"Please come home for Christmas," my sister, Stenchpits, begged me. "It'll be fun to have Christmas together again."
Ah, but Stenchpits, shuffling off to Buffalo to spend the holiday with our family would involve all this:
1) Your husband, who is "deathly allergic" to anything with fur. You say that spending even the tiniest instant in the company of our parents' critters will send him to the emergency room - we're all a tad bit skeptical of this. We figure he's using it as an excuse to hole up in your motel room with his beloved Playstation and ignore us for the entire holiday, like he does when we visit you. I think he's actually allergic to Mom.
2) Our divorced parents. Aren't they fun?
"What did your dad get you for Christmas?"
*mocking laughter*
"How long are you staying at your mom's (vs. how much time you're spending here at my place)?"
*pouting*
(Parents: If you want to ruin your children's Christmases for the rest of your/their natural lives, divorce is a great way to have that happen.)
3) I have the most children out of any of our families. I have to spend money on more people than you do. I have to haul their Christmas crap, along with packing for seven people for an almost week-long trip, spend MORE money on gas, and buy a train ticket for my husband so he can go back to work the day after Christmas. NONE OF THIS MAKES ME FEEL HAPPY. It actually makes me feel a little cranky. Yes, I know, it makes the parents happy and I suppose they deserve it, but really, could we do it any other time besides Christmas? When we're not spending hundreds on gifts? Possibly?
4) Being the Mormon, non-drinking, white sheep of the family. Yes! It's true! The entire family's choice to celebrate the birth of our Savior by getting drunk off their duck buns, really does bother us religious non-drinkers, who have traveled hundreds of miles over snow-and-ice-covered roads with YOUR CHRISTMAS PRESENTS! Could you not? Is it possible to have a sober Christmas, one where you don't wake up with a screaming headache on December 26 and grump at the "loud" children all morning? Could that be our Christmas miracle this year?
Dear Stenchpits, does any of this sound like a good idea to you? Especially if I'm going to show up at our parents' homes feeling bratty and resentful? Wouldn't you rather not have me around, and enjoy your Christmas with fifteen glasses of wine, guilt-free?
May your days be merry and bright... and may all my Christmases, after this year, be spent at home.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
No Good Deed Goes Unpunished
Avid readers of my whinefest know about my Tuesday night thing, which will soon be known as my "former Tuesday night thing."
Picture it: my area, today. I drove all over freaking creation hauling Cub Scouts (one I have since named "Chin Music") to day camp in a neighboring state, driving them home, then driving back to said neighboring state in rush hour traffic to fetch my out-of-town husband's paycheck (or they'll mail it to us and we need it yesterday), driving home, picking up my three day camp orphans, taking them to Wendy's for drive-through and then... here comes the butt-clincher.
Even though I planned on not going to my Tuesday night thing, due to sunburn, headache, exhaustion, severe annoyance with several Cub Scouts in my care, and wanting to go somewhere air-conditioned after this roasty toasty camp excursion - I still had to make an appearance. I have the one key to the Tuesday night thing. The building peeps recently re-keyed the outside and inside of the Tuesday night thing building, and provided one key per shift. My shift members wisely agreed that I should have it, due to our one-car-overscheduled family situation, because that way, Mr. Crybaby can drop me off on his way to his gambling habit on Tuesday evenings and I can open the door for everyone else.
If you're keeping track, this was an uncharacteristically smart move for my shift members.
I actually called Mrs. Blossomhead this evening, an hour before our shift started, to see if she had been given a key yet. Nope. I told her I would drive to the building, unlock the door, let myself and the four Crybaby children inside, eat dinner in the gym and WAIT FOR HER so I could let her in.
Everything went like clockwork until 7:03 PM, three minutes after our shift starts, with nary a fellow staff-member in sight. A lovely gentleman who took one look at my day-campy appearance and decided I couldn't possibly know my butt from a bag of elbows, sat outside with me in front of the Tuesday night thing. I told him I couldn't let him in until more staff members showed up. He grunted dismissively and wondered aloud to himself if Mr. Bloopbutt would be working this shift. I thought about telling him "No, he's not here tonight" (since I DO know my butt from a bag of elbows and who my fellow staff members are, too), but figured he'd let it go in one snobby ear and right out the other.
Finally I thought, at least I should go inside the Tuesday night thing and make a couple of phone calls to Good Cop and Bad Cop, the Tuesday night thing directors, and let them know that this shift tonight would be staff-less. After all, none of them were here yet.
Then I thought, what if Mrs. Blossomhead or Mr. and Mrs. Ick were sitting outside in their cars, waiting to be let in an unlocked door?
Oh, no, I thought. They couldn't be that stupid. Surely one of them would have at least wandered indiscriminately in the direction of the building door and checked to see if it were unlocked. One of them must have seen my van in the parking lot and known that I was inside. Certainly Mrs. Blossomhead remembered our conversation from sixty minutes ago, and would know that I was there and MAYBE she could poke her head inside to see if I was there. I had arrived at 6:30 PM, unlocked the front door, and kept my children busy checking out the foyer to see if any of them had come in, and none of them had.
Or... maybe they could be that stupid.
I went outside and was perturbed to find that not only were Mr. and Mrs. Ick and Mrs. Blossomhead sitting in their vehicles, like low-IQ sheep who had somehow stumbled onto the technology that we know as "driving a car," but after sitting out in the brine with their hair frizzing to oblivion for who knows how long, Good Cop and Bad Cop were now paying a surprise visit and had just exited THEIR vehicles. And pretty much all they can see is that the Tuesday night thing should be happening, and it isn't, because their staff is sitting outside picking fleas off each other - except for the one staff member inside with the one key, who is obviously a tardy door-opening flake.
Uh-duh! Maybe we should try the door next time! "I thought you would try the door and see if it was locked," I said to Mrs. Blossomhead (which, by the way, was completely unnecessary since people had been using the unlocked door, two feet away from her). Bad Cop whispered to me, "They should have," as she walked by. Mrs. Blossomhead said, "I didn't know you were here! I didn't see your van drive by!" Apparently she doesn't recognize my van when it's actually parked.
Now that I could unlock the door, I went for it. I received major fisheye from the Cops regarding my day-campy bag-of-elbows attire and found myself apologizing. Which was dumb - like they've never been to day camp. I made certain Bad Cop knew the reason for the shift-opening lateness and the reason I would not be staying tonight, but Good Cop (who normally lives up to her name) turned on me and said, "Since we only have one key per shift right now, you should give it to the shift supervisors, Mr. and Mrs. Ick, so they can be here to open up on time."
Grrrrrrr. If by "on time" you mean "arrive late and leave as soon as you can," yes, the Icks are perfect for the job.
That - combined with my driving through cop-ridden traffic from one end of town to the other, after putting umpteen miles on my car just today, and being made to feel like a naughty child who doesn't deserve the privilege of doing the Tuesday night thing and a disgusting slob in the bargain - is why I quit the Tuesday night thing tonight. After all these years of excellent service, busting my husband's butt to get me there on time - sometimes he left work early - and gas, time, miles on the car, kids without Mom, messy house, and obvious peril to my personal safety, this is how I'm treated for showing up with the key - EARLY - and following the rule of not opening Tuesday night thing until multiple staff members are there.
Sorry, folks, there won't be any more Ick-y stories for a few months. I'm taking some time off. I'm dropping off the keys to the Icks and that way, when they're late, Mr. and Mrs. Blossomhead, Good Cop, and Bad Cop can be mad at them instead of me. I'm done with it.
Picture it: my area, today. I drove all over freaking creation hauling Cub Scouts (one I have since named "Chin Music") to day camp in a neighboring state, driving them home, then driving back to said neighboring state in rush hour traffic to fetch my out-of-town husband's paycheck (or they'll mail it to us and we need it yesterday), driving home, picking up my three day camp orphans, taking them to Wendy's for drive-through and then... here comes the butt-clincher.
Even though I planned on not going to my Tuesday night thing, due to sunburn, headache, exhaustion, severe annoyance with several Cub Scouts in my care, and wanting to go somewhere air-conditioned after this roasty toasty camp excursion - I still had to make an appearance. I have the one key to the Tuesday night thing. The building peeps recently re-keyed the outside and inside of the Tuesday night thing building, and provided one key per shift. My shift members wisely agreed that I should have it, due to our one-car-overscheduled family situation, because that way, Mr. Crybaby can drop me off on his way to his gambling habit on Tuesday evenings and I can open the door for everyone else.
If you're keeping track, this was an uncharacteristically smart move for my shift members.
I actually called Mrs. Blossomhead this evening, an hour before our shift started, to see if she had been given a key yet. Nope. I told her I would drive to the building, unlock the door, let myself and the four Crybaby children inside, eat dinner in the gym and WAIT FOR HER so I could let her in.
Everything went like clockwork until 7:03 PM, three minutes after our shift starts, with nary a fellow staff-member in sight. A lovely gentleman who took one look at my day-campy appearance and decided I couldn't possibly know my butt from a bag of elbows, sat outside with me in front of the Tuesday night thing. I told him I couldn't let him in until more staff members showed up. He grunted dismissively and wondered aloud to himself if Mr. Bloopbutt would be working this shift. I thought about telling him "No, he's not here tonight" (since I DO know my butt from a bag of elbows and who my fellow staff members are, too), but figured he'd let it go in one snobby ear and right out the other.
Finally I thought, at least I should go inside the Tuesday night thing and make a couple of phone calls to Good Cop and Bad Cop, the Tuesday night thing directors, and let them know that this shift tonight would be staff-less. After all, none of them were here yet.
Then I thought, what if Mrs. Blossomhead or Mr. and Mrs. Ick were sitting outside in their cars, waiting to be let in an unlocked door?
Oh, no, I thought. They couldn't be that stupid. Surely one of them would have at least wandered indiscriminately in the direction of the building door and checked to see if it were unlocked. One of them must have seen my van in the parking lot and known that I was inside. Certainly Mrs. Blossomhead remembered our conversation from sixty minutes ago, and would know that I was there and MAYBE she could poke her head inside to see if I was there. I had arrived at 6:30 PM, unlocked the front door, and kept my children busy checking out the foyer to see if any of them had come in, and none of them had.
Or... maybe they could be that stupid.
I went outside and was perturbed to find that not only were Mr. and Mrs. Ick and Mrs. Blossomhead sitting in their vehicles, like low-IQ sheep who had somehow stumbled onto the technology that we know as "driving a car," but after sitting out in the brine with their hair frizzing to oblivion for who knows how long, Good Cop and Bad Cop were now paying a surprise visit and had just exited THEIR vehicles. And pretty much all they can see is that the Tuesday night thing should be happening, and it isn't, because their staff is sitting outside picking fleas off each other - except for the one staff member inside with the one key, who is obviously a tardy door-opening flake.
Uh-duh! Maybe we should try the door next time! "I thought you would try the door and see if it was locked," I said to Mrs. Blossomhead (which, by the way, was completely unnecessary since people had been using the unlocked door, two feet away from her). Bad Cop whispered to me, "They should have," as she walked by. Mrs. Blossomhead said, "I didn't know you were here! I didn't see your van drive by!" Apparently she doesn't recognize my van when it's actually parked.
Now that I could unlock the door, I went for it. I received major fisheye from the Cops regarding my day-campy bag-of-elbows attire and found myself apologizing. Which was dumb - like they've never been to day camp. I made certain Bad Cop knew the reason for the shift-opening lateness and the reason I would not be staying tonight, but Good Cop (who normally lives up to her name) turned on me and said, "Since we only have one key per shift right now, you should give it to the shift supervisors, Mr. and Mrs. Ick, so they can be here to open up on time."
Grrrrrrr. If by "on time" you mean "arrive late and leave as soon as you can," yes, the Icks are perfect for the job.
That - combined with my driving through cop-ridden traffic from one end of town to the other, after putting umpteen miles on my car just today, and being made to feel like a naughty child who doesn't deserve the privilege of doing the Tuesday night thing and a disgusting slob in the bargain - is why I quit the Tuesday night thing tonight. After all these years of excellent service, busting my husband's butt to get me there on time - sometimes he left work early - and gas, time, miles on the car, kids without Mom, messy house, and obvious peril to my personal safety, this is how I'm treated for showing up with the key - EARLY - and following the rule of not opening Tuesday night thing until multiple staff members are there.
Sorry, folks, there won't be any more Ick-y stories for a few months. I'm taking some time off. I'm dropping off the keys to the Icks and that way, when they're late, Mr. and Mrs. Blossomhead, Good Cop, and Bad Cop can be mad at them instead of me. I'm done with it.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
PHENOMENAL COSMIC POWERS! Itty Bitty Living Space.
It's not only other people who bug the snot out of me. Sometimes I get seriously annoyed at myself.
I know - I'm normally so pleasant. How is this possible?
We're about to leave for my dad's side's family reunion over this mother of all patriotic weekends, and we're breaking up our trip at my mom's tonight and driving the rest of the way tomorrow. My parents are divorced. My sister, Stenchpits, is already at Mom's with her children, Lemon and Pledge.
Please keep in mind, I'm babysitting the three imps from Hades along with my four. I've been working almost every weekday for the last two weeks and the laundry is piled to the ceiling, the dishes were stacked in the sink, and every day my living room floor erupts into a toy- and dirty-dish-ridden wasteland. All this AND since I haven't had time to do laundry or pack, I'm doing all that today. So I'm a wee bit tired and not in the best mood after a day of working like a dog, handling sibling disputes, keeping the 2-year-old's fingers out of the oscillating fan (like I care - he's not my kid) and shouting things like, "WHO WAS PAINTING WITH WATERCOLORS ON MY BEDROOM CARPET?"
All day I've been looking forward to the laundry being done, packed, and in the car along with our camping gear... sinking like a pool of mushy goo into my passenger seat while Mr. Crybaby drives us ever so happily down the freeway to Mom's... and falling like an overripe mango into one of Mom's beds at her new house. Then tomorrow we were planning to go to the store and pick up a few new camping supplies, rather than buying them here and riding all the way there in a car stuffed to the rafters (did you know minivans have rafters?), and then it was off to the campground where my wonderful cousins lie in wait to play Mad Libs for hours.
So here comes Stenchpits on her cell phone.
"Mom says to make sure you bring your swimsuits because we're going to the WATER PARK TOMORROW!"
Now, it's not that I don't love waterparks and wouldn't ordinarily welcome this idea. But the above-mentioned factors combined with the fact that she TOLD instead of ASKED - which I don't handle well - made for an unfortunate response from me.
Here's what I do:
"UGHGHGHGHGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!"
"What's wrong, don't you want to go?"
"Well" - now how do I put this delicately? I was hoping to blow out of Mom's WAY early tomorrow so we could go to the store and get to the campground - "we were going to go to the store tomorrow."
"What for?"
"For a few things we need for camping."
"Well, Shmal-Shmart doesn't open till 12:30 tomorrow afternoon."
I'm sorry - what? Shmal-Shmart is passing up the opportunity to make beaucoup bucks the whole morning of July 3rd? I don't care if Mom does live in Tiny Cowboyville - NO Shmal-Shmart would be that stupid.*
"They don't?"
"No, so we can go to the water park in the morning and THEN you can go shopping!"
More "Uggggghhhghghghhg" from me. I'm so rude.
Stenchpits is now audibly upset. "Well, don't go to the waterpark if you don't want to! Do you want to or not???"
Ugh. Now we've awakened the Mom/Stenchpits Two-Headed Gossip Monster. I can just hear them over there right this minute - "What's Crybaby's problem? Geez, she's so high maintenance! If it's not her idea, she doesn't want to do it!"
Which is only mostly true.
It bugged me though. I know Mom is probably just antsy to do something fun with her two daughters and the kids - for once. We never see Stenchpits or her stenchy children since they live so far away, so I'm sure Mom is just seizing the opportunity. But STILLLLLLLL...
Great! Now I have guilt!
*I didn't believe it so I called Shmal-Shmart and they're opening at 6:00 AM. I think Mom and Stenchpits must have spent the evening in the wine cellar last night.
I know - I'm normally so pleasant. How is this possible?
We're about to leave for my dad's side's family reunion over this mother of all patriotic weekends, and we're breaking up our trip at my mom's tonight and driving the rest of the way tomorrow. My parents are divorced. My sister, Stenchpits, is already at Mom's with her children, Lemon and Pledge.
Please keep in mind, I'm babysitting the three imps from Hades along with my four. I've been working almost every weekday for the last two weeks and the laundry is piled to the ceiling, the dishes were stacked in the sink, and every day my living room floor erupts into a toy- and dirty-dish-ridden wasteland. All this AND since I haven't had time to do laundry or pack, I'm doing all that today. So I'm a wee bit tired and not in the best mood after a day of working like a dog, handling sibling disputes, keeping the 2-year-old's fingers out of the oscillating fan (like I care - he's not my kid) and shouting things like, "WHO WAS PAINTING WITH WATERCOLORS ON MY BEDROOM CARPET?"
All day I've been looking forward to the laundry being done, packed, and in the car along with our camping gear... sinking like a pool of mushy goo into my passenger seat while Mr. Crybaby drives us ever so happily down the freeway to Mom's... and falling like an overripe mango into one of Mom's beds at her new house. Then tomorrow we were planning to go to the store and pick up a few new camping supplies, rather than buying them here and riding all the way there in a car stuffed to the rafters (did you know minivans have rafters?), and then it was off to the campground where my wonderful cousins lie in wait to play Mad Libs for hours.
So here comes Stenchpits on her cell phone.
"Mom says to make sure you bring your swimsuits because we're going to the WATER PARK TOMORROW!"
Now, it's not that I don't love waterparks and wouldn't ordinarily welcome this idea. But the above-mentioned factors combined with the fact that she TOLD instead of ASKED - which I don't handle well - made for an unfortunate response from me.
Here's what I do:
"UGHGHGHGHGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!"
"What's wrong, don't you want to go?"
"Well" - now how do I put this delicately? I was hoping to blow out of Mom's WAY early tomorrow so we could go to the store and get to the campground - "we were going to go to the store tomorrow."
"What for?"
"For a few things we need for camping."
"Well, Shmal-Shmart doesn't open till 12:30 tomorrow afternoon."
I'm sorry - what? Shmal-Shmart is passing up the opportunity to make beaucoup bucks the whole morning of July 3rd? I don't care if Mom does live in Tiny Cowboyville - NO Shmal-Shmart would be that stupid.*
"They don't?"
"No, so we can go to the water park in the morning and THEN you can go shopping!"
More "Uggggghhhghghghhg" from me. I'm so rude.
Stenchpits is now audibly upset. "Well, don't go to the waterpark if you don't want to! Do you want to or not???"
Ugh. Now we've awakened the Mom/Stenchpits Two-Headed Gossip Monster. I can just hear them over there right this minute - "What's Crybaby's problem? Geez, she's so high maintenance! If it's not her idea, she doesn't want to do it!"
Which is only mostly true.
It bugged me though. I know Mom is probably just antsy to do something fun with her two daughters and the kids - for once. We never see Stenchpits or her stenchy children since they live so far away, so I'm sure Mom is just seizing the opportunity. But STILLLLLLLL...
Great! Now I have guilt!
*I didn't believe it so I called Shmal-Shmart and they're opening at 6:00 AM. I think Mom and Stenchpits must have spent the evening in the wine cellar last night.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Please, Mrs. Ick, Please...
...don't throw around the phrase "sex slave" when we're working at that place we work together on Tuesdays.
That religious place.
That place where strange people come to us for help and advice.
People who have a working sense of hearing.
People I am sitting right next to.
People with male, uh, equipment.
Even if we are members of a formerly-polygamous religion and like to joke about our husbands marrying other women so they can cook and clean, while we, as the preferred first wives, live simply to "service" our husbands...
Because the thought of you being a sex ANYTHING is more grotesque than eating an entire jar of mayonnaise...
Because you and your husband are among the laziest people I've ever had the misfortune of meeting - "It's 8:30. Can we close up early and go home to bed now?"...
Because your husband makes rude remarks when my husband arrives on time to pick me up, like, "Boy, he likes to cut it close!"...
Because of all this and so much more...
I would really love it if you would never, never, never, never, NEVER and I mean NEVER EVER EVER EVER AGAIN...
Just never, ever...
I really - just - please, don't ever....
Seriously... gagging now...
*shudder*
Please don't ever put me in another situation where I feel like injecting Liquid Drano directly into my brain.
Thanks in advance.
That religious place.
That place where strange people come to us for help and advice.
People who have a working sense of hearing.
People I am sitting right next to.
People with male, uh, equipment.
Even if we are members of a formerly-polygamous religion and like to joke about our husbands marrying other women so they can cook and clean, while we, as the preferred first wives, live simply to "service" our husbands...
Because the thought of you being a sex ANYTHING is more grotesque than eating an entire jar of mayonnaise...
Because you and your husband are among the laziest people I've ever had the misfortune of meeting - "It's 8:30. Can we close up early and go home to bed now?"...
Because your husband makes rude remarks when my husband arrives on time to pick me up, like, "Boy, he likes to cut it close!"...
Because of all this and so much more...
I would really love it if you would never, never, never, never, NEVER and I mean NEVER EVER EVER EVER AGAIN...
Just never, ever...
I really - just - please, don't ever....
Seriously... gagging now...
*shudder*
Please don't ever put me in another situation where I feel like injecting Liquid Drano directly into my brain.
Thanks in advance.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Top Ten Reasons We Will Never Move Back Home
I've decided that many of the voices I hear regularly in my head are great at mimicking people in my life - their voices, their mannerisms, things they would probably say to themselves but never to my face (now that they've discovered I'm a crier).
My dear mother - a wonderful person and not one of these minions - was asking, yet again (and I was feeling guilty, yet again), about why we don't move over to the other side of the state, closer to where she is. The rent is cheaper, things are less expensive there, we'd be better off financially, yada yada. I love my mother and would live next door to her (in theory; in reality, I'd probably drive her nuts within 10 days).
Among other reasons - we've lived here for ten years and LIKE IT, the climate is nicer, we have friends and a good job - here's why we're over here instead:
1. "Having a blog is bad. Predators will find your children."
2. "Your [beloved family member] always seemed to me like he/she was 40 going on 14."
3. "Now that your [another beloved family member] is living on welfare, what is he/she going to do with his/her life?"
4. "Back in my day, children were to be seen and not heard." (My husband's brilliant response: "Isn't that when they used to hang people for being black?")
5. "Drive ten miles out of your way to personally say good-bye to your [another family member who couldn't care less], who has seen you more times in the last week than he has in three years, won't you, dear?"
6. *disapproving look at everything we do, say, don't do, don't say, think (she can read us like books)*
7. (After sharing an idea of something exciting and positive we might do in the future) - "You might think twice about doing that. Vera at work has a daughter whose husband's butler's baby-mama's dry cleaner did the same thing and she ended up with a tire iron through her bladder."
8. "Oh, honey, I wish you would go to the gym sometimes."
9. "If he changed jobs, you wouldn't have to live like refugees."
And my personal favorite:
10. "Dammit, take the money! You IDIOT! Oh, these people, they go on that show and they act all cocky and entitled, when you know their briefcase only has $1 in it and they're not gonna go home with JACK SQUAT! The *#@*& dummies." (This, while watching "Deal or No Deal." The guy was raising his blood pressure over a game show.)
It's not that we consider ourselves to be better than these people we call our family, and it's not that we can't or shouldn't forgive... but being the "not very good at confrontations" kind of people we are, we prefer to live at least three hours away from their mouths. For some reason they're always nicer - and watch less reality TV - while they're on the phone.
I just hope our kids don't find us too odious to live around, when they're grown up.
My dear mother - a wonderful person and not one of these minions - was asking, yet again (and I was feeling guilty, yet again), about why we don't move over to the other side of the state, closer to where she is. The rent is cheaper, things are less expensive there, we'd be better off financially, yada yada. I love my mother and would live next door to her (in theory; in reality, I'd probably drive her nuts within 10 days).
Among other reasons - we've lived here for ten years and LIKE IT, the climate is nicer, we have friends and a good job - here's why we're over here instead:
1. "Having a blog is bad. Predators will find your children."
2. "Your [beloved family member] always seemed to me like he/she was 40 going on 14."
3. "Now that your [another beloved family member] is living on welfare, what is he/she going to do with his/her life?"
4. "Back in my day, children were to be seen and not heard." (My husband's brilliant response: "Isn't that when they used to hang people for being black?")
5. "Drive ten miles out of your way to personally say good-bye to your [another family member who couldn't care less], who has seen you more times in the last week than he has in three years, won't you, dear?"
6. *disapproving look at everything we do, say, don't do, don't say, think (she can read us like books)*
7. (After sharing an idea of something exciting and positive we might do in the future) - "You might think twice about doing that. Vera at work has a daughter whose husband's butler's baby-mama's dry cleaner did the same thing and she ended up with a tire iron through her bladder."
8. "Oh, honey, I wish you would go to the gym sometimes."
9. "If he changed jobs, you wouldn't have to live like refugees."
And my personal favorite:
10. "Dammit, take the money! You IDIOT! Oh, these people, they go on that show and they act all cocky and entitled, when you know their briefcase only has $1 in it and they're not gonna go home with JACK SQUAT! The *#@*& dummies." (This, while watching "Deal or No Deal." The guy was raising his blood pressure over a game show.)
It's not that we consider ourselves to be better than these people we call our family, and it's not that we can't or shouldn't forgive... but being the "not very good at confrontations" kind of people we are, we prefer to live at least three hours away from their mouths. For some reason they're always nicer - and watch less reality TV - while they're on the phone.
I just hope our kids don't find us too odious to live around, when they're grown up.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
My First Award and It Already Has Snot On It
(sniffle) Thanks, No Cool Story. I'm truly and deeply touched.
I hereby pass on this award to four of the niftiest chicks I know:
Compulsive Writer, a marvelous community activist, mom, and cousin (so Millie tells me)
Jean Knee, the owner of Mr. Cocka Doodle Doo and maker of some darn fine bacon Christmas ornaments (so Millie tells me)
Elasticwaistbandlady, the love of my life and frequent crying towel
K/Kailyn/Mrs. Monkeybutt, for her faithful and supportive comments in my constant hours of need
Quick, take the awards before I weep on them.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Tattle and Die
I have several strict "neighbor child" policies at my house. One of them breaks down like this:
I have neighbors.
I tolerate my neighbors.
The neighbors have offspring.
I barely - sometimes, with the use of narcotics - tolerate the offspring.
I do not even attempt to tolerate the offspring's tattling.
There's one kid, we'll call him "Berliner," who loves - LOVES - to tattle. He is a tattler extraordinaire. Some parents teach their kids to call hogs - this boy's parents have obviously schooled him well in the art of "I'm gonna tell on you!" because in my 15 1/2 years of parenting, I have never met a better one.
Berliner came to the door just this afternoon, in fact, with a new tale of woe regarding one of my darling innocents. He did it hesitantly, knowing what a hard-nosed mother I am, to my own children and any unfortunate brat who may cross my path. And I'm not a mother who thinks her children can do no wrong - my house is evidence enough that yes, my children do indeed have a naughty (and often artistic, judging from the masterpieces on my walls, doors, countertops and CEILING) streak.
But knowing this boy's fondness for involving every conceivable adult-in-charge whenever his social networking goes awry, I pretty much let everything he says go in one ear and out the other. Unless he's sporting fresh blood or a newly-escaped eyeball, he's not getting much sympathy from me.
After listening grimly to his gripes, I called forth my son, who came to the door a few minutes later with my other son and the rest of the gang. After hearing what REALLY happened and chastising my son, throwing in some friendship pointers ("Just because the 10-year-old tells you to punch your friend, and no matter how 'soft' the punch was, we do NOT punch people"), I announced loudly for all the neighborhood to hear that We Don't Do Tattle At This House.
Furthermore, I said, if anyone feels the need to tattle to me about something my boys have done (as long as it was relatively harmless, not "your kid was teasing my pet finch and it died from nervous exhaustion") instead of solving it amongst themselves, my dear boys will no longer be available to play with for the rest of the hour, afternoon, day, week, or decade, depending on how bugged I am. They will come inside and enjoy uninterrupted bonding time with Mother (and probably some chores). So if we want to play with Tweedledee and Tweedledum, we better not be coming to their mother's door with all our petty complaints.
It works pretty well. My boys are scared into submission, the neighbor spawn are awed and amazed at my parental prowess, and if they dare to cross that line again, they can't say they haven't been warned.
I have neighbors.
I tolerate my neighbors.
The neighbors have offspring.
I barely - sometimes, with the use of narcotics - tolerate the offspring.
I do not even attempt to tolerate the offspring's tattling.
There's one kid, we'll call him "Berliner," who loves - LOVES - to tattle. He is a tattler extraordinaire. Some parents teach their kids to call hogs - this boy's parents have obviously schooled him well in the art of "I'm gonna tell on you!" because in my 15 1/2 years of parenting, I have never met a better one.
Berliner came to the door just this afternoon, in fact, with a new tale of woe regarding one of my darling innocents. He did it hesitantly, knowing what a hard-nosed mother I am, to my own children and any unfortunate brat who may cross my path. And I'm not a mother who thinks her children can do no wrong - my house is evidence enough that yes, my children do indeed have a naughty (and often artistic, judging from the masterpieces on my walls, doors, countertops and CEILING) streak.
But knowing this boy's fondness for involving every conceivable adult-in-charge whenever his social networking goes awry, I pretty much let everything he says go in one ear and out the other. Unless he's sporting fresh blood or a newly-escaped eyeball, he's not getting much sympathy from me.
After listening grimly to his gripes, I called forth my son, who came to the door a few minutes later with my other son and the rest of the gang. After hearing what REALLY happened and chastising my son, throwing in some friendship pointers ("Just because the 10-year-old tells you to punch your friend, and no matter how 'soft' the punch was, we do NOT punch people"), I announced loudly for all the neighborhood to hear that We Don't Do Tattle At This House.
Furthermore, I said, if anyone feels the need to tattle to me about something my boys have done (as long as it was relatively harmless, not "your kid was teasing my pet finch and it died from nervous exhaustion") instead of solving it amongst themselves, my dear boys will no longer be available to play with for the rest of the hour, afternoon, day, week, or decade, depending on how bugged I am. They will come inside and enjoy uninterrupted bonding time with Mother (and probably some chores). So if we want to play with Tweedledee and Tweedledum, we better not be coming to their mother's door with all our petty complaints.
It works pretty well. My boys are scared into submission, the neighbor spawn are awed and amazed at my parental prowess, and if they dare to cross that line again, they can't say they haven't been warned.
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