Daily Diatribes

I mean everyone’s is, right? Still, I give myself the prize for most over committed and most likely to be committed to a mental institution before the end of the school year!! I am keeping up an absolutely murderous pace and I suspect I cannot keep it going for long. One day soon you’re going to find a blog entry authored by Joe (not his real name) or Gina (not her real name) begging your pardon for the long absence and giving you the address to send care packages to, no sharp objects please. I look forward to the rubber room; it will be nice and quiet. Plus, maybe I can organize some events for the other patients and possibly spearhead a committee or two….

I subbed on Thursday and Friday in MA’s class again. And I have learned that teaching is a DAMN HARD JOB!!! I worked my butt off for that $75 a day which I now realize is a pittance. The school board must laugh anew each time it processes a sucker substitute application. I had to actually run around all day, TEACH material and try to keep them all from killing/impregnating each other. By the end of Friday, as I crawled out of the classroom, I swore I was going to crawl right on down to Burger King and apply for a job. Flipping burgers would probably be easier and more rewarding!!

Today I supervised MA’s girl scout troop as they worked on their Silver Award project. The project involves clearing and restoring a trail. Anyone who is lacking excitement in life should supervise a group of thirteen year old girls wielding an array of razor sharp gardening tools. It went about like I thought it would. MA and her friend each grabbed the biggest, sharpest thing they could find and tore off down the trail, hacking with glee. The other girls followed along and watched in awe. In ten minutes, MA and buddy were back and figured we were done for the day.

I then inducted them into REAL LIFE and showed them how to mark off a section and work systematically. They still got to use the big sharp tools, but my heart rate slowed a little because they were not quite as crazed. They sawed down trees and cleared underbrush and we actually accomplished a lot. I was very proud, but this project is going to take SEVERAL weekends. hooray.

From the trail, we went to a basketball game. MA scored two points and didn’t foul out which means she had a great game!! She plays for our church and it’s amazing how ugly the games can get. They played the B team from Church and…well….let’s just say it wasn’t the nicest game ever played. Basketball brings out the beast in Catholics. Turns us into raving maniacs. I think Apostolic Succession conferred more than just the ability to transform bread and wine. Jesus also gave Peter his playbook and basketball shoes too.

After the basketball game, we rushed straight to MA’s indoor soccer game. It’s a very brutal game, sort of a cross between rugby and dodgeball. The opposing team was a bit brutish and I’m afraid I lost my head and turned into one of THOSE parents. Yes, I became the crazed, screaming parent who yelled nasty things. I’m not proud. Well, ok, I’m a little proud. I didn’t get into a fist fight or anything that will make me CNN’s lead story tonight. But when some big, brutal girl (who may have had a mustache, I’m not sure..) pushed MA from behind with both hands and caused her to stumble, I got a little crazy. I stood up and screamed at the top of my lungs “THROW HER OUT REF!!!!” Sadly, he ignored my advice but did award MA a penalty kick. Which she kicked straight at the girl, causing her to duck and me to scream “THAT’S RIGHT, TAKE HER HEAD OFF!!!!” Not one of my finer moments. And then a few minutes later, when yet another brute committed another heinous foul, I might have been heard to wail “WHAT WAS THAT?????? FOUL!!! FOUL!!!!” Yeah, I probably need to not go to the games….

Tomorrow, the fun-ness continues. We have to go to 8:30 mass and then the kids have Sunday school and then I have Brownies. I genuinely like girl scouts, but they have created a new program that is causing me to question my allegiance. The Brownies are all supposed to go on a QUEST together. They have a bright, shiny book packed with the adventures of multi-cultural Brownies like Campbell, Alejandra and Jamila. Not to be politically incorrect, but do you honestly think Campbell is going to live in the same neighborhood as Alejandra and Jamila? I’m sorry, no one in the Barrio or the Ghetto names their kid CAMPBELL!! Actually, I don’t know anyone whose kid is named Campbell.

But I digress. So we do this quest together and the Brownies are supposed to link arms and FLY around the room together to find the answers. It’s the hokiest damn thing ever. Tomorrow we earn our first patch and we are supposed to CHANT with the girls. And they want us to chant a lot, getting progressively louder each time. It’s like a freaking Brownie 12 step program!!! I recited the chant to someone today and she very drolly remarked that obviously 50 Cent was not consulted on the lyrics. Are you ready? THE CONNECT KEY/IT’S ALL ABOUT ME/WHAT I BELIEVE/AND MY FAMILY. Does that even make sense??? Can you figure out the beat for it?? Cause I’m struggling here. Really, really struggling. I told Elizabeth she was going to have to lead the chant and she very unkindly laughed in my face. So I think our Brownies are going to skip the chanting. Because girl scouts have enough of an image problem and chanting is NOT going to enhance it.

I will end my day at Gina and Joe’s (not their real names) house, watching Pittsburgh cruise to a Super Bowl victory. I’ll probably pass out in a chair in front of the TV and drool into the onion dip. I hope they’re not expecting me to bring anything. Or chant. If I have to chant, I’m not going. And then I have to work again on Monday and Tuesday. Oh joy!! Oh rapture!! I can hardly contain myself.

So I think what I’m going to do now is take the little hammer and break into my secret Xanax stash. I need to be good and drugged up before my hard day of chanting tomorrow!!

On Monday afternoon, I was home for a very short period of time between girl scout camp and MA’s soccer practice. The goddess was outside playing and I was doing something. I can’t remember what it was, but it probably involved staring at my computer monitor. My phone rang and it was Marlee down the street. The goddess was over there playing with her son.

 
“Hey Jennifer,” she said, “do you hear an alarm? The kids came in and said there’s an alarm going off at Pat’s house.” Pat is her next door neighbor and my neighbor about three houses down. I walked out on the front porch and I heard the alarm loud and clear. ”Yeah, I hear it,” I said. “I’ll call Nancy because she takes care of things while Pat is gone.”

Pat and her husband travel a lot. Rather than stop the mail, they ask Nancy to get it. She also waters their three billion plants and picks up the newspapers. It’s a sweet deal for Nancy because Pat pays her in food. Nancy doesn’t cook at all, so this allows her family to have a decent meal three or four times a month. Plus Pat bakes the best chocolate chip cookies on the planet.

I called Nancy on her cell phone and told her about the alarm. ”Oh shit,” she said, “what should I do about it?” Nancy and I are very co-dependent. If she has a problem, I am supposed to fix it. She has a horror of municipal workers like police officers and ambulance drivers. A couple years ago, she called me because a strange black man in an orange jumpsuit was ringing her doorbell. Yes, we are into racial profiling here in the suburbs, but we live on a double cul de sac and the man was on foot and seemed out of place. Nancy was hiding in her powder room, peering around the door jamb at him. She wanted me to come down and make him go away. I suggested she call the police and she shrieked in a whisper “ARE YOU CRAZY?? IF I CALL THEM THEY MIGHT SHOW UP!!” Maybe it’s just me, but when I call the cops, it’s because I WANT THEM TO SHOW UP!! However, to appease her, I sent Hugo down to speak with the gentleman and I called the cops anyway. They arrived and kindly gave him a ride to another location; we never did figure out who he was or what he wanted!

As for medical emergencies, I’ve already been instructed that if she ever falls off a ladder or is mauled by wolves, I am to take her to the hospital myself. No ambulance is to be called no matter how many bones are protruding through her skin. Fortunately, I made it through three semesters of nursing school before Napoleon arrived prematurely (he was a year early) so I am very competent in medical emergencies. Plus I watch a lot of medical shows and I read Web MD. I’m pretty sure I can field set compound fractures and even perform an emergency tracheotomy with a ballpoint pen and some paper clips if necessary. 

But I digress. I told Nancy she needed to call the cops and tell them about the alarm, but this suggestion sent her into a frenzy. “I’m just going to drive over there and maybe walk around and see if everything looks alright,” she said nervously.

A few minutes later, I was out on the porch again (why I don’t know!!) and I saw a suspicious looking black truck creeping down the street. The driver appeared to be a pale, dark haired woman; I couldn’t see the passenger. Immediately I knew a couple of crack whores had broken into Pat’s house and stolen everything that wasn’t nailed down to sell so they could buy more crack. The truck cruised slowly by my house. I hurried in to call Nancy. ”Hey,” I said, “there’s a creepy black truck coming your way. I think it might be the person who was at Pat’s house!”

Nancy started laughing. “Jennifer, that’s CINDY’S truck,” she said. “Didn’t you see me in the passenger seat?” Cindy is another neighbor and some sort of important bank executive or something. So that shot the whole crack whore theory all to hell. Apparently I watch too much “Law and Order”. Nancy assured me everything looked fine at Pat’s house and that she had reset the alarm.

Fast forward to Thursday night. It was about 9:30 when I pulled into the driveway after MA’s basketball practice. As I got out of the car, I heard the damn alarm again. “Crap,” I muttered, not sure what to do. I went into the house, threw my stuff down and then went out on the front porch. Silence greeted me. I toyed with the idea of calling Nancy but dismissed it because I knew she would fall apart. I thought seriously about calling the cops, but decided against it because I figured it was probably nothing. But I worried about it all night. 

This morning, after the kids left, I called Nancy and told her about the alarm. “Oh dammit,” she said, “Cindy (NOT A CRACK WHORE!!) said she heard it last night too!! What should I do?”
“Let’s just go down there and take a look,” I said. 
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll come and get you.”
“And Nancy….bring one of Dubya’s baseball bats,” I said, “just in case.”
A few minutes later, she appeared and we drove down to Pat’s house. We pulled into the driveway and everything looked normal. No broken windows, no incriminating trail of blood, just a perfectly manicured lawn and a quiet, shuttered house. We looked at each other nervously and got out of the car, me clutching the Louisville Slugger. Naturally, Nancy put ME In charge of the bat. I was dressed in my fuzzy white bathrobe and slippers; I suspect I looked a lot like a deranged polar bear. Nancy was wearing fuzzy pink pajamas and black suede mules. I highly doubt the pair of us would inspire fear in anyone!

We crept up to the basement window and peered in. Everything seemed in order except the woman had around SEVENTY FIVE jugs of water in the basement!! Does she know something about an upcoming nuclear war that I missed?  We silently moved to the basement door and Nancy inserted the key in the lock. She turned it and we opened the door and crept inside. About that time, Nancy’s cell phone rang. Nancy handed it to me as she raced upstairs to disable the alarm. It was Nancy’s friend Stacy; we’ve only met once but I think we are probably cut from the same cloth.
“Hey, my husband says you are both crazy and to get out of the house now!” she said.
“We’ve got a bat,” I told her.
“Yes, but criminals have GUNS,” she replied. “He says get out of the house and call the police.”
“You don’t think a criminal would be scared if I charged him with the bat?” I asked.
“No, I think he would shoot you if you charged him with the bat!!”
I kept her on the phone as Nancy and I crept around the silent, cold house. It was extremely disappointing. Everything was in place. There were no signs that a frantic, drug crazed maniac had been there searching for drugs and cash. No meth lab paraphernalia. No band of itinerant gypsies warming their hands over a fire made out of back issues of “Home and Garden”. Not even any dust. Just a quiet, dark and chilly house, waiting placidly for its owner to return. I told Stacy I thought we were going to survive and hung up.  Nancy set the alarm and we rushed out of the house and locked the door. We stared at each other, me in my fuzzy bathrobe, clutching the bat, her in her fuzzy pajamas, clutching the key.

“Now what should I do?” she asked.
“I think you should tell Pat when she gets home that she needs to get her damn alarm fixed!” We got in the car, I tossed the bat into the backseat and she drove me home. Case closed. However, I believe I have found my calling in life. Jennifer and Nancy….homemakers by day, crimefighters by night!! Look out criminals, here we come!!! 

Hugo has figured out the problem with our toilet. Apparently one has to hold the handle down firmly until all the contents have been flushed. So I’m going to have to post a note on the wall like they do in gas stations. PLEASE HOLD HANDLE DOWN UNTIL ALL CONTENTS HAVE DISAPPEARD. THANK YOU. MANAGEMENT. Notice I misspelled disappeared? I thought it added a touch of authenticity.

If we’re going for the gas station look, I’m going to bolt one of those little boxes to the wall for the disposal of used female items. I have never opened one of those before and I hope I never do. I am always curious why they put the tiny paper sack in the box when clearly people are going to drop items around the bag and directly into the box. Women aren’t motivated by targets like men. You etch a fly into the bottom of a urinal and a man will give himself a hernia trying to hit it with his stream. Put a tiny paper sack into a box and women, who are in the toilet stall with their purse, a large diaper bag and two toddlers, will miss it completely. Honestly, she’s lucky if she can even wipe her butt. You know the people who have to empty those things are cursing in a most un Christian manner as they use giant tongs to remove each item from the box. Nevertheless, the box will add to the ambiance.

I might get really wild and crazy and put up a dispenser for knock off perfumes. And one for condoms. I love being in a gas station bathroom with the blonde goddess and one of those puppies on the wall. “Mommy, what’s that for?” she lisps innocently.

“It’s just a lady thing,” I mutter. Normally I am all for giving my children the whole truth and nothing but the truth, but even I have limits. What am I supposed to say? “Well honey, sometimes mommies and daddies want to have wild monkey sex but they don’t want to have any more little monkeys. So the mommy buys one of these for the daddy to wear so the mommy doesn’t get fat and eat whole cans of crushed pineapple with saltines and whipped cream. Why is it tiger striped? Well, because mommy likes it when daddy gets a little wild….” Um, yeah, I’ll just stick with the ‘lady thing’ explanation and get her the hell out of the bathroom.

Probably I should scratch graffiti on my lovely Toile wallpaper. “MELISSA IS A HO” and “FOR A GOOD TIME CALL MELISSA” and “JESUS LOVES YOU”. My favorite graffiti ever was the person who responded to the Jesus statement with “JESUS DOESN’T WRITE ON OTHER PEOPLE’S WALLS”. As a special touch, I’ll etch some nasty sayings into the wood of the door. That always looks good. By the way, I have no idea who Melissa is so don’t ask for her number.

I will carry the theme out into my kitchen and install a slushie machine and a hot dog rack. This will make me wildly popular with the kiddos! I will never forget the time we were all in the car, arguing about where to eat and Napoleon said quite seriously “how about a gas station? They have something for everyone there!” So young and yet so wise in the ways of the world! The kids can have hot dogs and the adults can feast on pre-made pimiento cheese sandwiches that are so glaringly orange they look like something from the jungles of Vietnam. Think Agent Orange gone awry! Really, why do people waste money at fancy restaurants when the local Citgo offers such a smorgasbord? And if you buy ten gallons of gas or more, they’ll usually throw in a free soda!!

I guess I’ll just start with the sign, though, and take it slowly from there. I don’t know what it would do for resale value if I install a car wash in the driveway.

This morning I was….ahem…..READING on my newly restored toilet. My choice for bathroom reading material is “Readers Digest”. The articles are short and interesting and a new issue can last for as many as fifteen visits. I found this article in the February issue and I believe it dovetails nicely with yesterday’s blog:

Court: Toilet Had It Coming
Scranton—It’s official! You can now legally curse your overflowing toilet in this Pennsylvania city. The city paid a woman $19,000 to settle her claim after she was charged with disorderly conduct for yelling at the offending commode. Dawn Herb was facing up to 90 days in jail after her neighbor, an off-duty cop, heard her tirade through an open window. A local court ruled in Herb’s favor, finding that arguing with one’s bathroom fixture is constitutionally protected.

Thank goodness no one was around to hear MY tirade yesterday!! I probably would have been water-boarded and locked up in Guantanamo!!

I know it’s Tuesday but it feels like Monday to me. My kids were out of school yesterday and I spent the day at girl scout camp. My whole weekend was devoted to my ungrateful children, driving them around hither and yon, racking up miles on the Suburban, wasting precious fossil fuels with reckless abandon. Today was supposed to be my day. I was going to read blogs. I was going to clear a path through the house. I was even thinking about napping in front of the inauguration. Instead, I am cleaning up shit water.

Because once again, someone has stopped up the downstairs toilet. And no one is responsible. No one is going to actually claim the giant turd that is blocking the u Bend, causing a great flood of brown shit water to well up in my toilet. Strangely enough, everyone appears to have moved their bowels in another bathroom in the house. Which I find hard to believe. No one in my house is going to take the time to go up the stairs and do a doody in an upstairs toilet. Why go all that way when a toilet is conveniently located on the first floor? But I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt. Maybe a STRANGER entered my house in the dead of night, laid a giant turd in my toilet, stopped it up, and then slunk away cackling madly. And no one ever even saw him.

This morning, when I noticed the toilet was plugged with a significant amount of brown matter, I flushed and the water rose. It rose and rose and stopped just below the rim of the toilet. Lovely. I grabbed the handy plunger and plunged. All I did was stir up the brown goo; the water level didn’t budge. And MA had missed the bus so I had to abandon my plunger and take her to school.

When I got home, I noticed the floor in the basement was wet. This never bodes well, especially since it was a localized wetness and seemed to be located just below the upstairs toilet. I rushed upstairs but everything looked ok. The plunger was where I left it. The brown water was unmoving, lying placid in the bowl. So I picked up the plunger and plunged. Which caused a cascade of brown water to pour forth from the bowl and over my bare feet.

Some really colorful language issued forth from my mouth. I do not like shit water. It harbors e coli and other nasty bacteria. And it smells bad. I cursed and swore and hobbled to the sink. I turned the tap on scalding hot and thrust my shit becrusted foot into the water. I pumped soap into the sink like a mad woman, hoping to counteract the e coli. And I fumed a lot.

Having scrubbed away the first three layers of skin, I turned and faced my nemesis. The water was as high as it could go, putrid and foul, and a tiny turdlet was on the rim. It taunted me gleefully with its nastiness. A silent scream welled up in me and I lost all sense of reason. I grabbed the plunger and charged the toilet like a knight charging his foe. I plunged straight downward with a sure and steady hand. In literature, I would have slain my foe. However, this being real life, all that happened was another flood of foul browness issued forth from my toilet covering the floor with even more shit water. I conceded defeat and tossed the plunger to the ground.

And did what any sensible woman would do: I called my husband at work and told him to get his ass home now because shit water was flooding the house. He knew enough not to argue with me and he arrived home ten minutes later. He viewed the mess with distaste. “I told you to turn off the water,” he said contemptuously.

“Well I DON’T KNOW HOW TO TURN OF THE FREAKIN’ WATER,” I stated rather forcefully. “All I know is there is shit water ALL OVER THE DAMN PLACE and I don’t know how to unstop the toilet.” He was unimpressed with my histrionics and proceeded to calmly and efficiently unstop the toilet. This is why women get married. It has nothing to do with romance or sex. It’s all about marrying a man who can unstop toilets and change light bulbs. If we chose our partners for silly reasons like hearts and flowers, humanity would have died out thousands of years ago.

He fixed the toilet and even loaded the shit towels into the laundry basket for me. Then, whistling a cheerful tune, he departed, leaving me to disinfect the house. I’m not sure there is enough bleach in the city to accomplish that feat!! So how is YOUR Tuesday going????

I have not been able to blog all week because I have been unable to log in. Thank you Joe in tech support for fixing my blog. I am probably the only blogger that has my own tech department. Really, I’m very busy and important and I need a tech department. And not just a tech department; did anyone see the story in the paper last week about Princes William and Harry receiving their own household staffs? Now they are of age, they no longer have to share a staff with Prince Charles. They each received a three person staff.

Well, what about me??? I’m of age!! I want a staff!! I need a staff waaaaaaayyyyyyyyy more than Wills and Harry. All they do is visit the occasional orphange and have their picture taken with malnourished village children and attend the occasional ribbon cutting. I run three children all around town to 15 separate practices, plus I have my extensive volunteer work and my lunching out schedule to be managed. Who really needs a staff here? Um, yes, that would be me!! If our government can bail out AIG, they can darn well fund my staff!! Our tax dollars would be used far more effectively to pay my secretary, personal chef and chauffeur. I bring joy to your world; what has AIG done for you lately???

I am writing this from the middle school. I feel like an undercover correspondent filming “The Secret Lives of Middle Schoolers.” Here is what I have observed so far:
Guess jeans are no longer a coveted item which really breaks my heart. Nothing was more magical than that little triangle on the butt pocket with the question mark in it. Nothing.
No one has acne anymore. Apparently scientists have isolated the gene responsible for acne and have deleted from the human genome. Everyone in this school has silky smooth skin and looks like they should be modeling. It’s very demoralizing since I still have acne.
The students at this school are obviously not aware the economy is tanking because their clothes and accessories cost what a third world country makes in a year.
The same kinds of kids still exist: the pretty girls; the wannabes; the football guys; the brainy science kids; the creepy skater guys; and then everyone else. Not sure where I fit in yet; maybe the affable sub who wants everyone to like her even though they’ve duct taped her to the chair, lokced the door, cranked up the music and are gyrating wildly to filthy rap music? Anyone have any good tips for how to get duct tape off without ripping out your arm hair?

This morning, little Edette Haskell, also known as Marie Antoinette, AKA “MA”, AKA “my daughter”, was announced as Student of the Month for her team. She acted all shocked and went up to the office to accept her award. Trust me, they don’t the real MA, the one who is constantly accusing me of stealing her size ZERO jeans and hiding them from her. Student of the Month my butt. How about Suck Up of the Year at school who has pulled the wool completely over the eyes of the administration? I’ll send her home with them and see how THEY fare with her jeans!!

I hate to cut this short, but the little darlings will be back any moment. I have thrown the lesson plan aside and we are watching “Recess”, which is a Disney cartoon about a group of kids who take over the school….oh hell, what was I THINKING???? I need to devise an escape plan just in case!!

Sometimes if you are being really good, you are given a gift. Like if it’s a Sunday morning and you have taken your kids to Sunday school and then Mass and then lead girl scout meetings all day, God rewards you. The gift might be small, might be something only important to you, but it’s a gift nonetheless. I received such a gift today.

I dropped the girls off at Sunday school. I have an hour to kill, so I went to the Dollar Store to buy some things for my afternoon of girl scout meetings. I love the Dollar Store because everything is, well, a dollar. Hard to go wrong in a store where a buck can buy you a Diet Coke or the Sunday paper, two things that would cost more than $1.50 at any gas station. Hey, the economy sucks right now, so I save when I can! I was looking for day planners to give to my older girl scouts because I am hoping to teach them some time management. I have never actually learned it myself, so I’m not sure why I think I can teach them, but when I read those inspirational girl scout books, I start thinking anything is possible!! I looked in the office supply section, but all they had was full size calendars. So I walked over to the greeting card section, thinking they might be with the invitations. And that’s when I received my gift.

Now that Christmas is over and out, it’s time for the retailers to put on a hard sell for the next major holiday. Not Martin Luther King’s birthday; no one ever buys cards for that. No, Valentine’s Day is lurking just around the corner. And the Dollar Store had a full selection of Valentines for the kiddies to hand out at school. Being the Dollar Store, most of them were pretty cheesey. They had Bratz valentines and Strawberry Shortcake, of course and princess valentines and pony valentines. They had Simpsons valentines, which were actually pretty tame, although I’m not sure I want to be known as the mother of the child who handed out cards plastered with Homer Simpson’s mug. And then I saw them. The air shimmered just a little and I thought I heard a Hallelujah chorus, although it was probably just the Dollar Store elevator music soundtrack (available to purchase for only a dollar!!!). Sitting on the shelf, next to the ponies and Bratz and princesses, were the HOMIES!! 

The box is red and HOMIES is spelled out in industrial style gray letters. The Homies themselves are standing proudly in front of a gritty urban landscape and there are hearts around them. I moved toward the box in a dream, enchanted by the very wrongness of HOMIE valentines. ‘Just who in the hell hands these out?’ I wondered as I reached for a box to put in my cart. On the back, it showed the different cards contained within the box. The first one has a large, portly dude in an oversize football jersey with a tenement building in silhouette behind him. His friendly pit bull is at his side, tongue lolling happily out of his mouth. The card itself reads WUS UP HOMIE? I closed my eyes in ecstasy and imagined the furor generated when the blonde goddess handed out her HOMIES valentines at her semi-urban school. Would LaTavarius’s mother be amused? Would I be her HOME GIRL because of my ability to speak Ghetto?

Eagerly, I perused the rest of the offerings on the box. ”KEEP IT REAL” offer two HOMIES dressed in baggy pants and backwards ball caps. One HOMIE on the card is all in blue; his gang colors maybe? A HOMIE with very large eyes and really weird dreads that make him look like a bat offers the following: ITS ALL GOOD IN THE HOOD!! But my absolute favorite is the one that shows a HOMIE holding a screwdriver in one hand and a car stereo in the other. The card reads: I PICK’D THIS JUST FOR YOU! As in, I jacked this car stereo for you baby, will you be my ho??? 

Now I knew there had to be something behind these, some obscure cartoon from Cartoon Network or something, so I came home and researched HOMIES. Here’s what I found: The Homies are a group of tightly knit Chicano buddies who have grown up in the Mexican American barrio ( neighborhood ) of “Quien Sabe”, ( who knows ) located in East Los Angeles. The four main characters are Hollywood, Smiley, Pelon, and Bobby Loco. Ok, fine, so they are based on good old fashioned Mexican American barrio humor. But did YOU know that? Probably not and if you had found a box of Homies valentines at your Dollar Store you would have been as shocked as I was! There’s something a little unsettling about getting a valentine with a girl named Chula, dressed in a giant hoodie, telling you “YOU ARE SO COOL”. Whatever happened to Charlie Brown or Scooby Doo? I guess our Dollar Store is marketing to the growing Hispanic population in our city but I’m not sure it’s grown enough for HOMIES. I’m not sure the WASPS in the area have evolved enough for HOMIE humor!!

I went to the grocery store today. I have not gone grocery shopping since we got home from Wisconsin. Instead, I pop into the store, spend $75 on the makings for one meal and pop out again. This has taken a huge financial toll and has not provided much in the way of actual meal ingredients. Today I could put it off no longer. Everyone is tired of having Kraft singles for breakfast, snack and dessert. Time to shop.

I don’t mind grocery shopping. I enjoy the possibilities provided by rows and rows of raw ingredients. I stroll the aisles and imagine the gourmet dishes I could whip up with Peruvian grapefruits, gefilte fish, and matzo balls. No one would eat it of course, but I enjoy the knowledge that I could make it if I wanted to. I have to restrain myself from buying tubes of pesto paste or tiny jars of exotic, pickled things. I know I would never use them, but they look so cool in the store!!

I never take a list with me because I can’t shop from a list. I have tried the meal planning route. I write down exactly what we’re going to have every night and make a list of all the ingredients I need. This always backfires because on the night I am supposed to cook Tuna Delight, I am craving pizza instead. So we order pizza and the Tuna Delight keeps getting pushed back and back because it never sounds good. Actually, does Tuna Delight EVER sound good? My shopping method is just to go and buy some stuff and hope when I get home I have all the ingredients necessary for preparing a meal. Naturally, it never works out that way. I’ll start cooking and find I am lacking a key ingredient or discover the sour cream has turned a funny shade of puce. I can’t win.

The grocery shopping is fun, though. It’s the rest of it I hate. I hate the baggers. There are two kinds of baggers. There is the minimalist bagger who artfully sticks one to two items in each bag leaving me with 47 plastic bags when all the groceries are put away and a nagging guilt about destroying the ozone. Then there is the maximist bagger who insists on cramming 37 cans into one plastic grocery bag, which inevitably splits open in the parking lot. I am forced to risk life and limb chasing rolling cans through the lot. There’s no in between. Either the bags are so heavy Arnold Schwarzenegger couldn’t carry them or they are so numerous I carry up fourteen bags at a time. Stupid baggers.

At the Publix where I usually shop, the bagger wants to take your groceries to the car. This is a service they offer for free and they are very insistent about it. The baggers are always male and usually angry. I guess being a professional bagger can take a toll on your psyche. “Can I help you out with those ma’am?” the bagger will ask politely.
“No, thanks, I think I can get them,” I say nicely.
“Really, I’ll be glad to take them out for you,” he fires back.
“No, I’m good,” I say.
“But I’d be PLEASED to take them out for you,” he snarls, clenching and unclenching his fists, a vein throbbing in his temple.
“No, um, that’s ok, I can get it,” I say nervously.
“PLEASE LET ME TAKE THEM OUT FOR YOU,” he bellows, face red, eyelids twitching.
“O…ok,” I say, praying he won’t mutilate me with a baguette.

It’s all good and well to put the groceries in the car for me, but I don’t understand why the service stops there. Fine, the groceries are bagged and in the trunk, blah blah. What I really want is for someone to come home with me, carry them up the stairs and put them away. Now THAT would be a great service!! I want someone who is going to carry the bags in without complaining about child labor laws. I want someone who doesn’t shove the contents of the bag into his mouth as he is carrying them up the stairs. I want someone who is willing to clean out the refrigerator, someone willing to throw away the multiple plastic containers that each contain three noodles or one dollop of mashed potatoes which I kept just in case someone wanted to finish them and now three weeks later they are green and fuzzy. I want someone to assertively tackle the mountain of frozen meals in my freezer I bought four years ago during a failed attempt at Weight Watchers and that I cannot bring myself to eat or throw away.

I hate frozen meals and I don’t know why I ever buy them. I guess Lean Cuisine has a good marketing department. When I see a commercial with a skinny woman, eyes closed, orgasmic smile on her face, eating a Lean Cuisine, I think maybe I’m missing something. The descriptions of the food are so mouthwatering: all white meat chicken, simmered in a sauce of rich, vine ripened tomatoes, hand picked by illegal Puerto Rican immigrants and served with savory fire roasted vegetables on a bed of fluffy wild rice. Alas, the meal never lives up to the hype. The reality is: strips of tasteless gelatinous chicken nuked in tomato glop with nondescript vegetables on the side and served over nasty, gluey rice all stuck together in a clump. No wonder people lose weight eating those things! Not to mention each meal contains three teaspoons of food. After eating one, I feel like going out and ordering 20 oz T-Bone with a baked potato and a side of fries.

But I digress. I also want someone to go through my pantry to make room for the new groceries. This can be accomplished by chucking the 12 boxes of open cereal, each containing 1/4 cup of cereal in the bottom. No one is ever going to eat it. It went stale six months ago. But I can’t throw it away because it would be WASTEFUL!! I need a big, strong, angry bag boy to come and tackle the freezer and the pantry. He would be ruthless, tossing half eaten pop tarts and freezer burned Hot Pockets into the garbage without even flinching. Any grocery store that sends someone home with me to put the groceries away has my business for life.

I have reached a point in my life where freedom from the bonds of motherhood is no longer an abstract concept. Everyone in the house can dress themselves. Everyone can wipe his or her own bottom. The unlucky vomiter almost always makes it to the toilet in time. I only have to nag the goddess to brush her teeth and change her underwear. In short, I am entering the golden years of child rearing. But oh, how I long for a baby.

I never used to be a baby person. Even when my own children were babies, I was not the kind of mother who wanted to moon over them all day. I toiled away, pandering to their every need, but I didn’t love it. I generally prefer older children, ones who can carry on a conversation and wipe their own butts (see above). But now that my fertility is waning and the prospect of babies is nil, I want one. I want a baby to hold and snuggle. I want a baby to bathe and dress. I want to suck on its little baby toes and hear it giggle maniacally in delight. I want a baby almost as much as I want a big ass diamond ring.

The caveat, however, is that I do not want another child. The thought of driving one more kid to one more soccer practice or school activity is enough to make me hyperventilate and clamp my legs firmly shut. I can’t even imagine having to help one more kid with fractions, or, God Forbid, teach one more kid how to drive. The fact I have two more to teach is daunting enough. I don’t need to add to the heartache.

Last week at church, it seemed MA had solved my problem. She handed me the bulletin and said “Please mommy, can’t we do this?” She pointed out the printed plea for parents to foster infants while they awaited adoption. Truly it seemed an answer to my prayers, the sign I had been waiting to receive. I let my eyes go misty as I imagined how it might play out….

We have filed all the necessary paperwork. We have received preliminary approval. All that is left is the home study. I am at home, frantically cleaning, when the doorbell rings. The dogs go wild, baying and howling like the Baskerville Hounds. If anyone is familiar with schnauzers, I have two, and their barks have actually shattered wine glasses in our house. Lulu the golden retriever skids into the room, across the hard wood floor and crashes into the front door, then proceeds to bark like Jack the Ripper is about to crash through the door with a a chainsaw. I look out and see that it is the home study people.

I thought they were supposed to come tomorrow, but apparently I have gotten the day wrong. I am dressed in sweatpants with holes in the crotch, a bleach stained t-shirt that is three sizes too big, no bra and pink fluffy slippers. My hair is dirty. It has three clips in it; the one I put in that morning and the two I have picked up while cleaning. I also have one of the goddess’s shiny pink headbands holding my bangs back, having picked it up off the floor as well. The house rates an F-5 on the Fujiama Disaster scale. I rush around trying to make a dent, but it’s too late. I have to open the door.

I straighten my t-shirt, remove two of the clips, forgetting the headband. I call to Hugo and he appears in the doorway, wearing his Guinness Pajama pants and clutching a beer can. “Put that beer down,” I hiss, “the home study people are here.” He looks at me blankly, then stares down at himself in horror and bolts for the bedroom. Plastering on a smile, I open the door and brightly greet the couple on my porch.

“Hey, come right in,” I say, trying to hold back the snarling dogs who were supposed to be at the office when the home study happened. “Don’t mind the pitbulls, they don’t bite,” I said, laughing a bit too loudly. They gaze at the dogs in horror and I realize this probably wasn’t the best time to trot out my pitbull line. “Hold on just a minute,” I say and grab all three dogs and drag them forcibly across the room, over the laundry mountain and towards my bedroom. Lulu manages to become entangled in a polka dotted bra and I have to stop and disentangle her, muttering obscenities under my breath. I open the door, shove them into the bedroom where Hugo stands half dressed and staring at me in horror, and I slam the door shut. Turning around, I plaster my best fake smile on and say “won’t you come in and have a seat?”

They gingerly step forward, over the laundry and the polka dotted bra, and walk into the family room where further destruction greets them. The remnants of the goddess’s happy meal lunch are on the coffee table. “Beavis and Butthead” is blaring on the TV. Half empty potato chip bags decorate the side tables and an empty popcorn bowl is on the floor. I apologize and try to explain how I got the date wrong as I attempt to pick up some of the debris. “Sorry about the mess,” I mutter lamely, “but it’s hard to cook meth and keep the house clean at the same time….” Crap, what the hell am I thinking??? That’s WORSE than the pit bull joke!!

About that time, Lulu the wonder dog comes bounding into the room with a decapitated Barbie doll in her mouth. The goddess is upstairs wailing about the demise of her Barbie and I hear Napoleon shouting “It’s just a Barbie doll so quit cryin’ you little monkey!!”

“DON’T CALL ME A MONKEY,” the goddess screams shrilly.

“Monkey….MONKey…..MONKEY!!!!!” Napoleon screams back gleefully.

“SHUT UP YOU FREAKS!!!! YOU’RE SO IMMATURE!!!!!” screams MA.

I smile weakly at the home study people and hope they don’t notice the Swiss Army knife Napoleon has left on the table, plunged point first into a picture of the University of Alabama Mascot, Big Al. The screaming from upstairs continues, followed by bangs and shouts. Hugo comes charging out of the bedroom, half dressed and bellows up the stairs “SHUT THE HELL UP, ALL OF YOU, OR I’LL GIVE YOU SOMETHING TO CRY ABOUT!!!!!” He wheels around with a dazzling smile and strides forward with his hand outstretched. “Hey I’m Dr. Hugo Bruno, sorry about the mess…”

His outstretched hand is ignored and without speaking a word, the couple turn on heel and march back toward the front door. The woman’s high heel snags the polka dotted bra as she leaves, but I can’t summon up the will to call out to her and it drags behind her out the door and to her car. Not only will we not be getting a foster baby, it looks like we’ll be losing our biological children as well….

“Can we do this mom?” MA whispers to me.
“No sweetie,” I whisper back, “I don’t think we’re foster parent material.”