Daily Diatribes

Ok, so enough about dead babies. Although I was extremely interested in the whole “The devil made me eat my baby” story. I’ve heard of mothers eating their young, but it’s usually in the animal kingdom, not suburbia. Personally, there have been many times I’ve wanted to take a sword to one of my kids, but I draw the line at eating their brains. I don’t do organ meats.

Speaking of my young, I have firmly established myself at the top of the hierarchy as the best, most coolest mom in the universe. I attained this honor while we were on vacation in Arizona. We ventured out of Sedona one day to a little town called Jerome. It’s an old mining town turned tourist attraction. It’s billed as a ghost town because at one time, the number of residents had dropped down to under 500. Now it has revitalized and become a funky, artsy kind of place. Being stupid tourists, we thought it was a real ghost town, complete with ghosts, so we were somewhat disappointed to discover it has t-shirt shops and candy shops instead. The mix of shops is eclectic, though, somewhat reminiscent of New Orleans.

For example, the first shop I wandered into was a sort of refined, Victorian porno type shop. In the front, they sold knick-knacks and doodads. In the back, they sold a complete line of novelty pasties. They came in all different shapes and sizes. I didn’t buy any, though. I can’t shake my hips so I find it highly unlikely I could get my boobs to swing tassels in the same direction. The shop also sold old-timey, dirty pictures of Flapper-looking women in the nude. And lingerie. Weird place.

I hit the jackpot though, when I looked across the street and saw a shop called “The Fool on the Hill.” I liked the name, so MA and I crossed the street and entered. The shop carried really fun vintage clothing and all kinds of jewelry. MA quickly picked out a necklace and earrings she couldn’t live without. I picked out a pair of earrings that later turned out to be unwearable. Who puts 1/2′ thick posts on earrings? I couldn’t get them through my lobes at all. If I ever do manage to get them through my ears, I’ll look like a tribal woman because my ears will droop down to the ground. Maybe I’ll get a bone for my nose too.

When I went to the counter to pay, I made the find that will forever cement my reputation as a ‘really cool mom’. As I handed the cashier my credit card, I noticed a display of pens. They were pink and a tiny woman in a black bikini stood in the center of each pen. I picked one up and turned it upside down. The black bikini disappeared, leaving the woman standing in her…ahem….birthday suit. Immediately, I was enchanted because it was so terribly tacky. I turned it upside down and then rightside up again, and the bikini filled in and then disappeared. I had to have it.

“Um, would you consider me a really bad mother if I bought this for my 16 year old son?” I asked the cashier hesitantly.

She looked at me, awestruck, the beginnings of hero worship glimmering in her eyes and said “No, I think that would make you a COOL mom,” she said breathlessly.

“I’ll take it then,” I said decisively. She rung it up and added it to the bag with the unwearable earrings. I rushed out the door, clutching my prize, eager to share my find with Napoleon. Because I am twisted that way. I see a nudie pen and I want to buy it for my son. He’s 16 and he has hormones. It would be silly for me to deny it. So why not indulge him with a fantasy pen? Naturally, when I handed it to him, he went berserk. (I also bought him a flying monkey on this trip and it didn’t get nearly the same reaction and I like the flying monkey better.) But he couldn’t quite grasp why I would buy him the pen. I guess June Cleaver never bought the Beav a porno pen. Then again, she wore heels and pearls to cook meatloaf, so I’m thinking she would not be considered a ‘cool mom’. “It’s a joke, son,” I told him. “I just thought it was funny.” He clutched it to his chest and promised to guard it faithfully with his life.

Fast forward to Monday, the first day of band camp. The pen accompanies my son to band camp. And suddenly, my popularity escalates wildly. The pen was a huge hit. Everyone loved it. And they love me. Today one of his friends called me and said “Um, WHY did you buy Napoleon that pen?”
It put me on the spot, so I stammered a second then answered boldly “because I thought it was funny and I figured a sixteen year old boy would really appreciate it.”
He guffawed and said “you’re my hero!”
So there you have it. Teenage boys everywhere think I am ‘THE BEST MOM EVER’ all because I bought my son a pornographic pen. My small joke has earned me a place of honor in the hearts (and other places) forever of sixteen year old boys. I am touched beyond belief. I’ll probably lose custody of my children before the week is out, but I will have no shortage of visitors to my prison cell!

I am sitting on my lumpy camp bed, freezing, as I write this note.  We have internet at least; that’s some consolation.  However, I can’t get on Facebook because the Boy Scouts have deemed it inappropriate and it’s blocked.  What’s inappropriate is leaving me here hanging, not knowing which friends are about to go to the movies and which ones are just chillin’.  How can I keep up with the lives of the 400 people I am currently friends with?  It’s madness, I tell you, madness!!  <P />

Camp is about like I remembered it.  You have to walk a long way to get anywhere.  The food is weird.  It gets cold at night and then heats up like an oven during the day.  The shower has two settings:  Scalding or Freezing.  I had conveniently blocked that memory.  There’s nothing more refreshing than rinsing your hair in 32 degree water and then having it suddenly heat up to 245 degrees.  I love it here.  <P />

And naturally, because it’s her disposition, the goddess is sick.  Yesterday I had a great day learning about geocaching.  And while I was doing that, the goddess was succumbing to an illness.  Hugo went to pick her up and she had been sent to the nurse.  When he went to get her, the nurse instructed him to take her straight to the medic.  It was pouring rain, the lightning was like something out of a horror movie and the goddess was feverish and glassy eyed.   We rushed her to the car and drove over to the infirmary.  <P />

We took her in through the ambulance bay so we wouldn’t have to walk through the rain.  They put her in a room, examined her and gave us the grim diagnosis:  VIRAL.  What the hell IS IT with doctors and their damn viral diagnoses???  I pay good money for my medical insurance and I want antibiotics!!  Is it too much to ask for, really?  A pill to make us feel better?  Isn’t that part of the Hippocratic Oath for God’s sake??  “First do no harm and second, dispense antibiotics to soothe anxious parents.”  I feel sure had antibiotics been around in his day, Hippocrates  would have added that line.  It’s common sense.  At least I didn’t have to pay a copay!  There is always some small consolation.  <P />

So here it is, Tuesday.  I have a sick goddess.  She cannot go to her program today.  She can’t climb up your rain barrel or slide down your cellar door.  Nor can she hang out alone in the tent while Hugo and I go off to our classes.  She’s only eight and the temp in the tents reaches somewhere up in the 200’s by lunchtime.  So I am going to take her with  me.  And I dare them to say anything about it.  I can only imagine how much fun she is going to have, hanging out in a class with a bunch of adults listening to a lecture, when she could be outside riding ponies.  The wails of despair will probably echo ’round the world!  And if she’s not better by tomorrow, I’m taking her to a real doctor, one who isn’t afraid of whipping out a pad and writing me a script.  I’ll drive to Tulsa if I have to, but my goddess shall suffer no more!

Today we took a jeep tour of the Sedona back country. Actually, the first thing we did this morning was drive forty miles out of town to look at a preserved cliff dwelling. Sensibly, we left the goddess at home with her cousin and uncles. They went swimming while we immersed ourselves in history.
Why do I ever think anyone is going to be interested other than me? Granted, it was a long drive to look at a few rectangular holes in a cliff, that we had to squint to see, but still. Me, I can close my eyes and envision myself squatting inside my cliff dwelling and weaving baskets out of yucca and horse spit. Not being the most nimble of squaws, my basket looks more like a hedgehog with intestinal cancer, but I am trying my best to help my people. However, when the men come home from the hunt victoriously bearing a mighty stag they have slain with their spears, I get a bit sullen. It’s hot outside, and I spend the next three days butchering the deer while the men dance around and drink. It hardly seems like a fair division of labor. Pretty soon, I have all the squaws grumbling. We could be watching “As the Pueblo Turns” or “All My Papooses” but instead we are sweating profusely, covered in blood and guts while the men are getting high off peyote. Interestingly, the cliff dwellers in the area disappeared mysteriously in the mid 1400’s. I don’t think it’s mysterious at all; I think the squaws packed up the peace pipes and the papooses and hit the road for a better gig.
My children, however, are not blessed with my imagination. They grumbled for the entire .3 mile hike. When I stopped to read a sign, MA rolled her eyes and said “Are you going to read EVERY sign we pass?” Why yes dear, as a matter of fact I am! I am going to learn everything about the Sinagua Indians you wanted to know but were afraid to ask. Then I am going to pull out those facts at random to torture you. As in “MA did you know that Sinagua means ‘without water’ in Spanish? or “isn’t it interesting how they used the ladders to climb up to the different levels of the dwelling?” Motherhood really is my calling.
By the time we left, I was no longer speaking to my children. I disliked them intensely. This was NOT the Brady Bunch visit to Arizona that I had envisioned. You never heard Greg calling Marsha a dumbass and threatening to drop scorpions on her while she slept. Mike would have stepped in long before the fight escalated and solved the problem by initiating a couple dozen rounds of “100 Bottles of Beer”. Not being musically inclined, I decided to ignore them completely, which drives MA crazy. Ignorance is blissful, I always say.
For the afternoon, we scheduled the jeep tour of Sedona. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I was pleasantly surprised. Our driver was a grizzled looking old hippie named Kelly and he was fantastic. At first, I was a bit worried that the ride was going to be a bust, because he stopped in town at several places to point out rock formations. Soon enough, though, he veered off the beaten path and we trundled down rock roads, holding on for dear life. There should be a warning posted at the Jeep Tour headquarters: Do not take Jeep tour if you suffer from any of the following: pregnancy; heart conditions; back or neck problems; hemorrhoids; overactive bladder; nervous disorders; or fear of falling out of a moving jeep and being eaten alive by scorpions. I believe my spine is three inches shorter now but the ride was a blast!!
Our guide was very informative, sharing with us his knowledge of desert plants and animals and the history of the Indians who had settled the region. More importantly, he shared with me the back story of the jeep outfitters in Sedona. It seems that long ago, Pink Jeep Tours was the only gig in town. They reigned supreme, having made all kinds of treaties with the state park people and private landowners for exclusive rights to the back country. Alas, capitalism reared its ugly head; when other people saw the money Pink Jeep was making, they horned in for a piece of the action. After all, there is never a shortage of stupid tourists ready to fork over the big bucks for the privilege of having their insides rearranged by bouncing over rocks. Pink Jeep howled in protest, but there was nothing they could do. Well, nothing except tightly control the byways in the back country to ensure that only Pink Jeep tourists had access to certain spots.
Kelly was pointing out some Indian ruins and I asked if they were accessible. “Sure,” he said, and proceeded to tell me how we could get to them with our car. I tried to envision Hugo’s shiny new Expedition off roading through the desert and shivered; that was never going to happen. “Aren’t we going to pass them on our ride? Maybe we could stop and see them,” I said.
He stared at me a moment, then spat out the side of the jeep. “That’s Pink Jeep country,” he said. “We don’t go there.” Immediately my imagination took flight. I imagined our jeep pulling up to the ruins, Kelly getting out and looking around nervously. “Go on,” he mutters, “but don’t dawdle.” We climb out of our jeep and begin picking our way over the rocks, eager to view the ruins. Suddenly a pink jeep roars up in a cloud of dust. Several balding, overweight men get out, squinting in the late desert sun. We huddled together fearfully. One of the men approaches Kelly and says “You’re on our turf…this here is Pink Jeep territory. Go ahead on and clear out now and we’ll pretend this never happened.”

“It’s a free country,” says Kelly defiantly, “and these nice folks drove a long way. They deserve to see these ruins.”
The bald men advance on Kelly, swinging chains and brandishing tire irons and whatever else scary gang people do. Ultimatley, of course, Kelly is the victor. Pink Jeep may own the territory, but Kelly knows the land and can channel energy from the vortices to help him kick some Pink Jeep ass. In reality, however, we drove right past the ruins, which was a good thing, since there was a Pink Jeep spy parked in front of them, presumably guarding Pink interests. He stared at us menacingly as we drove past, daring us to stop.

So Monday is in the books. Who knows what delights Tuesday will hold? Just last night the local news reported that a car mistakenly drove off into the Grand Canyon and plunged 600 feet. I bet there were teenagers in the car grumbling and the driver couldn’t take it anymore!!

Today we left on our westward journey. According to Hugo, we were to leave sometime between 4 and 5 a.m. He warned me that I better be AIS (ass in seat if you watch “Everybody Loves Raymond”) when he was ready to leave or I would be left behind. I snickered unkindly. “Go ahead,” I said. As if he would strike out on a twenty four hour car trip alone with the kids. I have plenty of job security. I sauntered down to the car at 5:45 and we were off!

Really, it was a pretty quiet trip. Thanks to the electronic age, my children were entertained with a variety of media. MA and Napoleon each completed an entire book and MA got halfway through a second. The goddess spent a good bit of time sleeping and listening to her Ipod. I started and finished a David Sedaris book. It was all good. Hugo did feel compelled to comment, quite frequently, about how windy it was in Oklahoma. A sample of our road conversation: “It sure is windy outside.” Me: “Sure is.” Hugo: “It’s killing my gas mileage.” Me: “Sure is.” Hugo: “The corn is really high.” Me: “Sure is. Hugo: “It’s really windy out.” Me: “Will you shut the hell up about the freakin’ wind already?????”

I am writing this from our hotel room in Oklahoma. We are more than halfway to Arizona. We have stopped right before the Texas state line. This part of the country is in the grip of an intense heat wave; it’s a balmy 110 outside right now. The forecast low for tonight is 84. I feel like Ray Liotta in “Field of Dreams” only with the opposite geography: “Is this Hell?” “No, it’s Oklahoma!”

Hugo and two of the kids have gone to the pool. MA has gone to the shower in an attempt to beautify herself in case she comes into contact with the fine citizens of the town. The hotel has a list of area activities scheduled for tonight and I am trying to persuade her we need to attend the Route 66 Square Dance Jamboree. I think it would be great fun and the people watching would give me blog material for months!! So far, she won’t budge because she doesn’t have the right clothes. I’m not sure what constitutes appropriate dress for an event like this: Cowboy boots and a sunbonnet? I keep waiting for Half Pint and Mary to come galumphing up, begging us to go cow tipping.

The hotel brochure also contains a list of area restaurants. Many of them have ads. The establishment I am leaning toward is named Olde Glory Cafe and its advertising brags ‘this ain’t no health food joint…..this is home cookin…..we cook it in grease….It’ll stick to your ribs….and other places too!” Like my ass!! I am not kidding; I typed this VERBATIM from the ad. We have a choice of this place, three Mexican restaurants or a Western Sizzlin. Then again, maybe we’ll just hit the convenience store for a hotdog off one of those rolling thingies. It would be equally healthy.

Don’t get spoiled by this road update. I may not have a chance to blog again any time soon. However, if we eat at Olde Glory Cafe, I’ll be sure to steal a menu so I can record its contents in these pages! Continue to pray for our safe journey and for no roadside homicides!! Going off to brave the wind and heat now!!

It’s summer. I never have less than five children running through the house at any given time. Right now, MA, who is fourteen, is running around the house with a black cape on her head, chasing her friend and screaming “Ca Caw…Ca Caw….” No wonder I keep getting literature from MENSA. I have a bona fide genius living under my roof.

I am supposed to be packing for our vacation. We are going to DRIVE to Arizona and stay there for a week, then we will head to Philmont Boy Scout ranch for a week. The vacation part sounds fun. The drive part sounds like Satan’s idea of a good time. My family can’t even make it to the McDonald’s without breaking out into a brawl. I can only imagine how much blood will be spilled by the time we hit the interstate tomorrow. Plus, we are taking Hugo’s new car. I know we won’t be allowed to eat in the car; one wonders if we will be able to exhale in it. We may all have to wear biohazard suits and masks so as not to contaminate the interior. I can hardly wait.

Summer has been interesting. Napoleon works a lot, but when he’s home, he’s taken to hiding behind furniture and then jumping out and shooting the unsuspecting with rubber darts. Did I mention he’s sixteen? Again, the MENSA folks are knocking. I did get a brochure in the mail the other day inviting him to participate in a math and science camp at Vanderbilt University. It was bargain priced at $4500. It would be cheaper for me to send him to work at the Publix. He can learn to add and subtract there just as well with the added bonus of polishing his customer service skills in preparation for his career in retail cashiering. Given his current level of maturity, I’m not holding out a whole lot of hope for his future as a CEO.

MA has spent the last two weeks renewing her love affair with playing dress up. One day, she and her friend came in with their faces made up in a weird shade of orange. They looked a lot like Oompa Loompas, only with hooker dresses and spike heels instead of those cute little Oompa Loompa overalls. I had to run an errand and they wanted to go along. I sent them over to ask if the friend could go. They didn’t come back, so I walked over and rang the bell. The little brother opened the door and I asked if the girls were there. “Oh, you mean the lesbian hookers? Yeah they’re here.” He’s 11 and possibly the smartest kid in the neighborhood.

The goddess has spent the summer perfecting her bike riding skills. She is riding MA’s ten speed, which is way too big for her. She looks like a circus monkey working on her act. I must say she has mastered it pretty well. No MENSA for her, but she may ride in the Tour de France next year. When she’s not cycling, she is playing in the hose with the neighbor kids. Truly the essence of childhood is captured by a couple of eight year olds with a water hose and an umbrella. They will play for two or three hours just squirting each other. I miss my youth.

I don’t know how much blogging I will do in the next few weeks, but it can’t be less than I’m doing now! We are taking the computer and I promise if I have any serious spiritual experiences in Sedona, I will share them immediately. Apparently there are some intense energy vortexes (vortexi?) there and I plan to take full advantage. I could use a little boost and it’s cheaper than crack.