Daily Diatribes

There are so many wonderful things about having teenagers in the house. The constant body odor, the tons of food that must be trucked in to feed them and the never ending defiance are just some of the many consolations of having adolescents around. And then there’s the acne.

I admit I am one of those creepy people who gets a real thrill out of squeezing a zit. Go ahead and think less of me than you already do, if that’s possible. But zits fascinate me. Those pulsing red bumps with a white cream filled center just begging to be popped are one of my secret obsessions. I want to squeeze the little suckers between my fingertips until they spew forth a geyser of disgusting pus. Unfortunately, I have really good skin, so I hardly ever get to indulge my sick hobby. I can’t look away from a zit. They hypnotize me. If I am talking to someone with a really good whitehead, I find myself talking to the zit instead of to the person. I want to squeeze.

Enter the teenagers, who have any number of aforementioned bumps just begging for my attention. However, when I get a certain look in my eyes, the children run from me. Cowards. Don’t they know I’m only doing them a favor? No one at school wants to talk to someone with an angry whitehead about to spew all over the place. By allowing me to facilitate the explosion of pus in a controlled setting, I am saving them from social ruin. I have only their best interests at heart. Muahahahahaha!!! Yes, I am a sick puppy!!!

This morning, Napoleon made the mistake of wandering into my lair. He walked over to the sink, picked up a comb and began to groom. I eyed him stealthily and noticed that the whopping zit on his lip had not improved and had, in fact, gotten bigger. And he had an orthodontist appointment this morning. I knew the cute, blonde tech would not flirt with him if he had pustules on his lip. I could envision her look of horror as she beheld it, and then imagined her stealthily handing off his chart to Big Bertha, who was known for using a tire jack to crank braces.

“Napoleon,” I said in my sweetest mommy voice, “come here son.” Obediently he came to me. Ah, the innocence of children. I turned on the hot water, wet a washcloth and slapped it over the zit before he could say a word.

“Owwwwww,” he howled. “What did you do that for??? Ow, owwwww…..”
“Shut up,” I said ruthlessly, “and hold it there. We’re getting rid of that bump.” He glared at me, but complied, holding the rag against the bump. I watched him anxiously, waiting for the moment of truth when I could whip the washcloth away and squeeze with reckless abandon. After a moment, I lifted the rag and saw that the site was not quite prepared. I reheated the cloth and placed it on the bump again.

“Thith ith tho thtupid,” Napoleon muttered through the cloth. “Why canth choo jes leave me alone???”
“Trust me,” I said, “this thing needs to go. I promise I won’t hurt you….” said the spider to the fly!!

Another moment passed. I lifted the cloth and beheld that it was ready. The pus had risen to the surface quite nicely. I was ready to begin the operation. Delicately, I probed the skin around the bump, searching for the perfect place to grip. Then I squeezed!! He howled and the pus shot out like it had been fired from a cannon. It landed on his upper lip. He thrashed around wildly, trying to get away from me.
“Hold still dummy,” I said, “it’s going to get in your mouth!!!!” He continued to fight, but I managed to get the nastiness off his lip. Panting with exertion, I eyed the bump again. Nope, not quite done. I grabbed him before he could move and squeezed with all my might. “Owwww mommy, owwwww, owwwww….” He yelled.
“Just…..doin’…..this…..because I……love you……son…..,” I grunted. I finally managed to empty it. The bump subsided sullenly, unable to inflate itself anymore. I wiped the blood and goo away and patted him on the head. “See honey, doesn’t that look better?” I asked. He glared at me and bolted from the room.

However, the cute blonde technician was happy to tighten his braces. When I came back into the exam room, Dr. Moore looked at me and said “I hear you’ve been throwing boiling rags in your son’s face!!” Fine, I’m somewhat unbalanced. But really, I only have my children’s best interests at heart!!

I am subbing today and I always seem to have goofy stories to share. I hope y’all don’t get bored with them. If you do, well, you can always find another blog to read. Birmingham Blues is a great one!!

I’m subbing in an algebra class today. I have subbed for this teacher before and she has a pretty cushy schedule: first period off; study hall; remediation class (three students); algebra 1; lunch; remediation; algebra; sixth period off; and algebra. So all day long, I only have three classes with actual students who are doing actual work. Not bad at all!! Plenty of time to catch up on reading blogs and to do the crossword puzzle.

The third period class had a worksheet to do and one student had to finish taking a test. It was nice and quiet in the classroom and I was happily catching up with the Dingo, when the Test Kid raised his hand and said “What’s a prime number?”

I turned around to gape at him. Why in the hell was he asking me math questions? I don’t know what a prime number is; I have absolutely no idea. Is it a number that’s above average? A higher grade number? One with less fat? Who the hell cares? I can play Pogo without knowing what prime numbers are and that’s all that matters.

I said “I have no idea; ask someone in the class.” Another kid answered the question quickly and competently. Test Boy looked at me suspiciously because I couldn’t answer. Trust me, when it comes to math, your average preschooler could beat the pants off of me!!

“Never ask me a math question,” I said gravely. “It’s in everyone’s best interest. I have an English degree.”

“Well why are you subbing in here?” asked Test Boy, still very suspicious.
I became exasperated with his constant questioning. I was freely ‘fessing up to my lack of ability; did we have to beat it to death? “I’m in here to supervise you and keep you from selling drugs or having sex,” I answered. The class fairly howled, but he seemed satisfied with the answer and went back to work. Why do I say things like that? They come out of my mouth before I can stop them. I need someone to jolt me with electricity every time I say something inappropriate, although I would get jolted so often my heart would probably stop.

When the fifth period class came in, I handed out a quiz. They had to do three logic problems. I hate those things. I have no logic in my soul at all. Besides, I get more into the story. For example, one of the problems was about a haunted house with six rooms. Each room had a different actor portraying a famous villain and each child was scared of one particular villain. You had to match them all up. I wanted more details about the haunted house and the grandparents who were in charge of it, those sick bastards. I didn’t particularly care about the order of the rooms, I wanted to know about the actor’s make up and how realistic it looked.

Halfway through the quiz a girl raised her hand. “Oh crap,” I thought, “again with the questions.” Aloud, I said “Yes dear?”
“Who was Lizzie Borden?” she asked. Ah, now here was a question I could answer. I cleared my throat and began “Lizzie Borden took an ax and gave her father forty whacks; when she saw what she had done, she gave her mother forty one.” They stared at me blankly. “Oh come on,” I said, “you know. Lizzie Borden took a hatchet and chopped up her mother and father.” Turns out they did not know. So I googled it.

Five minutes later, the entire class was crowded around the computer, oooohing and aaaaahing over the lurid details. We even found the crime scene photos. In one, someone had doctored it so that Lizzie’s mother was cowering on the floor with her feet twitching back and forth and Lizzie was looming over her with an ax. Cool stuff.

Well, ok, so they didn’t learn much Algebra today, but that’s American History, right? I made a difference. They learned a new nursery rhyme!! One more class to go; one can only speculate what I might teach them….

This has been quite a week for me. My eldest, my first born, my baaaabbbyyyyyy, turned sixteen on Monday. As most mothers do, I vividly remember laboring to bring him forth, all 9 pounds 13 ounces of him. However, my memories of labor are intertwined with memories of that damn compound in Waco burning down. I remember panting and breathing and cussing while watching that fire burn. In my advanced state of pain, I wasn’t able to process just what the heck was going on with David Koresh and his people. To this day, if I hear the term Branch Davidian, I have an immediate and overwhelming urge to pant and push.
Taking the kid to get his license was an experience in and of itself. You know how people like to share their labor stories? They also like to share their war stories from taking the kid to get its license. I got advice from everyone about which office to go to, what time to get there, how to prepare the kid, etc. People were suggesting every license office within a one hundred mile radius. “No, don’t go to that one, the testers are mean,” one mom said. “Go to this one, instead. It’s only 45 minutes away and you’ll get in and out quickly.” Sure, quickly, but with a ninety minute round trip drive!!

Napoleon was taking notes on all of this, as well as texting everyone he knew over the age of sixteen to find out where they had taken the driving test. He decided we needed to go to the office on Arkadelphia Road in downtown Birmingah because the people there were supposedly the friendliest.

Here’s a little note about government employees: they don’t have to be friendly. They are in charge, cannot be fired and there is nothing you can do about it. They have you dancing at the end of a very long string and all you can do is say “yes ma’am” and hope they don’t eat you. Because you, my friend, are on the wrong side of the desk and you are at their mercy. So I was not totally convinced that it was necessary to drive twenty miles out of my way, through rush hour traffic, in the hopes of finding the mythical creature known as the friendly civil servant.

When the big day arrived and I made the executive decision for him to take the test at Pelham. I shared this with him and there was much gnashing of teeth and tearing of hair and rending of garments. From his reaction you would’ve thought I was taking him to Auschwitz. “I CAN’T TAKE IT IN PELHAM,” he wailed. “THEY NEVER PASS ANYONE!!!!!!!!!!” I was unsypmpathetic; what it came down to is I was the one who was having to give up my morning for him and I refused to spend part of it driving around downtown Birmingham searching for the license office. We were going to the place with which I was most familiar, no matter how much angst it caused him. I would probably make a really good civil servant.

At 7:15, we headed to the car. Although the office didn’t open until 8, I had heard we needed to get there early. They only do so many tests per day and woe betide if you get there late, wait all day and then find out they have given all the tests they are going to for the day. He was muttering to himself about stop signs and turn signals as we made our way to the car. He got behind the wheel and then said “I need to practice some more three point turns.” The day before, he had practiced so many three point turns I thought I was going to vomit. “No,” I said ruthlessly, “if you don’t know how to do them by now, it’s too late. Let’s go.”

Trembling with anxiety, he started the car and we headed off to Pelham. We got to the office in record time. In fact, it was only 7:30 and we were the first ones there. But as I got out of the car, another car pulled in, so I sprinted to the door so I would be first. Really, if I had been smart, I would’ve camped out overnight so we could have the best spot. But it all worked out for the best. By 7:45, there was quite a long line and we were first. I had the glimmerings of hope for a good outcome. At 7:50, the most ferocious of the examiners (a legend in this area for her sadism) pulled up and hit the curb. ‘And SHE’S going to grade my kid on how well he can drive?” I though to myself. Napoleon laughed outright and I punched him in the ribs. “Shut up,” I hissed. “If she sees you, she’ll fail you immediately!!!” I’m telling you I am not exaggerating. This whole process was completely NERVE WRACKING!!!

At precisely 8:00 a.m., the door swung open and a gentleman stepped out. I looked past him, hoping for a glimpse of Oompa Loompas because I was feeling like I had wandered onto the set of “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory”. But no Oompas greeted us and instead of handing us a golden ticket, he directed us to the testing area. We walked forward and there was Attila, she of the bad driving. She stopped me two feet from the door and said “Wait here.” Then she disappeared. The rest of the line crashed to a halt behind us.

We waited for five minutes before she reappeared. People were muttering and grumbling, but the instant she put up her hand, it was deadly silent. She gave a canned speech about the process, then started handing out numbers and checking documentation. It wasn’t hard at all to imagine her in prison camp, overseeing the waterboarding. We got number one, but when I handed her the paperwork, I had the wrong registration. She looked at it, then thrust it at me contemptuously. “This is 2005,” she said. “I need a CURRENT registration.” Napoleon cast me a look of despair.

I triple timed it out to the car, praying I would find the registration. If not, I was prepared to go to the license plate people and pay whatever it took for them to print me another one. Fortunately, I was able to locate the registration and I huffed back in to the building. Napoleon had already gone BEYOND THE DOORS, so I handed the registration to the guard and she waved me through.

I walked in to the room where Napoleon was, my heart thumping with trepidation. I had to present my license and as I handed it over, I said “I know it doesn’t look like me; I can’t wait to renew it next month so I can get a new picture.”

“We can do that right now,” she said.
“Fabulous, let’s do it,” said I. Napoleon looked at me in disbelief; I shrugged. She offered and I was already there. Might as well kill two birds with one stone. The lady verified my name and address. But when she got to my weight, she eyed me skeptically and said “do you still weigh 120?”
I was mightily offended!! Of course I still weighed 120. Was she implying otherwise? “Yes,” I said, “I sure did weigh 120 when I got this license,” twenty four years ago, I added mentally. “Doesn’t everyone weigh 120?”
“Well, I do,” she said and I was pretty sure I caught some snark in her tone. Like any cop who pulls me over is going to write me a ticket because I weigh a smidge….just a smidge….over 120. When I hand my license through the window, the fat rolls on my arms rippling in the wind, he is not going to reach for his gun because I exaggerated just a hair on my true weight. Because any cop in his or her right mind knows better than to question a woman’s weight. Justifiable homicide comes to mind. I’m pretty sure I have a Constitutionally protected right to lie about my weight on my driver’s license. And if I don’t have that right+, I will contribute generously to the campaign of any politician who makes that a priority on his or her platform.

Once I was done, they called our number and I went outside to move my car into the designated spot. A hefty lady (not the scary one!!!) came out to administer the test. With trepidation, I headed inside to wait. It took forever. But finally, I saw the Suburban swing into the parking lot and Napoleon dismounted, clutching a piece of paper. I rushed out the door to greet him. “Did you pass?”
“Yeah, I did,” he said.
“Was she nice?”
“Yeah, but she smelled like smoke. She smoked a cigarette right before she got in the car and I swear I thought I was going to throw up!”
So for once in my life, it paid off for me to listen to my instincts. We went to Pelham and we were victorious. He passed on the first try. I was done with driving instruction for a whole year!!! And I had a new license with a new picture. 120 pounds of brown beauty, that’s me!! And I double dog DARE anyone to say otherwise!!!

Today was another action packed day. Track meet at 8:30, soccer game at 9:00 and then another soccer game at 2:00. Fortunately, MA only ended up running one event at the track meet, so I picked her up and we went shopping. Joy of joys, we even managed to agree on a bathing suit that was neither too expensive or too slutty. Truly fortune was smiling upon me.

I should have known it was too good to be true. I am the ultimate destroyer of good fortune. As soon as I hit a run of good luck, I do something insanely nutty to screw it all up. Either I fall down in a public place or insult somebody or a strange accident befalls someone close to me. The “yang” is always nipping at my heels.

We arrived at the soccer field in good time and in a good mood. MA had gotten new clothes. I had appeased the goddess with a giant, green slurpee. The whining was at a minimum. The soccer team was warming up and looking good. The rain was holding off. It seemed as if nothing could go wrong, as if the cosmic cogs and gears had aligned themselves just for me. And then it happened.

One of our best players (and MA’s best friends) walked up to her mom with a dripping nose, sneezing wildly. It appeared as if something in the air had triggered her allergies. However would she play if she was sneezing her eyeballs out? Fortunately, I keep a well stocked first aid kit in the car, so we trotted off to see what kind of goodies I had. Turns out I had a brand new, unopened bottle of Children’s Benadryl Sinus Formula. Gloating over our good fortune, we herded Jordin over to the bleachers so she could gulp down the medicine and chase it with my Diet Coke.

Unfortunately, we didn’t have a measuring cup or a spoon. So we encouraged her to take a swig from the bottle. She held her nose and took what appeared to be an infinitesimally small sip from the bottle and then a large gulp from the Diet Coke. Unhappy with the amount she had taken, Stephanie (her mom) and I prodded her to take more. “Drink the Kool-Aid child,” we said. So she took another apparently small sip, followed by another gulp of Coke. Worried about underdosing her and having to watch her sneeze her way through the game, we cajoled her into taking another sip. And she did. Satisfied, we sent her off to play.

About this time Alanna, another mom who is a registered nurse, got off her cell phone, looked at us and said “Just how much Benadryl DID you give her??”

“Just a little bit,” I reassured her. “Couple of tiny swigs, and it’s children’s strength.” Then Stephanie opened the bottle and gasped. Apparently, Jordin had not taken
“a couple of swigs”, she had taken half the bottle. Ooops. I hate when that happens. With my advanced medical training (U of WebMD, class of 2005) I knew it was bad. But Alanna, with her NURSING degree (blah blah blah) took the bottle, read the label, did some algebraic calculations and worked out exactly how much Jordin had taken. Show-off.

Well, it turns out Jordin took FIVE TIMES the recommended dosage. And it wasn’t just Benadryl; it had pseudophedrine in it. So Miss Smarty Pants Nurse Girl called Poison Control. The game started and there we all sat, riveted as she consulted poison control. They were very friendly and when she gave them the information, they advised that Jordin be immediately transported to the nearest Emergency Room.

Shit. I had poisoned a player. The team was already short staffed and I had to go and hand out poison. The team manager stopped the play, ran across the field, and informed Jordin she had to go to the emergency room or die. I sank down into the bleachers, trying to avoid the scathing glares the other parents were shooting me. I didn’t MEAN to poison her, I wanted to shout. I just wanted her to stop sneezing, not go into a coma!!

The game resumed as Jordin was spirited away for a fun filled afternoon of IV fluids, EKG’s and a possible date with activated charcoal. The rest of the parents started giving me absolute HELL, with comments ranging from “don’t take candy from strangers and don’t take Medicine from Jennifer” to “pseudophedrine? are you cooking meth in your car?!!” Mostly, everyone wanted to know why I hadn’t handed out Benadryl to the OTHER team, which would have been the smart thing to do.

The only bright spot is that the girls managed to win the game, their first win all season. And Jordin did not die, although her BP shot up to 145/90 and her resting heart rate was around 110. Oh and she was really sleepy….wonder what caused that????

The moral of the story is I am NEVER giving anyone medication EVER AGAIN!!! And I am getting out of the rolling meth lab business. It’s too risky. Instead, I am going to don a Panama hat and dark glasses and start a cult. “Drink the kool-aid my children…it’s so much better than soccer!!!”

Post script: I behaved much better at today’s game. But can I just tell you that the referee had the most homosexual sounding whistle EVER?? A whistle should be manly and robust. When blown, it should make the hair on your head stand up and cause all players on the field to freeze instantly. Instead, his whistle sounded like a very anemic train whistle. Sort of like Thomas the Tank Engine after he’s snorted too much of my home cooked meth!!! NO one took him seriously. He would blow the whistle and it would sort of go “tweeeetttt” and the girls would keep right on playing. I expected the whistle to break out and start singing show tunes at any moment. Really, GAY whistle!!! I felt bad for him. When it comes to whistles, size definitely matters!!!

Yes, I know I haven’t blogged all week. I’ve barely even had time to catch my breath. This has been the longest week and I can’t even think of anything funny. Once again, started several posts, but didn’t finish. Here are a couple of them:

Gun Control: Lately people have been offing themselves and others with rather alarming regularity. First off, if you want to shoot yourself, fine, go ahead. It’s a free country. But leave the rest of us out of it, you self absorbed pile of horse sh*t!! There’s no need to take along family members, ex lovers or perfect strangers. You are going to Hell anyway and to a special part of hell reserved just for psychos like you. You won’t be meeting up with your loved ones again, so do us a favor: pull the trigger on yourself and leave the rest of us alone.

I don’t own a gun. I’ve never fired a gun. I don’t feel the need to have a gun in my home to protect myself. Because let’s be honest, I’m completely incompetent. Say someone breaks into my house in the middle of the night. By the time I got up, put my glasses on and found the gun, I would inevitably trip over the dog, and shoot myself half a dozen times by mistake, freeing up the home invader to clean the place out and leave with no messy murder to commit. I’m not exactly the most coordinated individual on the planet. Owning a gun would only complete the Darwinian cycle begun at my birth.

Under Age Drinking: While I was subbing last week, they kept showing the same PSA’s over and over again. The first one showed a dude who had gotten a fake ID and was gloating about it to his friend. The friend soberly advised him to be smart and not drink. He didn’t listen. This was followed by scenes of wreckage and his classmates sobbing over his demise. Truly frightening stuff. At least, the first thirty times they showed it. Then it lost a lot of its impact.

It was followed by a plug for the color guard. It showed the color guard in action at various competitions and football games. At the end, viewers were invited to try out for the color guard. I love the color guard; they are an integral part of the band. However, by the end of the day, I was rooting for the following scenario: The guy with the fake ID gets drunk, drives his car into the middle of the football field and plows through the color guard. Flags and rifles are flying everywhere, girls are screaming and the dude behind the wheel has a bemused look on his face. He can’t quite fathom how underage drinking has led to the destruction of the entire color guard. Call me sick, but I think it would have been a much more effective PSA. More entertaining anyway.

My Bad Sportsmanship: We have been to a LOT of soccer games in the past few weeks. One was against a team I particularly dislike. They are coached to be very aggressive and rough, relying more on brutality than actual finesse. We played them last Saturday and had an absolutely horrible ref whose bad calls resulted in two goals for the other team. I became a little crazy. I wanted to hurt him a lot. I wanted to rip his little whistle off and shove it up his nose and then pound his shiny bald head into the ground. I need some really good meditation strategies so I can ponder the mysteries of the universe instead of charging onto the field and kicking the ref in the shins. It’s a children’s game, for heaven’s sake!!! Why does it turn me into such a complete nutcase???

At one point he finally blew the whistle on one girl who had been repeatedly assaulting members of our team with her rather large posterior. “That’s right missy,” I thought to myself, “keep that big butt to yourself.” Almost immediately I realized that I had, in fact, spoken it out loud instead of in my head as I had initially thought. And a parent from the other team was walking by and looked at me disbelievingly. I could feel my face turn a delicate shade of maroon. I, a grown woman of advanced age, had made a disparaging remark about a young girl’s body shape. What damage could that do to her psyche?? However, I brazened on and muttered loudly “I just speak the truth, sir.” I mean if you’re going to make an ass out of yourself, you might as well go all the way. But I kept my mouth shut for the rest of the game and fantasized about binding the ref with duct tape and murdering him slowly with a safety pin. Think about it….that would take a loooooooonnnnnnnnngggggggg time and be very painful. I like it. And no, I am not off my meds. Maybe I need to be!!!

Well, we have two more soccer games tonight and another one tomorrow. I have to sub next week. I am planning a week long summer camp for over 100 girl scouts. My son turns sixteen on Monday and may become a licensed driver. In short, my life is NOT boring. I will try not to misbehave at the soccer games, although it will be hard for me. I may yet end up as the lead story on CNN. “Woman Charges Referee With Safety Pin, Shouting Obscenities, As Terrified Children Watch.” Yep I’m on edge, that’s for sure. Almost anything could happen.

Today I met Kiki, Renee and Susan for book group. We meet about every three weeks ago to discuss our latest read. Our reading taste is wildly eclectic. We veer from classics to literary fiction to nonfiction to science fiction and anything in between. Sometimes we love the book, sometimes we hate it, sometimes we agree to disagree. But the group is a vital part of my life. It’s my friend time, but also my brain time. To discuss literature and politics with three of the most intelligent women I know is one of the greatest gifts in my life and I am grateful for it.

After we had finished our discussion, we picked our next book. There’s no science behind our picks; usually someone has a book in mind and presents it to the group. Occasionally, we have been stumped and so we go to the book store and wander around until something grabs our fancy. Today was easy because Kiki brought a long list of possibilities and we had no problem choosing. I was left with some time to kill before MA’s soccer game, so Susan and I went to the bookstore to buy the book. Kiki works at the store and she had assured us there were a couple of copies.

Only when we went to the section where the book was supposed to be, there were no copies. So I went to the desk and asked the nice guy to look it up on his nice computer. He looked at me, scratched his head and said “Um, ok, so HOW do you spell “elegance” (book is “Elegance of the Hedgehog”). I spelled it for him slowly and he typed it in with two fingers and said “well, we should have two copies. Let me show you where they are.” 

He popped down from his cubicle and trotted off and we trotted behind him. He turned down an aisle and said “I think it’s right here, across from the coffee shop..”I looked at where he was pointing and beheld a book emblazoned with the title “BIG, SPANKABLE ASSES” and a picture of a woman’s bare butt. Hmmmm, I know he had problems spelling “elegance” but “SPANKABLE ASSES” and hedgehogs are pretty well separated in the literary spectrum. Although there are probably some perverts out there that would be happy to lump “spankable asses” and “hedgehogs” into the same session.

 Of course, being me, I guffawed wildly and said “Hey Susan, let’s read THAT for book group!!! SPANKABLE ASSES….bwahahahahahahaha….” Juvenile does not even begin to describe my sense of humor. The poor guy (I think his name was Dwight) turned red and said “I’m glad you have a sense of humor; I normally work in the coffee shop.” I’m thinking ol’ Dwight needs to stick with the LARGE DECAF LATTES. I reallllllyyy wanted to pick up the book and flip through it, but he was so embarrassed already and we really were trying to find the book. Which he never found.

He led us to the section where Susan and I had first looked and there was no book, just like we said. It was becoming a mission for him, so he went back to the computer then came back to us and said “It may be under Anderson because that’s what’s next in the computer.” Huh? The author’s name was BARBERY, not Anderson, but we obediently walked around to the “A” section to look. Strangely, the book was not there, something I fail to understand. Because certainly I would file a book by BARBERY in the A section next to ANDERSON. Wouldn’t you?

We thanked him and I muttered to Susan “I’m calling Kiki.” Who immediately said “The book isn’t on the shelf, it’s on a table toward the back of the store.” We walked back there, past the BIG SPANKABLE ASSES aisle and found both copies of the book exactly where she said they would be. Which means Kiki deserves a raise and Dwight needs to stay in the coffee shop, away from LARGE SPANKABLE ASSES. Not that there’s anything wrong with a BIG SPANKABLE ASS; I happen to have pretty large ass myself. But as a rule, I tend to avoid the spanking part, not being into the pain thing myself.

As I write this I am questioning why I have never become a published author. Really, if someone can publish BIG SPANKABLE ASSES and then get Books A Million to sell it, I ought to be able to get something published. Maybe I can call is SAGGY, WRINKLY ASSES, which is a little more accurate when it comes to my peer group. I’m on fire now. I have to publish a book. I can write a book at least AS GOOD as BSA (Big Spankable Asses, not to be confused with Boy Scouts of America). I am going to start on it tomorrow. Look out BSA, I’m on the move!!

*Sending love and wishes for a speedy recovery to Buddha Girl who just had the old “saw me in half routine” performed on herself!!*
Ok, so shoot me for being busy!! Wait…I didn’t mean that LITERALLY!! I mean is it just me, or has the whole world gone freakin’ crazy? The decapitations were bad enough. For awhile there, you couldn’t log on to AOL without reading about someone hacking off someone else’s head. Now it’s the shootings. Every time you open the paper, some whack job has offed a dozen people. If you want to kill your own stupid ass self, that’s fine, but leave the rest of us out of it, ok???

Anyway, between working, a hellish home improvement project supervised by my father in law (AKA Hitler), MA’s sports schedule and Easter, I have not had a spare minute. But I am going to now write the world’s longest post in an effort to catch you up on all the boring, meaningless drivel that is my life.

On Monday, I subbed. I brought Oreo cookies for lunch and also an orange. It was good I brought the orange because a piece got stuck in my teeth. You know how that happens with oranges. So after I finished eating, I wandered into the bathroom to try and pick it out of my teeth. Thank God I had eaten lunch in the classroom by myself, because upon grinning at myself in the mirror, I was horrified to see chunks of Oreo cookie stuck between my front teeth. I looked like Gomer Pyle on meth. Much rinsing commenced and I managed to get rid of the Bubba look. The orange, however, was firmly lodged. Oh well, at least it wasn’t visible.

I have a gray hair. Well, I actually have lots of gray hair, but currently there is one that springs up at my hairline. It’s significantly shorter than the rest of my hairs. That’s what we say here down South….hairs. As in “I’m goin’ to Sandy’s Kut-n-Kurl to get mah ‘hairs’ done…” Anyway, I tried to pull out Monday after I was done rinsing the Oreos out of my teeth, but I couldn’t snag it. I whimpered and groaned and yanked, but it wouldn’t budge. I am a wimp and it hurt, plus it’s too short to get a good grip on it. It won’t lay down, it just sort of arcs up into this retarded looking hook. I hate getting old.

Ok, so this home improvement project….I hate home improvements!! It would be easier and cheaper to blow up the house and start over again from scratch. A few weeks ago, we decided to rip out our built in bookcase/entertainment center thingy in the family room. I wish I could give you a good reason why, but I don’t have one. It was there and we were bored, so we got pry bars and pried the sucker right off the wall. Actually, we had to borrow this thing called a “sawzoff” (sp???) to saw through the bolts that held it to the wall. It was very exciting. Then we threw it on the deck and forgot about it. The plan was to move it to MA’s room eventually, but speed is not our thing. We move in sllllllloooooowwwwwwww motion.

Enter Hugo’s father, who is 74, looks 60 and has the energy level of a 25 year old. You just wish you could do 1/3 of what he accomplishes in a day. Let me assure you Hugo is NOTHING like his father; we’re lucky if he can accomplish 1/3 of the 1/3. Well, I happened to come to Hugo’s office at the wrong time on Tuesday morning and there was Big Bob.
“What’re you waiting for?” he bellowed. “Let’s go to Lowe’s!!!!” I looked around frantically for a way to escape, but he had me in his snare. Cowed, I slunk out the door behind him and off we went to Lowe’s for paint and other materials. Within thirty minutes, he had me clambering up and down a ladder, taping off walls, etc. as he refinished the bookcases.

I hate ladders. I’m scared of heights. I have old, bad knees. I’m uncoordinated. As I taped, I visualized different, horrific outcomes. One involved me toppling off the ladder and plunging out the window, into the shrubbery. I imagined myself stuck headfirst in the azaleas, legs waving in the air. It was not a pretty sight. My worst fear is to fall in the shower and be found in all my splendid, stretch marked nudity by a group of really hot firefighters. Being found stuck in the azaleas with my legs waving in the air is a close second.

I will say I got a good workout. People pay hundreds of dollars to use a stairmaster at a fancy gym while some instructor shouts at them. I got it for free!! Up and down the ladder I scooted, with Jack Lalane hollering helpful things like “that tape’s not straight…re tape it” and “hurry up, you’re not working fast enough.” By that evening, I was so sore I could barely straighten my legs. At 8:00, I took two Advil PM and collasped into a coma.

Wednesday I had a morning meeting, so I told Hitl…uh…Big Bob that I couldn’t be there in the morning. After the meeting, I called Hugo at work to see what he was doing. He was about to run errands and I begged him to let me go. Promised him all manner of deviant sexual acts, anything to keep from going home to more ladder climbing. He agreed, so we went and did our Easter shopping. I was so stressed out, I ate a whole bag of chocolate Easter eggs. I’m not proud of this, but I did it. Once I started, I couldn’t seem to stop. Which sort of describes the bowel movements I am now having as a result of the chocolate overload. Oh well, chocolate easter eggs make a much better colon cleanser than some of that crap they sell these days!!

By the time I got home Wednesday afternoon, the coast was clear. I had managed to avoid the ladder for another day. Of course MA had a track meet that night. Here’s how my nights have gone this week: Monday, GS leader meeting; Tuesday, the goddess had a soccer game, and then a family birthday dinner; Wednesday, track meet; Thursday, scout meeting then soccer practice; Friday, soccer game; Saturday morning, soccer game; Saturday night, track meet; and Sunday I have twenty people coming over for brunch. And I’m working again today. I take it back….go ahead and shoot me!! I could use the rest!!

Last week one of Napoleon’s teachers called and requested I sub for her. I love getting the personal phone call from the teacher. It’s a bit of an ego booster (she likes me…she really likes me!!!) and it saves me the trouble of lurking around the teacher website, waiting for a job to appear. It also helps me plan my week a little more efficiently. I know exactly what days I can lunch with friends, etc.

So you would think with the advance notice I would have things all taken care of at home. Specifically that I would have arrangements already in place for the goddess, who gets home first in the afternoon. The elementary school dismisses at 3:00, but the high school does not dismiss until 3:35. This is somewhat problematic, but I wasn’t worried because I knew Nancy would get her. Nancy is always there. She’s a rock in a shiftless, changing world. I can always count on Nancy.

Except today. I forgot to mention the sub job to her and it turns out Nancy will NOT be available to get the goddess today. Unfortunately, I discovered this at 7:00 in the morning when I called her to make sure she would get the goddess.

“I can’t get her today, Jennifer,” she told me. Apparently Nancy’s daughter is going on some mission trip and has to be there at 3:00. Mission trip? I had a mission right here in the neighborhood that involved getting my 2nd grader off the bus, but apparently some homeless, starving people are more important than my needs. I love the homeless. I ache for them. I too want to serve them Beef a Roni on styrofoam trays, but not today. Today I needed Nancy more than they did.

Now I was in a panic. I asked Hugo if he could be home for her and he gave me the following, unhelpful answer: “well, yesterday we weren’t busy at all then all of a sudden we got busy so I can’t promise I can be here. You should have thought about this earlier.”

What? Really? I should have planned ahead? Thank you Sensei….your wisdom humbles me!! I shall go and meditate upon the great words you have shared with me and seek enlightenment! But first, I shall kick your unhelpful ass!!

“Yes, I realize that,” I said. “But normally Nancy spends her afternoons at Target spending as much of Andy’s money as possible. How was I to know she had a humanitarian project in the works for today?” I huffed off into the bathroom to apply my makeup and think.

As I was applying my mascara, a lightbulb pinged over my head. “Hey, call your mom,” I hollered. Granted she recently had double knee replacement surgery, but the old girl is getting along pretty well and she can drive now. No heavy lifting involved, no strenuous activity. All I needed was someone to be there when the goddess got off the bus to make sure she didn’t buy/take any drugs or get kidnapped by white slavers between the bus stop and the front door.

“You call her,” he hollered back. “You’re the one that should have had this all figured out!”

Whoa. Hold up. He’s the one that wanted me to start subbing in the first place. So why is it solely my responsibility to make sure child care is provided? He’s the one with the advanced degree. If he can fix Fluffy’s flea problem, surely he can call his OWN mother to come and get his kid off the bus!

I walked into the living room to confront him. He was lounging on a chair with the dog in his lap, doing absolutely nothing. I had been in the process of putting on my makeup and instructing MA where to look for the latest shirt of hers I had lost.

“Look,” I said, “I have to get ready. Can you please call her? If she can’t do it, I’ll try and find someone else.”
He sneered at me ever so slightly. “You should have already had this figured out,” he said.
I then became filled with the righteous rage of the working woman. I channeled my inner Melanie Griffith and found the clarity I needed to speak my case.

“Yes dear,” I said calmly. “You’re absolutely right. I should have asked Nancy before this morning. I should not have assumed she would be home to get the goddess. However,” and my tone became condescending and sarcastic, “I don’t really NEED a life lesson here Jiminy Cricket. What I NEED is for you to help me find a solution, not continue adding to the problem. So,” I turned and headed back toward the bathroom, “CALL YOUR MOM!!!”

A few minutes later, mascara applied, I walked into the living room. “Well?” I asked.
“She’ll be here,” he said. “You don’t have to worry, I took care of it.”
Wow. Just wow. He was acting like he had climbed a mountain, slain a dragon and defeated all the forces of darkness when in reality, all he had done was make a simple phone call. I am SUCH a blessed woman!! My husband can make phone calls!! Lucky me!! That Hugo, boy, he is always there for me!!! I know all of cyberspace is green with envy because my husband is sooooooooo competent!!

I was able to get out of the house without bludgeoning him. I didn’t “accidentally” kick him as I walked by, even though he continued to act as if he had just performed a miracle on par with the loaves and the fishes. I got out of the house and drove to school as fast as I could. With a light heart because the goddess will be in good hands with grandma and I can concentrate on educating America’s youth. God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world!! And thank goodness I am lucky enough to be married to a genius who can make up for all my shortcomings as a mother and a person!! I am a lucky, lucky woman!! Maybe he DOES need to run off with a drug rep!! Let her put up with his crap!

As I wrote my last post, I got madder and madder. Son of bitch….who does he think he is, leaving me for another woman AND sticking me with the kids???? Jerk!!!
But, in case you were wondering….

Today is my husband’s day off. He alternates every week between Wednesday and Friday. We usually go out for breakfast and sometimes for lunch as well. It’s our time to reconnect. I complain about it, but secretly, I enjoy it.

Until today. When we went to breakfast, he was fidgety and wouldn’t really make eye contact. He would grunt every time I said something to him. Finally I asked him “what is your problem??” I am still reeling from his answer. I haven’t been able to call anyone, to tell anyone. I think best when I write, so I’m just going to spill it all here. Call me later if you want to.

I expected him to say it was something at work or one of the kids or his family. Anything but “there’s someone else and I can’t keep living this lie.” We’ve been together for over twenty years. I thought I knew him. I thought our marriage was rock solid and that we would grow old together and totter off to Branson to see cheesy stage shows and take bus tours to see the fall colors. I thought I knew him inside and out. But can you ever really know what’s in another person’s heart?

I gaped at him in a most unattractive manner. Now that he had spoken, the dam broke and his words poured forth in a torrent, washing over me. He explained how she was one of his drug reps, how they would go out to lunch sometimes and how he never meant for it to happen. Pretty soon the lunches led to more and now here we were. Infidelity is the one thing I can’t forgive. Anything else I could probably muddle through, but cheating….I can’t cope with it.

We talked some more and he assured me we would be fine. That the kids could stay with me. That we would do everything possible to keep things normal for them. ”Normal….what’s NORMAL about this?” I wanted to scream at him, but Cracker Barrel is not the best place for screaming, so I kept it in.

Thank God I was already planning to go back to school since supporting myself is going to become a necessity. And so here I sit, contemplating the demise of everything I have known for the last twenty years. I don’t even know who to call or what to say. I am humiliated and hurt and dying inside. I want to crawl into my bed and pull the covers over my head and stay there for the next twenty years. Apparently that’s what I’ve done for the last twenty. I guess I should call a lawyer. I know lots of lawyers so surely one of them can help me through this.

How do you extricate yourself from twenty years of togetherness? I don’t know what to do. I’m so afraid, for myself and for my kids. What if he has more kids with the whore?? What will happen to my babies?? I’m so angry I could kill him. Maybe I should kill him. No muss, no fuss. Just shoot him right between the eyes and dump his sorry carcass in the landfill where it belongs. He’s abandoning us anyway, so the kids won’t really miss him. But how do you buy a gun? I am going to go and plot my strategy. I’ll come back and write more later when I have a more clear cut idea of what I’m going to do and how.