So I've been wondering a lot lately about what I could blog about. Between Facebook basically having a permanent vacuum tube firmly lodged in my brain, sucking out my thoughts and using them as status updates before they even have a chance to extend themselves into fully formed blog posts; and my boys growing up to the point that the rest of the world might possibly be seeing more of them than I am.....well, I haven't felt like I've had much to share. Or worse, I get a fabulous idea.... at one o'clock in the morning, when I'm laying in bed unable to fall asleep but too lazy to get up and make my way to the computer to get it all out and on here. I've even entertained thoughts about posting something about MYSELF.
Oh...the shame. *hanging my head*
However, when something happens that just spins itself out of control in my head? That's the story you get. You can thank me later.
Yesterday was ..... well, it sucked. It sucked great big fuzzy donkey balls. I know I don't really talk about my job here on this little blog, and I don't really intend to start now. But the Great Suckage that was yesterday can totally be laid at the feet of what I do for a living. I had to do something that isn't pleasant on the best of days, and yesterday wasn't the best of days. The situation ended with a Very Upset Person throwing an entirely full bottle of *what we're repeatedly saying in order to convince myself its true* water at me; dousing my hair, face and clothes. Followed up by being attacked by the same Upset Person's Evil Cat.
Who knew that being doused by an unidentified liquid and acquiring a scratch on the back of my hand when fending off an Evil Cat would necessitate being sent to the clinic for a "Work Related Injury"? And that said injury and subsequent clinic visit would result in a forced vacation, because company policy dictates that ALL work related injuries require a drug test be completed and the employee can NOT return to work until the test comes back clean?
On the positive side, I got to take my very first breathalyzer test, and I didn't even need to abandon my vehicle on the side of the road and sport some very attractive and shiny handcuffs to do it!
Showing posts with label Are You Kidding Me?. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Are You Kidding Me?. Show all posts
Friday, September 16, 2011
Monday, July 11, 2011
Parental Fail
"Mom, I gotta tell you something, and I'm calling you because you'll freak out less than Dad. I got in an accident."
"Are you SERIOUS?"
"Yeah. I backed into someone."
"You're not kidding? You really hit someone?!?"
"Yes, I did. And it's not helping that you're YELLING AT ME!!!"
*big, deep breath.....much calmer tone of voice.... because, drat it all, he was right...I was yelling, just a bit*
"You're right. I'm sorry. Are you ok? Is anyone hurt?"
From there, he proceeded to tell me exactly what happened, and I was able to walk him through exactly what to do. No one was hurt, the owner of the other vehicle seems to be a very nice young man, and we're hoping to get this taken care of with minimal fuss. A busted taillight and a dented bumper for each vehicle. As far as accidents go, this one's a cake walk. Heck, both...yes, that's right...BOTH of my brothers backed into MY car when they were both in high school. Or, perhaps more correctly, they each backed OVER my car when they were in high school.
Still, I can't help but feel like I totally hosed a defining parental moment.
His first fender bender, and I didn't react the way he needed me to. I didn't believe him at first, and wasn't calm until he reminded me that he needed me to be.
Do I at least get some bonus redemption points for asking about him first, rather than the car?
"Are you SERIOUS?"
"Yeah. I backed into someone."
"You're not kidding? You really hit someone?!?"
"Yes, I did. And it's not helping that you're YELLING AT ME!!!"
*big, deep breath.....much calmer tone of voice.... because, drat it all, he was right...I was yelling, just a bit*
"You're right. I'm sorry. Are you ok? Is anyone hurt?"
From there, he proceeded to tell me exactly what happened, and I was able to walk him through exactly what to do. No one was hurt, the owner of the other vehicle seems to be a very nice young man, and we're hoping to get this taken care of with minimal fuss. A busted taillight and a dented bumper for each vehicle. As far as accidents go, this one's a cake walk. Heck, both...yes, that's right...BOTH of my brothers backed into MY car when they were both in high school. Or, perhaps more correctly, they each backed OVER my car when they were in high school.
Still, I can't help but feel like I totally hosed a defining parental moment.
His first fender bender, and I didn't react the way he needed me to. I didn't believe him at first, and wasn't calm until he reminded me that he needed me to be.
Do I at least get some bonus redemption points for asking about him first, rather than the car?
Monday, March 15, 2010
He Really Needs Some Good Hero Theme Music, I Think
Thwap
Thwap. Thwap.
Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.
Thwapthwapthwapthwapthwapthwapthwap...... You get the picture, right?
Stupid flat tire.
I -- quite rightly, I figure -- decide to get off the highway where people are flying by at 75+ miles an hour, and find a nice, quiet side street. The problem with nice, quiet side streets is that there is NO ONE coming by, flying or crawling. No problem, I tell myself. I'll just get out and MAKE SURE the tire is flat. Because apparently there is something ELSE that can make that noise?!? Oddly, the tires all looked fully inflated. So what the heck had been making that noise? Hey! I knew someone who could tell me!
Me: Hi honey!
Coach: Um, hi? Aren't you on your way home?
Me: Well, my phone is dying and I thought I should call you now and tell you that I thought I had a flat, but the tires don't look flat.
Coach: *pause* Why did you think you had a flat?
Me: Thwapthwapthwapthwap.....that's what I heard, and that's what tires sound like when they're flat. (People, you really don't want to know how I know this so well.)
Coach: And so is your tire flat?
Me: That's the thing. No.
Coach: So what are you calling me for?
Me: Good question. I'm hanging up now in case I need to call you again.
At which point my phone.... died. Because apparently it was in league with the tire tonight. Which? Kept making that noise when I decided to keep driving home. Which was how I came to find myself under the lights at an out of the way gas station (because really....why wouldn't I take the long, roundabout way home when potentially facing a flat tire in total darkness?). With a very flat tire. And a dead cell phone.
On the plus side, the pay phone at this little hole in the wall gas station? VERY clean. Good thing, too, since I had to use it to call Coach and ask him to climb up on that white stallion and come charging to the rescue. Okay, fine. He had to climb into a beat up, barely running Ford Explorer and pray like the Dicken's he could even find me to rescue me. Tomato, tomahto.
Thwap. Thwap.
Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.
Thwapthwapthwapthwapthwapthwapthwap...... You get the picture, right?
Stupid flat tire.
I -- quite rightly, I figure -- decide to get off the highway where people are flying by at 75+ miles an hour, and find a nice, quiet side street. The problem with nice, quiet side streets is that there is NO ONE coming by, flying or crawling. No problem, I tell myself. I'll just get out and MAKE SURE the tire is flat. Because apparently there is something ELSE that can make that noise?!? Oddly, the tires all looked fully inflated. So what the heck had been making that noise? Hey! I knew someone who could tell me!
Me: Hi honey!
Coach: Um, hi? Aren't you on your way home?
Me: Well, my phone is dying and I thought I should call you now and tell you that I thought I had a flat, but the tires don't look flat.
Coach: *pause* Why did you think you had a flat?
Me: Thwapthwapthwapthwap.....that's what I heard, and that's what tires sound like when they're flat. (People, you really don't want to know how I know this so well.)
Coach: And so is your tire flat?
Me: That's the thing. No.
Coach: So what are you calling me for?
Me: Good question. I'm hanging up now in case I need to call you again.
At which point my phone.... died. Because apparently it was in league with the tire tonight. Which? Kept making that noise when I decided to keep driving home. Which was how I came to find myself under the lights at an out of the way gas station (because really....why wouldn't I take the long, roundabout way home when potentially facing a flat tire in total darkness?). With a very flat tire. And a dead cell phone.
On the plus side, the pay phone at this little hole in the wall gas station? VERY clean. Good thing, too, since I had to use it to call Coach and ask him to climb up on that white stallion and come charging to the rescue. Okay, fine. He had to climb into a beat up, barely running Ford Explorer and pray like the Dicken's he could even find me to rescue me. Tomato, tomahto.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
It's Not Just Texting While Driving That's A Bad Idea
When I was in high school, the only way to talk to my friends during the day was to *gasp* actually TALK to them between classes or at lunch. Or, heaven forbid, after school. If I needed to talk to anyone I didn't go to school with, I had to use the payphone in the lobby.
The day I found out I got a fairly large role in the school play and wanted to call my parents? I used the payphone. At lunch.
If I wanted to talk to my boyfriend, who went to a different school, during the day? He called a specific payphone in our school lobby from a payphone in his school's lobby. At lunch.
When I got home from school, I actually called my mother at work. And once I was driving? I had to use the actual phone wherever I ended up to....and I know this will sound really strange.... call home and report in.
So I'm left wondering why it is so amazingly impossible for my household to contemplate just how we would function if we decided to punish Jock for a cell phone infraction by actually taking away his phone? This teenager, who generally is the kind of kid who does what he's supposed to and for the most part doesn't get in trouble? This kid that all of his teachers like? This kid got in trouble at school for cell phone usage in class. Twice. In a 7-day period. Which has resulted in a total of three days of in-school suspension.
My first thought was Take away the phone for a few days. That'll teach him. And immediately on the heels of that thought was Wait....I need to be able to reach him after track practice, and when he goes somewhere. And about that "going somewhere" thing....he'll need that phone in case of an emergency.
Umm..... at what point did disciplining my child become less about helping him learn a lesson and more about not inconviencing myself? After much discussion, Coach and I decided on a weekend of forced father-son bonding time by enlisting Jock to help clean out the garage. You know, the kind of helping where Coach directed and Jock did the work. And the rule was, he had to do it without grumbling.
Which, upon reflection, might actually have been more difficult for him than needing to use a payphone in the lobby at the school. Do they even still have payphones in high school lobbies these days?
I'm going to have to look into that in case he decides he needs to text during class again.
The day I found out I got a fairly large role in the school play and wanted to call my parents? I used the payphone. At lunch.
If I wanted to talk to my boyfriend, who went to a different school, during the day? He called a specific payphone in our school lobby from a payphone in his school's lobby. At lunch.
When I got home from school, I actually called my mother at work. And once I was driving? I had to use the actual phone wherever I ended up to....and I know this will sound really strange.... call home and report in.
So I'm left wondering why it is so amazingly impossible for my household to contemplate just how we would function if we decided to punish Jock for a cell phone infraction by actually taking away his phone? This teenager, who generally is the kind of kid who does what he's supposed to and for the most part doesn't get in trouble? This kid that all of his teachers like? This kid got in trouble at school for cell phone usage in class. Twice. In a 7-day period. Which has resulted in a total of three days of in-school suspension.
My first thought was Take away the phone for a few days. That'll teach him. And immediately on the heels of that thought was Wait....I need to be able to reach him after track practice, and when he goes somewhere. And about that "going somewhere" thing....he'll need that phone in case of an emergency.
Umm..... at what point did disciplining my child become less about helping him learn a lesson and more about not inconviencing myself? After much discussion, Coach and I decided on a weekend of forced father-son bonding time by enlisting Jock to help clean out the garage. You know, the kind of helping where Coach directed and Jock did the work. And the rule was, he had to do it without grumbling.
Which, upon reflection, might actually have been more difficult for him than needing to use a payphone in the lobby at the school. Do they even still have payphones in high school lobbies these days?
I'm going to have to look into that in case he decides he needs to text during class again.
Monday, January 11, 2010
There Really Should Be A Guidebook
There's a shockingly large amount of information that is never given to you as a parent. Things you just have to discover on your own, and then just....wing it. Turns out that I? Haven't quite figured out yet if I'm any good at winging it. It might be helpful if I figured that out soon, as I'm almost out of time with the teenager; and would like to confidently make some decisions with Bug.
For example, no one ever tells you how to handle your child dating. They (I'm still wondering just who the heck "they" are, and just how "they" got their credentials...) tell you allllll about puberty, and it's effects on your child's physical, mental and emotional states. But no one ever tells you just how YOU are supposed to cope with those effects. It's one thing to know your son has a girlfriend. It's quite another when he's dating.
Yes, I know that sounds strange and backwards. Try to stay with me, here.
When your teenage son has a girlfriend, you have the comfort of knowing that he's convinced himself that he cares for someone. There is a strange sort of mellowness you feel as a mother knowing that he's emotionally invested in someone. This way, if something of a physical nature should happen between them, at least they care about each other. Right?
But when your teenage son is dating, then you start to worry about whether or not you've somehow let loose into the world some testosterone driven, cleavage obsessed, one track minded man-whore in the making. And it doesn't matter how respectful and well mannered your son is normally. You just know, deep in your heart where all mama insecurities reside, that it could happen. And so naturally, you freak the heck out every time he says Mom, can I borrow the car tonight? I have a date.
You also find yourself saying things and asking questions that you NEVER expected to hear come out of your mouth. Things like Sweetheart, I think dating Mouse first this time around is a good idea. But until you both have been committed to each other for a while, like---a few month's worth of a while, just don't sleep with her. Unless it's too late for that request. It's not too late, right? You would tell me if it was, right?
All I can say is Thank GOD he looked me straight in the eye and told me it wasn't too late, and agreed that yes, he WOULD tell me. Because I have not quite figured out how I'm going to calmly accept when that changes. Not the telling me part. I'm fairly confident that he'll always tell me when I ask. It's the not too late part I'm freaking out about.
Some things? You just can't wing without a little preparation.
For example, no one ever tells you how to handle your child dating. They (I'm still wondering just who the heck "they" are, and just how "they" got their credentials...) tell you allllll about puberty, and it's effects on your child's physical, mental and emotional states. But no one ever tells you just how YOU are supposed to cope with those effects. It's one thing to know your son has a girlfriend. It's quite another when he's dating.
Yes, I know that sounds strange and backwards. Try to stay with me, here.
When your teenage son has a girlfriend, you have the comfort of knowing that he's convinced himself that he cares for someone. There is a strange sort of mellowness you feel as a mother knowing that he's emotionally invested in someone. This way, if something of a physical nature should happen between them, at least they care about each other. Right?
But when your teenage son is dating, then you start to worry about whether or not you've somehow let loose into the world some testosterone driven, cleavage obsessed, one track minded man-whore in the making. And it doesn't matter how respectful and well mannered your son is normally. You just know, deep in your heart where all mama insecurities reside, that it could happen. And so naturally, you freak the heck out every time he says Mom, can I borrow the car tonight? I have a date.
You also find yourself saying things and asking questions that you NEVER expected to hear come out of your mouth. Things like Sweetheart, I think dating Mouse first this time around is a good idea. But until you both have been committed to each other for a while, like---a few month's worth of a while, just don't sleep with her. Unless it's too late for that request. It's not too late, right? You would tell me if it was, right?
All I can say is Thank GOD he looked me straight in the eye and told me it wasn't too late, and agreed that yes, he WOULD tell me. Because I have not quite figured out how I'm going to calmly accept when that changes. Not the telling me part. I'm fairly confident that he'll always tell me when I ask. It's the not too late part I'm freaking out about.
Some things? You just can't wing without a little preparation.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Wonder If I'll Have Grandkids First?
I've always been one of those people who plan ahead. Fine, so not always consistently; it's more like I plan ahead on random things, and then just let other things.... happen. For example, early in my married parenting years, I would have family pictures taken of just me and the boys. No Coach. Remember hearing somewhere in here that the early years of my marriage were not always sunshine and rainbows? Well, I had those family pictures taken that way specifically so I wouldn't have to cut him out of any of them. And yes, I know how spectacularly fatalistic that sounds. But hey! We've been married for 17 years now, so apparently I got past thinking he wouldn't be around for future family pictures.
Except.
Except for the small fact that we haven't had a family picture taken since Bug was 6 months old. For those of you counting, that would be 11 years ago. What I need, in order to make up for this fabulous lack of memory preserving, is to have someone take a wonderously spectacular picture of my little family. Not in a portrait studio, where we look staged. We just aren't a "staged" sort of family. Combine that with the small fact that the only one of us who owns any sort of dressy-type clothing is me (and even then it's work clothes), and well..... we need someone who can do awesome outdoor shots. Of my family in jeans and t-shirts. It would be nice if this photographer was someone who could make Coach and I look like the type of people who, upon admitting that they have a teenager and oh! rarely exercise and love to eat, hear other people exclaim how Fabulous! and Young! and Wonderful! they look. But, we'd settle for a photographer who would be awesome at making us look like the best us that clothes, make-up, hair product and lighting can make us. For as little as possible expected to come out of our bank account in return for such fabulousity. (Weird....Blogger spell check seems to like that word. Does that mean it really is one? Huh.)
The problem? We know of no such photographer. Looks like this is going to fall under the heading of Just Letting Things Happen.
Except.
Except for the small fact that we haven't had a family picture taken since Bug was 6 months old. For those of you counting, that would be 11 years ago. What I need, in order to make up for this fabulous lack of memory preserving, is to have someone take a wonderously spectacular picture of my little family. Not in a portrait studio, where we look staged. We just aren't a "staged" sort of family. Combine that with the small fact that the only one of us who owns any sort of dressy-type clothing is me (and even then it's work clothes), and well..... we need someone who can do awesome outdoor shots. Of my family in jeans and t-shirts. It would be nice if this photographer was someone who could make Coach and I look like the type of people who, upon admitting that they have a teenager and oh! rarely exercise and love to eat, hear other people exclaim how Fabulous! and Young! and Wonderful! they look. But, we'd settle for a photographer who would be awesome at making us look like the best us that clothes, make-up, hair product and lighting can make us. For as little as possible expected to come out of our bank account in return for such fabulousity. (Weird....Blogger spell check seems to like that word. Does that mean it really is one? Huh.)
The problem? We know of no such photographer. Looks like this is going to fall under the heading of Just Letting Things Happen.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
It Would Be So Nice If The Lobby Chairs Were Well Padded, Don't You Agree?
One of the few nice things about the current economic situation at our house is that since Coach is home more frequently than I am, he gets to be the one to coordinate and arrange those pesky little parenting details like doctor and dentist appointments. If nothing else good comes out of his not working full time for the last year, it was still good for him to do these things, and for the boys to learn that he could, as well.
So Coach got to take Bug to the dentist yesterday for a routine cleaning. Honestly? We expected two or three cavities. Lack of dental insurance for quite some time, coupled with a child who equates frequent tooth brushing with cruel and unusual punishment; well, let's just repeat that we expected to need some fillings. What I didn't expect was to be sitting at my desk yesterday morning, going about my business, when this text message came through from Coach:
Root Canal.
That was it. Two stinkin' little words. Two stinkin' little words that had the power to have me promptly and dramatically freak the heck out.
Turns out, the dentist wasn't just recommending a root canal....eventually. Nope. He was insisting, demanding and ordering an emergency root canal. Right that minute, if his next appointment failed to show up in 30 seconds. Thank you, Anonymous Next Appointment; your timely arrival ensured that Bug's mama could be present for that stinkin' root canal. Which was conveniently scheduled for today.
(Side note here. I have the world's most AWESOME boss! Without hesitation or question, she let me take this afternoon off, telling me that for some things? Mom just has to be there. Period. Can I just tell you all how beyond amazing it is to work for someone who just ... gets it?)
I have never had a root canal. I've never seen one performed. So naturally, I'm imagining a drill the size of something Warner Brother's Acme Products would create diving into my baby's mouth. He was a bit apprehensive, having had it explained that they'd have to drill out the center of his tooth, scrape and scoop out every last bit of that nasty cavity, and fill it with metal goo. But he didn't ask me to go back with him when it was time. Which turned out to be a good thing, since the dentist told me I wasn't allowed to be back there. (Stupid AZ patient privacy laws. Only allowing the patient to be back in the treatment room. What if he was 4 instead of 11? What then, huh? Stupid rules.)
I am so proud of my boy. When the dentist dragged me kicking and screaming back to my lobby seat (okay, okay, fine..... he just looked over his shoulder at me and politely told me that I couldn't stay back there), Bug just grinned at me (albeit a little shakily) and assured me he'd be fine. And so I went back out and sat down. And waited.
That? Was long wait. A very long, 2.5 hour wait. Which was longer for me than it was for him, as he'd been fortunate enough to have been given the nitrous gas at the beginning while I sat there convinced I could hear that evil monster drill the entire time. So when he walked out to Coach and I, we had to laugh a little. His eyes were big and wide. He was slightly unsteady on his feet. And he was grinning like a loon.
That was the coolest thing ever!
Later he told me that he's pretty sure he used up the entire canister. And he thinks he might have told the dental personnel that his older brother (who was in the chair in the next room having his dental bubble burst, as well; which is a story for another time) had the same middle name as one of the hygienist's children, who had the same name as the other hygienist's boyfriend. Except Jock's middle name isn't even remotely close to that other name. But he does remember hearing someone say that, and in hindsight thinks it could have been him. (And yes, it was him. Jock heard the entire conversation from the next room.)
While the procedure was nowhere near as simple as all of this sounds, and definitely involved a bit of Gee, the drill tapped into that abscess and the dentist can't get the bleeding to stop, so you'll have to bring him back at another time to finish this up, overall it went well. I'm thinking, though, that when we go back to actually have that big hole in his tooth filled in.....I'm going to have to insist on some of that gas to get me through the wait.
Hosted by Cecily and Honey Mommy
So Coach got to take Bug to the dentist yesterday for a routine cleaning. Honestly? We expected two or three cavities. Lack of dental insurance for quite some time, coupled with a child who equates frequent tooth brushing with cruel and unusual punishment; well, let's just repeat that we expected to need some fillings. What I didn't expect was to be sitting at my desk yesterday morning, going about my business, when this text message came through from Coach:
Root Canal.
That was it. Two stinkin' little words. Two stinkin' little words that had the power to have me promptly and dramatically freak the heck out.
Turns out, the dentist wasn't just recommending a root canal....eventually. Nope. He was insisting, demanding and ordering an emergency root canal. Right that minute, if his next appointment failed to show up in 30 seconds. Thank you, Anonymous Next Appointment; your timely arrival ensured that Bug's mama could be present for that stinkin' root canal. Which was conveniently scheduled for today.
(Side note here. I have the world's most AWESOME boss! Without hesitation or question, she let me take this afternoon off, telling me that for some things? Mom just has to be there. Period. Can I just tell you all how beyond amazing it is to work for someone who just ... gets it?)
I have never had a root canal. I've never seen one performed. So naturally, I'm imagining a drill the size of something Warner Brother's Acme Products would create diving into my baby's mouth. He was a bit apprehensive, having had it explained that they'd have to drill out the center of his tooth, scrape and scoop out every last bit of that nasty cavity, and fill it with metal goo. But he didn't ask me to go back with him when it was time. Which turned out to be a good thing, since the dentist told me I wasn't allowed to be back there. (Stupid AZ patient privacy laws. Only allowing the patient to be back in the treatment room. What if he was 4 instead of 11? What then, huh? Stupid rules.)
I am so proud of my boy. When the dentist dragged me kicking and screaming back to my lobby seat (okay, okay, fine..... he just looked over his shoulder at me and politely told me that I couldn't stay back there), Bug just grinned at me (albeit a little shakily) and assured me he'd be fine. And so I went back out and sat down. And waited.
That? Was long wait. A very long, 2.5 hour wait. Which was longer for me than it was for him, as he'd been fortunate enough to have been given the nitrous gas at the beginning while I sat there convinced I could hear that evil monster drill the entire time. So when he walked out to Coach and I, we had to laugh a little. His eyes were big and wide. He was slightly unsteady on his feet. And he was grinning like a loon.
That was the coolest thing ever!
Later he told me that he's pretty sure he used up the entire canister. And he thinks he might have told the dental personnel that his older brother (who was in the chair in the next room having his dental bubble burst, as well; which is a story for another time) had the same middle name as one of the hygienist's children, who had the same name as the other hygienist's boyfriend. Except Jock's middle name isn't even remotely close to that other name. But he does remember hearing someone say that, and in hindsight thinks it could have been him. (And yes, it was him. Jock heard the entire conversation from the next room.)
While the procedure was nowhere near as simple as all of this sounds, and definitely involved a bit of Gee, the drill tapped into that abscess and the dentist can't get the bleeding to stop, so you'll have to bring him back at another time to finish this up, overall it went well. I'm thinking, though, that when we go back to actually have that big hole in his tooth filled in.....I'm going to have to insist on some of that gas to get me through the wait.
Hosted by Cecily and Honey Mommy
Thursday, December 10, 2009
I Really Need to Channel Emeril. Or Paula Dean. Or Someone.....
So I've got this friend that is just one of the most awesome people I know. She's a single mom of four beautiful and amazing boys, and despite the fact that she is younger than me and her kids are younger than mine....I want to be as wonderful a mother as she is. I want to be just like her when I grow up! She's just that fantastic.
So it was absolutely no surprise that, upon finding myself in something of a dilemma this evening, she was the first person I thought to call.
Me: Hey! Okay... so you're the Queen of All Things Mom, and if anyone can help me here, you can.
Her: Ummm.... sure. Why not?
Me: Okay. It's almost 7pm, I won't be home until about 7:30, and I have to make dinner. I've got chicken in the sink, sitting in cold water, and it's ready to cook. The problem is that all I know how to do with it is bake it. And that takes 35-45 minutes. If I want anyone to get to bed, that's just not gonna work. So... what can I do to cook the stupid chicken faster?
Her: Where's your husband?
Me: Sick. And I don't want his germs.
Her: Huh. Okay then.... the teenager?
Me: Oh no. We actually want a chance to EAT this chicken. And you can shush. I know I haven't taught him to actually cook with real meat products. And yes, I admit, there is some serious suckage to my parenting skills. Just move on and help me with the stupid chicken!
Her: Hon, it would help if you could at least tell me what you have in your pantry.
So, being MacGuyver, based on what I tell her is currently in my less than stellar larder, she gives me a recipe that actually sounds easy and yummy. And would only take 25 minutes or so. Bonus! And so I'll love her forever and ever and ever.
Or maybe just a couple of "evers"..... See, at the end of that conversation, she drops this one on me:
You DO realize that is actually a recipe YOU gave ME a few years ago, right?
So apparently I actually have it in me to cook on the fly. Who knew?
So it was absolutely no surprise that, upon finding myself in something of a dilemma this evening, she was the first person I thought to call.
Me: Hey! Okay... so you're the Queen of All Things Mom, and if anyone can help me here, you can.
Her: Ummm.... sure. Why not?
Me: Okay. It's almost 7pm, I won't be home until about 7:30, and I have to make dinner. I've got chicken in the sink, sitting in cold water, and it's ready to cook. The problem is that all I know how to do with it is bake it. And that takes 35-45 minutes. If I want anyone to get to bed, that's just not gonna work. So... what can I do to cook the stupid chicken faster?
Her: Where's your husband?
Me: Sick. And I don't want his germs.
Her: Huh. Okay then.... the teenager?
Me: Oh no. We actually want a chance to EAT this chicken. And you can shush. I know I haven't taught him to actually cook with real meat products. And yes, I admit, there is some serious suckage to my parenting skills. Just move on and help me with the stupid chicken!
Her: Hon, it would help if you could at least tell me what you have in your pantry.
So, being MacGuyver, based on what I tell her is currently in my less than stellar larder, she gives me a recipe that actually sounds easy and yummy. And would only take 25 minutes or so. Bonus! And so I'll love her forever and ever and ever.
Or maybe just a couple of "evers"..... See, at the end of that conversation, she drops this one on me:
You DO realize that is actually a recipe YOU gave ME a few years ago, right?
So apparently I actually have it in me to cook on the fly. Who knew?
Thursday, October 8, 2009
My Truck Was Having A Full Moon Moment.... Part 1
Have you ever just been driving along, late at night, by yourself (or maybe with one of your smaller children along... just not with someone larger and more intimidating to strangers than you are)..... only to have you car ....just....stop? To be fair, it's not like it was cruising along one minute, and the next it was at a dead stop. No, when the engine decided to shut itself off, I had plenty of momentum going to get over to the side of the road. And so I did.
After looking in the backseat to make sure that Bug was sleeping soundly and so would not be in a position to react to my freak out, I called Coach.
We've got a problem.
What? What does that mean? What the heck happened now?
(WTH?? Is he insinuating that I've ALWAYS got some catastrophe happening? Some dilemma that only he can solve for me?)
So after a very heartfelt sigh, hopefully signalling to him that I don't ALWAYS have a problem, I proceeded to tell him what "the heck happened now".....
The truck died. And I'm stuck on the highway.
Are you at least out of traffic?
(Okay... again... WTH?? It's not like I make a habit of taking out my truck, just so it will die. And I NEVER have just found myself sitting in the middle of traffic.)
Yes, I had enough momentum going to get over to the side of the road, thankyouverymuch. But now I'm sitting here, Bug asleep in the backseat, and I'm not sure if I was behind or in front of the bus carrying the football team so I have no idea where Jock is at. (And yes, if I'm being honest here, I suppose I should admit that I said all of that in what was basically one big breath. After all, it WAS after 11 pm, and I was on a not-so-well-lit portion of the highway with nothing but my camera for any sort of defense. Oh, and a glove box full of fast food restaurant napkins. Aren't I the scary and intimidating one?)
Well, after it was determined that I wasn't even quite sure where I was (Oh? Did I forget to mention that little part? Yeah. For the life of me, I could not remember which exit I had just passed and which one I was coming up on. BUT... I did remember that I had just passed a stationary roadside photo radar van. That should help someone find me, right?) I got off the phone with Coach and called my mother-in-law. Turns out she was not too far behind me (And? She had been a little bit behind the bus, so we now knew where Jock was! Whew!) so she would come and at least get Bug to take him home while we figured out what to do with both myself and the truck. I was in the middle of updating Coach with this when the highway patrol car pulled up behind me, lights a'flashing. Naturally, since we were sitting on the side of the highway, I got out of my vehicle and walked over to meet him halfway. Wouldn't want him to risk being roadkill by trying to talk to me at my window, don'tcha know?
What seems to be the problem, Ma'am? (Honestly, that is what he said! Is there a cheesy line handbook that all police officers need to memorize and use when they are confronted with a broken down vehicle driven by a lone female??)
Well, there I was, driving along, and my truck? Just flat died. Apparently it doesn't want to go home just yet. (And also apparently? I have a nervous habit of being sarcastic to police officers in the middle of the night when they ask me asinine questions. That habit goes back to high school.... which is another post entirely. Maybe. If I ever decide to share it. I don't look so good in that one, so maybe not.)
So I went on to explain what had happened, and he oh-so-kindly explains to me that he's not a mechanic. Ya think? Huh. Funny. I'm not either. Which was why I was stuck there at what was now 11:09pm. 'Ish. But then he said that if I were to call a tow truck myself, it could take an hour or more. But if HE were to call for me, he could have one there in 20 minutes. My mama didn't raise a fool, people. I asked the nice officer if he could call me a tow truck.
And it seems that officer wasn't just bragging. That tow truck was there in approximately 19.3 minutes. Nice to know that our men in blue (or tan, as was the case that night) don't make it a habit to lie to stranded women just for kicks.
*Stay tuned for part 2 of my My Truck Was Having A Full Moon Moment series..... you'll find round little tow truck drivers and Auto Zone guys who make house calls!
After looking in the backseat to make sure that Bug was sleeping soundly and so would not be in a position to react to my freak out, I called Coach.
We've got a problem.
What? What does that mean? What the heck happened now?
(WTH?? Is he insinuating that I've ALWAYS got some catastrophe happening? Some dilemma that only he can solve for me?)
So after a very heartfelt sigh, hopefully signalling to him that I don't ALWAYS have a problem, I proceeded to tell him what "the heck happened now".....
The truck died. And I'm stuck on the highway.
Are you at least out of traffic?
(Okay... again... WTH?? It's not like I make a habit of taking out my truck, just so it will die. And I NEVER have just found myself sitting in the middle of traffic.)
Yes, I had enough momentum going to get over to the side of the road, thankyouverymuch. But now I'm sitting here, Bug asleep in the backseat, and I'm not sure if I was behind or in front of the bus carrying the football team so I have no idea where Jock is at. (And yes, if I'm being honest here, I suppose I should admit that I said all of that in what was basically one big breath. After all, it WAS after 11 pm, and I was on a not-so-well-lit portion of the highway with nothing but my camera for any sort of defense. Oh, and a glove box full of fast food restaurant napkins. Aren't I the scary and intimidating one?)
Well, after it was determined that I wasn't even quite sure where I was (Oh? Did I forget to mention that little part? Yeah. For the life of me, I could not remember which exit I had just passed and which one I was coming up on. BUT... I did remember that I had just passed a stationary roadside photo radar van. That should help someone find me, right?) I got off the phone with Coach and called my mother-in-law. Turns out she was not too far behind me (And? She had been a little bit behind the bus, so we now knew where Jock was! Whew!) so she would come and at least get Bug to take him home while we figured out what to do with both myself and the truck. I was in the middle of updating Coach with this when the highway patrol car pulled up behind me, lights a'flashing. Naturally, since we were sitting on the side of the highway, I got out of my vehicle and walked over to meet him halfway. Wouldn't want him to risk being roadkill by trying to talk to me at my window, don'tcha know?
What seems to be the problem, Ma'am? (Honestly, that is what he said! Is there a cheesy line handbook that all police officers need to memorize and use when they are confronted with a broken down vehicle driven by a lone female??)
Well, there I was, driving along, and my truck? Just flat died. Apparently it doesn't want to go home just yet. (And also apparently? I have a nervous habit of being sarcastic to police officers in the middle of the night when they ask me asinine questions. That habit goes back to high school.... which is another post entirely. Maybe. If I ever decide to share it. I don't look so good in that one, so maybe not.)
So I went on to explain what had happened, and he oh-so-kindly explains to me that he's not a mechanic. Ya think? Huh. Funny. I'm not either. Which was why I was stuck there at what was now 11:09pm. 'Ish. But then he said that if I were to call a tow truck myself, it could take an hour or more. But if HE were to call for me, he could have one there in 20 minutes. My mama didn't raise a fool, people. I asked the nice officer if he could call me a tow truck.
And it seems that officer wasn't just bragging. That tow truck was there in approximately 19.3 minutes. Nice to know that our men in blue (or tan, as was the case that night) don't make it a habit to lie to stranded women just for kicks.
*Stay tuned for part 2 of my My Truck Was Having A Full Moon Moment series..... you'll find round little tow truck drivers and Auto Zone guys who make house calls!
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Post Game Pieces
After the game on Thursday, while waiting for Jock to come out of the locker room, I was standing with my sister-in-law and killing time. We're standing in the middle of a fairly large crowd of parents and teenagers, when my SIL says to me "Hey... that girl's got Jock's number on her cheek. Do you know her?"
No. No I didn't. And the immediate response from the mama in me was to wonder just who the heck was this girl who was so proudly proclaiming her support for my son? My reaction to that response won't win me any additional points in the Mom of the Year contest, at least in the Offspring Voting category. But it WAS kind of fun....
I walked right up to her, smiled, and said "Excuse me. I know you don't know me, but you've got my son's number on your cheek. And I have no idea who you are."
She smiled, blushed, and stammered "Oh.... I'm a friend of his and he asked me to wear his number!"
"And that's great, I'm glad you support him. But.... Who.Are.You?"
And then she told me her name. Which I actually recognized as someone he talks about and to frequently. I laughed, and told her I'd be sure to tell Jock that I embarrassed her. When I talked to him about it, he admitted that they're kinda crushing on each other right now, so we'll see where it goes.
She really is a cute little brunette with darling dimples when she smiles. And she's the first girl EVER who has come to watch him play. I think this one might be okay.
____________________________________
Speaking of that game on Thursday, Jock told me something else that night.
At one point in the game, there was a 15 yard dead ball personal foul penalty called on the opposing team. The defensive player had shoved himself off my boy AFTER the play while he was still on the ground. The ref saw it, and called it. It's what the ref DIDN'T see that Jock was telling me about later.
Apparently, this kid was all kinds of a wienie, and when he was shoving off Jock, he shoved his hand right through that face mask and into Jock's face. And so my son? Bit his hand.
You saw that right. He. Bit. Him.
There is a part of me that is appalled at that. I mean, you don't just go around biting people. Certainly not when you're 16 years old. But another part of me? The more competitive, don't-be-putting-your-stupid-hands-in-my-boy's-face part of me?
Thinks that if you are dumb enough to put your hand in there on purpose, you deserve the teeth marks.
Do you think that thought redeems myself from asking strange girls why they're wearing my son's number on their face?
No. No I didn't. And the immediate response from the mama in me was to wonder just who the heck was this girl who was so proudly proclaiming her support for my son? My reaction to that response won't win me any additional points in the Mom of the Year contest, at least in the Offspring Voting category. But it WAS kind of fun....
I walked right up to her, smiled, and said "Excuse me. I know you don't know me, but you've got my son's number on your cheek. And I have no idea who you are."
She smiled, blushed, and stammered "Oh.... I'm a friend of his and he asked me to wear his number!"
"And that's great, I'm glad you support him. But.... Who.Are.You?"
And then she told me her name. Which I actually recognized as someone he talks about and to frequently. I laughed, and told her I'd be sure to tell Jock that I embarrassed her. When I talked to him about it, he admitted that they're kinda crushing on each other right now, so we'll see where it goes.
She really is a cute little brunette with darling dimples when she smiles. And she's the first girl EVER who has come to watch him play. I think this one might be okay.
____________________________________
Speaking of that game on Thursday, Jock told me something else that night.
At one point in the game, there was a 15 yard dead ball personal foul penalty called on the opposing team. The defensive player had shoved himself off my boy AFTER the play while he was still on the ground. The ref saw it, and called it. It's what the ref DIDN'T see that Jock was telling me about later.
Apparently, this kid was all kinds of a wienie, and when he was shoving off Jock, he shoved his hand right through that face mask and into Jock's face. And so my son? Bit his hand.
You saw that right. He. Bit. Him.
There is a part of me that is appalled at that. I mean, you don't just go around biting people. Certainly not when you're 16 years old. But another part of me? The more competitive, don't-be-putting-your-stupid-hands-in-my-boy's-face part of me?
Thinks that if you are dumb enough to put your hand in there on purpose, you deserve the teeth marks.
Do you think that thought redeems myself from asking strange girls why they're wearing my son's number on their face?
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Luck. Or Perhaps More Accurately....Superstition
Everyone's heard some story, somewhere, at some time in their lives about the athlete who wouldn't wash his socks or his underwear because the team was on a winning streak; or who wouldn't shave his beard so that he didn't slide into a slump. Or about the ones who have certain rituals before games. These athletes might be going to extremes sometimes, but all athletes will tell you if you ask them that they have something that they do or wear before each game. Its superstition at its finest. And everyone accepts this with a smile and a nod, just knowing that's the idiosyncrasy of an athlete.
But have you ever stopped to consider the superstitious quirks of these athletes' PARENTS?
If you've been around here for any length of time, you know by now that Jock plays on the high school football team. And you know that his team went undefeated his freshman year. And undefeated again his sophomore year. Well, we're at game 4 of his junior year tonight.*
There is a very simple reason for this win streak.
I wear the same shirt, the same socks, and even the same underwear (oh shush..... it's not like you didn't expect something like this! And I'm not going to show you THAT!) each week. And while my socks are just plain fun, the shirt and the underwear reflect the school colors. (Although, upon reflection, I'm not entirely sure why I needed to make sure my underwear was in school colors. Its really not like I EVER expect there to be an occasion where I need to flash those to show my school pride.)
There is simply no changing them now. Although I do actually launder them. I have to draw the line somewhere, you know?
*I'm writing this post before the game. As soon as I'm done, I'll be doing my Lucky Mascot Dance to do my part to ensure we continue on just like this. And no, there will be no video.
Hosted by Cecily and Sports Mama
But have you ever stopped to consider the superstitious quirks of these athletes' PARENTS?
If you've been around here for any length of time, you know by now that Jock plays on the high school football team. And you know that his team went undefeated his freshman year. And undefeated again his sophomore year. Well, we're at game 4 of his junior year tonight.*
There is a very simple reason for this win streak.
I wear the same shirt, the same socks, and even the same underwear (oh shush..... it's not like you didn't expect something like this! And I'm not going to show you THAT!) each week. And while my socks are just plain fun, the shirt and the underwear reflect the school colors. (Although, upon reflection, I'm not entirely sure why I needed to make sure my underwear was in school colors. Its really not like I EVER expect there to be an occasion where I need to flash those to show my school pride.)There is simply no changing them now. Although I do actually launder them. I have to draw the line somewhere, you know?
*I'm writing this post before the game. As soon as I'm done, I'll be doing my Lucky Mascot Dance to do my part to ensure we continue on just like this. And no, there will be no video.
Hosted by Cecily and Sports Mama
<center><font size="-2"><a href="http://whatworksforus.blogspot.com/2007/06/iphone.html" target="_blank" alt="Photostory Friday"><img src="http://i212.photobucket.com/albums/cc50/whatworksforus/pfws.jpg" alt="PhotoStory Friday" border="0"></a><br/>Hosted by <a href="http://mychaosmybliss.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Cecily</a> and <a href="http://youdonthavetolikeme.blogspot.com/.com" target="_blank">Sports Mama</a><p/></font></center>
Thursday, April 23, 2009
No Pressure. Really.
There are many defining moments in life as a mother, and certainly some as life as a mother of an athlete. Twenty-five years ago, such moments were generally documented simply by being present in the stands, and maybe--maybe--if you were a really ambitious mother, written in a diary or journal somewhere. Or maybe you would have just jotted down scores and key points on the back of a ticket stub or program. Today, most of your defining moments are caught on some form of visual media: cell phone recording for possibly posting to a website, the timeless video recorder, or just a simple camera--whether digital or actual film. And today, your truly ambitions mothers scrapbook or blog, being sure to include those pictures.
Apparently, I am only somewhat ambitious. Or possibly only somewhat good at documenting these defining moments. I mean, sure... I blog about the events that are shaping my boys' athletic lives. But the pictures? Not really appearing so often here, are they?
Last week, Jock gave me one such defining moment. My boy, the one who doesn't get nearly the chances he wants to get because high school sports are ridiculously political, hit a home run in his baseball game. Not just any home run, though. Oh no. He hit a rarely-seen-in-the-pros-let-alone-in-high-school GRAND SLAM!
And why is this a defining moment for me, as opposed to a moment for him, you might be asking? Well, because this moment, this rare, spectacular moment; was not documented at all. I failed to bring the camera with me to the game that day. The only picture I got from that beauty of a hit came AFTER we got home, and I let the ball out of my hands long enough to set it on the counter.
It is truly a beautiful ball, and now sits on our trophy shelf. Where I have jotted down the score and the date, right on the leather. Apparently my love of the early 80's is reflected in more than my taste in music. It's in the way I document the moments of my kids' lives, too.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Motherhood....Kicked Up A Notch
So while I know I've had kids for going on sixteen years now, apparently I was never quite a "mom" before. Or maybe it's just that there are various stages of "mom-ness"? I think that might be it. And I reached a new one on Monday night.
Jock had his first baseball game of the season on Monday afternoon. Now, I'm not going to criticize the school or wonder (too loudly) why the heck someone decided it was a good idea to schedule a game...on a school night... at a school that is FOUR HOURS AWAY. However, regardless of the fact that this meant that the team would be leaving school BEFORE LUNCH that day, and scheduled to get home AFTER BEDTIME that night, we were still excited about the first game. (Which, sadly, as it was so far away, we had to miss. It's the one game of this season that there was just no way we could go to. One more reason to feel like such an imposter [spellcheck says that's spelled wrong, but the correct spelling--impostor--looks wrong to me. Pick the one you want, and read it that way, please] at this motherhood thing.)
This excitement lasted right up until I got a text message from Jock about 9:45 pm.
Well, the bus broke down.
Yeah, you read that right. The stupid bus broke down. And they were still two hours away from home. So I asked him to keep me informed about what was going on, and what the school was doing. Which he did, at regular intervals. All.Night.Long.
10:30... They're sending a new bus and telling us we'll be home about 12:30. Or so.
11:30... New time. About 2 am.
12:15... Still no bus.
1:10.... Finally loaded us on the new bus. Be home in a couple of hours.
3:04... We'll be at the school in about 15 minutes. Come and get me please.
So I put my shoes and jacket on, and headed out to the school. I beat the bus there by about 10 minutes, and when it pulled in and Jock got off, he walked up to my window and just said
I'm really tired, Mom.
I know, baby. Get in and I'll get you home.
Turns out Monday night was my introduction to the next stage of mom-hood. For despite the fact that I had to get up for work at 6 in the morning; despite the fact that I tried laying down both on the sofa AND in my bed.... I simply could not get to sleep. At all.
I tossed. I turned. I repeatedly smacked Coach, as he just happened to be laying (snoring away, the pukeface!) next to me as I flopped over. Nothing worked. I just couldn't keep my eyes closed, knowing my boy wasn't home and that not only did I not know just when he'd be home, I had no idea just where he even was!
Apparently, I will have no problems waiting up for him when he starts dating. And next year, when we once again do this stupid baseball game with this particular school? I am sooo going to be there.
Jock had his first baseball game of the season on Monday afternoon. Now, I'm not going to criticize the school or wonder (too loudly) why the heck someone decided it was a good idea to schedule a game...on a school night... at a school that is FOUR HOURS AWAY. However, regardless of the fact that this meant that the team would be leaving school BEFORE LUNCH that day, and scheduled to get home AFTER BEDTIME that night, we were still excited about the first game. (Which, sadly, as it was so far away, we had to miss. It's the one game of this season that there was just no way we could go to. One more reason to feel like such an imposter [spellcheck says that's spelled wrong, but the correct spelling--impostor--looks wrong to me. Pick the one you want, and read it that way, please] at this motherhood thing.)
This excitement lasted right up until I got a text message from Jock about 9:45 pm.
Well, the bus broke down.
Yeah, you read that right. The stupid bus broke down. And they were still two hours away from home. So I asked him to keep me informed about what was going on, and what the school was doing. Which he did, at regular intervals. All.Night.Long.
10:30... They're sending a new bus and telling us we'll be home about 12:30. Or so.
11:30... New time. About 2 am.
12:15... Still no bus.
1:10.... Finally loaded us on the new bus. Be home in a couple of hours.
3:04... We'll be at the school in about 15 minutes. Come and get me please.
So I put my shoes and jacket on, and headed out to the school. I beat the bus there by about 10 minutes, and when it pulled in and Jock got off, he walked up to my window and just said
I'm really tired, Mom.
I know, baby. Get in and I'll get you home.
Turns out Monday night was my introduction to the next stage of mom-hood. For despite the fact that I had to get up for work at 6 in the morning; despite the fact that I tried laying down both on the sofa AND in my bed.... I simply could not get to sleep. At all.
I tossed. I turned. I repeatedly smacked Coach, as he just happened to be laying (snoring away, the pukeface!) next to me as I flopped over. Nothing worked. I just couldn't keep my eyes closed, knowing my boy wasn't home and that not only did I not know just when he'd be home, I had no idea just where he even was!
Apparently, I will have no problems waiting up for him when he starts dating. And next year, when we once again do this stupid baseball game with this particular school? I am sooo going to be there.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
So Am I On The Naughty List For This?
Why is it that gift giving in the office is always a hugely political event? When did it stop being about giving something just to give it, because you wanted to and you could; and start being about everyone needing to contribute a certain amount for the group gift AND getting something just from yourself as well?
And it's quite possibly just me, but every time someone tells me Don't worry about it, just do what you can it always sounds so insincere. Why is there some big competition about the gifts, and who got the bosses what? Do we honestly think they'll promote us or increase our salary based on what they got for Christmas?
I don't talk about work much here, for several reasons. The least of which being the possibility that someone from my office will read it. My blog isn't a secret to people who know me here. But I have spent a large amount of my time the last several days being upset about this. I've got multiple bosses, and the office staff decided to go in together on gifts for them. (I say we all did, but really... I walked in on the tail end of the conversation and was put in the position of agreeing.) Ok, fine. We'll go in on a gift for each of them. The idea was to keep the cost down. After everything was figured out and added up, it was a little more than a few dollars. At least to a mother struggling to get her kids a decent Christmas at the end of a really hard financial year.
Do I point out here that I'm the only married person in the office, other than one of the bosses? Or that I'm one of only two people with kids? Or that of those two, I'm the only one with a child young enough to still not quite understand when money is too tight to do a Christmas like the ones in past years?
Regardless, I ponied up. And then found out that in addition to the group gift, one of the other girls had gotten each boss something more, just from her. And I am petty enough to have felt shown up. I am insecure enough to constantly feel like I'm in competition with this particular girl. Which means I am insecure enough to have decided I needed to do something more for the office for Christmas. So I spent this afternoon making salsa. Coach and the boys were really excited about this decision. I make a really good salsa.
Six pounds of tomatoes and various other ingredients later, I finally had a large enough batch of salsa to put into these cute little Christmas containers. I also made each person their personal bag of chips, in cute little Christmas bags. What I didn't do, however, was have enough left over for Coach and the boys.
So, to recap...
I am insecure. Apparently a lot more insecure than I gave myself credit for. My coworkers -- whom I suppose I like but certainly don't consider the priority people in my life -- are getting some really good salsa; while my family --whom I absolutely love and DO consider the priority people in my life -- are left with none.
But at least the bowls and the bags are cute.
And it's quite possibly just me, but every time someone tells me Don't worry about it, just do what you can it always sounds so insincere. Why is there some big competition about the gifts, and who got the bosses what? Do we honestly think they'll promote us or increase our salary based on what they got for Christmas?
I don't talk about work much here, for several reasons. The least of which being the possibility that someone from my office will read it. My blog isn't a secret to people who know me here. But I have spent a large amount of my time the last several days being upset about this. I've got multiple bosses, and the office staff decided to go in together on gifts for them. (I say we all did, but really... I walked in on the tail end of the conversation and was put in the position of agreeing.) Ok, fine. We'll go in on a gift for each of them. The idea was to keep the cost down. After everything was figured out and added up, it was a little more than a few dollars. At least to a mother struggling to get her kids a decent Christmas at the end of a really hard financial year.
Do I point out here that I'm the only married person in the office, other than one of the bosses? Or that I'm one of only two people with kids? Or that of those two, I'm the only one with a child young enough to still not quite understand when money is too tight to do a Christmas like the ones in past years?
Regardless, I ponied up. And then found out that in addition to the group gift, one of the other girls had gotten each boss something more, just from her. And I am petty enough to have felt shown up. I am insecure enough to constantly feel like I'm in competition with this particular girl. Which means I am insecure enough to have decided I needed to do something more for the office for Christmas. So I spent this afternoon making salsa. Coach and the boys were really excited about this decision. I make a really good salsa.
Six pounds of tomatoes and various other ingredients later, I finally had a large enough batch of salsa to put into these cute little Christmas containers. I also made each person their personal bag of chips, in cute little Christmas bags. What I didn't do, however, was have enough left over for Coach and the boys.
So, to recap...
I am insecure. Apparently a lot more insecure than I gave myself credit for. My coworkers -- whom I suppose I like but certainly don't consider the priority people in my life -- are getting some really good salsa; while my family --whom I absolutely love and DO consider the priority people in my life -- are left with none.
But at least the bowls and the bags are cute.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Is This Good Or Bad?
Bug: Mom, can I have a soda?
Me: Bug, why are you calling me at work for this? Your dad's home. Ask him.
Bug: See, Mom... the thing is... he's really more of a "NO" man rather than a "Yes" man.
Me: ...... So what am I?
Bug: Nicer?
Me: Bug, why are you calling me at work for this? Your dad's home. Ask him.
Bug: See, Mom... the thing is... he's really more of a "NO" man rather than a "Yes" man.
Me: ...... So what am I?
Bug: Nicer?
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Stupid Fathers Make Great Blog Fodder
As my weekend draws to a close, there's just a couple of things still on my mind. Both of which involve fathers who underestimate their children or the world around them. Fathers who were too focused on what they were saying, and the point they were trying to make to the person they were talking to, to pay much attention to the little ones around them. Stupid fathers. (Yes, I said it! I went there!)
Take Stupid Father #1 (SF1). We were walking out of the arena tonight after the hockey game (we actually won 4 tickets to the game tonight when we went to the last game! How cool is that? TWO free chances to watch Bug discover his inner hockey loving extrovert!), and fell into step behind two little boys who were about four and six. They were hopping along as little boys do, but they were just talking to each other. Only each other. I have to assume that one of the two men walking several....SEVERAL... feet ahead of them belonged to these boys. I have to believe that, or I will be left feeling extremely anxious about those little boys tonight. For not only were these little boys SEVERAL feet behind their dad, SF1 was so engrossed in his conversation with his Idiot Friend that they never once....NOT ONE SINGLE TIME IN A TEN MINUTE WALK.... looked back at the boys. They didn't glance over their shoulder to make sure they were still there. They didn't even call out to them.
Until I remarked to Coach, rather loudly: You know.... no one would notice if these boys just weren't here, would they? Anyone could come snatch them, or they could simply get separated since they're so busy hopping around all these people. I would really hate to be their dad when he had to explain to their mama why he didn't come home with them. Of course, that conversation COULD be just that important. I mean, I'm sure there's got to be SOMEthing crucial enough to warrant not making sure your children are with you in a crowd this size.
Yes, I know it sounded like I was going to snatch those kids. I'm sure that's exactly what the look those men turned on me was saying. But you know what? Oh freaking well. And no, my kids are not always tied to my wrist. But I guarantee you that I'm asking Where's Bug/Jock? every 20 seconds if they aren't in my line of sight.
And I'm pretty sure that at least one mom tonight isn't worrying about where her babies are at.
I can live with that. Even if I did sound like a beeyotch.
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Stupid Father #2 (SF2) isn't so scary. He's just an idiot sometimes. And he almost always underestimates his youngest son. To be fair, just about everyone underestimates his youngest son. It always amazes me when people are surprised at the level of intelligence and awareness of his surroundings this kid has.
SF2? You know who it is, right? Oh yeah.... it's him. Coach.
(I hesitated to write this, as it's a bit more of a PG13 than a straight PG rating, but then figured "What the heck?" If this blog is supposed to chronicle our life as we live it, then I have to be sure to blog about the experiences that make our entire family laugh so hard we're all crying, right? And this certainly qualifies as one of those experiences!)
We had been invited to a party celebrating the graduation from college (I believe) of one of the dad's on the football team Coach coached. We quite like this guy and his wife, so we accepted and off we all went. In addition to the son on the team, this man also has three teenage daughters. Yes, three. And yet we still decided to bring Jock, little chick-magnet that he's turning out to be. (Oh... side note? New girl is no more, either. As long as he keeps going like this, I'll never need to tax my creativity thinking up names for them here!) The oldest girl is also a sophomore. Like Jock.
Bet you all are thinking that SF2's proud moment came at the unknown expense of this lovely girl, aren't you? Well, you'd be wrong. There was another delightful young lady at this party. She was probably in her early twenties, so well beyond Jock's reach. However, that still leaves her as a prime target for both Jock and Coach to notice. And remark upon.
Coach: So Jock... did you see the girl in the hot pink shirt?
Jock: I think so.........
Coach: You know? The one with the tig-ole-bitties? (Yes, that's what he said. Just that way. And that is also the point where I punched him in the arm for the stupidly large grin he was sporting at Jock's agreement.)
I know he thought he was being smart, using that particular phrase so that Bug wouldn't know what was being talked about. But this is where he, once again, underestimated that kid and what he both is aware of and knows.
Bug: ...tig-ole-bitties???...... What's tha...... OH!!! I get it! You just switched the letters around!
Me: BUG!! Don't even say it!!
And here is where both Jock and Coach laughed so hard they were both sobbing. And I heard a chorus of "I'm sorry!" from the both of them.
And Coach is sporting one heckuva bruise on his upper arm today.
Take Stupid Father #1 (SF1). We were walking out of the arena tonight after the hockey game (we actually won 4 tickets to the game tonight when we went to the last game! How cool is that? TWO free chances to watch Bug discover his inner hockey loving extrovert!), and fell into step behind two little boys who were about four and six. They were hopping along as little boys do, but they were just talking to each other. Only each other. I have to assume that one of the two men walking several....SEVERAL... feet ahead of them belonged to these boys. I have to believe that, or I will be left feeling extremely anxious about those little boys tonight. For not only were these little boys SEVERAL feet behind their dad, SF1 was so engrossed in his conversation with his Idiot Friend that they never once....NOT ONE SINGLE TIME IN A TEN MINUTE WALK.... looked back at the boys. They didn't glance over their shoulder to make sure they were still there. They didn't even call out to them.
Until I remarked to Coach, rather loudly: You know.... no one would notice if these boys just weren't here, would they? Anyone could come snatch them, or they could simply get separated since they're so busy hopping around all these people. I would really hate to be their dad when he had to explain to their mama why he didn't come home with them. Of course, that conversation COULD be just that important. I mean, I'm sure there's got to be SOMEthing crucial enough to warrant not making sure your children are with you in a crowd this size.
Yes, I know it sounded like I was going to snatch those kids. I'm sure that's exactly what the look those men turned on me was saying. But you know what? Oh freaking well. And no, my kids are not always tied to my wrist. But I guarantee you that I'm asking Where's Bug/Jock? every 20 seconds if they aren't in my line of sight.
And I'm pretty sure that at least one mom tonight isn't worrying about where her babies are at.
I can live with that. Even if I did sound like a beeyotch.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Stupid Father #2 (SF2) isn't so scary. He's just an idiot sometimes. And he almost always underestimates his youngest son. To be fair, just about everyone underestimates his youngest son. It always amazes me when people are surprised at the level of intelligence and awareness of his surroundings this kid has.
SF2? You know who it is, right? Oh yeah.... it's him. Coach.
(I hesitated to write this, as it's a bit more of a PG13 than a straight PG rating, but then figured "What the heck?" If this blog is supposed to chronicle our life as we live it, then I have to be sure to blog about the experiences that make our entire family laugh so hard we're all crying, right? And this certainly qualifies as one of those experiences!)
We had been invited to a party celebrating the graduation from college (I believe) of one of the dad's on the football team Coach coached. We quite like this guy and his wife, so we accepted and off we all went. In addition to the son on the team, this man also has three teenage daughters. Yes, three. And yet we still decided to bring Jock, little chick-magnet that he's turning out to be. (Oh... side note? New girl is no more, either. As long as he keeps going like this, I'll never need to tax my creativity thinking up names for them here!) The oldest girl is also a sophomore. Like Jock.
Bet you all are thinking that SF2's proud moment came at the unknown expense of this lovely girl, aren't you? Well, you'd be wrong. There was another delightful young lady at this party. She was probably in her early twenties, so well beyond Jock's reach. However, that still leaves her as a prime target for both Jock and Coach to notice. And remark upon.
Coach: So Jock... did you see the girl in the hot pink shirt?
Jock: I think so.........
Coach: You know? The one with the tig-ole-bitties? (Yes, that's what he said. Just that way. And that is also the point where I punched him in the arm for the stupidly large grin he was sporting at Jock's agreement.)
I know he thought he was being smart, using that particular phrase so that Bug wouldn't know what was being talked about. But this is where he, once again, underestimated that kid and what he both is aware of and knows.
Bug: ...tig-ole-bitties???...... What's tha...... OH!!! I get it! You just switched the letters around!
Me: BUG!! Don't even say it!!
And here is where both Jock and Coach laughed so hard they were both sobbing. And I heard a chorus of "I'm sorry!" from the both of them.
And Coach is sporting one heckuva bruise on his upper arm today.
Monday, October 27, 2008
I'm Gearing Up For Battle
We've chatted before, you and I, about what a challenge Bug is to my ability to be a good parent. I doubt myself constantly when it comes to this kid. In fact, at any given point in time the only thing I've got any degree of certainty about is the fact that I'm failing him in some fundamental way.
And yet......
We had parent/teacher conferences about a month back, right before the boys went on fall break. Leading up to this, apparently Bug had been having some trouble getting all of his homework both completed and turned in. In our defense, however, the teacher didn't bother to tell us that until we only had 10 days left in the quarter. So I sent off an email to the teacher, explaining ... yet again.... the whole ADHD/Bipolar thing. I suggested that if it would make it easier to work with Bug we'd be happy to coordinate with his doctor and the school in implementing a 504 plan. (Coach, Bug's doctor, and I had all discussed the differences between a 504 plan and an IEP, but in the end decided that if we did need something, we would go with the 504.) I fully expected the teacher to disagree, as it has been our experience that teachers would prefer NOT to have to do anything that requires more effort on their part to work with kids who need a bit.... more. (Please, understand that I mean NO disrespect to any teachers reading this. This has just been the experience with the teachers we've had to work with since Bug was diagnosed. I'm positive there are many wonderful, hardworking and generous teachers who are absolutely willing to give of themselves--their time, their energy, their EFFORT..... we just have not been blessed with many of those.) So I was completely unsurprised when Bug's teacher stated, quite bluntly, that he didn't think that would be necessary. What DID surprise me was hearing THIS come out of that teacher's mouth:
I read your email, and I have to tell you that I disagree with you 100% on your assessment of Bug. I don't think this is anything other than him CHOOSING NOT TO do the things he knows he's supposed to.
What?!? Let me ask that again..... WTH?!?!?!
YOU -- who have only known my child for a mere 9 weeks and in only one setting, are disagreeing with ME -- who has known my child for 10 years and in multiple settings. Not only that, but YOU -- who has only been out of school and practicing your chosen profession for a rather short four years, are disagreeing with THE DOCTOR who has a license, not to mention YEARS of experience who stated this to be true about Bug:
He has ADHD.
He has a mood disorder that is strongly suspected to be Bipolar Disorder.
It is also strongly suspected that he has Oppositional Defiant Disorder.
All of which must first be diagnosed by a licensed medical practitioner, such as a psychiatrist. Which, coincidentally enough, WE HAVE DONE. Second, an individual with all of these lovely conditions is strongly recommended to be on medication that has been prescribed, and is monitored, by said doctor. Which, again by some awesome coincidence, IS WHAT WE ARE DOING.
And? I'll let you in on a secret, Mr. Clueless Teacher. Subjecting my son, who really can only seriously focus on one major mental point at a time, to a continuous punishment of writing sentences each time he doesn't turn in his homework? IS NOT WORKING. And if you're paying attention at all, you'll realize that. After all, you're the genius who has assigned him to write no less than 600 sentences over the last two weeks alone. Stating the same sentence. Over and over and over. And yet, he still continues to NOT turn in the homework. Does the phrase "square peg, round hole" sound familiar at all?
And another thing, Mr. Clueless Teacher. When we last spoke at the conference, you agreed to COMMUNICATE with me, and let me know frequently how Bug is doing in class. You agreed to let me know, quickly this time, when it seemed he was slipping a bit. You and I agreed to become a team, working together for Bug. You didn't like it much when I told you that I felt you were setting him up to fail by your closemindedness when it came to alternative ways to work with this kid. So you and I agreed to work together. You would call me, I would work with Bug more strenuously on my end, and together we would work for Bug's success.
I have not received even one email from you. Not one phone call. Not a single note sent home. Wow, Mr. Clueless Teacher. You are some communicator. It is no longer a mystery why Bug isn't learning anything.
Oh, wait! He's too busy worrying about getting his sentences completed to concentrate on something as silly and inconsequential as homework and schoolwork!
So here is what I'm going to do. Once I calm down (and in all reality, that will probably not actually happen, but tomorrow is my personal deadline for attacking this), I am going to compose an email to you. One filled with links to sites designed to educate you, who apparently still needs educating on how to work with Special Needs students--no matter what those needs might entail--on ADHD, Bipolar Disorder and Oppositional Defiant Disorder. An email where I, once again, offer to coordinate a 504 Plan with the school, my son, and yourself. And this time, I'm copying the Principal on it. And depending on how you respond, I am seriously considering escalating this higher up the educational food chain. I'm fairly certain that when the Superintendent is reminded of the additional funding that is available for not only the school but the entire district as well, just for accommodating a Special Needs student, you will be gently encouraged to actively participate in this with us.
I don't want it to go that route, Mr. Clueless Teacher. I just want you to follow through on your promise to work with my son. I want my son to have the same chance to succeed, and the same support system behind him, that the other students in your class have. You know, the ones who require no extra effort on your part.
But mostly, I want my son to go back to believing in himself. You've taken that away from him and I'm just not sure I can forgive that.
And yet......
We had parent/teacher conferences about a month back, right before the boys went on fall break. Leading up to this, apparently Bug had been having some trouble getting all of his homework both completed and turned in. In our defense, however, the teacher didn't bother to tell us that until we only had 10 days left in the quarter. So I sent off an email to the teacher, explaining ... yet again.... the whole ADHD/Bipolar thing. I suggested that if it would make it easier to work with Bug we'd be happy to coordinate with his doctor and the school in implementing a 504 plan. (Coach, Bug's doctor, and I had all discussed the differences between a 504 plan and an IEP, but in the end decided that if we did need something, we would go with the 504.) I fully expected the teacher to disagree, as it has been our experience that teachers would prefer NOT to have to do anything that requires more effort on their part to work with kids who need a bit.... more. (Please, understand that I mean NO disrespect to any teachers reading this. This has just been the experience with the teachers we've had to work with since Bug was diagnosed. I'm positive there are many wonderful, hardworking and generous teachers who are absolutely willing to give of themselves--their time, their energy, their EFFORT..... we just have not been blessed with many of those.) So I was completely unsurprised when Bug's teacher stated, quite bluntly, that he didn't think that would be necessary. What DID surprise me was hearing THIS come out of that teacher's mouth:
I read your email, and I have to tell you that I disagree with you 100% on your assessment of Bug. I don't think this is anything other than him CHOOSING NOT TO do the things he knows he's supposed to.
What?!? Let me ask that again..... WTH?!?!?!
YOU -- who have only known my child for a mere 9 weeks and in only one setting, are disagreeing with ME -- who has known my child for 10 years and in multiple settings. Not only that, but YOU -- who has only been out of school and practicing your chosen profession for a rather short four years, are disagreeing with THE DOCTOR who has a license, not to mention YEARS of experience who stated this to be true about Bug:
He has ADHD.
He has a mood disorder that is strongly suspected to be Bipolar Disorder.
It is also strongly suspected that he has Oppositional Defiant Disorder.
All of which must first be diagnosed by a licensed medical practitioner, such as a psychiatrist. Which, coincidentally enough, WE HAVE DONE. Second, an individual with all of these lovely conditions is strongly recommended to be on medication that has been prescribed, and is monitored, by said doctor. Which, again by some awesome coincidence, IS WHAT WE ARE DOING.
And? I'll let you in on a secret, Mr. Clueless Teacher. Subjecting my son, who really can only seriously focus on one major mental point at a time, to a continuous punishment of writing sentences each time he doesn't turn in his homework? IS NOT WORKING. And if you're paying attention at all, you'll realize that. After all, you're the genius who has assigned him to write no less than 600 sentences over the last two weeks alone. Stating the same sentence. Over and over and over. And yet, he still continues to NOT turn in the homework. Does the phrase "square peg, round hole" sound familiar at all?
And another thing, Mr. Clueless Teacher. When we last spoke at the conference, you agreed to COMMUNICATE with me, and let me know frequently how Bug is doing in class. You agreed to let me know, quickly this time, when it seemed he was slipping a bit. You and I agreed to become a team, working together for Bug. You didn't like it much when I told you that I felt you were setting him up to fail by your closemindedness when it came to alternative ways to work with this kid. So you and I agreed to work together. You would call me, I would work with Bug more strenuously on my end, and together we would work for Bug's success.
I have not received even one email from you. Not one phone call. Not a single note sent home. Wow, Mr. Clueless Teacher. You are some communicator. It is no longer a mystery why Bug isn't learning anything.
Oh, wait! He's too busy worrying about getting his sentences completed to concentrate on something as silly and inconsequential as homework and schoolwork!
So here is what I'm going to do. Once I calm down (and in all reality, that will probably not actually happen, but tomorrow is my personal deadline for attacking this), I am going to compose an email to you. One filled with links to sites designed to educate you, who apparently still needs educating on how to work with Special Needs students--no matter what those needs might entail--on ADHD, Bipolar Disorder and Oppositional Defiant Disorder. An email where I, once again, offer to coordinate a 504 Plan with the school, my son, and yourself. And this time, I'm copying the Principal on it. And depending on how you respond, I am seriously considering escalating this higher up the educational food chain. I'm fairly certain that when the Superintendent is reminded of the additional funding that is available for not only the school but the entire district as well, just for accommodating a Special Needs student, you will be gently encouraged to actively participate in this with us.
I don't want it to go that route, Mr. Clueless Teacher. I just want you to follow through on your promise to work with my son. I want my son to have the same chance to succeed, and the same support system behind him, that the other students in your class have. You know, the ones who require no extra effort on your part.
But mostly, I want my son to go back to believing in himself. You've taken that away from him and I'm just not sure I can forgive that.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Did You Miss Me?
I have to admit, it was a rather nice weekend without the Internet intruding on our lives. Coach wasn't glued to ESPN or some other sports tracking website. Jock wasn't spending hours searching for new music to download. Bug was saved the psychological scarring that would come with those cartoon images we all know are pornographic even though they won't admit it. I was able to enjoy several un-connected days actually connecting with my family.
But now, well, we're back. And we didn't need to adopt a new modem, either. I won't go into detail on what the actual problem was. Let me just impart the knowledge that my Internet carrier is stupid. And rude. And apparently modeled after someone's mother. Because when asked WHY they did what they did? I was told....
Because we can.
No lie, that's a direct quote from some seriously-lacking-in-customer-service, will-work-for-pennies-on-the-dollar-in-some-third-world-country representative told me this weekend.
Gah.
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Remember this post?
It happened again. With no prodding on my part to force that overly-cool teenager to spend some time with his little brother. In fact, I was at the other end of the house for a while before I walked in and discovered the race in progress.
Fortunately for me, and for all of you out in blogland, I was able to grab the camera. Naturally, the boys weren't as cooperative as they could be, but I persevered. We've known for ages now that Bug idolizes his big brother and will do just about anything to get Jock to pay attention to him. I've long suspected that Jock secretly enjoys spending time with Bug, as well, even though the natural state of his teenager-ness precludes his openly admitting that fact.
But.....I now have proof.
But now, well, we're back. And we didn't need to adopt a new modem, either. I won't go into detail on what the actual problem was. Let me just impart the knowledge that my Internet carrier is stupid. And rude. And apparently modeled after someone's mother. Because when asked WHY they did what they did? I was told....
Because we can.
No lie, that's a direct quote from some seriously-lacking-in-customer-service, will-work-for-pennies-on-the-dollar-in-some-third-world-country representative told me this weekend.
Gah.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Remember this post?
It happened again. With no prodding on my part to force that overly-cool teenager to spend some time with his little brother. In fact, I was at the other end of the house for a while before I walked in and discovered the race in progress.
Fortunately for me, and for all of you out in blogland, I was able to grab the camera. Naturally, the boys weren't as cooperative as they could be, but I persevered. We've known for ages now that Bug idolizes his big brother and will do just about anything to get Jock to pay attention to him. I've long suspected that Jock secretly enjoys spending time with Bug, as well, even though the natural state of his teenager-ness precludes his openly admitting that fact.
But.....I now have proof.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
I Am Queen Of This Sandbox
Back in April, during baseball season, I made a brief reference to the parents of one of Jock's teammates, and how they have this lovely habit of being .... not very complimentary towards my boy. They're not overly fond of Coach, either, for reasons that have NEVER been explained to us. The boys have been on the same football and baseball teams, and have been friends, for three years now, since we moved to the Valley. So we've had to co-exist with his parents. And since we anticipate another two and half years here, with the boys continuing to play on the same teams, we'll have to continue to co-exist with these parents. In MY world, that means you are cordial to each other in public, you support each other's kids, and you don't talk badly about the other person/people to anyone else in our still-somewhat-smallish community. Apparently, that sentiment is only found in MY world.
Jock has a new girlfriend. I know, I know. I was a little surprised, as well, at how quickly his little broken heart was mended from the last one. (Ok, not really.... but I still didn't see this one coming. He had never, ever mentioned this girl before.) It seems that this girl goes to the same church as this teammate of Jock's. (Ya know what? Everyone else here at my place gets a new name when I post about them.... so this kid is getting one, too. I'll call him what his teammates all call him. Booty. And the girlfriend is going to be Senior. 'Cuz that's the year in school she is, and quite frankly it's too late at night for me to be overly creative with a name for her. If she sticks around longer than any of the others have, I might be moved to give her a better name.)
Anyway.......
When Booty's parents found out that Jock is going out with Senior, they decided to take it upon themselves to perform what I can only imagine they believed to be a community service. Booty's dad told Senior and her parents that Coach is really a not-so-nice guy! I know!! I couldn't believe it either!
We've had absolutely NO altercations or even any negative interactions with this dad. Or with Booty. In fact, Booty still says hello all the time when he sees Coach or I. Also in fact, every kid who's ever been on one of the same teams that Booty has been on still says "Hi Coach!" (yes, they actually call him Coach) every time they see him. EVERY TIME. Tell me.... would teenage boys do that if the man in question was an ass? Not in my experience they wouldn't. Especially if they don't have to even acknowledge him, since no one is making them.
So what the heck gives Booty's dad the right to have said this to Senior and her parents???
I contemplated saying something to him, since I'll see him at the game on Thursday. Just casually going up to him and asking why he would say something like that to this girl, and make life difficult for Jock. Of course, then I remembered that, at least in his mind, Booty has always been in competition with Jock. Which naturally means you make him look as bad as possible, right?
I've actually decided not to stoop to his level. We're going to meet Senior, and probably her parents. And they are all going to get to see what a really great guy Coach is for themselves, even if it kills me.
Proving that Booty's parents are just wienie-heads.
*Yes, Jock defended his dad, explaining to Senior that Coach used to actually coach Booty in baseball and football, and that he had no idea why Booty's dad would say that. And since we've never hidden from our kids any conflicts with other parents, he's actually in a pretty good position to have defended him rather well. Also...... even though Coach doesn't know just about all of this entire thing.... I'm confident he agrees with my final stance on this 100%*
Jock has a new girlfriend. I know, I know. I was a little surprised, as well, at how quickly his little broken heart was mended from the last one. (Ok, not really.... but I still didn't see this one coming. He had never, ever mentioned this girl before.) It seems that this girl goes to the same church as this teammate of Jock's. (Ya know what? Everyone else here at my place gets a new name when I post about them.... so this kid is getting one, too. I'll call him what his teammates all call him. Booty. And the girlfriend is going to be Senior. 'Cuz that's the year in school she is, and quite frankly it's too late at night for me to be overly creative with a name for her. If she sticks around longer than any of the others have, I might be moved to give her a better name.)
Anyway.......
When Booty's parents found out that Jock is going out with Senior, they decided to take it upon themselves to perform what I can only imagine they believed to be a community service. Booty's dad told Senior and her parents that Coach is really a not-so-nice guy! I know!! I couldn't believe it either!
We've had absolutely NO altercations or even any negative interactions with this dad. Or with Booty. In fact, Booty still says hello all the time when he sees Coach or I. Also in fact, every kid who's ever been on one of the same teams that Booty has been on still says "Hi Coach!" (yes, they actually call him Coach) every time they see him. EVERY TIME. Tell me.... would teenage boys do that if the man in question was an ass? Not in my experience they wouldn't. Especially if they don't have to even acknowledge him, since no one is making them.
So what the heck gives Booty's dad the right to have said this to Senior and her parents???
I contemplated saying something to him, since I'll see him at the game on Thursday. Just casually going up to him and asking why he would say something like that to this girl, and make life difficult for Jock. Of course, then I remembered that, at least in his mind, Booty has always been in competition with Jock. Which naturally means you make him look as bad as possible, right?
I've actually decided not to stoop to his level. We're going to meet Senior, and probably her parents. And they are all going to get to see what a really great guy Coach is for themselves, even if it kills me.
Proving that Booty's parents are just wienie-heads.
*Yes, Jock defended his dad, explaining to Senior that Coach used to actually coach Booty in baseball and football, and that he had no idea why Booty's dad would say that. And since we've never hidden from our kids any conflicts with other parents, he's actually in a pretty good position to have defended him rather well. Also...... even though Coach doesn't know just about all of this entire thing.... I'm confident he agrees with my final stance on this 100%*
Thursday, September 25, 2008
I Have An Opinion And I'm Not Afraid To Use It!
A couple weeks ago, Coach and I went into our local Wal-Mart. This one has only been here for about 6 months or so, but its the ONLY one in a ten mile radius. And its OUR Wal-Mart. The city we live in, that is. Our town really isn't such a huge, thriving Metropolis; but its getting there. And from the day we discovered that this new construction site was going to be a Wal-Mart, we've been suggesting to the Powers That Be that maybe they should make sure to carry some apparel for the local high school. The other Valley Wal-Marts carry stuff to support whatever high school feeds the area they're in, and we really wanted some shirts and jackets for our high school. We're supplying it with a couple of students, after all.
Anyway, our local store has NOT carried any high school apparel. At all. Until a couple of weeks ago when Coach and I walked in and noticed something incredibly disturbing. On the one hand, they now had a high school clothing display. However, it was for ..... DUN DUN DUN..... our BIGGEST RIVAL.
That's right. Not a single item to be found ... anywhere ... for our local school. The school that is literally less than two miles down the road. The school that supplies the largest percentage of this store's work force, between the students and the parents. The school that this same store has donated a bunch of money to. This store, in all the infinite wisdom that the supply manager must certainly have to have in abundance, decided NOT to stock clothing aimed at their core clientele. Oh no. They chose, instead, to slap us all in the face with our rivals.
Well, Coach and I were not going to stand quietly by and accept that calmly. We had the store manager called over. And we proceeded to explain just what was so offensive about this display. Then we asked that they reconsider stocking some clothing with OUR school's logo. After all, this was OUR Wal-Mart, right? We didn't even insist that they do anything with the rival school's stuff. Just carry something that would actually sell, would'ya??
So when the manager called over a couple of stockers (is there another word for them? That one just sounds rather creepy....) and had them start taking down the display, Right.NOW.... we were thrilled!
And when, last weekend as Coach and I were once again walking through the store, we saw this:
Well.... I am a little embarrassed to admit that I sort of squealed OHMYGOD....is that PURPLE I see?? and ran over to the display. And YES! It was PURPLE! And GOLD! Our school colors! Our school mascot! WooHOO!!!
Cost of the hoodie: $25.
Having my teenage son tell all of his friends how his parents totally ROCK for getting this to happen? Priceless.
Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek
Anyway, our local store has NOT carried any high school apparel. At all. Until a couple of weeks ago when Coach and I walked in and noticed something incredibly disturbing. On the one hand, they now had a high school clothing display. However, it was for ..... DUN DUN DUN..... our BIGGEST RIVAL.
That's right. Not a single item to be found ... anywhere ... for our local school. The school that is literally less than two miles down the road. The school that supplies the largest percentage of this store's work force, between the students and the parents. The school that this same store has donated a bunch of money to. This store, in all the infinite wisdom that the supply manager must certainly have to have in abundance, decided NOT to stock clothing aimed at their core clientele. Oh no. They chose, instead, to slap us all in the face with our rivals.
Well, Coach and I were not going to stand quietly by and accept that calmly. We had the store manager called over. And we proceeded to explain just what was so offensive about this display. Then we asked that they reconsider stocking some clothing with OUR school's logo. After all, this was OUR Wal-Mart, right? We didn't even insist that they do anything with the rival school's stuff. Just carry something that would actually sell, would'ya??
So when the manager called over a couple of stockers (is there another word for them? That one just sounds rather creepy....) and had them start taking down the display, Right.NOW.... we were thrilled!
And when, last weekend as Coach and I were once again walking through the store, we saw this:
Well.... I am a little embarrassed to admit that I sort of squealed OHMYGOD....is that PURPLE I see?? and ran over to the display. And YES! It was PURPLE! And GOLD! Our school colors! Our school mascot! WooHOO!!!
Cost of the hoodie: $25.
Having my teenage son tell all of his friends how his parents totally ROCK for getting this to happen? Priceless.
Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek
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