Smartypants Dumbass

We have this really cool online thingy with the school, where at any given moment, I can log on and see my child's grades and attendance.  We can make schedule changes, look at the schedule for the year, check on graduation requirements, and pretty much do everything but cook a whole chicken with it.  It's a great resource.

When you use it.

My youngest is a junior in high school.  This should have been a warning flag, but I thought with two years of high school under his belt, we'd see smoother sailing.

Uh huh.

I forgot that he now has a license.  And a car.  And a social life.  And a job.  And extracurriculars.

He's quite accomplished.

With that license, he drives.  In the car.  To social events.  Also to his job.  And to his extracurriculars.

What he doesn't accomplish is finishing homework.  Let alone handing it in.

How do I know this?  Because the grades posted link you to another page that actually shows the assignments, quizzes, projects, and tests that make up that grade.  In vivid, glaring, alarm sounding detail.

There are only four grades to look at, since we are a four block schedule.  Meaning, four classes a day for 90 minutes each.  90 minutes should mean getting the work done, or at least partially done while in class.

SHOULD.

When I saw the glaring "F" and the only slightly less insulting "C", I had to take ten deep breaths before linking to the actual classwork.  I then took another ten deep breaths when I saw the repeated "A's" on tests and quizzes, and classwork that was done during instruction time.  I added 20 deep breaths when I saw the homework.  A series of "F's" with zero scores, making it glaringly obvious that no work was being handed in.

It is amazing how calm I can be when in a full on rage of epic proportions.

I'm a raging bitch of a mother on the inside, and no, a "C" is not acceptable.  Not when it shows no effort to achieve that "C". 

So we are re-prioritizing around here.  Gone is the help with the fall musical.  Gone is the social life.  He can keep the job, because he may need that paycheck if he can't accomplish standard homework expected of him and finds himself aimless and drifting after his primary education is finished.  The assignments I saw are written down, and short of putting a post it note on his forehead, he is expected to address them all and be a responsible student.  If he doesn't improve, he will lose the car, and he can congratulate himself on being the only junior in high school riding the bus.  And walking to work.  Where his mommy will pick him up when it is time for him to clock out and go home to do homework.

Oh lawdy, raising children is such a joy.  These are the shining moments that make me feel all warm and squishy inside.

Wait, that's the drink I poured after another lecture with the teenager.

I'm willing to bet his sister in college would love to insert her opinion about slacking off, in which I would have to recall the endless fighting and mouthing off that drove her mommy to drink while she was still living at home.

I swear the teenage years are meant to be rough.  They are meant to try your patience, sharpen your ability to hold in your rage, and define insanity. 

It makes that empty nest look divine.

Rattling ice cubes.

I'm Out of Trash Bags

It started with a sale.

With plans for Saturday night, you would think I spent my day Saturday catching up on all those things I ignored through a very hectic work week.

Oh hell no.

All it took was a friend telling me about the vendor going out of business sale.  The 75% off sale.  Starting that very day.  The same vendor I had gone to a month before during their fall event, and passed by so many pretty things because I thought their prices were too high.  Not just pretty things, but things that called my name.  That said, only you, the freak who puts a chandelier in a tree will buy me.  Buy me.  Take me home.  Love me.  Adore me.

75% off.

So, before the sun had even peeked above the horizon, I drove through the predawn light to meet up with her so we could be at the doors at opening time.  On a Saturday morning.  When I'm normally rejoicing in no alarm clock, leisurely sipping coffee, and in no hurry to get out of unacceptable lounge wear.

We arrived half an hour early, and joined the other early riser insane people waiting at the doors.

And it was GLORIOUS. 

They were playing Christmas music, and my first thought while waiting outside was "give me a break, I get enough of this crap at work with Christmas items selling since July".  But then something magical happened.  Maybe it was the camaraderie of waiting in the chilly sunrise with other equally sale obsessed women.  Maybe it was not being in the confines of the store constantly rearranging our own Christmas goods for sale.  Whatever it was, I suddenly FELT IT.  That magical little thrill that the season of snow, icicles, and peppermint candles was approaching.  The knowledge that after all the leaves are raked up, and as more layers are required each time I go outside, I would soon be decorating my house in a winter wonderland.  It could have been the antique sleds lined up against the fence, it could have been the glimpse of the flocked tree seen through the window, but I suddenly felt jolly and had the urge to let out a shrieking HO HO HO. 

And I HO HO HO'd throughout the various buildings, picking up all the little snowbirds, frosted sprays of pine needles, and then the holy grail of Christmas cheer greeted me with a quiet little "hello, I've been waiting for you".   The small tree, covered in antique ornaments.  Antique ornaments that I can never find anywhere.  Antique ornaments no one else seemed to care about.    I gently plucked them off the branches, welcoming them to my home.

And it wasn't just Christmas calling to me throughout their buildings.  Owls, birds, small cages and urns.  The gloriously gothic looking chandelier everyone had passed by.  Not knowing if this one would hang in a tree, from my arbor, or somewhere in my house, but knowing it had to be mine.

Of course, arriving home that afternoon, I just dropped the bags and goods, and knowing there was fun to be had later that night, took a nap instead of putting away a single thing.

So after a deliciously fun time last night, I woke up to a mess of bags and pretties just waiting to be put away.  Knowing that half those goods are Christmas items, and not being a total freak and putting them up before Halloween, I started searching through the house for an empty bin.  Surely there is one, since two months ago we moved a (then) teenage girl back to college.  Nope, no bins, but after looking in the closet of doom, I realized I must remove the doom factor if I want to fit one more bin of ANYTHING in it.

After a quick trip to the store for a bin, I started pulling things out of the closet.  And that is an understatement.  Though most of my Christmas decorations are in the loft of the garage, there are a few bins and random pieces of holiday cheer in the doom closet.  And then I realized there are also many, many other things I've ignored in there, which is why it's been labeled the closet of doom.  It's a virtual junk drawer but in a much larger space.

I had a moment of excitement when I saw the package on a top shelf, thinking a forgotten Christmas gift was waiting for me to rip it open and squeal in glee.  Nope, seat covers.  For the Escape I got rid of almost 8 months ago.

The power paw.  The heinous bitch power paw for the piece of shit vacuum cleaner.  I've been looking for that worthless thing for over a year.  Not that it works, but it attaches to the piece of shit, and every time I pull it out to vacuum, I'm wondering where the stupid power paw attachment went.

A bin of Halloween decorations.  Yup, forgot about those.  I'm decorated for fall, but somehow, in the midst of late night ramblings and post it notes on calendars, I had forgotten that I actually own Halloween decorations.

So now there is a huge mess all over my floor.  The closet is cleared out, but I have a huge pile of crap that needs to be thrown out, and piles everywhere that need to be sorted and put away.  And I'm out of trash bags, so this throwing away thing is going to be a pain in my ass.  Even my son, who is a teenage boy and immune to messes, keeps popping his head into the room and asking me what the hell happened in here.

So, before I tackle the piles of pretties, I have to tackle the bomb that went off at the closet door.  And I really REALLY want to play with the pretties.  My St. Francis (yes, this atheist bought a St. Francis statue, because it reminds me of my grandmother), is begging for a home somewhere in my house.  I'm not sure where yet, but it will probably involve moving things around, and making more messes.

Because apparently, messes is the theme of the day.

Natural High, Natural Hate, Equals Hiatus

The title means nothing except that I've been drinking.

Deep in the dark, very corners of my mind, I told myself daily that the longer I stay away from blogging, the harder it would be to come back.  It wasn't that I didn't have random thoughts running through my head, or that I felt like the words just would not come pouring out.  Quite the opposite, actually.  The thoughts are there, racing through my brain, having moments daily where I thought "oh hell yes, I could blog about this until my fingers cramped up".   I have been in a whirlwind of activity, where I'm having to remind myself to shower, skipping the nightly ritual of drinky poo, scheduling out my weeks very carefully on a desk calendar complete with hot pink post it notes to remind me of the things I absolutely can NOT FORGET.

And in the meantime, the thoughts are racing.  The WTF moments have multiplied, I've been left speechless at the stupidity of my daily activities more times than I can count, and I've just considered medicating myself with cold medicine to force my brain to just shut up for one single moment.

Tonight, I find myself with drink in hand, paused between chores, and actually home in unacceptable lounge wear prior to 8:00 PM.  I'm not complaining as I've been enjoying these extracurriculars, and have a glorious day of girl time planned tomorrow and a Halloween party tomorrow night, but my gawd, this house has obviously been neglected this week.  And though I would be horrified if someone knocked on my door and actually WANTED TO COME IN, I don't have to really worry about that, since I haven't even been here, and this house has turned into pit stop central.  Mess schmess...who the hell cares.

With a full day tomorrow, I knew I would need to prep food for the Halloween party tonight.  Having not entered a grocery store for a week, this meant I didn't have all the ingredients I needed on hand.  And knowing how DIVINE that broccoli cheese soup is, I just knew I HAD TO HAVE a crusty bread to go with it.

Crusty bread.  In the town of smooshy bread.  Hot dog buns, white, wheat, and oh look, aren't we getting fancy with those pretzel rolls, but oh hell no, the grocery store I normally use does not have anything remotely resembling a crusty bread unless I were to buy a loaf and let it sit out on the counter for a couple weeks.  And then it would just be crusty fuzzy bread that belongs in a petri dish.

OH GAWD.  Fucking Hellmart.  And their bread selection that includes crusty bread.  But it's Hellmart.  And it's a Friday night because I've had other shit to do every night this week.  Maybe that's why my stomach hurt today...it was the Hellmart ulcer.

I can do this.  I made a list late last night and it's really not a huge list so I should be in and out in no time.

Except life does not work that way when you are in the bowels of Hellmart.

First of all, I'm at war with this shit hole over a bottle of wine.  It was recommended by a friend, and according to the wine's website, it is only carried in this area by Hellmart.  The first time I went in for it (again, on a Friday night), I could not find it anywhere.  And being Hellmart, there wasn't an employee anywhere to be found to ask about it.  I considered asking someone at the front of the store (where all the employees are lurking), but the mental picture of the blank look accompanied by the mouth hanging open was too much for the end of a work week.

Since this time, I actually was in Hellmart for other things, I checked for the bottle of wine (again).  I know where the liquor is located in the store, and not much else, so this was the first item to check off my list.  And, being Hellmart, it of course, was STILL not on the shelves.  I looked around fruitlessly for a Hellmart employee and of course, found none.  Giving up, I worked my way through the list. 

I very quickly realized that I don't know where anything is in this pit of despair.  Which meant, already frustrated over the missing bottle of wine, I was wandering back and forth between aisles, muttering under my breath.  And into the second round of backtracking through the store, the screaming began.

I work with the public.  I get that kids throw fits.  But this wasn't fit screaming.  I'm very familiar with that through my work week.  This was screaming for the joy of making noise.  And though I didn't see the screamer, it seemed to follow me wherever I went, even though I was erratically pushing my way through random aisles.  By the time I made it to the front, needing produce and realizing the candy corn was going to be ACROSS the store in the opposite direction, I was nearly ramming the cart into every stationary object in a blind rage. 

Carrots...toss into the cart.

Broccoli...toss into the cart.

Large very round onion...glance around to see if screaming child is nearby so I can throw it at his head and really give him something to scream about.  Toss into cart.

I was nearly at a jog by the time I skated through the store to find the Halloween aisle.  But I grabbed that candy corn lickety split and raced to the finish line while listening to the WAAAAAAAAAAAH, WEEEEEEEEEE, WOOOOOOOOO echoing through the place.

And just my luck, screeching little bastard is at the checkouts.  I'm tossing my shit onto the conveyor as quick as I can to just get the fuck out of there before I join in on the screaming, all while listening to mom say "be quiet, be quiet, be quiet, be quiet".  I have a brief moment of a little twinge of compassion and then dad comes strolling over.  Wait a goddamn minute.  DAD IS THERE TOO?  Why the hell isn't dad grabbing that hellion and removing him from the place?  Oh hell no, wussy dad just says "stop screaming" over and over in which the spawn of Satan just laughs and then keeps right on wailing his siren song.

How the hell I managed to notice that my checkout clerk was double charging me for the overpriced bag of Reese's Pieces, I will never know.

And wouldn't you know it, that screeching little hound followed me as I raced out into the parking lot and nearly dove into my truck.

Good thing I didn't buy the bottle of wine, because I would have bought a corkscrew I didn't need just to open the damn thing and chug it in the confines of my car.

And I forgot the crusty bread.

I fail at life.

The 7th Level of Hell