Daily Diatribes

Dear Karen, I am not nasty and bitter. I am a parent who believes I have a responsibility to my children and to society to produce adults who are capable of functioning in the real world. So while you are spoon feeding butternut squash puree to your twenty year old college drop outs, my kids will be running the world. ‘Nuff said? <P />

I took a shower today, even though I really don’t need one until Wednesday or Thursday. But I have to run errands and I always feel beholden to society to freshen up a bit before I mingle. I think I’m going to move to France. They don’t bathe, they don’t shave and they drink wine all day. I think French society would be a much better fit for me. However, for the moment I am still bound by American custom, so I bathed.

While in the shower, I felt an urge come upon me to void my bladder. This, despite the fact I had already voided said bladder before entering the shower. A woman of a certain age begins to experience difficulty in controlling these urges, especially a woman who has given birth three times. I hurried through the rest of my toilette so I could use the toilet.

Upon exiting the shower, I grabbed a towel and rushed toward the potty. I stepped off the bath rug, slipped on a wet spot and became airborne. As I soared through the air, a peaceful feeling settled upon me. I was no longer in control of my own destiny. Nay, my entire being now rested in the hands of the Almighty and where and how I fell was at the discretion of the Lord. There is something very spiritual about surrendering your destiny so completely to a higher Authority. ‘Yea, though I slip upon the valley of the bathroom floor, I will fear no broken bones for the Lord is my shepherd and He maketh me to land softly’.

After an eternity in space, I thumped back to the ground, landing in a wet, untidy heap on top of the dog who had been snoozing on the floor. That’s the thing about golden retrievers; they are very social and they like to be wherever their master might be, no matter how dangerous. In this case, her faithfulness was NOT well rewarded. She let out a yelp and jumped to her feet.

I lay there on the floor, my life flashing before my eyes, body aching everywhere. The dog sniffed me cautiously, possibly to verify whether I was alive or possibly just to make sure I wasn’t going to hit her again. But did Lassie go and dial 911 for me? Did she unlock the front door and go bounding down to Nancy’s house to alert her to my distress?? Did she even nudge me and try to verify I was still alive?? No!! Stupid dog moved away a few feet and then settled back down to resume her nap. I guess I should be glad she didn’t try to eat my face off while I was lying there.

I groaned and rolled over and hoisted myself to my feet, taking damage inventory. Pride….damaged beyond repair. Everything else….slightly bruised but still working. I hobbled toward the potty and sank down, relieved to be alive and relieving myself. And even more relieved that I didn’t have to call for the EMT’s. One of my worst nightmares is to slip in the shower and to be found naked. I would rather the dog ate my face off than to be found naked.

For now, my lower back is in slight distress, but aside from that, I’m in pretty good shape. The dog has moved on to nap on my red leather chaise, correctly identifying it as a safer place to rest. And I am going to call Lowe’s to see about getting shag carpeting installed in my bathroom!!

Lest you all think I am a nagging, heartless bitch (which of course I am) let me also add my son is absolutely amazing in so many respects!! He just needs to manage his time better!! And what else should a mother do but nag???

Today my 15 year old son informed me he was doing poorly in high school because of my negative attitude. His exact words were “I’m doing bad in high school because you’re so negative all the time.” Yes, the child mouthed these words. The child who at birth weighed 9 lbs 12 oz, rending me asunder with his gigantic head. I still haven’t recovered from that one. No wonder I’m negative.

This conversation was taking place as the bus was pulling up in front of our house and he was screaming at me that he needed a pair of black socks. Mind you, he had been awake for over an hour but he was just now mentioning the socks. The reason he had not located the socks before this, he said, was because I had forced him to study for his vocabulary test. This caused me to sensibly point out that he was disorganized and he needed to get his act together or else he would end up flipping burgers for a living because he wouldn’t be able to make it through Junior College. That was when he called me negative.

Here’s what has me so crazed. He has a vocabulary test every Friday. It’s never a surprise, it happens every week like clockwork. But when Thursday night rolls around, he acts shocked about his impending vocabulary test. He begins frantically cramming, trying to memorize the definition, part of speech, antonyms and synonyms for twenty words. On Friday, he is even more shocked when he blows the test. As the nine weeks comes to a close, the highest grade he has pulled out has been a 90. That’s an A- folks. And that’s one of his only high grades in the class. I don’t think I’m being unreasonable or negative here. If he were doing poorly on pop quizzes, of course I would give him the benefit of the doubt. But in fact, he is delaying studying for a weekly test that should be an easy “A” and he’s coming up short every week.

This causes me to gnash my teeth and roll my eyes and growl a lot. I’m not one of those “you have to make straight A’s or else I will cane you” kind of parents. But dammit, if you’re gonna sign up for an AP class, be prepared to do the work. Or prepare yourself to listen to my negativity. Call me cruel, but I am not going to pat him lovingly on the head and say “Son, I am so proud of you for having a 72 in English!!” To hell with his self esteem, I want him to move out of my house one day!! I’m going to bust his chops about his study habits, his grades, and his general proclivity for procrastination, an unfortunate genetic trait he shares with me. I am a follower of the time honored tradition of NAGGING which means I hammer him relentlessly until he finally agrees to study. Because I AM A NAG!!! And proud of it!! 

Of course he ended up missing the bus, so I had to drive him to school. In my pajamas. And I nagged him all the way there. Someday in the near future, when he’s climbed that clock tower and he’s picking off innocent students one by one, I guess I’ll feel bad. However, I’ll be there for him, nagging at him through the bullhorn the SWAT team hands me that if he would only have studied harder and taken more personal responsibility, he wouldn’t be in this mess!!

Today my patience was sorely tested. Excepting during certain hormonal fluctuations, I am a reasonably patient person. I can sit through endless games of Candy Land, drill people on spelling words repeatedly and launch a child on a solo bicycle ride without ever raising my voice. I am adept at putting the needs of others before my own. Most mothers are gifted this way.

It’s no wonder then, that teaching the 15 year old to drive has fallen to me. I know I have discoursed upon this more than once, but it is a topic of endless fascination. To place a child at the wheel of a very large vehicle and put your life in his hands gives one plenty of blog material. Today, he got off the bus and wanted to go to a friend’s house. I told him to ride his bike, but the tires were flat. So the Suburban came out of the garage after all.

He wanted to drive and I let him. I want him to have lots of real experience driving so when he does get his license, he has a better than average chance of not being killed. It’s probably a pipe dream, but one I cling to fervently. He backed out of the driveway, narrowly avoiding scraping off the passenger side mirror. As I once amputated said mirror that way myself, I didn’t feel in a position to cast stones, so I was quiet. He roared up to the stop sign and slammed on the brakes. “Gently, son,” I said mildly.

He roared up to the next stop sign and came to a complete stop. He then proceeded to make a wide right turn, nearly swiping the car coming in the other lane. “SLOW DOWN,” I said a bit more sharply.

“Sorry, my fault,” he mumbled. Um, yeah!! I’m not pulling the strings over here in the passenger seat!! He drove down the street, moving all the way to the other lane to avoid a lady walking a poodle. He roared up to the last Stop sign, turned right, and pulled up in front of his friend’s house. And he put the car in park.

Oh, did I neglect to mention the car was STILL MOVING WHEN HE PUT IT IN PARK?????? I think you could run a litter of kittens through the dryer and the resulting sound wouldn’t even compare in terms of horror. My poor engine went “RROFORORRJJRJRJRLWLWLWLWLLWLWLWLWLLWLWLW” and ground to a halt.

“OH my God,” I screamed, “YOU NEED TO BRAKE FIRST!!!!!!!!!!!!!! IDIOT!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Screw self esteem; this is my car we’re talking about!!!

Napoleon looked at me, befuddled, and said “Did I do that???”

There was lots of smoke, but fortunately it was all coming from my ears. “Get out of my car right now,” I ground out through clenched teeth. By the time I had opened my door and circled around to the driver’s side, he had darted away, up the drive. Young animals have a strong sense of self preservation. The car does not seem to have suffered any adverse effects. My nerves are a different story. And I am so glad I was the one in the car, not Hugo, or this story would have had a different ending. It would have ended with news trucks pulling up to my house to ask why my husband pounded my son to a pulp on a quiet neighborhood street in broad daylight. I wonder if Napoleon would make the same noise the engine made as his Daddy beat the stuffing out of him??

Hugo is off one day a week and on that day, I am expected to keep him company all day long. We eat breakfast at the Cracker Barrel and then run errands together. I am getting a glimpse of what retirement has to offer. I’m praying for early onset Alzheimer’s! Him or me, doesn’t matter!!

On the plus side, I usually get a couple of meals out of him. We ate lunch at the country club, along with twenty or so Bridge playing ladies. Retirement…gaaaahhhh!!! We sat in the bar and watched Fox news. “Rats and snakes in Galveston Texas!!” “The economy is faltering”!! “Obama is a Muslim with ties to 15 different terror organizations, including UNICEF!!”

And then the headline that topped them all. The one that had me reeling back in my chair, gasping for breath, trying to make sense of a world suddenly gone berserk. I suspect I will look back as people do and remember exactly where I was when the news broke. I remember every second of 9/11 and the day my mother died. I know today’s news will have a similar impact on my memory banks. The TV behind the bar was tuned to CNN which shows far more interesting news than Fox. A People magazine cover flashed on the screen and proclaimed the terrible truth for all the world: CLAY AIKEN REVEALS HE IS GAY!!!

What???? It can’t be true!!! That skinny awkward kid from North Carolina who croons soulfully about puppies is gay??!! The one who just fathered a child via artificial insemination with a family friend is GAY????

Let me tell you, I was shattered. Nothing is sacred anymore, NOTHING!!! Not even the knowledge that John Henry is from Leeds can take away the sting of Clay Aiken’s gayness. I mean, who would have ever guessed??? Ok, so he was never linked romantically with Britney Spears. He’s just shy, right? And he adapted that weird, David Bowie sort of hairstyle a few years ago. He’s just on the cutting edge, right?? But GAY???

I guess next we’ll be finding out that Barack Obama isn’t black or Muslim. He’s probably just real tan like me. And Sarah Palin probably has a secret stash of first editions of “Catcher in the Rye”, that little minx!! None of my assumptions hold water anymore. I really can’t judge a book by its cover. Clay Aiken GAY!! That’s a shocker!!!

Ah, the tall tales of our youth! Who can forget Paul Bunyan and his big blue ox, Babe? Or how about Pecos Bill and his horse, Widowmaker? And who could forget John Henry, the Steel Drivin’ Man??? But John Henry was no tall tale. He was real you know.

Yep, not only was he real, he was born and raised not thirty miles away from Birmingham Alabama in a town called Leeds. He was born into slavery, to a kind master named Dabney. And thanks to the largesse of Massuh Dabney, he would go on to achieve immortality by dying in a steel driving contest so that Dabney could win a free steam drill. What a guy!!

Saturday, I attend the first ever “John Henry Days”, commemorating the mighty steel driver’s achievement. It was a slightly surreal experience, to say the least. By the end of the day, I felt I had wandered on to the set of a movie, one about a small town producing a play based on a “real” fictional character. The whole town seemed to be involved and they embraced their roles with gusto. At the end, the gentleman who spoke advised us we would be able to tell our grandchildren we had been a part of history by attending the very first “John Henry Days.” I could hardly contain my excitement. Me, a part of history!!

I don’t mean to sound nasty. I enjoyed the production, although it was somewhat long winded. Way too much narration!! As the play opened and the narrator began speaking, a real train blew its whistle. He laughed and was silent for a moment, then he started again. The whistle blew again, drowning him out. The audience chuckled. He made a third try but then the actual train appeared and thundered past us. We were, after all, at the depot, right next to the train tracks.

It was a loooooonnnnnnnggggggggggg train and it took several minutes. As soon as the whistle was out of earshot, the narrator launched into his spiel with gusto, telling us all about young John Henry’s upbringing. The couple playing his parents were delightful, particularly the gentleman playing his daddy. But the dialogue was somewhat uncomfortable for me. We should never forget slavery existed in our country. We should educate our children so that nothing like that ever exists again. However, seeing living, breathing 21st century African Americans bowing and scraping to a kindly white “massuh”, even in the context of a play, was a bit disturbing. Particularly since the scene was drawn out longer than it should have been and the “massuh” seemed to play his role with such gusto.

Discomfort aside, the production lost all credibility when the adult John Henry came onstage. All the players had been reasonably well costumed, according to the era. John Henry emerged wearing an old pair of overalls, one strap dangling down past his love handles. And his BVD’s. The goddess turned to me with wide eyes and said “mommy, you can see his UNDERWEAR!!!” Even if Hanes was a recognized brand in the 1800’s, I’m pretty sure tighty whities weren’t widely available. And that’s what old John was wearing. Every time he sauntered past us, we got a clear glimpse of the word “Hanes” worked into the waistband of his drawers. Sort of killed the 19th century vibe the director was going for. The expanse of belly revealed was somewhat disheartening as well.

During the rest of the production, several more trains thundered past. As the patent lawyer extolled the virtues of his steam drill and moaned about the weeks of no rain, it started to sprinkle. And I got extremely nervous when John Henry performed his feat of strength right in front of where we were sitting. I had a vision of his mighty hammer flying out of his mighty hands and clonking me squarely between the eyes. Which I probably deserved for having snickered at his undies. He wasn’t swinging very hard, but accidents happen!

I’m glad I went and was able to witness this small piece of history. Perhaps next year, the director could cast the gentleman who played John Henry’s daddy as John Henry instead. I think he would have looked a whole lot better in the overalls!! I have to admit, I have my doubts as to whether John Henry existed and my doubt escalates at the notion that his mighty feat of strength occurred right up the road. But every small town needs a claim to fame, so why shouldn’t Leeds have JH?
I’m glad we went. My suggestion to the hi

The goddess awoke this morning with a sore throat. With great trepidation, I peered down her gullet and saw to my dismay her tonsils were touching her uvula. Dr. Renee, being a woman of great faith, does not keep office hours on Sunday. So off we trooped to American Family Care, our local doc in the box.

Luckily, we got there right after it opened and we were in and out within the hour. I was disturbed to note her weight was 66.6. I immediately checked her scalp for marks of the Beast, but there were no other visible signs that she is the Anti-Christ, although she frequently exhibits behavior in keeping with the image. We were escorted to a room, the throat was swabbed and we waited. The strep test was positive, as I knew it would be. The dead roach in the lobby seemed to wink at me reassuringly as we walked out of the building as if to say “See you’re not such a bad mom after all!!”

Today is Brownie day and we were going hiking at the state park. The positive strep test rendered the goddess unfit for this activity and a great wailing ensued. To pacify her, we went to Wal-Mart to fill the scrip and pick a movie to watch in lieu of the hike. When we got to Wal-Mart, the pharmacy wasn’t going to open for another fifteen minutes, so we strolled around to pick out the movie and scope out possible Christmas gifts. Anyone want to buy the kid a video camera because that’s what she says she wants?? I think at age 7, she can plan on receiving Polly Pockets for a couple more years!!

We picked the movie (Scooby Doo and the Pirates) and then went to the pharmacy. We still had five minutes, so I sat down and took my blood pressure (132/87) and the goddess went to check out the Halloween costume offerings. There was an elderly couple waiting stiffly on the bench underneath the window. Mr. looked at his watch and hmmphed “two minutes to 10 and no pharmacist in sight!”

Mrs. said “I came last night at 7 and they were already closed!!” The both sneered disapprovingly. I clutched my scrip and waited. About that time, the pharmacist strolled up and eyed us all out of the corner of his eye as he punched in the security code. He entered the pharmacy and immediately went to open the Drop Off window. Meanwhile, the elderly couple went right, to the pick up window.

I walked over to the window and waited as he raised the thingy and then handed him my scrip and insurance card. While he was taking down my info, Mrs. stomped over and said “EXCUSE ME, I was here first and I have to get to church!!!!!”

I looked at her in shock and stammered “Oh, um, I’m so sorry, you went to the other window, so I came to this one. I didn’t mean to get ahead of you.”

“It’s fine,” she said, “but I need to pick up my prescriptions. I came last night at 7,” here, she glared malevolently at the pharmacist, “but you were already CLOSED!”

I slunk away to pay for my other purchases, leaving him to deal with the charm school dropouts. When we returned, the area was clear. I went to the pick up window and the pharmacist looked up and said fearfully “I’m working on it right now!!”

“No problem,” I said cheerfully. “I’m not going to church this morning!!”

He smiled and said confidingly “I can’t believe it when people are so mean and they’re on their way to church; what’s the point in going?”
“Next time,” I counseled wisely, “look at her and say ‘Ma’am, what WOULD Jesus do?’” We both laughed unkindly. Because I’m an unkind person. But I don’t get cranky with people who are trying to help me. After all, the pharmacist is the one who mixes up those prescriptions and do you really want him to slip a laxative into your allergy medicine? If a waiter will spit in your soup, a pharmacist could surely slip some placebos into your viagra!

We got the prescription and came home. The goddess choked down a dose and now she is happily ensconced on the couch, watching “Scooby Doo.” I, however, still have to go on the stupid hike since I am the stupid leader. I think I feel a sore throat coming on…..

Last night, Hugo and I decided to go out to eat all by ourselves. You poor suckers with toddlers can only fantasize about this day, but it does come eventually. Along with demands for the car keys and designer purses, but the freedom is worth it. Besides, I just say no to everything!

My husband and I have been together for over twenty years and going out to eat involves the time honored ritual of arguing over where we are going to eat. It goes like this:
Hugo: Where do you want to go eat?
Me: I don’t care, I’m not that hungry.
Hugo: Just tell me where you want to go.
Me: You’re the picky one (true) so you pick and I’ll be happy wherever we go.
Hugo: I don’t care where we go. You pick.
Me: Fine, how about ??? me naming a place I know he doesn’t like, because I can be a bitch that way.
Hugo: (wrinkles his nose in distaste) Anywhere but there.
Me: Look, I really don’t care. (I proceed to name fifteen places, all of which are shot down by him)
Hugo: So where do you want to go?
Me: (screeching) I DON”T CARE. PICK A GD RESTAURANT!!!!!!!!!!

It takes about thirty minutes for us to choose a destination. He refuses to choose, but he doesn’t want to eat at any of the places I suggest. He’s very passive aggressive that way. Last night, after ten rounds, we decided to go for pizza. There is a fabulous pizza place tucked away in a strip mall that we don’t visit nearly often enough, so off we went. As we parked, he said “It’s beautiful out here. Should we eat outside?”
I said “All I care about is drinking a beer.”

“Hmmmm,” he said, “Last time we were here, we weren’t allowed to drink on the patio.”
We went inside and placed our orders and he asked about the drinking rule.
“Well,” the cashier said, “the county won’t let you serve alcohol outside unless you have a fence up and it’s finally up, so you’re fine.” We thanked her, I popped open my Corona, and we headed outside. And beheld the fence.

Let’s take a moment to consider famous barriers in history. There’s the Great Wall of China, which was erected to keep those pesky Huns out of the Imperial City. Worked pretty well as I recall. Wall is still there, visible from space; very impressive. Or the Berlin Wall, erected to keep those pesky Commies out of civilized Germany. Worked pretty well until Reagan ordered Gorby to tear it down. My husband actually patrolled that very wall when he was in the Army. Or how about the most recent barrier, the great Fence that is supposed to keep those pesky illegal Mexicans contained. Judging from the well kempt lawns in my neighborhood, it’s not functioning very well at all. I guess 2 out of 3 ain’t bad.

With those famous barriers in mind, I beheld the fence that was supposed to keep my sinful beer drinking from corrupting those seeking to eat their pizza in Christian peace. The fence was about chest high to me, which makes it about four feet tall. It’s black and very attractive, with a nice gate that presumably can be closed at night. And I failed to see just how it affected my beer drinking. I was still in plain view of everyone who approached the restaurant. I was able to leer at them drunkenly as I sipped the golden, hops infused goodness.

Way down here in the Deep South, beer drinking is immoral. Actually, I’m a Catholic, so most everything I do is viewed as immoral. We use real wine during Communion, not that wimpy grape juice crap. Trust me, our Saviour’s grapes were fermented and He wouldn’t have it any other way!! Being a beer drinking Catholic is a risky proposition in Alabama. The fact that I have now plastered a “Soccer Mom For Obama” tag on my car, next to my beloved “Fish n Chips” symbol makes me a highly visible target for the KKK.

So I sat on the patio and pondered the fence and the crime of beer drinking. Were county officials afraid I was going to overindulge in Corona, jump on the table and belt out “Copacabana”? Mind you, it’s always a possibility with me, but the fence is no deterrent and beer is not necessary!! If the fence wasn’t to hide the beer drinking, then what was it for? How does a four foot tall fence with its bars spaced wide apart make my beer consumption more tolerable for the Baptists???

Maybe the gate is to lock the beer drinkers on to the patio should they become too rowdy. But the fence is only four feet tall, so we could jump it easily, singing Manilow tunes all the while. And the patrons inside had a clear view of us out there on the patio. Maybe it’s cheaper to fence drunken patrons out on the patio to entertain the inside patrons than it is to hire a band!!

As I was pondering, the gentleman who was seated a few tables away got up to make a beer run. He came back out with his Miller Lite clutched in his fist and stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk. “Damn,” he muttered as he righted himself. He staggered on to his table, plunked down and resumed the heated discussion he had been having with his table mate. He brandished his beer and said “she’s gettin’ a damn education degree. I don’t know what the fuck she’s gonna do with it when she graduates!!!!” Aha, so the fence exists to keep people like him corralled!!!

However, I still fail to appreciate the county’s reasoning. I hardly think patrons are going to lose their heads and charge into the parking lot waving their beers about. Well, unless a really good Barry Manilow song comes on. I might just lead a drunken riot to the parking lot, with me belting out “Mandy” at the top of my beer soaked lungs!!!

The day after the roadkill post, I was driving Napoleon to school. Just up the street from my house, an opossum lay in the road, mangled from recent contact with someone’s tires. As we passed it, Napoleon said “mom, was that thing moving??”

I, of course, had refused to look at it, but I told him no, it was probably just the wind stirring its fur. However, a few hours later, Nancy called me and said “did you see the half- dead roadkill on our street?? It has managed to pull itself to the side of the road!!” Apparently Napoleon was correct in his assessment of movement. I described the situation to Gina (not her real name) and Teensy over lunch yesterday and noted how badly I felt that the creature had suffered.

“You should have run over it,” said Gina.

“Hell no,” I shot back, “I might have seen its guts!!! They would have gotten on my tires.”
“You could have just run over its head,” said Teensy wisely. However, Teensy has not visited here lately and did not read Buddha Girl’s abominable story about raccoon heads rattling around in wheel wells. There was no WAY I was going to run over that opossum’s head. However, I will offer up a small prayer for it and for the souls of all tiny, furry creatures who are stupid enough to scuttle in front of 2 ton vehicles.

Today, I went to walk Barbara’s dog. I have been neglecting Barbara lately, so I was happy to go over there and get Dallas out of her hair for awhile. I walked him up the street and we turned on to the cart path that runs the length of the golf course. A disturbing sight greeted me. Just off the path was a stake and impaled on the stake was a stuffed squirrel. No, I am not making this up. And no, I did not impale the squirrel. I stared at it for several minutes, pondering what it might mean. Is someone placing voodoo curses on the squirrel population?? I’m all in for that one! Is it a warning to squirrels that humans are not to be trifled with? Is it the work of some deranged serial killer who has targeted me as his next victim and left a sign that only I can interpret? Not that I can interpret it, but still….who else hates squirrels like me?? It’s very strange, I tell you.

I am currently overwhelmed with non-paying volunteer jobs. Does anyone want to see the list? I’ve never set it down in black and white, but here goes:
Girl Scout leader, two troops
Currently planning major girl scout event with older girls, an event that will host over 100 people for a weekend
Asst Room mother for goddess
8th grade coordinator for MA
Publicist for Fine Arts Board
Communications officer for school choir
office sub at middle school and high school

I think there’s more stuff, but I can’t remember it all. I’ve forgotten to show up to the office sub job for two weeks in a row. Do you think they’ll fire me???

Alright, I’m sure there’s something else I wanted to gripe about, but I can’t remember right now. Here’s a funny from MA though. We were driving home from girl scout camp Sunday and she said “Did you see that sign??? It said “HUMAN CUISINE”!!!! The sign in question actually read “HUNAN Cuisine” and it’s a Chinese restaurant. Still, her version conjured up some very interesting images: ‘THEY’RE EATING PEOPLE!!!!!!!!’. Thank you Charlton Heston and RIP!!