful elderly southern woman came over by me and, again, announced she was looking for "soup vegetables." Since I was already half in the freezer case, I offered that there was a bag with "soup vegetables" marked on it, as I handed it to her. She read the bag, made a scoffing noise that really employed her entire body, pointed to the wording on the bag, and in an accusing manner told me, "This has OKRA in it. We don't put okra in our SOUP." Feeling outnumbered and outgunned by this little woman, I went with my strengths and replied, "Glad you said that. I'm a Yankee, and I wouldn't put put okra in MY soup, either." She sized me up in an instant (I really longed for a set of pearls to clutch), and told me, "Well, then you were brought up right." I handed her a different bag of vegetables, and she sniffed and told me I'd been very helpful.

As often happens in grocery stores, we happened to meet up at the check out line, she with her half-full cart, me with my overflowing one. She was already almost through the line, when she saw me and declared she was glad she didn't have to put all my groceries away. That's when I let her know this was a week's worth of groceries for five. She immediately started taking items from my cart and putting them on the belt while the cashier bagged what she had. She told me how she used to have six to feed, but now it was just her, and she'd started calling her nephew to come over with a friend or two, just so she could keep her "cooking mind fresh" from time to time. She paid for her by then loaded up groceries, bid a lovely day to all (pronounced aw-el) and left.

It was probably the most pleasant day I've ever had at the grocery store.

The Politics of Apples

A couple weeks ago, my uncle told me he didn't really like the Gala apples I'd purchased. I made a point of finding other varieties, I think we were on Granny Smiths this week. When I was asking everyone if they had grocery requests, he told me he really didn't want anymore Granny Smiths, that the last Gala he had was quite good.

????????

I said, "Hold on. Didn't you tell me a couple weeks ago you DIDN'T like Galas?"

He said, "Well, yes, but that was just one apple. I had another, and I liked it a lot."

"Ok, so you were willing to not eat Galas for the foreseeable future, except for the fact that I bought some anyway for the rest of us, based on ONE bad apple."

Without skipping a beat, he said "yeah, it's what we conservatives do, condemn a whole type based on one bad sample."

It's good to know that if I have to live with even more conservatives now, they're willing to joke about it.

Patient Zero

We've all been there, where our kid looks a little tired in the morning and sounds a bit hoarse. But no fever, no complaints when asked, and hey, the family spent yesterday outdoors all day with pollen and other allergens, so you send Muffin off to school. Couple hours later, and you get the accusing phone call from the nurse at Muffin's school, saying s/he has a fever of 102, which must have been blooming as they walked away from the car. I don't judge those people.

However, I AM going to get all Judgey McJudgerson on the people who knowingly send their kids to school, for whatever reason. Megan was complaining on Thursday that a kid who sits in the row in front of her had been absent for two days, then came back with a hacking cough, to the point the teacher told him to go call his mom. Mom was, conveniently unavailable, and kid was back at school on Friday! STILL coughing! 

Guess who started being sniffly and coughing last night? Better yet, tonight, Brett started up too, and they both have low fevers. Guess what Brett was doing this weekend? Sleeping in close quarters with his Boy Scout troop, making him Patient Zero for the plague I'm sure will befall the troop. Not to mention this charter school is crazy about absences, and Megan has five already, thanks to the Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease right at the start and a stomach thing she and I got a couple weeks ago, I'm sure just because of all the new germs we encountered moving to a new town.

I want to kick that kid's mom's butt!

Did You Hear the Scream?

It was 10:34 last night. Did I wake you with my scream? I don't care if you're reading this halfway across the world, because the question is still relevant, as I screamed my fool head off, running through the house after I saw the BIGGEST COCKROACH OF MY LIFE IN THE BATHROOM SINK! Did I put enough emphasis on that? MY LIFE I tell you! It was longer than my THUMB! And glisteny and I could see the ridges on the outer shell or back or whatever. SO gross! I was prepared for outdoor bugginess, but in the bathroom sink? That's just too close to home, that's what that is.

Scott, who in my clearly calm executive decision-making process, was elected to dispense with the creature, went with drowning, as he informed me it was "too big to squish." Like THAT will ever make me use that sink again. I don't know what he did with it, I left and went to bed.

In the morning, Uncle Bob comforted me with the information that they are slower here in Louisiana, that Chicago roaches are quick and will scurry when the light hits them, maybe up your arm, but here they're big but slow, and they are easier to catch. Mm-hmm. I'm not comforted. in. the. least.

I'm shopping for bug spray today. I don't care if I kill us all in the process. Last night I dreamt of that scene in Men in Black where Will Smith is battling the giant cockroach. Hmm, wonder why?

The Drop Off Area

I used to loathe the infamous drop off line with its overly intense parents who felt compelled to jam on the gas pedal to move forward six feet and had to burn out leaving after chucking their kids out into the world, as others can here a frenzied "move! move! move!" coming from the car. Conversely, the parents who seemingly couldn't get their children out of the car without adjusting outerwear for each child, giving series of hugs and kisses and reminders, causing the veins in the temples of those behind them to throb, they were annoying too. Even the park and walkers, who couldn't drop their precious little cherubs off in the LINE and had to park and walk them in, always oblivious of natural stops in the line, really endangering their children, they too raised my blood pressure. All were part of the early morning and afternoon hum of school, the price we parents pay, if you will, to send our children to public education, where teachers keep them for hours at a time so we don't. have. to. hear. the. whining.

Oh, internoodles, I now long for those days. LONG for them, I tell you. Now that the kids are in a charter school that is 25 minutes away, we were thrilled, let me repeat that, THRILLED that two spots on the bus opened up. Those near hour round trips through sugar cane fields were getting old. I should have realized things may not go smoothly when I asked where we catch the bus, and the DRIVER could only tell me the name of one of the streets. She did, however, tell me it was right by the building that used to be a rec center. This was, in no way, helpful, as there is no signage that says anything about a rec center on the building she was referring to, so as a recent transplant, any of the buildings, really, could have been the one in question. Luckily, we found it the first day.

Let me also say that to call the meeting place a parking lot was reallllly raising the expectations of those looking for the area. I passed it three times before I realized this area was what she meant as a parking lot. It's a small field of grass with a vague traffic worn path through it. There are no parking spots, so everyone just sort of parks wherever, all higgledy-piggledy, double parking, some half hanging out into the streets. It's chaos. Oh, and I don't know why but EVERYONE backs into parking spaces down here. For everything. Me, the rebel I am, I don't and I try to be organized. People look at me weird.

I'm also used to people staying to wave, and once the bus passes, we're gone. As soon as that bus rounds the corner and can be seen, people are chucking kids out of their cars and speeding off. While the backing in thing actually helps in this, there are children I've seen jump out of the path of trucks--everybody drives trucks--to get in the bus line. I stay and wave to the bus, mainly because I don't want to take my life into my hands trying to jockey for leaving position. When I waved yesterday, and I only waited until the bus turned the corner, about 10 feet away, I was the last car in the "area" for parking. Last week, we drove up to a couple kids standing by a shed that's in the area, their parents already gone.

We'll see what this afternoon's pick up brings.

New Nickname for the Hubster!

Scott was chuckling the other night when he came home from work. One of the odious parts of his job--hey, all jobs have them--is the necessary repossession of furniture or appliances people have stopped paying for at the rent-to-own store where he currently works as a manager trainee. It's compounded by the fact his region's predecessor had been slacking on his job for many months prior to his departure. Scott said people actually get angry, thinking they were off the hook for paying for things because his predecessor had stopped calling them.

When they repossess, they go in teams, and Scott was with another employee when they approached a house. The woman was immediately angry, coming out of her house shouting and carrying on. She even tried to say the manager had told her "not to worry about it" but couldn't really define what the "it" was in her scenario. While Scott's work buddy was talking to her, he was busily moving the items out of the house and into the truck, as the woman amped her arguments up a notch, demanding to speak with the manager. Both the manager and the customer happen to be Black, as is the other employee who was along for the ride. My husband is, well, not. So when the customer had not gotten anywhere with logical arguments, she resorted to yelling "that's why [the manager] didn't come himself! He sent White Boy because [the manager] knew I'd kick his ass!"

Scott said he could barely keep a straight face as he was walking out, as obviously, my 6'2" 300lb husband was White Boy. She, apparently, kept repeating this sentiment as they finished up taking the items.

I'm totally calling him White Boy for the foreseeable future.

Football Obsession

Gotta love the south and their obsession with football, a sport I could seriously give a fig about.

Today I was attempting to apply at local high schools, since I've been approved as not morally lacking (little do THEY know of my college years, but those records have been sealed, mwahahaha) to teach the children of St. Mary's Parish as a substitute. I'll talk about that fun process in a future post.

We (Scott was off today and acted as my chauffeur, as I am directly challenged) pulled up to a newish looking junior high/high school combo, and I approached the door, ringing the bell to gain entry. Nothing. Since it was about 1:45pm, this was odd, ring again. Nothing. Peek in, no one moving about. LAY on the ringer this time. A hesitant voice asked what I needed. I said I needed to submit my application to substitute teach. The disembodied voice--usually I've been buzzed in by now--asked if they TOLD me to come there. Um, yes, the school board told me to go to school's where I wanted to be considered and put in an application. Long pause. The voice told me no one was in the office who could provide me with and subsequently take my application, because they were "celebrating homecoming today." Pause on my part, until I said "you're kidding, right?" The voice assured me she was not. Homecoming shuts down the school. She then pleasantly told me to come back tomorrow at 7am.

I walked back to the car, shaking my head. I then relayed my odd encounter to Scott--the most enamored with football human being I've ever met--and he even said "really?" He then pondered, "gosh, I wonder what they do for mardi gras down here." THAT I was able to answer honestly, because I'd looked at the kids' school calendar, they CLOSE the school.

Sigh. The South. Tomorrow, I rise to do battle with you again.

Oh, Poddy!

There's been a devastating loss in my household. My very first iPod Video (now called the Classic), the gateway drug, er, product that made me a devoted Apple acolyte, my Poddy, full name Poddington, is on his last legs. During the move, something must have been stacked on Poddy's little home, and he's cracked, as you can see from the picture. I am in mourning.

Prior to the iPod Video, I eschewed the need for any Apple music player, and I am a music JUNKY, a former on-air personality for my college radio station, first adopter of all things musical. My mom used to tell the story of how, at age 5, I wouldn't let anyone else play with my 45 player, handled the precious Disney records by the edges, placed the needle lovingly on and off, put them away in their little sleeves, and I've only gotten worse since. When the iPod Video came out, and I realized I could take my ENTIRE CD collection (over 300 CDs strong and 19 gigs at the time) with me, I was hooked. But I couldn't afford one right away. That was when I found out about Apple's refurbished store, and I told Scott it was ALL I wanted for Christmas, 2006. He saw the crazy gleam in my eyes, and he ordered it. Later, he found it wouldn't be delivered before Christmas.  I could wait, but he used that info to get a few more bucks off (YEAH!). It was delivered after Christmas, and I was in love, saving all my CDs to itunes and uploading them to my Poddy. It was also immediately placed on non-child touching lockdown.

Then I was on the hunt for a player, because I have music on all. day. long, and the ear phones weren't cutting it. I went to Target and Best Buy and played my little Poddy on each and every offering, assessing sound quality, bass, treble, volume, and how difficult it was to get out. The Altec iM9 pictured below, was the winner. It had fabulous sound, and there was no danger of a kid ripping the iPod off the top mount. Plus, it could run on either battery or AC/DC. This little twosome has been my companion while painting the walls of our home, to Girl Scout and Cub Scout meetings where music was needed, to my classes where I played podcasts, to friends' homes, camping, and now, it's outdated and obsolete for charging current models, but still, I could just cry.

I know, my phone holds all my music now, but it was so great if my phone was charging to play music in the kitchen. It was also awesome to jam out when the kids weren't home to my music with "naughty" words in it, or to hold impromptu dance parties at high volume. It still plays music, but I can't really decipher what song or artist it's on.

Poddington and his loud companion will be missed, sorely missed.

The Peanut Butter Experience

We are deadly serious about our peanut butter in my family. I have certain texture issues that must be satisfied, and only crunchy will do for me. Skippy is my crunchy peanut butter of choice, but the brand the sell at Aldi's is good, too. Jiff? NO. Peter Pan? HELLS to the NO. The boy and I agree 100%. Scott? He likes CREAMY, and really, what's the point? But whatever, he too knows only Skippy will do, but if it's all creamy, I don't really know what his criteria is. Megan? She's complex, needing chunky for sandwiches but creamy for apple or celery dipping. Diva.

We come to Louisiana, and Uncle Bob has JIFF, not only that, but CREAMY JIFF. It was a situation that required immediate attention. Additional peanut butter was purchased, and all was well again in the land, and the people were happy. Really, it takes so little to keep us all amused.

Last weekend, we went to the "big town" closest to us, about a 20ish minute drive. Doggies came along, as we had doggy-related issues to attend to, and we'd heard there was a slamming dog park (there was!) in town. We thought we'd pack a picnic, and the dogs could roam freely.

Uncle Bob was kind enough to make our packed lunch while Megan and I tended to last minute girly things. En route, Megan, of course, asked what had been packed. Uncle Bob said he'd packed PB&J and listed other items. Megan immediately honed in on the PB part, citing our noted peanut butter stances. Uncle Bob replied that he'd made all the sandwiches the same--crunchy peanut butter. Megan reminded him of his preferences, and he said since it had been at least 15 years since he'd tried crunchy, and we had been so adventurous moving down here, he was going to be adventurous and try crunchy again. Awwww, right?

Come doggy park/lunch time, we're sitting at a picnic table, letting dogs roam, sharing our apples with a man and boy who stopped to chat, and I'm eating my sandwich, chit chatting, and I notice I feel smoothness, infinite smoothness. I take more bites, still smooooooth, and wrong where PB&J is concerned. Hmm. I'm near finished when Megan leans over and says "there's no BUMPS in my sandwich" with a displeased look on her face. She feels infinite smoothness too. Man and boy leave, and I ask Uncle Bob if he didn't just try to trick us with smooth peanut butter. He says no and that he used the jar with the blue top. I ask "medium blue or dark blue"? "Medium blue" he responds. Megan and I look at each other and I tell him that DARK blue is the color of the crunchy top. He says "oh" and continues to contentedly munch on his smooth peanut butter sandwich. At least we know we can get rid of the Jiff now.

So much for peanut butter adventure.

Poor Uncle Bob

Yes, poor Uncle Bob. He raised boys. That means he never had TWO women in the house, let alone a 10 year old girl on a consistent basis. There is a whole WORLD of knowledge he's gained in the last month, including some of these:

• Women--young or old--cannot use the same hair products for long. They have different hair needs that must be addressed, so for each female, there will be approximately three products in the shower at any given time. This math is confusing to men.
• When making room for us, poor Uncle Bob was unaware of the criteria his home would be graded on by Megan when we arrived. She immediately needed some furniture moved because it was necessary to have ample dancing space. Uncle Bob said he didn't know that was a consideration. Megan replied with "always" and left it at that. Girl is serious about her dance spot.
• The emotions of a 10 year old girl run hotter and colder and are more rapidly changing than anything else on the planet.  There is more drama to those emotions than those Mexican soap operas Erik Estrada stars in. I think he was a bit shell shocked last week when one dramatic episode arose, then just as quickly disappeared.

It's an education for all of us.