Daily Diatribes

The goddess brought home this note in her book bag today, complete with spelling errors:
“i love the goddess. she is hot. she mit kiss me. I said hay hot girl.”

Have I ever told you I cried when I found out I was having daughters? I wanted boys. They make sense. They eat their pop tarts into the shape of guns and try and shoot each other. They play with cars and do not get pregnant. Boys are much easier to raise than girls.

The note is from a classmate. He talks with the deepest Southern accent I have ever heard from a child. His grandmother, who is a sweet lady and does not remotely resemble a grandmother, patented a product that keeps your nipples from poking out when you wear a tank top. Is this a desirable alliance? Depends on how much money they make off the nipple guards!!

We went to the zoo with the little boy during spring break. He and the goddess rode the camel together. I am pretty sure in some cultures this means they are already legally married. Probably she could go live in his tent with his family and wait on them hand and foot until she is old enough to bear children. If she keeps up the whining, I will gladly send her.

That she is only eight and is already wreaking havoc with the male population of her school does not thrill me. MA was the same way and we all see how she has turned out!! I am glad my girls are pretty, something I can say honestly since neither of them looks like me, but I wish they had been a little uglier. Maybe a badly placed mole or a small harelip, or something. I’m not asking for gross disfigurement, but a unibrow would be nice. Is it asking too much for a hump back?

I got a Facebook page before my children did. It was a deliberate move on my part because I wanted to know how to use it. I think it’s important to know how today’s technology works. I owe it to my children to keep them safe. Some call it spying, I call it “monitoring.” I am providing you with this information because it is vital to tonight’s story.

MA has a boyfriend. Actually, this is her second boyfriend of the year. I am ok with a boyfriend as long as the relationship is confined to sitting next to each other during lunch. Any other contact, outside of school, has been the subject of lengthy debates between MA and myself.
“Well, what if I wanted to go to the movies?” she has asked on more than one occasion.
“With your boyfriend?”
“Well, with a group of friends,” she said.
“A group that includes the boyfriend?”
“Well, yes,” she said.
“I have no problem with it,” I replied, “but I will be sitting there in the theater with you.”
“That’s so stupid,” she huffed. “You don’t trust me!!”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” I said, “but we’re not comfortable with you dating yet.”
“But it’s not a date!! There would be other people,” she whined.
“And I will be among the other people,” I replied. We had this conversation several times. And each time I held firm. Thirteen is too young to be at a movie theater, with a boy, alone in the dark. I had hormones once; I’m not stupid. I trust MA but thirteen year old boys are guided by a force more powerful than common sense. Actually, most men are now that I think about it….

Anyway, yesterday she asked me if she could go home with a friend. They would go to the movies and then MA would go over and spend the night. I had a little alarm in the back of my head, but since we had the conversation sooooo many times, I figured it would be fine. So I gave her my blessing. Imagine my dismay, nay, RAGE, when I signed on to Facebook and saw the boyfriend’s status listed as: I love MA sooooo much…tonight will be amazing!!!!” OH MY GOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Reader, I saw bright, CHERRY Red. I fantasized about mutilation and maiming and various other tortures I could perform upon my daughter. With shaking hand, I dialed her cell number. No answer. Waited a few minutes and tried again. No answer. Finally, I looked up the friend’s number and called. And who answered the phone but MA?!?!?!?!?

“Hello,” she said cautiously.
“ARE YOU GOING TO MEET BLONDIE AT THE MOVIES????” I asked in a reasonable tone, but I think I might have actually been screaming.
“What….um….no,” she stuttered.
“You better think really carefully about your answer because I already know it,” I replied. “So let me ask again: are you going to the movies with Blondie???”
“Well, um….I mean…..yesbutthereisagroupofusgoinganditwillbefineand…..”
“You know my rule on this MA,” I said.
“No….what?” she asked. Oh right, play the stupid card. That’s going to win you some points!!
“What movie are you going to see, what time and where?”
She told me and I said “Great, we’ll meet you there!!”
“What?? No, mom, please….”
“You have two choices,” I told her. “Either your father and I meet you at the movies and sit with you or I come and get you right now. You decide.”
She hung up; fine with me because Hugo was still at work and I needed to call and tell him about our date. To his credit, he barely even roared. I think he was excited at the prospect of interrogating the date. Phone call made, I looked at myself. Took a good hard look. I didn’t shower today. Perfect. My hair was greasy and pulled up into an untidy knot in the back. Check. Dirty shirt. Check. Unbrushed teeth. Yep. Dirty sweatpants. You got it!! And, for the grand finale, the coup de grace….I made tuna salad for dinner and I DIDN’T WASH MY HANDS!!!! I smelled like a fat crack whore with the yeast infection from hell. It was the perfect look (and smell!) for busting up an illicit date. I was super excited!!

She called me several times before Hugo got home, begging me not to come. “D’s mother said she’ll stay if you want her too,” she begged. “Besides, what would you have said if I had asked you?”
“Well MA,” I replied, “I guess we’ll never know because you didn’t BOTHER to ask me. Had you actually asked me, we wouldn’t have this problem now would we?”
Hugo got home, I briefed Napoleon on the situation…well, I take that back, I simply told him there was a situation and he needed to babysit. He was deeply unhappy as he had already made plans. Terrific; another complaint to add to the already massive case piling up against MA. Hugo and I climbed in the car and drove away, dazzled by the prospect of embarrassing some common sense into our daughter. She called about twelve times on the way there and at one point, had me speak to the mother of the girl she was with. When I filled her in on the situation (MA knew it was not allowed, I wasn’t told about the plan ahead of time, I found out about it via Facebook) she was horrified and apologized repeatedly.

“I’m not mad at you,” I told her. “My daughter made a bad choice. And now she’s going to see what happens to people who make bad choices.” And so we arrived at the theater. The movie had already started when Hugo and I made our noisy entrance. We stood for a minute, scanning the audience. Naturally, the teenage lovers were in the back row….the better to kiss you my dear….muahahahahahahahaha!!!!! We made a beeline for the back row, talking loudly and spilling popcorn. At the last minute, we opted for the row ahead of them. I plopped down, turned around and greeted them all loudly and by name. Muahahahahaha!!!!!!!!

We settled in to watch the movie. I thought the evening couldn’t get any better, but the film they had chosen was “Taken”. It’s all about a daughter who lies to her father and then gets taken by white slavers and sold to a gross old Arab man with dirty teeth. Daddy has to kick about 57 bad guys in the balls and manages to get her back just before she’s deflowered. See what happens to bad little girls?? See how Daddy reacts to men who try to hurt his baby girl? So very appropriate. There is a great scene where Liam Neeson rigs an electric chair out of jumper cables and a light bulb. “Now that’s an idea,” I said to Hugo, rather loudly. However, it was not the greatest movie. I hate movies where the hero hits every bad guy with the first bullet as he dodges thousands of bullets and emerges unscathed. And just how DOES he manage to kill off a wealthy, albeit perverted, old sheik in a foreign country without any apparent repercussion?

When the movie ended, we stood up and stretched, making sure the friends could see us. I tried to waft some tuna smell their way. And Hugo? He looked at the boyfriend, pointed a finger and said “YOU….COME HERE….NOW….” He sounded a lot like John Wayne speaking to some unfortunate Indian who had just scalped the wrong white woman. “Yessir,” the kid mumbled, and he dragged his feet as he headed down with Hugo. I found out later that Hugo told him the following: “Number 1, this is not your fault and I’m not mad at you. Number two, my wife says you’re a nice boy and I want to believe that. So don’t ever let me find out you have texted, posted on Facebook, or said anything inappropriate about my daughter or anyone else. Understand?” I love my husband!!

Tonight was probably only the first of MANY bumps in the road. I love my daughter and she is a very good girl. She makes good grades. She has nice friends. I am hoping to keep her a good girl. And to do that, I will read her Facebook page. I will read her text messages. And I will give her some room to roam and make mistakes. But not too much room, ya know?

I was sitting here at the computer, minding my own business, working on a Power Point presentation for MA’s Silver Award Ceremony. I happened to glance up and to my horror, I realized a bird had joined me in the room. I had left the back door open to catch the breeze and apparently the lure of my dusty house was too much for the bird to resist. So in he flew and he was perched on the chandelier above the dining room table. 

I sat in shock and stared at it. I think I was mouthing things like “shit…bird….in house….” but I can’t be sure. I hate birds, thanks to Mr. Hitchcock and the sight of one in my house drove every rational thought out of my head. I didn’t know what to do. I had thoughts of getting a broom, but then what? Beat it to death? I was afraid to breathe, afraid to move even, in case it decided to dive bomb me and peck my eyes out. I might have sat there all day, frozen in one spot, but the little monster flew up to the china hutch and then proceeded to drop a dung bomb on my nice area rug. That galvanized me into action. I sprang from my chair and grabbed the phone and furiously dialed my husband’s number. I’m all for equal rights and I am fully capable in most situations, but battling birds was NOT part of the wedding vows. For better or for worse, but NOT FOR BIRDS!!! 

Ashley answered the phone and I screamed “where is he??? There’s a bird in the house!!!!”
“Oh my God,” she said, “that’s horrible!!! But he’s at lunch!!”
“It’s flying around my house,” I shrieked. I mean, I was literally shrieking. Damn monster bird.
“It would freak me out too,” she soothed.”I’m hanging up now so I can call him,” I screamed and then disconnected. I dialed his number and it went to voice mail. Meanwhile, the bird had flown back to the chandelier. I pondered my next move for a moment, then I called Nancy.
“There’s a bird in my house,” I screamed when she answered.
“Can you use a broom to shoo it out?” she asked calmly.
“I can’t find the broom!!!” I screamed.”I’ll come down with my broom and I’ll help you,” she said. She sound so self assured that I knew she would be my salvation. I hung up and cowered, waiting for her. Meanwhile, Lulu the wonder dog spotted the bird and a chase ensued. Recently Lulu went on a diet, so I guess the lure of fresh meat got to her. She chased the bird, I screamed and ducked and the bird bounced off the walls. It was awful.

When Nancy arrived, she confidently strode into the bedroom, wielding her broom. Since she was armed, I went ahead and grabbed my Swiffer, just in case. I never did find the broom. Five seconds later, she started shrieking at the top of her lungs as the bird flew at her and then around the room. I was cowering by the computer with my broom, and I started screaming, peeing, laughing and crying all at once. I was crying because it was so funny and scary all at once. I mean, birds are freaky, you know? 

Nancy ran out of the bedroom and we cowered together like a couple of two year olds brandishing our weapons of mass destruction and whispering about the possible whereabouts of the bird. About that time, the phone rang. It was Gina (not her real name) so I answered it and screamed “There’s a bird in my house, come over now!!!!!” Nancy started screaming too, and this dislodged the bird who flew back into the dining room with Lulu in hot pursuit. Nancy and I were screaming, the dog was barking, the bird was flying into walls. It was absolutely terrifying!! I hate to admit this, but at one point I snuck up behind Nancy, ruffled my fingers through her hair and screamed “BIRD”!!! Let me tell you, white men may not be able to jump, but threaten a white woman with a killer bird and she will jump so high Michael Jordan would be jealous!! The jump and scream made every bit of angst the bird situation was causing me worth it.

When Gina arrived, we had lost the bird again. It had last been spotted in the bedroom but we couldn’t find it anywhere. Gina was being very contemptuous and condescending toward Nancy and I, but she had yet to behold the terrifying pterodactyl winging through my house. I had thrown Lulu out of the house per Gina’s instructions because she was in the way, but now Gina suggested I let her back in to see if she could track the bird. She searched the bedroom to no avail. Obviously, the bird had crawled up under a mound of dirty socks to die and we wouldn’t find its corpse until the stench from its rotting body outdid the stench of the socks.

We were about to give up on the search, when I noticed Lulu acting strangely. She was rustling around in the kitchen and then she stood up on her hind legs, front paws on the counter and stretched her neck out. I crept into the kitchen and sure enough….”BIRD IN THE KITCHEN!!!!!!” I shrieked and ran for it. Nancy and I huddled together as Gina strode into the kitchen with a towel. Within seconds, she had captured the bird and was carrying it out in HER HANDS!!! EWWWWWWWWW!!!!!! GROSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!! BIRD GERMS!!!!!!!!!!! At the last second, she turned it to show Nancy and I. We both reacted intelligently by screaming at the top of our lungs and nearly tripping over each other to get away from the bird. Let me assure you that I would feed Nancy to the crocodiles to save myself. When faced with a killer beast, it’s every woman for herself. Besides, why the hell did she bring the broom over if she wasn’t going to use it to beat the crap out of the bird??

Once the bird was out of the house, I was able to fully relax. I returned my useless Swiffer to the laundry room and Nancy crept home with her broom. Gina continued acting in a very annoying, superior way, just because she was the Bird Slayer. Well, fine, I could have picked up the bird too after someone else had worn it out for me. I mean geez, Nancy and I put it into shock so all Gina had to do was pick it up; we fought the battle, she just cleaned up. And so ends the tale of the hideous bird. I was able to find a picture of the wretched beast. Feel the Fear!!! 

I might as well accept it. I am an idiot. I know nothing. That I manage to walk upright without dragging my knuckles is one of the many unexplained mysteries in the universe. Or so my thirteen year old daughter thinks.

Last week was spring break. I dutifully laundered all the uniforms that had become soiled during the school week, including all soccer uniforms, track uniforms and choir uniforms. What can I say, I’m just awesome that way. The track uniform was carefully folded and placed upstairs in MA’s room for safekeeping. However, unbeknownst to me, she decided on Friday that she needed to wear the shorts to go exploring in the creek with her friend Jordin. It’s not like she doesn’t have other clothing to choose from; her room is stuffed full of clothing. However, on this day, only the track shorts would do for mucking around in the woods.

Fast forward to Tuesday, which is track meet day. At 7:05, MA says “Mom, what did you do with my shorts?” An interesting question. What on earth does she think I WOULD do with them, seeing as she is a size zero and I am a size not zero? I can’t wear them, but I guess I could use them to polish the family silver, except we don’t have any family silver. I could use them to dust furniture, but I have a stash of rags for that purpose. Or maybe, just maybe, I had washed them, folded them and placed them upstairs, knowing she would need them.

I shared this last, most ludicrous scenario with her and she replied “well, I wore them when Jordin was here and now I can’t find them!!!”
And this is my fault why? I followed through with my parental duty. I cleansed them and folded them. I was done. I shared this with her.

“WELL I THREW THEM DOWNSTAIRS WITH MY DIRTY CLOTHES AND NOW YOU LOST THEM AND YOU ARE ALWAYS LOSING MY CLOTHES!!!!!” she shrieked. The medium of print really does not fully capture the full emotional range of a thirteen year old girl. There’s just no way to convey in black and white the despair, contempt and loathing contained in her shriek. Really, I am an insect. And an incompetent one at that.

Now I was getting mad and I started tearing up the house, looking for the stupid shorts that once were found and now were lost, apparently because of me. We stormed around the house, shrieking at each other and flinging things out of the way, looking for the shorts. And we couldn’t find them.

“Just go to school,” I said. “You’ll just have to ask coach for another pair. Or don’t run, I don’t care.”
“Well, where’s my report card?” she snarled.
“You had it last,” I said in my best imitation of a five year old. “Where did YOU put it?”
“I did not, you had it,” she said.
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
“Did not”
“Did too.”
Yeah, did I mention I’m not real mature? She finally stomped out of the house and down the drive. I stomped around the house, muttering under my breath. “grrr….smsdfuo….stupid shorts….grrr….asdjfoadf…stupid report card….adofuaodj…..grrr…..goin to Mexico…..”
I hurried the goddess into the car because by now I was running late. I rushed her to school and then drove through McDonald’s to purchase the largest diet coke they sell. Then I came home filled with one purpose: to find the shorts. I went up to her room, which is almost empty because we are getting ready to repaint it. Looked in the closet: no shorts. Moved the pile of dirty clothes in the bathroom: no shorts. Completely dismantled the pallet she had been sleeping on because we moved her bed: no shorts. I threw my hands up in disgust and walked out of the room. And noticed a pile of her dirty towels in a corner on the landing. Hmmmmm, I wondered to myself, could it be…..? I lifted the towels and lo and behold, there were the shorts. I was vindicated. I had not lost them, SHE HAD!!! Ha!! I did the happy dance of joy, knowing that for once, I had dominated the thirteen year old. The shorts were absolutely filthy, so I went downstairs and threw them in the wash. I dropped them off at school on my to get Napoleon who had an 11:30 optometrist visit.

That night, when I went to the track meet, I eagerly sought her out. “You owe me an apology, I said, and proceeded to tell her where the shorts were. “Sorry,” she said. “Well, aren’t you going to thank me?” I asked, thinking of all I had been through to get her the shorts. “Well, coach said she would have loaned me a pair,” she said, eyeing me cooly. I deflated immediately. Why even try to enumerate the reasons she should be grateful to me, starting with the eighteen hours of natural childbirth I endured to bring her sorry little butt into the world?
“Whatever,” I said and huffed back to my spot on the bleachers. In the immortal words of Kenny Rogers “you gotta know when to walk away….”
As a little postscript, let me add that during our confrontation, she also accused me of losing all of her jeans. I have been telling her all week that they are not downstairs, so they must be up in her room. She keeps assuring me they are not. This morning, I was in the goddess’s room. I emptied her laundry basket and there were two pairs of MA’s jeans, neatly folded. Ok, so maybe I am a LITTLE incompetent!!!

Honestly, I’m blocked again. And I’m not talking about my colon! I feel very uninspired to write this week. Equonoi thinks I’m dead. I think I may be dead. And people still expect me to provide meals. Sometimes it’s hard to be a woman. You know what I mean?

Spring break is in full swing. Luckily, I am mostly over my cold. I treated it with the time honored medicine of lying in bed for twenty four hours and watching nothing but Food Network. Now if I could just cure my allergies!!

We aren’t doing anything for the break. MA is being confirmed on Sunday and family has started trickling in so that put a damper on any plans. We talked about going camping but it just seemed like too much work. So we dismantled the house instead. Monday night, we ripped our built-in entertainment center out of the wall. I have cleaned out closets and drawers. I placed a mountain of rubble on the porch today and someone drove up in a truck and hauled it all away. And I’ve barely made a dent in the crap. How have we accumulated so much garbage in six years????

Tuesday, I took the goddess and Napoleon to the zoo…..Oh my God, this is so boring!! See what I mean? I have nothing to say!! I feel like there is cotton shoved in my brain. Maybe it’s the allergies. Maybe it’s the beginning of dementia. Maybe I’m just boring. Or maybe I have lost my edge. That necessary edge, so vital for good blogging. The edge that allows me to find humor in the piece of toilet paper stuck to my shoe. It’s gone. I need help.

Anyway, back to the zoo. I haven’t been a couple years which is a shame since we are blessed with a great zoo in our city. I chose to go Tuesday because admission is half price. We got there just as they opened the gates. It’s suicide to go in the middle of the day on half price day. The problem with going early, though, is that all the toddlers show up early too. I swear, I don’t remember there being so many strollers around when my kids were little. The place was crammed with strollers. There were so freakin’ many wheels I thought we were at Talladega.

A little observation on stroller etiquette: there ain’t none. Maybe it’s because I am so abnormally obsessed with trying not to cause offense to anyone, but my stroller was never a problem. I just kept out of the way of pedestrians and minded my own business. Those mamas at the zoo, however, had no qualms about running over anyone in their way. Walking along, I would feel a nudge at the back of my foot and I would turn in time to see a stroller bearing down on me full steam ahead, its occupant squalling as mom rushed over me to hog up all the space in front of the tiger cage with her double stroller and her big ass. Even Napoleon asked “mom, what is the DEAL with these strollers?” He then proceeded to quote the driver’s ed manual which clearly states that pedestrians have the right of way and also that wheeled conveyances at intersections should yield to the pedestrians to their right. I am going to write Graco and suggest they include a driver’s manual with their products.

At the zoo, I paid $5.50 for the goddess to ride a camel. Napoleon was appalled at the expense but I figure I’ve forked over that much for pony rides before. At least a camel is exotic. I was disappointed, though, that the handlers were not wearing robes and little fez hats. For $5.50, I think they should at least have to wear a fez and try and sell me a Persian rug. And they didn’t have those little whip things to beat off the flies. Not a very authentic experience. I think I’m going to write them a letter too. When we left at 12:30, the line to get in the gate was 100 people deep. Cars were circling the parking lot like vultures, hoping in vain to find a spot. I cackled and patted myself on the back. Only a complete dumbass would get there at 12:30 on half price day.

As if it’s not enough to have the kids home, Hugo has decided to take the week off as well. We were going to do some home improvements. Instead, he has embarked on a television watching marathon with MA. Yesterday they watched five straight hours of NCIS. Today I think its Law and Order. Our house is a disgusting mess, but I refuse to step over their inert bodies to clean it up. That’s why I am blogging. After I post this, I am going to catch up on my blog reading. Let the dust settle; it’s his family that is coming over on Sunday for MA’s confirmation, not mine.

Today I went to take the Miller Analogies Test. It’s a test for admission to graduate school. Yes, I am considering going back to school. My kids aren’t going to be here forever and I don’t see me being happy to sit around and watch daytime TV when they’re gone. Hugo, yes, but me, not so much. Tests are not what they used to be. There was no Number 2 pencil involved and no bubbles to fill in. It was on a computer and I got my score as soon as I was done. I need a 50 to get into any program and I got a 64. It hurt my feelings a little because I admit I had this little fantasy where I click the “Calculate Results” button and a siren would go off and balloons would drop from the ceiling and people would jump out and throw confetti at me because of my perfect score. My ego was just a tiny bit dented. Still, the score is good enough and not too bad considering I took the test cold turkey without even looking at any kind of book. I’ll let you know if I actually enroll. Right now, I am leaning toward the degree, but we’ll see. I may yet write a bestselling bodice ripper!!!
Alright, the block is gone for the moment. I am going to publish this without rereading, so be kind!!!

So I took the goddess to see Renee on Monday and for once she agreed with my diagnosis. Renee thought the swelling, with no apparent injury, was suspicious, especially in light of the strange bump that I may or may not have worsened by jabbing with a needle. So she actually wrote a prescription for antibiotics. I didn’t even know the woman owned a prescription pad, let alone know how to write one!!

By Tuesday, the swelling was gone and the goddess was able to bend her knee again. I guess church will be a little easier this week!! Don’t think, though, that the goddess didn’t get me back for being a failure as a parent. She spent all of Monday afternoon trying to bang out six bars of “Hot Cross Buns” on the piano. Coming off my recent performance of Joan Crawford as “Mommie Dearest”, I gritted my teeth as she pounded the same six keys repeatedly and relentlessly for two hours straight. I even kept encouraging the little virtuoso, as my left temporal lobe throbbed to the beat. See, I can be a good mommy too!!

Today I had to sub in MA’s class again. Normally, I would thoroughly enjoy this, but owing no doubt to the doctor’s office visit, I am now deathly ill. I spent all day in bed yesterday, trying to ride out the crud. I still felt pretty lousy today, but I fortified myself with tons of Diet coke and soldiered through the day. I couldn’t let those babies down; they need me! By the last period, I was done for. I was so exhausted I could barely see straight. I had been letting them listen to music because we all think better with music, right? Some of the kids had been on a field trip that day and they all returned about midway through the period and naturally, they came to see me, not their regular teachers. I am a rock star, you know.

Yeah, so anyway, there we all are, jamming to “Live Your Life” by Rihanna and that rapper whose name I can’t remember, when the door opens and the math teacher blows in. He’s a very big man. Very big. Sweet as can be, but big. And scary. And he said “I CAN HEAR YOU ACROSS THE HALL WITH MY DOOR CLOSED,” he roared. I stopped mid-shimmy and looked at him, horrified. The kids who weren’t supposed to be there filed out, shame faced. I turned the music back down to a more acceptable level. “Do your work,” I said, but not very forcefully. Hard to be forceful when you’ve just been caught shimmying by a colleague and are probably about to be escorted off the premises by a security guard. This is why I cannot be a professional teacher. I’ll end up being the subject of a Lifetime movie: She Crossed the Line With Dick and Jane….The Jennifer Story. Maybe they can get Kathy Bates to play me, or if I’m lucky, Roseanne.

I have to sub again tomorrow and then spring break begins!! No school for a whole week!!! Hooray….except for the part about the kids being out of school for a whole week and expecting me to entertain them!! I’ll just play Rihanna and shimmy. It works for the students at school!!

Some people live for the weekends. I dread them with every fiber of my being and whimper as Friday approaches. There’s no such thing as a quiet weekend at home for us. With three children all taking part in some sort of extra curricular activity, my time is siphoned away sitting on bleachers, floors and in gyms. I wouldn’t trade it for the world, but it wears me out!!

The boys went camping this weekend, so it was just us girls. Friday night, MA had a track meet. I thought track would be an easy thing for her to pursue. The practices are after school and they bus the kids to the track meets. All I have to do is show up and watch. What no one told me is that lots of other kids run track for the same reasons. There are about 10,000 kids participating in each event. Only eight people can run at a time. Which means each event has about 200 heats. Ok, I’m exaggerating a bit, but not much. I was there for four hours and MA was on the track for approximately seven minutes. Plus she managed to be participating in the final event of the evening, which meant we were there to the bitter end. And I am definitely bitter!!

Friday night was an invitational meet. I foolishly thought since the participants had to be ‘invited’ that it would be shorter than Tuesday’s four hour meet which took place on one of the coldest days of the year. By the time I got home from that one, I had frostbite on my cheeks. And yes, I mean the lower ones….did I mention the metal bleachers?? Anyway, turns out they ‘invite’ more schools to the Invitational, which doubled the number of participants. I showed up at 4. MA didn’t run her first event until 8. We didn’t get home until 11:30. I hate track.  

Saturday, I had to get up at 6:30 because I was leaving at 7:00 to attend courses at the University of Scouting. Yes, I did say Scouting. I am a geek. I need a life. One that includes long, lazy weekends where I sip Diet Coke (don’t do coffee) and read the paper. But no, I am working toward a “bachelors degree” in scouting. Call the geek squad!! And the men in white coats because I am helping to start another scout group, one that is co-ed!!

This event took place at a community college. They gave us a map in the registration packet. I got lost. I came out the wrong door after one of my classes and could not orient myself. Maps work only if you know how to read them. I get turned around and discombobulated very easily and so I wandered around trying to figure out which building I was supposed to enter. They all look the same from the back. And I hadn’t taken the Boy Scout survival class; I stupidly signed up for “issues in coed scouting” thinking it would be more important to keep them from impregnating each other!! Foolish Jennifer!! I wasn’t sure how to build a fire or gut my own squirrel if I couldn’t find my way back. I envisioned the headline: “Woman Goes Missing at University of Scouting; Found Two Weeks Later Trying to Open an Acorn With Teeth”. And failing. I am nothing if not incompetent!!

By the time I got home Saturday night, I was in an advanced state of exhaustion. I drove over to Gina’s (not her real name) and picked up the goddess, who was complaining about a scratch on her knee. She was hobbling around like an arthritic 95 year old. She is always complaining, so I ignored her. We stopped at the grocery store, and I got home by 7 p.m. At 9, I collapsed into bed. And the time changed.

Which means of course I overslept on Sunday; why wouldn’t I? We had to be at 8:30 mass for the induction of the First Communion candidates. Luckily my mother in law called at 7:30 to make sure we were awake, which we weren’t. I rushed upstairs to wake up the kids.

There is nothing scarier than having to wake up a teenage girl and tell her she only has thirty minutes to get ready. You are taking your life in your own hands. It would make an excellent National Geographic special. NARRATOR: carefully the hunter approaches the teenage girl and shakes her gently; the girl rears up and attempts to maul the hunter…

It takes thirty minutes for said girl just to apply her mascara. Factor in time to pick out an outfit and to shave her legs, well, the average girl needs about three hours to get ready. I fearlessly confronted the dragoness, only to have the door slammed in my face. However, that is the universal sign in our house that she is up and moving, so I rushed back down to take care of myself and the goddess.

By 8:00, we were all ready and out the door. The goddess was walking without bending her leg, doing a junior version of the Frankenstein shuffle. MA was sullen, muttering under her breath and rolling her eyes like an epileptic. My hair was still damp, but I looked ok, all things considered. The ride to church was hellish. The goddess was moaning about her leg, and MA was still muttering. I turned on some nice classical music, hoping to soothe the savage beasts. This backfired, naturally, and MA spent the rest of the ride rolling her eyes even more furiously and saying things like “why can’t we have a NORMAL family” and “this music is SO STUPID, no one NORMAL listens to it.”

By the time we got to church, I had a pounding headache and was seriously considering abandoning the SUV and jumping a slow boat to Mexico. But I parked the car and ushered the little ducklings into church. My in-laws were there for the First Communion thing and naturally they were sitting in the first row. We went to sit with them. The goddess shuffled in like the bionic woman on crack and MA sat at the very farthest end of the pew leaving a good three feet between us; obviously she didn’t want to be associated with the classical music freaks. I collapsed in the pew and blew out my breath.

A minute later, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I looked behind me and smiled. It was my friend Lynn and her six beautiful, perfectly behaved children. She was pretty and blonde and soothing. “Are you having a rough morning?” she asked sympathetically.
A wave of emotion washed over me at her kindness; it was just what I needed. “Like you wouldn’t BELIEVE,” I said wearily.
“I can tell,” she said, “because your shirt is on inside out!!”
OH MY GOD!!!! It was the icing on the cake, the perfect end to a perfect weekend, it was JUST WHAT I NEEDED TO HEAR!!! I looked at her in horror and she nodded sympathetically. I got up and rushed back out of the church to the bathroom and switched the shirt around. What kills me is I KNEW it looked wrong when I had put it on but it didn’t quite register. I went back to my pew and collapsed in humiliation.

Things went fine up to the First Communion ceremony. But once the goddess returned, she started acting out. She refused to kneel, claiming it “hurt”. I knew she was not in pain. How could a tiny scratch cause so much pain?? But she stubbornly refused to kneel and she kept whimpering and moaning and acting ridiculous. I was cognizant of the beautiful family behind me with their six children and I couldn’t even control the one. Finally I had enough of her histrionics, dragged her out and walloped her. Well, mostly verbally, but still it was satisfying.

When we got home, I took a good look at the “scratch”. I had had time to cool off and I started thinking “what if it’s MRSA and I beat the hell out of her instead of looking at it?” I would feel really badly as I pushed her head and trunk around in the wheelchair, after the doctors amputated all of her limbs. I thought the bump looked like it could be a splinter. She had been with the czarina the day before, clearing sticks and pinecones out of the yard, which by the way, pays very well at Gina’s (not her real name) house. So I stuck a needle in it and poked around. You can imagine how well the goddess handled this. I poked a second then started squeezing and some goo came out. Which led me to believe that it was, in fact, not a splinter, but a staph infection. So she freakin’ DID have MRSA and I had been screaming at her all morning to suck it up and quit acting like a baby!!!

I violated the friendship code and called Dr. Renee to beg for some antibiotic ointment. She was very kind and did not even laugh very hard when I told her about the inside out shirt and the Frankenstein shuffle. She’s a good egg. I treated the goddess like an invalid for the rest of the day, trying to atone for having dragged her out by her ear that morning. Some people are fit for motherhood and some people are fit to own goldfish. I am apparently fit to own a pet rock. You can’t kill it, although I could probably find a way.

And so the terrible weekend has drawn to a close and as I sit and compose this, the sun has come up on Monday. Very late, might I add, thanks to the stupid time change. I am about to call and make an appointment for the goddess to see Dr. Renee as she is still doing the Frankenstein shuffle. The thirty dollar copay ought to teach me to pay better attention to my child!! And we have another track meet tomorrow night!! Hooray; I can hardly wait!!!

The last good night of sleep I had was Friday night. MA had a soccer tournament in Atlanta so we drove over Friday night. In the most God awful, torrential downpour ever. I’m a pretty fearless driver in the rain, but we stayed in the dead center of the storm the whole way there; we just moved east with the front. By the time we got to the hotel and checked in, I was exhausted. So I had a beer and then popped one of the emergency Xanax and slept like a baby. This is probably NOT how the good doctor recommends dosing, but it worked for me!!

Thank goodness I did that, because I was somewhat mellow when the phone rang at 7:30 a.m. the next morning and our team manager informed us the tournament had been cancelled. What? I drove through driving rain and howling wind and they cancel the damn tournament????? I keep score and here is how the score stands right now: Peachtree Corners Marriott in Norcross Georgia gets top marks for a fantastic, friendly staff, comfortable beds and a great breakfast!! The Concorde Fire Challenge people are at the bottom of the list for failing to cancel the tournament on FRIDAY even though we all knew what the weather forecast was the Wednesday before. Don’t be surprised, tournament people, if flaming bags of poo appear on your doorstep. You have been warned!! Being the good sports we are, however, we shrugged off our disappointment at the cancellation and went shopping instead. Because Obama wants us to shop and stimulate the economy!! We are nothing if not good citizens!!

Saturday night we arrived home after our day of shopping and I found that Hugo had allowed Napoleon to go to a party. He knew where it was at and who he was with, but when I questioned the end time he shrugged and said “he told me he won’t be out late.” We went to dinner and came home, with the goddess’s cousin in tow. I put them to bed and by 10:30, there was still no word from Napoleon. “What time did you tell him to be home?” I asked again. “He said he won’t be late,” he replied as if this was an answer. 

Here is where my husband and I are having difficulty with the child rearing. I have my flaws and I freely admit them. However, this is my blog, so I am free to expound on other people’s flaws instead. If hubby doesn’t like it, he can write his own blog!! Hugo has a bad habit of thinking something, not saying it out loud, but assuming that since he thought it, everyone else should have received the message telepathically. Time and again he has been caught doing this, by me, by his employees, by his family, but he always denies it. It’s not his fault we didn’t hear him when he clearly said it even though NO ONE heard him say it because he never actually said it out loud, he just thinks he said it. You see how difficult it is? So in his mind, clearly he intended for Napoleon to be home by 10:30 or 11:00, but he failed to communicate this to the child.

“He knew what time I wanted him home,” he growled as the clock chimed 11, there was no sign of Napoleon, and he wasn’t answering his phone. ”Did you actually TELL him what time to be home?” I asked.”No, but he SAID he wasn’t going to be out late,” he snarled.”So you never actually TOLD him to be home at a certain time?”"No, but he KNEW….”"No, dear, he didn’t KNOW,” I said. “He’s 15 and to him, late is anytime after 3 in the morning. You have to TELL him what time to be home; that’s why you’re the parent!”And so the conversation ended with him rolling over to go to sleep and me walking out to the couch to wait for the kid because I no longer felt the need to be in the same room with THAT MAN!

I wasn’t terribly worried about Napoleon. I knew whose house he was at, knew he was safe, so I let it go. And Gavin was driving him home, Gavin who is like my biological child only isn’t. So I fell into a light sleep. At 1:00 a.m. I awoke to find Napoleon bending over me. “I’m home Mommy, good night,” he said. Relieved, I started to drift back to sleep, only to be rudely awakened by my husband who had gotten up to yell at Napoleon for coming home so late. I had to jump in the middle of the altercation and remind the man he had never verbally given the boy a time to be home. By the time we all went to bed, I was seething and wide awake.

Finally, after an hour of staring, I managed to drift back off, only to be reawakened by the sound of the cousin hacking up her left lung. It was one of those really annoying, dry coughs that went on endlessly and caused me to seriously consider risking jail time by suffocating her with a pillow. Surely I would get more sleep in jail? The cough tapered off and I managed to fall asleep again….and then Hugo got up and stomped around, making coffee. I threw in the towel and got up.

By Sunday night, I was exhausted and my head hurt. I am trying my best to get a sinus infection (get ready Renee….I’m coming to see you and you better have the Rx ready!!!) and my head was pounding. At 8:30, I took some Advil PM and went to bed. At 1:30 the phone rang. It’s never good when the phone rings in the middle of the night and I knew the cousin and her family were heading back up north. Hugo answered the phone, mumbled “yes” a couple times and then hung up. The alarm was going off at one of the offices. “Do they want you come and reset it?” I asked. “No, they didn’t ask me to,” he said. I rolled over and was almost asleep when the phone rang again. It was the alarm company requesting that he come in to check the alarm. Why the HELL they didn’t just ask him the first time, I’ll never know. He got dressed and left; I fell asleep again. Unfortunately, he returned half an hour later, waking me up AGAIN in the process. So much for my Advil PM.

Last night I woke up with a panic attack. I hate it when they sneak up on me but that’s usually how they work. I got up, went to the bathroom and tried to go back to sleep, but my chest was feeling tighter and tighter. I got up and went out to the couch, hoping a change of venue would settle me down, but no luck. After several more minutes passed, I realized I was not having a panic attack at all, but rather a severe case of heartburn. Hard to tell the difference sometimes!! I got up, popped a pepcid and a Xanax, laid back down and fell asleep almost immediately. Thank God for pharmaceuticals.

 The point of all this blathering is, to quote Lilly Von Shtupp “Let’s Face it, I’m tired!!” Yesterday, Hugo said “aren’t you going to wake up the kids?” “Are you kidding me,” I said, “I still have three minutes.” “Well, we could…wink..wink..nudge…nudge,” he said suggestively. “Or I could go back to sleep,” I said and so I did! Because I’M TIRED!!