You're Doing It Wrong

August...ahhh, the dog days of summer.  When it's finally blistering hot and you realize it's nearly time for those offspring to go back to school.

Just 10 days to go, and I will be sending one off to his final (half) year of high school, and one will begin her 3rd year of college.

And apparently, I'm doing it wrong.

I don't feel weepy.  There is no heart tugs of nostalgia where I pull out those first day of school pictures with backpacks strapped on that look bigger than their tiny little bodies.

Nope, I'm celebrating.

I'm also procrastinating.

I could do that online registration for high school.  But I'm also considering what a pain in the ass it is, considering nothing has changed for the last 13 years we've been living in this school district.  I've considered not even bothering with the registration, and seeing if they even notice he's attending school.  Or perhaps, as a final hurrah of it being the final registration, informing them he now speaks exclusively Vietnamese and will need a translator. 

I could fill out the same child's early graduation request.  I should be more than eager to complete that paperwork, but if he hasn't registered, does it even count?  It also makes me cranky, because though he will have met his core curriculum requirements within the first nine weeks of school, he will be stuck filling his remaining time at this school with "fluff" classes, because he still won't quite have the credits he needs to graduate.  Apparently, having double the credits needed in Math and Science doesn't mean squat if you haven't completed the proper amount of electives.  I'm sure he'll enjoy picking between a ceramics class and automotives where he can be told what a gas cap looks like.

Deep down I know I will give in at some point and do as I'm told.  I will dot all the I's and cross all the T's, because it will hopefully give a guarantee that he can finally be done with this hoorah by mid-January.  Though I'm still stubbornly holding out on the mandatory laptops provided by the school.  Quite frankly, I don't want to have to keep an additional laptop in this house, and I find the whole concept ridiculous when my son already owns a laptop.

I also have no college student to move back in a flurry of activity and overwhelming stress.  She has already "officially" moved out of our home, after renting her own place this last spring.  I no longer spend summers with random piles of girl crap, stray bobby pins, or the piles of shit that fit in a dorm room, but don't fit in our home. 

Within a month of her move, I was painting her bedroom and transforming it into my own personal "zen den", which also meant not leaving any sleeping space.  I did not weep, or feel sad.  I enjoy that space quite often...it is my version of a "man cave" in which I shamelessly enjoy time all to myself doing whatever I wish, surrounded by random things that bring me peace and joy. 

Pure Zen

I do not dread the day we cart our son off to college.  I revel in the idea of endless nights of freely choosing my activities, only being responsible for my own meals, all messes being solely my own.

I do not fear the quiet.

And it WILL be quiet.  With a husband on the road all week, it will be just me and the cat.  And I can look forward to a grocery bill that will be cut in half, slow internet that will not be shared with anyone else, expanding my social outings if I wish, and tackling projects instead of cooking dinner as soon as I get home from work.

I can do whatever the hell I want.  And the thought of that is exciting...not depressing.

I am about to turn 44 years old.  My oldest turns 21 this year.  I have spent nearly half my life parenting, and I am ok with this stage of my life nearing an end.   I am beyond thrilled to become an empty nester.  Because there will be nothing "empty" about it.  It will be filled with excitement, adventures, and a fulfilling new stage of life.  I will enjoy seeing what the future holds for my children, but I will not be hanging on tight, bemoaning a quiet house. 

I've said it before.  Perhaps the mother gene skipped a generation.  Because I see the posts, I hear the talk.  The people shedding a tear for the years going by.  Dreading when the house is empty.  And just as they may not understand my excitement, I don't understand their sadness. 

Am I doing it wrong?

My happiness with life says no.

I'm Listening

I've written about the need to shut the fuck up and just listen before.  At that particular purging of thoughts, I was railing about the incessant need to be right, which then leads to people not truly listening to what others have to say.

However, now I delve into a far more serious aspect of listening. 

The voices of our young adults.

Yeah, yeah, there's thousand of memes, posts, and blogging rants out there about the trials and tribulations of raising teenagers.  As adults, we love to roll our eyes, and commiserate over having teens in the house.  It is a solidarity of parents when we make wisecracks about the survival of the teen years.

However, I'm going to drop the facade of being surrounded by teen angst, and hopefully get a message out to those young adults.  It is a message I feel is very important, and it must be purged from my brain before I explode in a litany of expletives like no other.

Just one week ago, I sat in a library meeting room discussing our monthly book club's choice of Catcher In The Rye.  It's a love or hate book.  There really is no middle ground, and you will either find it an absolute waste of time, or have it tug at your heart and brain.  I was the latter, finding that though Holden Caufield may come across initially as a whiny, spoiled little rich kid, I was also delving into the mind of a very depressed 16 year old young man.  It reminded my adult brain that as we grow and mature, it is very easy to expect the world around us to grow and mature right along with is.  It becomes too easy to lose touch with the teenage brain, because quite frankly, no matter what kind of teenage years we personally each have survived, I do not know a single one of us that would love to repeat them again.  I so clearly remember saying, with every amount of determination I could muster, "I so hope that I would pick up on the signs of such clear depression and be able to help."

How ironic, now that I look back on it.

Just two short days later, a friend of my son's died.

Cause of death has not been formally confirmed.  As a parent, there is a part of me that completely understands wanting to maintain privacy during such a tragedy.  But also, as a parent, I find myself at a loss as to how to help my son work through his grief without knowing what has happened, other than his friend being gone.  We went through the immediate notifications from the school, with counselors being available to students and parents for a few hours on the weekend.  I did not know what to expect sending my son back to school on Monday, only knowing it would be a difficult day as the reality of his friend being gone set in.

My disappointment in our school system has slowly built throughout this week.  Once school was back in session on Monday, not a word has been said by administration and nearly all staff in regards to the loss of one of their students.  My son has attended classes in which it seemed as if nothing has happened and it's business as usual. 

Now, that being said, I need to give credit to the handful of staff who have addressed the death of a classmate head on.  Their show of emotion and their own grief was absolutely what their students needed to see this week.  It allowed them to know that their loss is palpable, and it is completely within their rights as human beings to NOT be OK.  By showing their own feelings, they are telling their students that it is not just another normal day, and most importantly, they are listening.

Residing in a rural community often means that even when privacy is requested, it just is not going to happen.  People have scanners, and they love their gossip.  I abhor gossip, but working with the public means I cannot avoid it.  That being said, the word "suicide" has been said repeatedly, not only amongst the general public, but amongst the students as well.

Even without the cause of death being made public, I think it is important that any time suicide is so widely discussed, it is an opportunity to get a message across to our young adults.  The Suicide Prevention Resource Center says "If the family refuses to permit disclosure, schools can state, 'The family has requested that information about the cause of death not be shared at this time.' and can nevertheless use the opportunity to talk with students about the phenomenon of suicide:  We know there has been alot of talk about whether this was a suicide death.  Since the subject of suicide has been raised, we want to take this opportunity to give you accurate information about suicide in general, ways to prevent it, and how to get help if you or someone you know is feeling depressed or may be suicidal. "

Remaining silent is not OK.

Let me repeat.

Silence is NOT OK.

I know there is the fear of "suicide contagion".   According to the SPRC, contagion is the process by which one suicide may contribute to another.  However, contagion is relatively rare, accounting for 1-5% of all suicides annually.  In addition, it is recommended that if there is a fear of contagion, administrators should take ADDITIONAL steps beyond a basic crisis response, NOT a complete lack of any response at all.

Remaining silent is damaging and heartbreaking in so many ways.  It projects an attitude of "just forget about it" at a time when it is going to be the foremost thought in their heads.  It dismisses their feelings about their grief, about their friendships that they value, and about the helplessness they may be feeling.  Gossip runs rampant about the "why", when in fact, the why does not matter.  What matters is that when a person is in emotional distress, we need to make sure as adults that will will always listen.  Not only when they are in emotional distress over the loss of a friend, but the depression and mental illness that can affect so many of our young adults.

Our young adults need to know that WE ARE LISTENING.  Their thoughts, emotions, sadness, and trials are worth listening to.  We've all been there...we were all teenagers once.  I so clearly remember hopping off the bus with my best friend in high school, and screaming a feral yell at the top of our lungs just prior to opening those high school doors and entering for the day.  We did it frequently, because it was the best way we knew how to release that pent up frustration or anger building in our brains.  Being a teenager is not easy, especially now with all the expectations of perfection and achievement that reflects upon a parent in a society that is so open to broadcasting and sharing our daily lives.

When we remain silent, when we do not discuss a tragedy or a great loss, we send a message that we are not willing to listen.  Whether that is our intent or not, that is what our youth are learning.  And what a terrible feeling that must be to those who are grieving.

So, dear teenagers, I am listening.  Your thoughts matter.  YOU MATTER.   The teenage years suck.  They SUCK BAD.  Alot of it is just plain old survival...but most importantly, above all else, you need to survive.  Because there is a future out there full of joys, happiness, and experiences you can not yet imagine.  And there is nothing more exciting to a parent than seeing their child step off that cliff of the teenage years and SOAR AND FLY. 

Let your frustrations out.  Expel the anger and the disappointments.  Just as screaming in front of a high school door released a little bit of angst each day, reaching out and saying "help" will release that heavy burden on your shoulders.  Cry.  Yell.  There ARE people listening, regardless of the message you have been receiving.  Do not EVER forget that.

There is darkness, but there is also light.  It is OK to need some help to find it.  It's human to not be OK, and it is also our job as human beings in this beautiful world to tell you that WE ARE LISTENING.

"NO"...Said No One Ever

I'll be lucky to get this typed out and saved before my computer emits smoke and starts making a horrendous screeching noise.  No, it's not the computer...it's that damn internet connection, which apparently does not like snow.

Whatever, ya bastard.

However, what I really want to rant and rave about, or at least get on my high horse/unicorn named Charlie, is a parenting struggle I witness nearly every day.

The inability, or unwillingness, to just say NO.

When did NO become the dirty word of the day? 

I'm not going to venture a guess that in this world of whining, pissing, moaning, and channeling our inner Eeyore that we've removed the word NO from our vocabulary.  But it sure is in short supply where dealing with children are concerned, and I have to ponder why.  Because I like to ponder such inane bullshit...it passes the time while the snow that was supposed to be gone continues to fall.

Obviously, since I do not have an open door policy to every rugrat on the block, I am witness to this anti-NO campaign while I am out in public.  Being a parent of older children, and a professional user of the word NO, I bemoan it's absence in my daily struggles of looking socially acceptable with a smile on my face.  Instead, I am witness to ignoring, cajoling, rationalizing, cooing, coddling, and yes, even whining.  But not the dreaded word NO.

There are several types of the anti-NO campaigners.  Allow me to share my completely useless observations, and of course, feel free to see if any of these seem familiar to you.  Perhaps, without even realizing it, you are part of the anti-NO movement.  There's t-shirts available, should you decide to proclaim your solidarity.

1.  The IGNORER:  I'd call it the oblivious, but no one can be oblivious to junior's antics when he decides to climb clothing racks.  Or enter store rooms.  Or stand on chairs.  Crawl on the floor under the men's jeans.  Wander into a lower level, or better yet, on a sunny day, completely out of the store and into the street.  I don't know what's going through the Ignorer's brain.  Possibly the three Xanax they popped at 8AM with the whiskey spiked coffee?  But I can assure you, I have had to alert plenty an Ignorer to their child's antics.  Even when said child is screeching at full volume while using clothing racks as monkey bars.  The entire downtown can hear the child, but the Ignorer apparently can not.  The Ignorer just continues to shop, and when I have to finally say something, they act as if I've thrown ice cubes down their shirt and exclaim their shock over the banshee wailing and romping that has gone on right under their nose.  But do the say NO?  *hysterical laughter*  Well, they do usually say things like "those ladies are going to get mad at you if you don't stop".  Because god forbid Junior have any notion of mom getting mad.  Oh hell no, mommy loves you, you precious wee snowflake, perfect spawn of my loins.  Mommy would NEVER put such negativity on your fragile, developing ego, because Mommy is the good guy.  Mommy is going to blame the store employees for ruining your fun.

Sigh.

2.  The THERAPIST:  This one is fun to watch.  As the little urchin plays, touches, grabs, and wanders, mommy is reciting a litany of gentle encouragement and guidance.  Sounds lovely, doesn't it?    However, urchin (and it's always singular, usually moms of more than one can't achieve this talent), is usually grabbing heavy crystal, wildly spinning the jewelry display, grabbing whatever colorful or sparkling wonder catches their eye.  Meanwhile, mom coos "now we just look, and don't touch" repeatedly.  Occasionally, the Therapist will mix it up a bit and throw in a "yes, just looking with mommy" like it's a team effort.  However, while urchin continues to handle merchandise far beyond their years, merchandise that mom will have no intention of paying for should said urchin drop that 5 pound cut crystal bowl, mom is actually doing her own shopping, content to know that her brilliant little urchin is turning into a savvy shopper like herself. 

Another version of the Therapist will stop shopping all together, while she watches her urchin play.  Because it's not like she's in a store or anything.  There is, after all, things for her urchin to play with, so instead of shopping, Mommy will stand in the middle of the store and just watch urchin have a play date with store employees.  Store employees are a tad busy working and actually waiting on customers who don't have urchin playtime foremost in their mind, but that's ok.  Because if Mommy removes urchin from what they are playing with, urchin might scream.  And we can't have screaming, because that might be an indicator that Mommy is not nominated for that year's #1 Mom award.  Standing awkwardly, Mommy Therapist will occasionally softly remind urchin that it's time to leave, however, urchin, having been to this rodeo before, knows if they continue to just play, Mommy will stay rooted in her awkward-spot, sweating out how to get urchin out of the store without a whimper.  But no matter how long it takes, Mommy will NOT say NO.

3.  The RATIONALIZER:  This is when Therapist Mom turns into Rationalizing Mom.  When all other options have failed, she will string out a speech worthy of a psychiatrist's couch.  Rationalizing Mom will finally leave her post of just viewing the child, and sit down to have a heart to heart.  It will go on for several minutes, many times, longer, and include every reason under the sun why they need their little dear heart to follow them out of the store.  These reasons will include a list of the errands Mommy still has to run, throwing in bonuses like being able to use the special cart at the grocery store, or going to get ice cream.  Because it takes a trip to the ice cream shop to get her child to cooperate.  Simply picking up the child and carrying them out the door isn't acceptable, because their child may create a scene and make someone report her to the Bestmommybrigade.  It's better to let the child understand the schedule you need to adhere to, and the importance of getting to the shoe store.  Because every child really cares about the shoe store, and that line of reasoning will certainly work.  Time management, after all, is something every toddler understands and can commiserate over.

4.  The WHINER:  The Whiner usually begins the moment she enters the door.  Typically, she's following a mini-whiner who has taken off at a dead sprint upon entering.  Mini-whiner can be heard stomping and pounding through the store, because mini-whiners tend to also be mini-clompers, who have somehow learned in their short lifespan that feet should come down as hard as possible whenever in motion.  Mini-whiner will then proceed to scavenge for purchases throughout the store, while Mommy Whiner goes her own way, doing her own shopping.  And exchange across aisles begins, with mini-whiner making noise as they get into areas they should not, touching things not meant for little hands, the sounds of packages opening and items dropping echoing through the store.  Mini-whiner typically will be whining for whatever item they are destroying, while Mommy Whiner calls out in a high pitched careening voice, asking them what they are getting into.  It is a constant line of questioning, with no obvious wish for an answer.  Perhaps the Mommy Whiner uses this technique as a locator for the child.  As long as the whining continues between the two, she feels she is remaining in contact with her child and sees it as some form of "watching" over them.  Though when the child goes silent (never a good sign), Mommy Whiner tends not to notice, and still continues the wheedling tone of asking the child what they have found, never noticing they are no longer answering.  But the dreaded word NO is never uttered.  She'll even occasionally throw out a "if you aren't good, I won't be buying you anything", however, 99.95% of the time, regardless of mini-whiner's antics, there are things bought for the delightful little creature.

If you've recognized any of the above listed anti-NO behaviors, I'm going to clue you in on something.  As a fellow mother, I've been there, done that.  I've had the kid playing in areas they shouldn't.  I had the child that wandered off.  The sticky fingered thief in the making who thought he could help himself to every last thing in the place.  The child strung out on pixie sticks who was a perfect angel in the car, but bounced off the walls the moment I walked into a place of business.  Now, I am the older mom, still occasionally struggling with inappropriate public behavior, but my use of the word NO is perfected.  I have had fit throwers, and not just the whining that we have all dealt with, but the flow blown, uncontrolled, laying on the floor while flailing about in seizure like movements type of meltdown.  And yes, it was embarrassing.  However, I still said NO.  Occasionally, there were trips to a bathroom, or out to the car, where a private little "chat" happened, and if junior got their shit under control, we re-entered the store.  Sometimes, we didn't re-enter.  And yes, there were things I NEEDED to get, but short of standing in line at a pharmacy or quickly grabbing the four pack of toilet paper because I was left with one square plastered to the tube at home, there was never anything that required me subjecting the world to the heinous acts of one of my offspring.  Sometimes, it meant a time out in the car (for both of us) that  took twice as long as the shopping would have, but those little bastards learned that I will say NO.  And mean it.  And sometimes, the "why" was BECAUSE I SAID SO.

It's OK to say NO.  Let them whine, throw their fit, and haul their asses out kicking and screaming when you're ready to go.  I'll sympathize.  I'll be thankful those days are over.  I get it.  I did it.

What's NOT ok is the anti-NO movement.  Because you're raising an entitled shit who knows that they are in control and they call the shots.  And imagine what kind of adult that creates.  The kind of adult often referred to as a colossal asshole.  The eternal fuckup.  The aimless drifter because mommy isn't holding their hand letting them do whatever willy nilly they could possibly desire.  The name you see and think "they never quite got their shit together".

So c'mon now.  It's a small word.  One syllable.  And it works.  As long as YOU work at it.

Nnnnnnnnn

Oooooooo

NO.

Thanks for the ride, Charlie.

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

Espresso + Jack = Blabbity Bloo

It was COFFEE DAY today, so it's time for some senseless rambling!

We've got that gigantor sale going on at work, and I'm realizing that my alcohol intake needs to increase when I'm supremely busy.  Apparently, my tolerance levels go up the more I need to chillax, because that very large amount of Mr. Jack I poured into my glass has only succeeded to relax my fingers on the keyboard and not my brain.  However, because it was coffee day, which means ZING BOOM WHEEEEE, throwing even more Coke into the gullet is probably not a good idea for a person who limits the caffeine intake to ZERO once 7PM hits.  I look at the clock, seeing it inch closer to 8PM and wonder if maybe I should just throw some Jack over the remaining ice cubes in the glass and call it good enough and then maybe the brain will begin to catch up to the fingers (which initially was typed as finers).  The very small part of my brain (typed bain before spellcheck) that remains a responsible adult tells me I should just call it quits for the night on the drinky poo and reserve the fuckit option for Saturday night when I won't have to get up the next morning to haul, rearrange, smile pleasantly or even think.

Along those thought processes, I do sit here wondering if tonight is yet another sleepless night because I refuse to run air conditioning when the temps are below 80 degrees.  I suffer through waking up with eyeballs full of snot because of allergies because I just like open windows that much (blame the polar vortex).  But, in the rambled mess of thoughts racing through my brain, I think of the happy little birds that decide to sing their good morning song at 4:30 in the morning, then switch gears to putting my fan on high to hopefully drown out that homicide inducing squall well before the alarm is set to go off.  Of course, if I run JUST the window air upstairs instead of the central air, I get the noise of not just the a/c, but also the fan, closed windows, and tweet tweet motherfucker, I can't hear you.  Unless the a/c has shifted in that creaky old money pit window which in that case, I'll be listening to a shake, rattle, and roll the whole night long.  Fuck it, instead of more Jack I can just pop some of that happy pill Benadryl sinus medication and drool on myself all night long in a peaceful slumber.

I do wonder if No Child Left Behind also means No Child Learns Two Syllable Words.  I kind of always thought a "storewide" sale meant the whole store.

Storewide:  adj:  Involving, applying to, or occurring throughout a whole store

What's the number one question I have answered the last two days?  Yup, you guessed it..."Is this on sale too?"  I think that one has been asked at least two dozen times.  I even thought ahead and instead of putting "storewide" on all the signs, exchanged it for "everything" on two of them.  Nope, didn't help.  Still answering that question.  With a smile on my face, because copious amounts of espresso and a replenishing of the liquor cabinet does that for a person.

There's been some kaka shit floating around Facebook about children and the joy of and blabbity blah blah.  Actually, there probably always is, but I've noticed it more this week.  Maybe I'm actually doing more than the typical scanning and actually comprehending what I'm skipping over.  Whatever the case, I've been seeing all the joys, adorations, and rainbows over having boys, having girls, birthing babies, having more than one child, etc etc.  Nope.  Not having it.  Like I said before, pretty sure that mommy gene skipped a generation, but really, I gotta ask, is that ALL there is to talk about?  Blech.  Let's talk about the flavor of Jack once watered down with ice cubes.  Or wearing pajamas in public.  Or why preteen girls are dressing like a cheap two dollar hooker to go to the county fair.  Or why all the construction workers wore shirts EXCEPT the one that looked like Gerard Butler had eaten a years worth of Hot Pockets while guzzling back a case of Schlitz every night?

On the other side of the spectrum, there have been some ADORABLE mini people in the store this week.  The kind of mini's that make me want to hug and squish them endlessly and not just because I want them to be quiet.  The kind that make me pause and think "awwwww" and feel the slightest twinge in the baby making machine until I realize that's really me needing to pee because I haven't had time to go to the bathroom since I arrived to work.

There are bobby pins everywhere.  Still.  One tried to fry my vacuum cleaner.  One came in handy while I was wrapping plastic around the bleach experiment I was performing on my head last night.  The rest sit in the dish in the bathroom.  Waiting for rescue.  Won't she run out eventually?  Won't she have scattered so many around the house that someday before she goes back to college she'll wonder where all her bobby pin friends have gone?   Won't I eventually look at that pretty dish, see it is empty, and feel the emptiness within my soul that is the absence of the adult female child?  Ok, maybe not, but I'll feel the empty ache when I realize I can no longer text a "empty and reload the dishwasher" to anyone.  Or have to clean up the FatCat puke myself.  But the bright side is I won't go into the bathroom two days after laundry day and wonder where all my nice, fluffy clean towels went.  I might even pee with the door open.  Except for those moneypit windows directly across from the bathroom.

What was I saying?

The reward for the end of this madness otherwise known as the gigantor sale and restock is TJMaxx.  Oh TJMaxx, how I love thee.  It's my happy place.  Must look at ALL the things.  Touch them all.  Sniff them all.  Unless I'm looking at underwear or shoes.  That would be gross.  Though it could be interesting to just pretend to sniff them and see what kind of looks I get.

I wish I had a tutu.  I would wear it to work tomorrow.

I'm only joking.
I don't believe a thing I said.
What are you smoking.
I'm just fucking with your head.

I love the Kongos.  I wonder if we can get away with having that one on the CD player at work tomorrow.  It would go well with a tutu.

No, I did not refill the Jack.

12 Shot Thursday

COFFEE DAY!!!!
 Hell yes, baaaaaybeee!  And you know what that means?   Rambling time!  If this is your first time reading something written on a COFFEE DAY, I suggest reading a previous post so you can be forewarned of the jumbled mess my brain becomes on Thursdays.

I ignored the messes I woke up to this morning.  Well, not really, I just drowned them in espresso.  I probably shouldn't complain about having an extra person in the house for the summer.  Especially considering my daughter informed me this is probably the end.  This is the end, beautiful friend.  (Doors reference there in case you missed it.)  End actually meaning that she would like her own apartment by the end of her next year in college.  So, if all goes as planned, I won't have these irritations much longer but for the sake of all that is holy, I had forgotten what a mess a girl child/adult leaves in her wake.  I suppose it could be worse...her laundry isn't as big a mountain as it used to be, since she pretty much lives in work clothes and lounge wear.  She's also working so much that her ability to have a social life is almost nada, so the few occasions she goes out and disappears until the next morning have not been able to get a rise out of me.  However, because of these excessive work hours, I now have not just one, but TWO tabletops covered in girl-crap.  The beginnings of craft projects, about ten books because she has gotten hooked on a particular author, nail polish bottles, dirty socks (yes, on MY TABLE), dirty tank tops, hair bands, jewelry, and money.  She's a waitress, and sometimes, after a particularly grueling shift (or at the end of a double shift) she's just too tired to cash in her tips and stuffs wadded up bills wherever she finds room (which I found out is usually the glove box of her car), along with the five pounds of change weighing her apron down to her knees, and yup, you guessed it, then dumps it on her choice of table.  Then, there's the collection of 40+ bobby pins in the bathroom.  They are in the bathroom, in a dish, because I put them there every time I find one.  And where there's one, there's another.  And another.  And another.  It's pretty common sense my vacuum cleaner hates these things, so I have spent entirely too much time this summer scouring the floor not only looking for mouse carcasses, but bobby pins.  I'm usually rewarded for my efforts.  In bobby pins, not carcasses, because FatCat is still on strike.  At the moment, I'm ignoring the growing piles, cleaning off one table and making one heaping pile on the other table.  She's got three double shifts this week, and I'm waiting for the right moment before ordering a cleanup...preferably through text message once I've left for work.  Smart cookie that I am.

I arrived to work with a greeting from my niece who was helping out today.  I adore that girl, and not just because she's not living with me spreading bobby pins everywhere.  But, since I grew up in a family with a sick sense of humor, I love to give the child loads and oodles of crap.  So, after watching a ten minute video last night of nothing but stupid pranks, I was so ready to mess with her.  My favorite moment was when I was pricing some Christmas greenery (yes Christmas, shut it) and had a long, viney looking spare piece, in which I promptly threw at her screaming "OH MY GAWD, IT'S A SNAKE".

I love to hear her screech.

You ever notice that if people would actually just LISTEN to you, you could answer their question ALOT quicker?

This was one conversation today:

"Do you know where the tea room is?"

Me:  "Yes, are you familiar with our downtown?"  (I should probably note here that the downtown I'm speaking of is only about six square blocks)

"The tea room?  Where is it?"

Me:  (again)  "Are you familiar with our downtown?  Have you been on Main Street today?"  (pointing in the direction of Main Street only four storefronts away.

"I don't know where the tea room is, it used to be across from the drug store."

Me:  "The tearoom used to be close to the drug store (I'm not going to tell her it never was ACROSS from it), but that was about 15 years ago.  Did you see the movie theater when you came into town?"

"Where is the tea room?"

Me:  "The movie theater is right around the corner, so when you see the marquee, look directly across the street...that's where the tea room is."

"I think it's called Betty's Bread Basket"

Me:  (by this point, I'm not going to attempt to give her any more information short of exactly where that tea room is.  If I tell her it's been bought by a new owner, this whole conversation could get even more time consuming and confusing)  "Yes, the Bread Basket, it's across from the movie theater on Main Street".

Did I ever mention I actually have an incredible amount of patience?  Maybe not according to the thoughts in my head, but it at least appears that way.  Especially on coffee day.

Along with a day of questions, I also had a day of muffintops, boobs, and ass cheeks.  I understand it's summer, BUT, I also think that common sense would say a white tissue tee should not be worn with a sky blue bra underneath.  Especially when the tee is at least two sizes too small.  And just a word of advice...if you find yourself yanking at the crotch of your shorts every time you get out of your car, you might want to buy the next size up.  Because not only are they riding up, but they're riding DOWN when you're tugging, and I now know exactly what your thong looks like.  In detail.

I drive home, mind racing on espresso, and OF COURSE, get behind a field looker.  This is farm country, and even when you think there's nothing to see in the fields, there are plenty of good ol' boys that see plenty.  And drive 35MPH to make sure they see every last inch of it.  Lines on the road, be damned and all.  So, I had plenty of time to think about things, like exactly how people get those perfect lines mowed into their lawns.  Ours looks like someone had a seizure while mowing, which maybe I should ask my daughter if she's been twitching lately, since she's the one doing it.  I guess it's possible she's picking up bobby pins out of the grass, so the lines wouldn't be absolutely straight.

I arrive home to the loud buzzing of the generator at the fire station/city office.  Power out.  Again.  I blogged last week that it's not common for us to lose power, and I think someone took that as a challenge.  In reality, I find out some new line work is being done, but I have to ask, why shut down entire grids for a span of over an hour right at dinnertime?  And, huh, big question here, why not tell people, since this is the second time in four days?

The bright side is I used that as an excuse to not cook dinner, since I didn't know how long the power would be out...smart cookie again.  When the power finally returned, I started up the computer, going through emails, and then hit up Facebook.  I found this interesting thing going on...if I looked at certain "likes" on statuses or comments, the number automatically went down by one.  I'm not such a tech-doofus that I couldn't figure it out...it means somewhere out there, someone I am a mutual acquaintance with has me blocked.  So, hovering over a "like" number of three, suddenly flashes down to two.  Suddenly, I'm hovering over ALL the likes, getting a little burst of joy every time my mouse causes a number to decrease by one.  I'm giddy with the BLOCKED POWER (said in a Darth Vader voice)...hover, hover, unlike, unlike.  By the time I get through my newsfeed (or tire of the already increasing political viewpoints), I feel like I have a magic wand in my hands that just makes things go *POOF*.

I tried my *POOF* power on the table of girl piles, but all I succeeded in doing is stepping on another bobby pin.  Power trip deflated.  Espresso high coming down.

Flashback: Silence, You Swine!

My Brains are Leaking

January 23, 2010 at 10:58pm

If I am very quiet...

- I am enjoying the mental conversation I am having with myself

- I am biting the inside of my cheek to keep from saying something completely offensive to you

- I know I will not be heard over the screeching of your child

- I will soon have my brains explode out of my ears

- I'm having violent thoughts involving my metal nail file, a rusty six penny nail, and your eyeballs

- I'm dead

If I didn't know a Valium would knock me out until Monday morning, I'd pop one right now. I am just not made to be in the same room as small children for more than an hour. Call it wiring gone wrong, a cold, callous heart, or genetic misfiring, but I really really really dislike small children who don't know their place in the world. Which in my world, is in a corner with duct tape around wrists and ankles and a dirty rag stuffed in their mouth.

I don't care if its no longer in vogue...there's something to be said about children being seen and NOT heard. Adults gathering for a nice visit should have the common sense that if they bring their children, they should CONTROL their children. Not allow them to run full speed through someone else's house, not allow them to sample food from trays and leave morsels with bites out of them on the trays, monitor how much they are drinking, keep them from running up and down a flight of stairs, and for gods sake, when that god awful screech comes out of their mouth, do us all a favor and crack the ever living shit out of them and really give them something to make noise about.

Children that behave like that belong in a horror movie, because no one feels bad when they get run over by a semi and are buried in an ancient Indian burial ground and need to be killed all over again.

Flashback: On A Serious Note...

Parenting With Fear

September 4, 2009 at 7:28pm

How confusing a message we must be sending our children by injecting our own political views on them. Because isn't that what all the hissy fits over Presidential addresses in our schools is about?

I find this so amusing, yet part of me wishes I could be more surprised. As parents in today's world, we proudly preen and declare our enlightenment from media pressures. We are the free thinkers. The individuals with awareness of the truths around us. Right?

Wrong. For all the strutting around and boasting of individuality, the parents of children today have proven themselves to be even more mainstream and part of the herd than any other generation before us. We gather in our groups huddled at the bus stop, making sure junior's Gymboree polo shirt match his Gap khakis, worrying over what fatal disease he will contract by attending school with so many other lesser children, while fretting whether we properly dressed to impress for the ten minutes we must stand outside and wait for that yellow bus to come around the corner of our properly manicured block. We clutch our designer coffee cup, injecting our opinion on the latest headline we caught on CNN or FOX (for the illiterate), in hopes of looking like the enlightened, intelligent beings we hope to project.

We are the competimommys and sanctimommys, yet we deny this wholeheartedly with the latest medical study showing why our children will rise to superstardom because we are so intricately involved in their every waking and sleeping moment.

The media is not the unbiased deliverer of current events you would like to believe, regardless of where you get your information. They are a cash cow, with an agenda just like your own. They bank on today's parents need to fulfill their own broken promises of self importance and grandiose lives through mandating their childrens every minute of their existence.

We inject not only our quest for the perfect image, but our own ideals, beliefs, and most importantly, FEARS into our children. Just as we don't see ourselves as individuals, we don't see them for the separate mind that they are. Our failures to succeed are passed on to them in the form of overscheduling, pushing for achievement, and intensity (or lunacy) in competition. Our beliefs are shoved down their throats through religion, prejudices, and our insistence in one line of thinking. Our fears are lived through our children, creating a fearful generation of youth believing there is nothing positive in this world.

Do we really think our children are being brainwashed by listening to a Presidential address on education? Or are we just projecting our own fears and ignorance on to minds that can't possibly understand the complexities of our current government? Are we not, in essence, by bowing down to the fearmongering of the media, participating in our own form of brainwashing on our own children? What would have been a simple assembly viewing a video, now has to be explained to each child in the form of a permission slip, while parents discuss and even argue the points of a speech in front of their child, because god forbid we actually just let things happen, and discuss something after the fact. We live in a constant state of protection with our kids, but do we even know what we are protecting them from? In light of all the hoorah being made about a Presidential address, I dare suggest our children need protecting from us.

Is it going too far to suggest that in all our pushing and overparenting, in all the endless babble of teaching our children to be the superstar of their future, we seem to only want the stardom if it fits our own agenda of what that should be? We make claims of nurturing their mind, encouraging their mental growth, and then we smother it the moment it starts to color outside the lines of the box we have built.

Is it any wonder that more and more children are medicated? Are in therapy? Are unable to cope with the trials and disappointments, and REALITY of the real world? Are they ever taught to actually THINK for themselves, form their own beliefs, and make their own judgements about the world they live in? Are they encouraged anymore to have lively discussion and debate with their parents, teachers, peers as they grow and form their own thoughts and opinions?

What, exactly, are we afraid of? Do we fear a child who grows into an individual unlike us? Do we fear them being exiled from the herd of nonthinkers? What, please tell me, is the actual problem?