Daily Diatribes

I was recently asked to be the secretary of the swim team board. The phone call went something like this:

“Hi Jennifer, the board met today and we voted you and Nancy as members. Would you like to be secretary or treasurer?”

Me: “uh….uh……well….I…..uh……”

“No hurry, just decide which one you want and we will offer the other position to Nancy.”

“Secretary,” I said decisively. I am terrible with money, plus treasurer sounded like a much harder job. And since Nancy doesn’t have a blog, she has more free time so therefore, it made sense for her to be treasurer. Besides, I like to send bitchy emails. That’s more my style. It never occurred to me that I could just SAY NO!!!! To be fair, they played dirty. I wasn’t expecting to be asked to be on a board. The lady that called is also the PTO president, so I figured she wanted money.

Today we had our first meeting and I diligently took minutes. I don’t believe anyone in the organization had ever done this before, but I thought it would be kind of kitschy to do it. After all, what else does a secretary do? When it came to actually typing them up, though, I had to restrain myself. My inner smart ass wanted to take over and type them. I had to keep smacking her to get her to shut up. So don’t ask me about those bruises on my forehead, ok???

Here’s what I would have liked to type:
Meeting opened with a bitch session about the current club ownership. Board agreed club owner is a total moron with no soul. Debated various methods of castrating said moron, but unable to determine how to perform the operation without getting caught. Tabled the the idea for further discussion.

President volunteered to place swim team signs around neighborhood. Discussion ensued regarding the Homeowner’s Junta (this is Nancy’s term!!) and how to avoid having the signs removed by Homeowner Guerillas. The board agreed unanimously that placing signs advertising swim team registration would not be a crisis equal to the recent sub-prime mortgage debacle, although the Junta would probably disagree. The board decided to place the signs around the perimeters of the actual neighborhood to avoid reducing property values by 2/3.

The waitress came and took lunch orders. The board then spent fifteen minutes grousing about the waitress, her bad attitude, her inability to refill the drinks, etc. At one point, the secretary herself arose and refilled the drinks. The vice president regaled the board with her tale of the same waitress writing down the wrong order the week before and, instead of bringing the chicken salad sandwich with the bread lightly toasted, she brought the sandwich untoasted and the FRENCH FRIES lightly toasted, and still frozen in the middle. [I was secretly wishing this had happened to me because it would have made a great blog, but good stuff like that NEVER happens to me.]

After a thirty minute wait, lunch was finally brought to the board. There was no one else in the restaurant, but the waitress assured the board it had taken so long because there were so many SPECIAL orders. As the SPECIAL orders consisted of two requests for sandwiches without tomatoes, the board did not view this as a reason for the lunch delay. When the waitress left, the board unanimously mocked her.

Who says I am not busy and important??? Ok, so maybe the Dow Jones Industrial Average didn’t move when we decided to serve popsicles instead of water bottles at the registration night, but these are still important decisions!! I unfortunately did not send the above minutes. I was faithful to the substance of the meeting, if not the style. I am going to have to work on restraining the inner smart ass really hard, though, because that bitch is going to get me into A LOT of trouble!!

Most of you did not tell me happy birthday. You did not send me expensive gifts. I didn’t get stocks or bonds or even regular old cash. I didn’t even get sexy lingerie from Creepy Ole Don, although that’s likely because he’s buried at the bottom of my closet….IN HIS FANTASY LIFE!!! Don’t use the excuse that you didn’t KNOW it was my birthday. If you really loved me, you would have tried to find out when it was. You would have made an effort. But you didn’t. Jerks!!!! I love you Kathy at Birmingham Blues, who always remembers me. BTW, when is your birthday? I will send you heaps of cyber love on that special day!! Gina and Nancy both called me. Yes, I was keeping track. And thank God for Renee, who not only remembered my birthday, but even gave me a gift!

Renee is a healer, one who brings health and life to others.  In her spare time, she makes homemade cards, runs her church music program and probably knits blankets for the homeless out of recycled plastic bags.  She is one of those unsettling women who always thinks of others first and puts herself last.  She manages to have a successful career, plus take care of her friends and family.  If I didn’t like her so much, I would hate her guts!! 

 
Despite her packed life, Renee took the time to get me a gift for my birthday.  I don’t even know when her birthday is; I don’t have access to her medical chart and I am generally a contemptible person who plays Pogo all day and never thinks of anyone but the little gophers on Word Whomp!!   Anyway, it’s the weirdest freakin’ gift I’ve ever gotten, and yet, strangely, one that speaks volumes to me.  It’s a gift reflective of my personality and of my relationship with Renee.  I was repulsed, yes, but also touched.  I have scoured the internet trying to find a picture of it, with no luck.   So I tried to take a picture.  I couldn’t find my camera.  The second camera I tried was dead.  The third camera takes blurry pictures, no matter how steady I hold it.  It’s the one I ended up using however.  A blurry picture still conveys the horror.  Here it is:    
In what universe is a creepy, rat-like squirrel holding a votive candle an appropriate gift??  Apparently it’s appropriate in any universe that contains me!!  It scared the hell out of me when I opened it.  Like Squirrel Nutkin had come back from Hell to persecute me!!  I wanted to run screaming from the restaurant but I held it together and gave her a hug.  After all, it’s the thought that counts!!  I think the scariest thing about it is my husband really thought it was cute and it’s now on our table.  I get rid of one damn squirrel only to have another one show up to take its place.  Vermin! 

I have existed on this planet for 39 years and have stayed in more hotels than I can count. But it’s only in the last two months that I have been exposed to the joys of a fire alarm pulled by a young prankster. It’s happened twice in two months; how lucky can you get?

We were in Decatur for the soccer tournament and I was EXHAUSTED!! The goddess had been coughing all night for three nights running and it’s pretty hard to ignore it when she’s 10 feet from you in the same room. Saturday night I wanted nothing more than to sink into a month long coma. By 9:30, the children were nestled all snug in their beds. Hubby was snoring gently beside me. I had my I Pod on and was starting to drift away into nothingness.

The fire alarm in our room was conveniently located right above my head. When it went off, I believe I touched the ceiling. One minute I was listening to Michael Buble, the next minute my eardrums were being shattered by a piercing wail. Tim sat up and looked at me and I said “Some kid pulled it. There’s no way this place is on fire.”

However, it’s kind of hard to ignore the alarm when it’s right over your head, so finally I got up to see what was happening. I opened the door and looked out into the hall. Most everyone was standing in their doorway, looking around in disgust. However, there did appear to be smoke at one end of the hall.

Just as I was about to panic, someone walked by and said “some damn kid pulled the fire extinguisher.” I looked more closely and sure enough, the glass door that housed the extinguisher was wide open.

The alarm continued to wail and yet, there was no sign of anyone official. I was beginning to wonder if the alarm would ever stop. Finally, the stairwell door emerged and a curly head poked through the opening. It was attached to the funky black dude from the front desk. He looked around and then the rest of him emerged cautiously. Two guys started down the hall and I followed. I’m nosey that way.

The desk clerk was looking around bemusedly as we approached. “What happened here?” he asked.
This was not an auspicious opening line. I thought front desk clerks received emergency training for just such events. If I’m in the towering inferno, I want the guy in charge who can rig up the zip line to the helicopter and get us all out safely before the floor collapses. Steve McQueen, where are you when we need you????

One of the men said “some kid pulled the fire extinguisher.”
The clerk looked at him in confusion. “What?”

“Look here,” the guy told him. “See how the door is open? Someone pulled the fire extinguisher.”

This seemed to confuse him more. “Well, is the floor on fire??? Do I need to call the fire department?”

This shattered my illusion of security. The fire alarm had been blaring for fifteen minutes and Shaft hadn’t even called the fire department. Had there been a real fire, we would have all been cooked in our beds, Cajun style. That is, we would be BLACKENED!!!!

The man patiently showed him the fire extinguisher, explained how it worked, and showed him how the pin had been pulled. Told him that the stuff in the air was not smoke but was, in fact, discharge from the fire extinguisher. Shaft nodded and smiled, his confusion dissipating as the man drew him stick figures to explain how the kids had rushed up the stairs, jumped out, pulled the pin, and disappeared back into the stairwell.

The alarms subsided and everyone started to drift back into their rooms. The desk clerk strode down the hall, reassuring everyone it was a false alarm. He didn’t look anything like Steve McQueen and I was still worried for my family’s safety, but I was too tired to argue. So I went back into my room, shut the door and turned on my I Pod. And slept for three whole hours before the tornado sirens started!!!

It’s only Wednesday but I already feel exhausted and run down, ready for the weekend to begin. Oh, wait….I have to spend the weekend in Decatur at ANOTHER freakin’ soccer tournament. There is no rest for the weary, or for those stupid enough to indulge a child in her favorite pastime!!

Sunday I took MA to a birthday party. It was a skating party and there were lots of teeny boppers running around. It was dark and smelly and loud music was playing. In an attempt to display how cool I am….because we all KNOW I am the queen of cool…. I tried to perform the “Soulja Boy”. It’s one of those one hit wonders with a dance attached to it. The song itself only has a few distinguishable lyrics: ‘crank that soulja boy’ and ’superman’. The rest of it is mush, although it’s apparently pornographic mush. I’m not quite brave enough to look up the lyrics.

There I stood in the skating rink, and I thought it would be fun to perform the dance so the other moms would be impressed with me and my coolness. I have never outgrown the adolescent need to prove my worth. The beginning was fine. I criss-crossed sharply and segued effortlessly to the back kick/ankle tap. The side move was a little sketchy (I get really confused by dance moves, in much the same way I get confused by lyrics) but I winged it, figuring most of these middle aged women wouldn’t know the difference. I floated into ’superman’ with great style. It was when I did the side hops that I demonstrated exactly how uncool I am.

I hopped to one side with no problem. As I attempted to hop back, my flip flop folded under me and my backside connected with the ground rather forcefully. I went from “crank that soulja boy” to “meet the carpet with a thud”. I have now permanently marked hip hop dancer off my list of possible careers. I don’t think I will ever get asked to be a back up dancer for Fergie. Dammit.

Monday night, MA had her soccer training session and then I had a girl scout leader meeting. We were skipping the goddess’s soccer banquet to go to the meeting because it was a special Cinco de Mayo party for all the leaders and their daughters. We drove all the way out there only to find an empty parking lot. Apparently they changed the meeting to Tuesday night and I forgot to write it down. Who has a Cinco de Mayo party on Seis de Mayo? Idiots.

Yesterday, I had errands to run. I went all over the place because I am so very busy and important. I may not get paid, but I am the CEO of this house and it is hard to get everything done. As it is, I barely get to lunch out more than three times a week. Then, when the girls got home from school, we had to rush out to a soccer game. On the way I had to stop at the Publix to buy Oreo Cakesters. If you haven’t tried them yet, your life is more meaningless than I thought. They are that good. I had purchased a box last week to take for the goddess’s soccer game because I was the snack mom. However, the game was canceled and I had to keep sampling the cakesters to make sure they weren’t going bad. It happens you know. Quality control is very important when it comes to chocolate snack foods and I have very high standards.

Anyway, after finding I had eaten half the box, I had to replace them. So I left the kids in the car and ran into Publix. Coming back out, it was very easy to spot my car. After the last soccer tournament, MA and her little buddies had cunningly painted all my windows with soccer slogans. Across the back windshield, they had proudly penned the motto: WE KICK BALLS!!! I had no problem with it; they won their tournament and they had a right to be proud. I was proud for them. And I’m the “COOL MOM” so I naturally I let them write on my windows.

Alas, at least for me, every time I strive for “cool” I end up with “dumbass”. As I approached the car, I happened to really LOOK at the motto. I had become sort of immune to it since it had been there for two weeks. Imagine my horror as I realized someone had erased part of the “K” from “Kick” and my window now said, in VERY LARGE BLUE LETTERS: “WE LICK BALLS”.

I died a little inside. I had been driving around with that on my window for who knows how long. No wonder those truck drivers were grinning at me and giving me thumbs up signs as they passed. They thought I was driving the “blowjobmobile”. I frantically spit on my hands and tried to rub out the offending words, but with limited success. That paint really sticks. I managed to eliminate the word “lick” entirely so my window merely read “WE BALLS”. Not optimal, but certainly less likely to leave me facing a gentleman with a twenty dollar bill in his hand and a smile on his face. As soon as we got home, MA was given a bottle of Windex and some paper towels and the offending motto was removed. And I am hiding the window markers.

Today is Wednesday and it was fairly tame. Although as I write this, the goddess is in the throes of a coughing fit reminiscent of a lifetime smoker expiring from lung cancer. She also has a fever. Which means she will be home with me tomorrow. And we’re supposed to have bad weather which means the weather forecasters will go nuts and school will get canceled and everyone will be home by 1:00. If I leave right now, I may be able to catch the last bus out to Mexico!

I am the only person I know who can go into Wal-Green’s to buy milk and end up spending $150.00. It’s one of my many talents. Today, after an extended margarita lunch with Gina and Blue Momma, I popped next door to pick up some dairy product. Needless to say, I found some other items begging to be purchased. Laugh now, but at least MY mother’s day shopping is out of the way!!

As I made my way to the front of the store, I found myself an unwitting contestant in…..the WALGREEN’S GAME!!!! I’m calling it the Walgreen’s game, but it can be played at any store. However, it works best at Walgreen’s because there are only two check out lines. Playing the game requires skill and concentration, as well as sharp mental acumen. It’s not for sissies.

Game Play: The game begins when the player approaches the check out lines only to discover the following scenario: Register A is manned by a cashier obviously hired to meet the store’s quota of mentally challenged Americans. His customer is an 85 year old woman clutching a fistful of coupons and three sale items. Register B is operated by the assistant manager who is dealing with the “I HAVE TEN RETURNS” woman who is accompanied by her four year old son pitching a fit because mommy will not buy him a $.37 pack of gum. As the contestant, you must choose a line.

I am an experienced player, so I held back and played both lines for a minute, while I debated my choices. Jerry’s kid was ringing up each item for Grandma Moses and debating with her what the correct price was for each item, crowing exultantly when it rang up correctly. Terror Tyke was sobbing and clutching his mother and threatening to walk out on her if she did not meet his demands; frankly, I would have been glad to see him go. The cashier was attempting to void the items and refund the money for each item. Plus, there were ten more items on the counter that had yet to be purchased. Which line would you choose??

If you guessed Grandma Moses and the Rain Man, you would have been wrong. Even though Grandma only had three items, she had all those coupons. Plus, she and the cashier were bonding on some existential level over the great deal she was getting on her Metamucil. Actually, I am filing that whole scenario away for the screenplay I am going to write one day.

I correctly chose my place in line behind the Returns lady. Even though I was itching to smack Terror Tot, I was able to control myself with Lamaze breathing and yoga chants. Eventually, the returns were made and I was being checked out before Grandma M. was able to get her hands on her Metamucil.

Unfortunately, the lady behind me was not as skilled at the game as I. She too, tried to play both lines, but “Pushy Woman With Cart Full of Wal Greens Goodies” jumped past her and got into the Rain Man’s line. A skilled game player recognizes that maneuver as a “Cheap Shot” and would have marched up to her and said “excuse me ma’am, but I was next.” However, not being possessed of my cunning, she shamefacedly slipped into line behind “Pushy.”

I did make one small error in judgement. The assistant manager was much fatter than me, and when she tried to ring up my milk, it wouldn’t work. “Did you know this doesn’t have a bar code?” she asked accusingly. Like I look at bar codes on milk!!! All I know is milk costs more per gallon than gasoline and that says A LOT! My fifteen year old son drinks about a gallon a day. I really need to get paid for this blog!

Anyway, Hefty had to walk her happy ass back to the refrigerator section to find some milk with a bar code, thus deducting points from my final score. As she huffed away, I thought about touting the healthful benefits of taking extra steps daily, but I didn’t think she would take it in the helpful spirit in which it was intended. She brought the milk back and finished ringing up my purchases. I escaped with my purchases, leaving the nice Asian lady who had chosen incorrectly still standing in the Rain Man’s line. And she’s probably still there

My oldest child, my only son, my BABY, has gotten his learner’s permit. This means he was able to successfully answer enough questions on the written test to con the state of Alabama into thinking he might be a competent driver one day. It means my hair will continue to turn gray at an alarming rate. It means my life may be prematurely terminated because we have smacked into a brick mailbox going 57 mph. It’s enough to frighten even the bravest of heart, the sight of my son behind the wheel of a vehicle.,

For one thing, he’s short like me, so he can barely see over the steering wheel. He looks a little like Granny from the Beverly Hillbillies when he drives. And if there is a better way to teach him how to drive than just putting him behind the wheel, please let me know. I just threw him in the seat and let him go. The first time I let him drive on an actual street, we almost took out a jogger. I figure the liability was on the jogger though, because if he wasn’t smart enough to realize the giant white Suburban bearing down on him was driven by a barely visible fifteen year old, then it was his own damn fault for not getting out of the way.

And do you remember your first driving lesson on a real street with real cars? The first time a car came at him, he lost his head. ”MOM WHAT DO I DO?????” he screamed.
“You keep driving son,” I said calmly. “He’s on the other side of the road.” His hands were white knuckled, gripping the steering wheel so hard I thought he might snap it off the steering column. He started veering toward the shoulder of the road and I said “It’s fine if you want to pull off to the side, but you CAN drive with a car coming from the other direction.” He nodded tensely and we managed to pass the car without any incidents. He was so excited he almost hit a mailbox. ”Son, stay toward the middle of the road please,” I told him gently. He yanked the steering wheel and moved us back over toward the line. “Small corrections please,” I said, visions of the Suburban rolling over and bursting into flames dancing in my head.

It’s weird, but I really am very calm when he is driving. I figure only one of us needs to freak out, and it might as well be him. The teacher must remain calm at all times to handle the unexpected. All I remember about learning how to drive is the dashboard caught on fire my very first time behind the wheel. I jumped out of the car and forgot to set the parking brake. I turned around in time to see the car rolling away with my dad trying to jump over the flames to get in the driver’s seat so he could put the car in park before it ran off the road into a ravine. Needless to say, that was the last time he drove with me. Like it was my fault the ashtray caught on fire; he was the smoker, not me!! A little more patience and understanding that day would have gone a long way toward improving my confidence. Although I can understand how the second degree burns on his hands prevented my dad from sympathizing too much!

Yesterday my son drove with my husband and blew through a stop sign. My husband was not impressed. I believe he overreacted a wee bit. Napoleon told me he preferred to drive with me because I was a little calmer. Yesterday, when he came to a complete stop 20 feet before the intersection, I merely sighed and said “pull all the way up to the white line honey.” No point in getting nuts, right?

I am scared to death at the thought of my child behind the wheel without me in the car with him. But I am also ready to have another driver in the house. I am more than ready to relinquish some of the driving duties to someone else. I am hoping a year of driving with me will help him learn to stop hugging the side of the road. He may run over every mailbox between us and the Publix before it’s all over!!

I just figured out who the CAR CRASH WHORES ARE:  PERSONAL INJURY LAWYERS!!!  Right??  Call Goldberg 800-600-6014!!!

See, all it takes is publishing one post and the floodgates open!!

My taste in music is questionable. Lately, I have been quite taken with alternative rock, something my children find repulsive. Like the rap songs they prefer, which all seem to center around men having sex with pole dancers, is just soooo much better! I started out with the Fray, and I segued into Nickelback, All American Rejects, Green Day, Lifehouse, the Killers, Matchbox 20, Linkin Park, etc. And I have developed a real fondness for Fall Out Boy. I love a band with a strong drummer and a really whiny, angst-ridden tenor. It gets my blood flowing! Only problem is I can’t understand most of what they’re saying. I recently downloaded their latest eponymous ditty, hopped on the treadmill, and started rocking. I enjoyed the opening salvo by Jay Z (this is for all you critics out there…) and loved the hard rocking intro. But then the lyrics started. And they sounded like mush.

 I have a problem with lyrics, as I have stated in the past. I frequently mishear them and sing them wrong. This one really bothered me because the refrain sounds like “long live the car crash whores” with a couple of repeats and then a “fix me in 45″.  I huffed along on the treadmill and wondered just what in the hell they meant by ‘car crash whores’? The best I could come up with was a group of opportunistic women who loiter around crash sites trying to make a buck: heavily painted woman saunters up to victim and whispers “for a hundred bucks, I can take your mind off that compound/complex fracture sugar!”  I found myself humming the song during the day and randomly belting out “LONG LIVE THE CAR CRASH WHORES!” with no warning. It’s such a CATCHY lyric. Finally, I decided I need to verify what exactly they were singing. “Car crash whores”, as much fun as they are, does not make sense. The band had to be saying something else.

When we were kids, we used to buy a magazine that came out monthly and contained pop song lyrics, plus posters and gossip. I lived for that rag because it kept me from embarrassing myself with idiotic lyrics to the latest Boy George songs. Not that those lyrics made any sense anyway; Karma Chameleon anyone?? Now, thanks to the internet, I can just google a song and the lyrics pop up on the screen for me. So I eagerly typed in “Fall Out Boy” and clicked on the lyrics for the song.

I fully expected it to be something that didn’t even remotely resemble what I had been singing. Maybe along the lines of “long live the cross cut trees or “dong lives just south of Belize”. Imagine my surprise when I discovered they were singing “LONG LIVE THE CAR CRASH HEARTS” which is pretty darn close to what I though they were saying in the first place. How ridiculous is that? I think “car crash whores” is a whole lot edgier and it sticks with you. I don’t have the vaguest idea of what a ‘car crash heart’ is, whereas ‘car crash whore’ lent itself to all sorts of exciting possibilities. So I decided I am going to continue singing it my way. I may even cross stitch it on a pillow!  

Some weeks, I’m just not feeling the blog. This has been one of those weeks. The top of this page has SEVEN posts I have started and not finished. They just never seemed to gel into anything specific. Vampire boners and my quest to be an eco-friendly housewife didn’t seem to cut it this week. So I have been silent.

However, in an effort to break the vicious cycle of silence, I am going to blather. Sometimes a little blathering opens the floodgates and puts me back on the path of righteousness and blogness. So bear with me as I spew forth and try to unblock myself.

Last Friday, the goddess’s school had its annual spring fling fundraiser. Each classroom was responsible for running a game. Because I am the stupid room mother, I had to go and operate the stupid money machine. It’s like an inflatable room filled with air and the kids stand in it and try to catch play money as it flies around their heads. A hot pink bill wins a free sno cone. I got ZERO training before I was put in charge and I think I was doing it wrong. Because no matter how hard I tried, every one of those little shits won a free sno cone. The entire fundraiser probably ended up in negative numbers because I gave away too many sno cones.

While I was undermining the profit margin, the goddess was running around with her friends. It was an extremely hot day (I have already achieved a level of cocoa color seldom seen outside of the Pacific islands) and the goddess didn’t have any water with her. And she got on a spinning ride with her buddies. She came to find me at the money machine, her face a strange combination of green, red and white, sort of like the Italian flag.

“Mommy, I don’t feel good,” she moaned.

I sent her inside and as soon as the next shift arrived, I hurried in after her. I figured she was dehydrated, so I got her some water and made her sit down for awhile. She seemed fine, so I went back out to help give away more sno-cones. About ten minutes later, MA came rushing up to me.

“Mom, she’s crying and she really doesn’t look so good” she told me. I apologized to the other mothers there helping and went inside to check out the goddess.

She was sitting with the principal and crying, her face devoid of color. The principal winked at me and said “I think this is just some ‘mama drama’. I agreed and sat down and tried to comfort the goddess.

“I really don’t feel good mommy,” she mewled pitifully.
“You’re fine,” I told her. “Just sit here with me and stop crying.”
She looked at me dubiously, her eyes rolled and a sudden geyser of liquid erupted from her mouth a la the Exorcist. I stared at her in disbelief; she WAS NOT puking in the lunchroom!! On me!! And my feet!! In their cute Yellow Box flip flops!

I totally lost my head and clapped a hand over her mouth while I searched for a garbage can. She continued to heave and vomit built up behind my hand, trickling around it and down my arm. Why did I put my hand over her mouth?? I do not know. It seemed like the appropriate thing to do at the time.

I finally sighted the garbage can in the corner and picked her up by her mouth and rushed her over to it. I held her up over the can as the last little bits dribbled into it. Most of the rest of it was on her, me and the floor. Thankfully, it was mostly water, so it was pretty inoffensive. Literally, as soon as she was done yakking, she said “Can I go play now?”

She was drenched, I was drenched, the floor was drenched and my mood had headed south. “Stay here and don’t move,” I snarled.
I went to find the custodian and passed the principal on my way out the door. “Guess what,” I said. “She really WAS sick!!!” She looked at me in surprise; I should have left HER sitting with the goddess!

MA stayed with her while I went and got the car and we headed home, covered with vomit. “Mommy,” she said sweetly, “why did you put your hand over my mouth?” Even SHE knew it was stupid thing do !!

We got home, I put her in the tub and washed all the gak out of her hair. And then we went to her soccer game. Because she was feeling just great!! Turns out she wasn’t dehydrated at all, she was sick from riding on the spinning thing. All the water I forced on her in an effort to rehydrate her was what actually made her sick. Truly, my genius knows no bounds!

Hopefully this will break the silence holding me hostage!! Stay tuned and we’ll see!!

This past weekend found me in Huntsville with MA at a soccer tournament. I love to go to soccer tournaments. It’s usually just the two of us, so we get a hotel room to ourselves. She runs around with her friends and I get to do what I want. Plus, we eat out at restaurants, which is one of my very most favorite things to do. On Saturday night, after winning one game and tying the other, we went to eat at Rosie’s Cantina. 

I was at the bar, paying for my beer, so I was the last one to be seated. Naturally, I ended up at the children’s end of the table. That was fine with me, but given my level of maturity (or lack thereof) it spelled disaster for all concerned.

It started out innocently enough. One of the girls came up and gave me a big hug, while surreptitiously placing tortilla chips in my hair. I’m not stupid; I knew what the little witch was doing. I waited until she sat down and then I flicked a few grains of rice at her. She scooped up a big forkful and fired at me. Naturally, I ducked and they hit the lady next to me, who, fortunately enough, is a very good sport.

The girl next to me, getting into the spirit of things, picked up her tomato slice and flung it at the rice thrower. The tomato splatted right in the middle of her chest. I started howling; it was so spontaneous and the rice thrower was taken completely by surprise.

Suddenly, everyone was armed. And it spelled disaster. At any moment, the largest public food fight in the history of Huntsville was about to take place, and it was all my fault. I had visions of the entire team marched off to jail, the coach glowering at me as I tried to apologize for throwing food. Why do these things happen to me? None of the other mothers were throwing food at the children. I seem to be lacking an essential parenting gene, possibly the one that is responsible for causing mothers to act like their 38 year old selves instead of 12 year olds.

You’ll be glad to know I put a stop to it. “Girls, put the food down,” I said. “Enough is enough.” They lowered their forks grudgingly, giving me limpid looks, begging me to change my mind. But I was NOT going to be responsible for the imprisonment of the team. I felt very smug and mature.

A few minutes later, the rice thrower came up to me and started waving her knife in my face. There was a blob of sour cream on the end of it and she was threatening to throw it at me. So I casually grabbed her wrist and flicked the sour cream into her hair. It was so surreal, like another being was directing my movements. I was powerless to stop it. The immaturity is so very deeply ingrained.

Fortunately, that subdued her and the food fight was over before it really began. But I am going to have to work on my role modelness. Right now, I don’t think I’m a fit chaperone for a group of earthworms, let alone a group of twelve and thirteen year old girls!!