Daily Diatribes

Check out yesterday’s LuAnn comic.  LuAnn is one of my daily reads!

by Greg Evans

March 30, 2008

I was sitting here typing my post earlier when Lulu the golden retriever started gagging. Dogs make such peculiar noises when they retch. They stand and sort of hunch over and perform this rhythmic heaving. I believe this to be an evolutionary survival mechanism designed to give dog owners enough time to toss them out the door before they upchuck on the carpet. Even in caveman days, Grog did not like it when dog puke got on the mammoth rug.

Anyway, Lulu started the heaving, I heard it, looked up to see her assuming the vomit pose, so I jumped up to throw her out the door. Only she eluded capture and proceeded to hork up a huge, steaming pile. Luckily it was in the kitchen. And lucky me, she wasn’t done yet!

As I stared in disgust at the pile, she started heaving again. I tried to catch her, but she feinted right and dodged out of my reach. Then she horked again, but this time she was heading to the back door, so she managed to leave a trail on the carpet all the way to the door. Delightful.

I threw her out and then headed for the paper towels. I am going into descriptive mode now. You might want to go surf the web and read no further.

Because the pile looked EXACTLY like the chicken and dumplings they serve at Cracker Barrel. Literally, I felt like I was staring at a plate full of MeeMaw’s country style chicken and dumplings right there on the kitchen floor. Apparently the rawhide bone the dog had eaten earlier didn’t sit well, so up it came. But not before it had been digested into dumpling size pieces.

Yep, vamoose the corn and there you have it….a plate full of Lulu Puke! I reached down to scoop it up with a paper towel and it was WARM!!!!!! I gagged a lot as I tried to get the paper towel around it, but it kept slithering out of my grasp. Dammit. I finally got most of it and hurried over to drop it in the trash can. Then I washed my hands for a long time.

Unfortunately, I still had upchuck number 2 with which to contend. I got more paper towels and headed resolutely toward the mess. I scooped and gagged and rushed toward the garbage can before I dropped it on my foot. Then I had to scrub the carpet to eliminate the trail of slimy chicken and dumpling rawhide bone puke. Mmm mmm good!!

The dog spent the rest of the afternoon outside and her rawhide bone eating days are through. As for me, I am never eating at Cracker Barrel again! Not with the visual I got today!

Sorry I haven’t posted in so long. The site was down for a day and really, I haven’t had much to say. I am still not feeling well. Everyone I’ve talked to says this hangs on for weeks, so I am hoping one day I will just wake up and feel better.

This morning I took the girls to church. My husband and son now attend another church (VERY LONG STORY!!!!) and so it is up to me to get the girls ready by myself. Each week, Marie Antoinette and I battle to the death over what she will wear to church. Her preferred garb is jeans. My preferred garb for church is anything but jeans. This morning, she came sashaying down in a cute red top with her hair pulled back in a cute red headband, and her butt proudly displayed in a pair of skin tight denim capris.

“You can turn around and march right back up those steps and change,” I told her….as the smile ran away from her face….(thank you billy joel!!!)

“But MO-other,” she said, “it took me forever to find an outfit and I don’t see why I can’t wear jeans and I hate you.”

I stared her down and she turned around and huffed back up the stairs. Five minutes later, she re-emerged, this time wearing a pair of brown capri pants, which I thought looked perfectly fine. Apparently, they were not fine at all.

“I hate these pants and I’m not wearing them and you can’t make me. They’re too TIGHT!!!!”

1. I did not make her put the pants on

2. They were not nearly as tight as the first pair

3. All teenage girls should be sent to live in convents and forced to wear floor length habits until they are 21 years of age

I sighed. “Look,” I told her, ” I don’t care what you wear on the bottom as long as it’s not jeans and it doesn’t look like it’s been painted on your body. Why not wear a miniskirt?”

“That’s even WORSE than tight pants,” she shrieked.

“Wear leggings,” I said, offering what I thought was a sensible compromise.

“Unnnnnnnnhhhhhhhh,” she sneered, and headed back upstairs.

I was literally sweating by this time. I think I am going through the change because I am having hot flashes. Or maybe it was just the frustration of dealing with Lolita. I dread Sundays and this drama we reenact every week. I miss the days of jumpers and mary janes. They made life sooooooooo much easier!

She came down for the third time, wearing a mini skirt and brown leggings. She looked adorable. “I look stupid,” she said. “I hope you’re happy.” Well of course I was, evil witch of a mother that I am!

We got through church and Sunday school with minimal fuss. When she got in the car to go home, she opened the Old Navy bag sitting on the front seat. It contained a pair of khaki pants I had purchased for her, pants she had disdained.  I planned to return them next week.  Only now, she decided she liked them. We were on our way to meet the boys for lunch and she said “Can I change into these when we get there?”

“No,” I said. “Just wear what you’ve got on.”

“Fine,” she screamed.  “Now I hate you more!!!!  I’m not talking to you!!!”

Finally, I catch a break!  The moral of this story is you can be your child’s friend and let her dress like a hooker or you can be her mother and make her dress like a human being.  Or you can bury your head in the sand and pretend you don’t have children at all!  Now I have to go and supervise the installation of the pole, so MA can work on her routines!

I am a bad sport. I acknowledge it and it’s not one of the traits of which I am proudest. I was the kid who, if losing in checkers, would have a mysterious leg spasm that caused the entire board to topple over, thus eradicating my younger brother’s quest for world domination. When it comes to competition, I don’t play well with others.

Luckily, this has not carried over into my parenting. I am able (barely) to suppress my rage when my child’s team is losing to another team, even though that team is clearly cheating and the kids are mean and are probably snorting their ADD medication so they can run faster. I stand on the sidelines and grit my teeth and cheer encouraging things like “good kick Debby” and clench my fists and mutter under my breath “but you should have kicked the little bitch in the knee.” I hope none of you harbor any illusions that I am a nice person.

When it comes to my daughter’s soccer games, I try to be on my best behavior. I have NO desire to be a sound bite on CNN or be the feature “ripped from the headlines” story on “Law and Order”. Still, last night my patience was sorely tested. It was our first game of the season and we were told to arrive early since spring break last week eliminated all practices.

We got to the field early, which was good since we scored a great parking space…pay attention because this will be important later. The girls headed toward the field with their coach. I grabbed my chair, my coat, my sweatshirt, my hat, my gloves, and my three blankets and followed them. Hey, it’s still early spring and I’ve been sick so give me a break!

I planted my chair and plopped down into it, while the girls milled around their coach. There didn’t seem to be a whole lot of warming up or practicing going on, so I turned my attention to the lacrosse game behind us. It was highly entertaining.

Is there a purpose to lacrosse? Cause if there is, I don’t get it at all. The game appears to be played as follows: you see the ball, you scoop it up with your net stick and run wildly in circles. This causes the other team to whack you about the head with their net sticks until you drop the ball or fall down. The ball is then scooped up by someone else and the process is repeated. It seems to be a male dominated sport since men enjoy running around and beating the hell out of each other with sticks.

Well anyway, the soccer girls were doing nothing. I was getting irritated because we had gotten there so early, but it appeared all the fields were overbooked so they had nowhere to do their thing. I watched Lacrosse, watched our coach stomp around and look mad and slowly froze to my seat. About twenty minutes before the game was supposed to start, I decided to use the porta potty so I wouldn’t have to get up in the middle of the game.

I am deathly afraid of those things. Again, it has do with my desire not to become a headline, as in “WOMAN TRAPPED IN PORTA-POTTY AS IT ROLLS DOWN HILL ON TO BUSY INTERSTATE.” Plus they smell bad, but with my nose in its current state, I figured it might not be as big an issue as usual.

I completed my transaction successfully, without rolling down the hill awash in poo. I strolled back toward the field and stopped to talk to a couple of the dads I knew. I was standing there and suddenly I felt a sharp, intense pain in my hip. I looked down to see a FREAKIN’ LACROSSE BALL rolling away from me. I looked up and saw a lacrosse player smirking at me. I smirked back, fantasizing about grabbing his net stick and whacking the crap out of him with it, but again, the headline thing stopped me. I need to get over my news phobia!!!

Meanwhile, the soccer part of the evening had not been going well. During my potty break and subsequent maiming, a field had opened up and the referee for our game had arrived. He was about 5 feet tall, Czechoslovakian and suffered from tiny man syndrome. In other words, he made up for his lack of height with his impressively large…ego. He started our evening by attempting to disqualify the other team because they did not have an official printed roster. He was not interested to hear that the web site had been down that day, rendering it impossible to print an official roster. It was simple: No roster, No game.

Fortunately, our team manager had printed both rosters. I don’t know why and I didn’t ask. He had it, so the game was going to happen. Thank God or my maiming would have been in vain. We arranged our chairs on the sidelines and sat down and I bundled up, ready for an exciting game.

Only nothing happened. Apparently, across the field, the referee was disqualifying two of our team members because their pictures were not properly affixed to their team cards. Again, he was not interested in knowing the cards had just arrived that day or that our team manager, a man with a full time job, had not dropped everything to run around collecting pictures of the girls so they could be glued. No, he was happy to tell them to go home. Because, since they were wearing their uniforms, they weren’t even allowed to sit on the sidelines and watch.

One of the moms immediately packed up and went home. Unhappy would be a very mild adjective to use in describing her demeanor. The other player had a jacket, so she covered up her jersey and came and sat on the sideline. Satisfied with that, the referee turned his attention to the uniforms. This all took place across the field, so I couldn’t see it. I heard about it from MA but I can visualize him striding up and down like a Nazi drill sergeant, barking at the girls: “those shin guards are two inches too short! Roll those sliders up!! Under Armor is NOT part of the uniform….Roll the sleeves up now!!”  Even from the distance, I could tell the girls coach was about to go postal.

Finally, he started the game. We were down three players (one no-show, two disqualified) and ten minutes into the game, someone got hurt. So we had no subs on the bench until the second half. The girls all played the ENTIRE game without a break. And managed to hold the other team to no score until the last five minutes.

Meanwhile, our team manager drove to the nearest Wal-Greens, bought some report covers and duct tape, and assembled the player card for the girl who had stayed. It wasn’t “regulation”, but Hitler reluctantly allowed her to play in the second half, thereby giving us one sub player. It wasn’t much relief, but it gave a few girls a break for a few minutes.

So it’s not JUST the parents that ruin children’s sports. Sometimes it’s the egomaniacal referees whose dreams of playing major league soccer were thwarted by their inability to play well with others. The girls lost the game, but they played hard and well. And I learned to stay the HELL away from Lacrosse games!

I got a letter from the IRS in the mail today. I opened it immediately because a letter from the IRS is never good. It usually means they’ve discovered your offshore bank accounts and want to have a chat with you.

I was relieved to discover it was no such thing. At the top, in large red letters, it said Economic Stimulus Payment Notice. It was a friendly note telling me the IRS will send me a letter if I qualify for the latest tax rebate.

Now I’m no economist.  I failed economics in high school. I never could figure out how to do those stupid Supply and Demand graphs. In my own life, I simply demand to be supplied with things and it usually works. Or I just use the Visa. So I am not claiming any superior knowledge of higher economics here.

But even I know the economic outlook in the US is less than stellar these days. Thanks to the subprime mortgage lenders, people are losing their homes left and right. We are, as a population, spending way more money than we make, most of it on crap made in China and coated in lead-based paint. The war in Iraq is going nowhere and is costing us billions of dollars per month.

If things are as bleak as I think they are, then why is the IRS wasting money to send me a letter to tell me they will send me a letter? Shouldn’t they just send one letter to tell me if, indeed, I do qualify? I probably don’t and surely the IRS knows that. So why waste the stamp?

It seems terribly inefficient to send letters to people apprising them of your intention to send them another letter at a later date. After all, the government paid someone to write the letter. Someone had to make sure the letters were addressed, stamped and mailed. All this fuss and bother to mail me a letter to tell me they will be sending me another letter smacks of bureaucracy at work!

If I was in charge, I would skip the letters completely, take the sum saved by not sending the two letters, divide it by 6 billion and send everyone THAT money. It would make as much sense for me to get a check in the mail for $.37 as it did for me to get a letter telling me the IRS will be mailing me another letter!

Here is the text from the letter: All individuals receiving payments will receive a notice and additional information shortly before the payment is made.

How much more additional information does one need? Send me a damn check; that’s all the info I need! Only in America will you receive a letter telling you you will be receiving a letter to let you know you will be receiving a check. Skip a few steps people and see how much money is saved!

And remember, this is America:  if you get that check, head to your nearest mall and SPEND IT!!  For God’s sake people, don’t HOARD it!  Go to the Gap and buy a new wardrobe!  Don’t pay bills with it because that would be UN-AMERICAN!!  SPEND, SPEND, SPEND!!!!!!

So watch your mail for you letter. I would hate for you to be completely surprised by the second letter!

Well, I waved the white flag and went to see Renee.  I figured even if I got a viral diagnosis, I could maybe snot on her enough to get some mercy.

Let me be the first to apologize here in these pages for all the many times I have slandered her.  She is the most competent of physicians with an incredible bedside manner.  She knows I’m kidding when I make fun of her,  since I send her new patients every week!  And today she actually gave me an antibiotic.  After perusing the fire engine red interior of my throat and palpating the softball size glands on the sides of my neck and listening to my wheezy respirations, she pronounced herself “COMFORTABLE” about writing me a prescription.

Did you hear that?????  COMFORTABLE!!!  My nose dripped with joy.

She asked me how I did with Augmentin.  “I don’t know,” I said, “you never give me good antibiotics.”

She didn’t believe me and had to flip through my chart to see that she had, indeed, written many amoxicillin scrips to appease me, but had never brought in the big antibiotic guns.  I went straight to the pharmacy from her office to get it filled before she could change her mind.  I’ve already taken the first one, a pill roughly the size of my big toe.  It felt really good going down my bright red, excruciatingly painful gullet.

And, as a bonus, she authorized a steroid shot as well, to help with the inflammation in my throat.  I think she relished the notion of someone poking me in the butt with a sharp object a little too much, but still…..a real shot!!!!  To make me feel better!

Surely relief is on the way!  With a shot in my butt and a horse pill in my system, if I take a nap I might be healed!  Although I would settle for just being able to breathe through my nostrils!

I have the plague.  Or some version of it.  My throat feels like I have been swallowing sandpaper.  My nose is full of stuff.  Occasionally, the stuff drips out in mass quantities.  My back hurts from lying in bed too much.  I want to die.

I know, I know, Easter Sunday is just round the corner and the head cold from hell is nothing compared to dying on a cross for a bunch of people you don’t even know.  Still…..my misery is my own, ‘kay???

This is the kind of cold where both nostrils feel like they have been filled with wet cement.  I can’t breathe at all when I am lying down.  Anybody seen “A Fish Called Wanda”?  Remember the scene where Kevin Kline sticks a banana in each of Michael Palin’s nostrils and then sticks an orange in his mouth??  And poor Michael gasps and thrashes, trying desperately to suck in a breath of air??  I completely identify with that scene right now.  That describes my night.
I could go to the doctor.  I could go to Renee’s office and pay my $30 copay….yes my copay has gone up to $30 thanks to the evildoers at Blue Cross.  I believe they might employ squirrels there.  Anyway,  I could pay my copay for her to look me in the eye and say “It’s viral, so suck it up!!!”  I’m going to save my $30 and invest in more kleenex and Nyquil.  Renee can fund her retirement another way!

So Happy Easter to all of you.  I wish you many blessings.  I will be gathering blessings myself, because people are really nice about blessing you when you sneeze, even if you are showering them with mucous.

Actually, the next day was reasonably tame. We got our six hours of sleep, then walked over to the hotel where the kids were staying. The hotel with the Starbucks and the down comforters and the plasma screen TVs and the warm chocolate chip cookies on the pillow at night and…

But I digress. We all walked to Universal Studios together and spent the day at the park. Nothing much happened, except I got several blisters from all the walking. I did manage to fall asleep sitting up when I took my turn as medic, but that’s about it.

Let me tell you about being medic. Because our state (sweet home Alabama!) is so progressive, the schools have instituted a new policy regarding medication on school field trips. The policy is no student can bring his or her own medication. Instead, if a parent wants a child to have over the counter medication like Ibuprofen, a brand new, unopened container has to be turned in to the teacher in charge of the trip. All medications are kept together and schlepped around from place to place by the teachers and adults in case little Jimmy has a headache. In our case, we had no less than SIX backpacks crammed full of medications. At each park, we chose a restaurant with outdoor seating and we sat there with the backpacks so the kids could find us in case they needed a cough drop.  Bureaucracy at work!

Anyway, that night, the kids had a rehearsal and my presence seemed somewhat unnecessary, so I went back to my room and took some Advil PM, hoping to recoup some of the sleep I had lost the night before.  I achieved my goal admirably.  In fact, I slept right through the alarm and woke up the next morning at 7:45.  We were supposed to leave at 8:30 and since I was ACROSS THE STREET this was not good.

I flew out of bed, dressed, combed my hair, brushed my teeth and got my stuff together and was at the hotel by 8:00 a.m.  They all looked at me like I was crazy, but at least I was there.  The concert choir was supposed to compete that day and we all boarded a bus and headed for the Hard Rock Cafe.  The kids sang their selections and then we went back to the hotel so they could change and eat lunch.

We had 45 minutes for lunch, so the kids were allowed to walk to Burger King.  One of the guys (go figure, it’s always a guy!) was sitting around in a daze, so I walked over to him to see what his lunch plans were.

“Sweetie, are you going to eat lunch?”
“Yes ma’am,” he said.  “I’m waiting to go to Burger King.”
“They just left,” I screamed.  “Hurry!”
We sprinted for the door and he caught the side of the door and bounced back into me.  I shoved him forward, caught my foot on the edge of the rug and slammed face first into the ground.

Really, it’s been awhile since I had a good, public fall, so I guess I was overdue.  I laid there, savoring the mouthful of rug I had gotten and prayed the ground would open up and swallow me.  Unfortunately it didn’t.

“Are you ok?” people asked repeatedly as I slowly sat up and tried to pretend I loved falling face first in the lobby of a hotel.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I said cheerfully.  “Happens all the time.  No problem.” 

I jumped to my feet and strolled over to the rest of the chaperones, ignoring the aches and pains.  We got our lunch and went to the park.  We had a great time at Universal although I inadvertantly rode a roller coaster.  I thought Revenge of The Mummy was one of those rides where you sit in a car and they flash movie scenes at you.  By the time the line wound it’s way into the building, signs started popping up warning us that it was actually a “HIGH SPEED THRILL RIDE”!  There were depictions of cartoon people having heart attacks and suffering paralysis from the whipping motion of the ride.  I started to panic a wee bit.

I am not a high speed thrill ride kind of gal.  My idea of a thrill ride is Small World at Disney.  By the time we got to the front of the line, I was hyperventilating.  I approached the attendant who obviously had worked too many hours that day and asked timidly “Is it very scary?”

To which she replied ”You’ll be fine, now get on the ride!!!!”  With great trepidation, I boarded the ride and immediately closed my eyes.  I kept them closed through the whole thing.  The Mummy might be scary, but I was too busy scaring myself with visions of medics carting me off to the hospital to restart my heart.  I survived the ride, but just barely!

By the time we returned to the hotel that night, I was beyond exhausted.  I was anticipating a good night’s sleep without the benefit of medication!  The schedule had been adjusted so we could sleep a little later in the morning.  My roomie and I were tucked snug in our beds by 10:30 and I drifted off almost immediately.

The next thing I knew, a loud, klaxon alarm was blaring.  Lights were flashing and a tinny male voice was shouting:  SMOKE HAS BEEN DETECTED ON YOUR FLOOR; PLEASE VACATE YOUR ROOM AND EVACUATE THE PREMISES IMMEDIATELY!!!!

I sat up groggily and stared at the clock:  2:30 a.m.  A sick joke, one that was not funny.  However, the voice continued insistently, begging us to get out now before it was too late.  I looked at my roommate and we started laughing. 

“Oh no,” she said “this is not EVEN happening.”  Unfortunately, it was.  I slipped on my shoes and grabbed the room key and we headed out the door in our pajamas.  The two chaperones in the room next to ours were already heading down the stairs, so we followed them. 

Down the stairs, out into the damp night air we went along with all the other guests.  We stood in a shivering, huddled knot, trying to figure out what was going on.  After a few minutes, we realized two of our number were missing, so we called them.  “This is not a joke,” Mrs. P barked into the phone, “get downstairs now!!”

A few minutes later, they joined us, in their pajamas, hair standing up, etc.  Did I mention one of them was the interim choir director who had graciously accompanied us at the last minute because the original choir director took a sudden leave of absence?  I’m sure she was regretting having ever said yes!  There we stood, freezing and miserable, wondering how well everyone at the Double Tree was sleeping.

We stood for about ten more minutes and still the fire department did not appear.  By this time, we realized some stupid kid had pulled the alarm, so we started heading toward the lobby.  As we walked, lights started flashing and we looked up and realized there was a group of kids standing in their windows, taking pictures of us.  When I say I was overcome by a murderous rage, I am not exaggerating.  I took careful note of where they were so I could rat them out the next day.

We crowded into the lobby with the Irish and everyone else and huddled up.  There was a single attendant on duty at the desk and she did not seem particularly interested in our plight.  Finally the fire department showed up, yawning and scratching themselves.  I walked up to the one who went to the desk and said “I can show you where they were.”

He looked at me blankly for a moment and then said “nothing we can do about it.  can’t prove it.”

I wanted to scream.  “Can’t we prosecute?” I begged.  “Or can’t you at least go bang on their doors with your pole and scare them??”

He just stared at me, so I took that to mean he didn’t care we had been rudely awakened from a sound sleep and herded like cattle out the door.  I shuffled back to my group and said “let’s go to bed.”

We went back upstairs to try and catch a few more minutes of sleep before we had to get up again.  It took me over an hour to fall asleep because I was so keyed up from everything that had happened.  A fall and a fire all in one day….how much more could I take???

I will never leave home without a laptop computer again. I could have blogged for hours every day and I had NO WAY to communicate. Let me tell you, the physical withdrawal symptoms were agonizing! Anytime I saw someone with a laptop, my hands started shaking and I foamed at the mouth. I have SO MUCH TO SAY about Florida!!

We left bright and early Wednesday morning. Napoleon was in a frenzy because we were five minutes late and he was sure they were going to leave without us. That started us out on a sour note. Naturally, they did not leave without us and we were on the bus and ready to go by 7:30. I chose a seat in the back so I would have a good view of any monkey sex. I was highly disappointed when they all went to sleep.

It was very uneventful….that is, until we got to our destination. From that moment on, the trip was action packed and fraught with danger. We arrived at the hotel around 10 p.m. eastern time. I was exhausted and achy from the ride and wanted nothing more than to stretch out on a bed and slip into a coma. Alas, it was not to be.

The teacher in charge stood in a corner and told the kids who to see to get their room keys. She made no mention of the adult chaperones. I stood there with my suitcase and tote bag and watched the kids get their room assignments and one by one, disappear. Finally, I walked up to her and asked who the chaperones needed to see for their keys.

“Oh, the chaperones aren’t staying here,” she said distractedly.

Come again???

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” I asked, positive I had misheard her.

“They didn’t have room here, so the chaperones are staying at the Holiday Inn across the street. Mrs. M has all the info.”

Hmmm, this was an interesting turn of events. Chaperones are usually most effective when they are in close proximity to their charges. It was going to be extremely difficult to keep monkey sex at bay when we were in another hotel. I walked over to Mrs. M. and asked her about the hotel situation. She confirmed it and said “Mrs. B has all the details.”

Whoa….stop the presses! I felt like I was the birdie in a badminton game. “No,” I told her, “Mrs. B. sent me to you.”

“Oh.” She looked askance at me for a moment then said “well, they didn’t have enough rooms here, so the chaperones and the bus drivers are staying at the Holiday Inn. The buses will take you over there.” She scurried off, obviously aware the news was going to make her less than popular.

I stood, mouth agape, trying to process the information. Across the street? With the bus drivers? Away from the children? And why was I here?

Finally, I mobilized and went and told the other chaperones. Who went into a frenzy and immediately went to the hotel desk demanding we be accommodated. I stood there lost for a few minutes, then I grabbed a bus driver and said “let’s go.” Because I was tired and at this point, I didn’t care if I was staying on a different CONTINENT from the kids. I just wanted to go to bed.

He and I got in the bus and headed across the street and went in to the Holiday Inn. The lobby was crammed full of people and suitcases. The tour director greeted us apologetically and told us there were three rooms reserved for us there. “But what about the bus drivers?” I asked.

She looked at me in confusion. “I wasn’t in charge of the bus drivers,” she said. “I only have rooms for the chaperones.” I made my way to the desk to see about rooms for the chaperones and the bus drivers (and just why in the HELL was I in charge anyway??) and discovered an entire group of Irish dancers had arrived from Ireland a DAY EARLY and the manager was trying to find rooms for them. Which explained why the lobby looked like an airport terminal in hell.

About that time, my fellow chaperones wandered in with the rest of the bus drivers, having had no success getting rooms at the plush Double Tree Inn where our children and their teachers were staying. I apprised them of the situation which was: there were only three rooms available and we needed six. The bus drivers were threatening to drive back to Birmingham if they didn’t get their own rooms and I was hoping I would have an aneurysm on the spot so I could forget about the whole thing.  We offered to double up and share rooms, but the bus drivers crossed their arms over their chests and stated “We don’t sleep with nobody; we sleep alone.”

The bus drivers were grumbling, the mothers were mewling and the Irish were restless. Something in me snapped and I grabbed my cell phone and called the band director who was in charge of the whole thing. He was not scheduled to arrive until the next day. The other moms regarded me with a mixture of awe, horror, and admiration.

“Hey Mike,” I said when he answered. I identified myself and then told him cheerfully the bus drivers were threatening to leave because they had no rooms and I wondered what we were supposed to do about it?

“Mrs M. is supposed to be in charge,” he said.

“Well, she’s staying in a different hotel and she’s not answering her cell phone,” I told him, “and the drivers have no rooms and they are threatening to leave. Just thought you might want to know.”

He told me he would call her IMMEDIATELY and straighten out the situation. We stood with our Irish friends for a few moments, commiserating about our bad starts, when my phone rang again. The bus drivers had been placed in the Holiday Inn Express, thereby averting a crisis. The tour director was still there and she was blaming the teacher who was blaming her and I just didn’t give a crap. I got myself registered, got a key and headed upstairs.

I opened the door to the room and threw my stuff down. My roommate was behind me and she came in and looked around in disgust. It wasn’t the worst hotel I’ve stayed in, but it wasn’t anything like the children’s hotel either. They had a Starbucks and plasma screen TVs. We had spider infested drapes and the sink was coming off the wall. We walked out in the hall and discovered the third member of our party could not get her door open. She was close to tears and I offered to go down and get a new key card.

I walked downstairs and the lobby was still packed with the Irish dancers, their luggage and their children. It was chaos. I walked over to the creepy dude who had checked us in and told him about the key.

“Oh, we always have problems with that door,” he said. “I’ll call maintenance.”

I went back upstairs and ran into the maintenance guy, so I handed him the key and walked to the room with him. The other moms were milling around nervously. It was after 11:00 by this time and we were running on caffeine and fumes.

The guy tried the key again and it didn’t work. Then he slipped his passkey in and the green light blinked. He tried the handle, but the door wouldn’t open. He looked at me like it was my fault and said “it’s blocked.” Then he tried to open it again, pushing hard, throwing his shoulder into it.

About that time, we all realized the obvious. Maybe you’ve figured it out already. The room was occupied and the occupant suddenly popped up out of bed in a very pissed off manner. He lurched toward the door, his hair standing out at a crazy angle which is not too surprising considering we had just woken him up from a sound sleep. “VOT IS ZE PROBLEM?” he shouted. “ZEES IS MY ROOM!”

The maintenance guy apologized profusely, while we cowered a little ways down the hall. After the door closed, the maintenance man came up to us and said “There was someone in that room.” He didn’t get to be top engineer of third shift for nothin’!! We showed him the cardboard slip that had contained the key and that was very clearly marked with the room number. He scrutinized it carefully, seemingly convinced we had been trying to break into a strange foreign man’s room. AS IF!

It was late, I was tired and now I was pissed off as well. We headed back down to the lobby AGAIN to tell the creepy dude he had given us an occupied room. It took fifteen minutes to sort out but finally, we had another key for another room. We went back upstairs and got everyone settled in their rooms. By midnight, we were all finally tucked into our beds for our first night in the Roach Motel with only six hours to go before wake-up call.  Six hours to sleep, perchance to dream of pissed off foreigners threatening to behead us for breaking into occupied hotel rooms….

To be continued….

I am back from the fabulous girls weekend away.  We had a great time.  The cottage was like something out of a storybook, with stone walls and wood floors.  I kept expecting the Seven Dwarfs to burst through at any time, demanding we cook and clean for them.  Just like home!

I showed off my bruise from the stick incident and it elicited gasps of horror.  And that’s a week later!  Kiki says I should get my hubby to take a picture of it so I can post it on the blog but even I draw the line at posting pictures of my butt on the internet.  It would probably spark some sort of international incident and possibly even cause an outbreak of plague.

Today I am trying to clean house so I can leave again on Wednesday.  I just cleaned my bathroom which was absolutely horrifying.  I seem to be the only person in the entire household that can urinate into the toilet instead of on it or around it.  We may have to revisit Potty Training 101, starting with my hubby!!

I have tons of laundry to do, suitcases to locate and packing to do.  All so I can go on a FABULOUS trip to Orlando with the high school choir!!  How lucky am I??  Maybe some teenagers will snort cocaine in the seat in front of me.  Or perhaps they will engage in illegal sex acts right there on the bus!  I can hardly wait!!   And I get to be the fun adult who turns them in for obeying their biological urges!  What in the HELL was I thinking when I signed up for this trip????

Regardless, it’s too late to back out now.  I am on the official list of “Adults in Charge of Supervising Highly Sexed Hormone Crazed Prescription Drug Addled Teens Who Want to Fornicate Like Monkeys All the Way To Florida”.  I plan on writing a best seller when I get home!

Ok, enough about me!  I am going to fold laundry now and practice my surveillance techniques for the trip!!  I don’t want to miss anything that might be worth blogging about!