Daily Diatribes

I have reached a point in my life where freedom from the bonds of motherhood is no longer an abstract concept. Everyone in the house can dress themselves. Everyone can wipe his or her own bottom. The unlucky vomiter almost always makes it to the toilet in time. I only have to nag the goddess to brush her teeth and change her underwear. In short, I am entering the golden years of child rearing. But oh, how I long for a baby.

I never used to be a baby person. Even when my own children were babies, I was not the kind of mother who wanted to moon over them all day. I toiled away, pandering to their every need, but I didn’t love it. I generally prefer older children, ones who can carry on a conversation and wipe their own butts (see above). But now that my fertility is waning and the prospect of babies is nil, I want one. I want a baby to hold and snuggle. I want a baby to bathe and dress. I want to suck on its little baby toes and hear it giggle maniacally in delight. I want a baby almost as much as I want a big ass diamond ring.

The caveat, however, is that I do not want another child. The thought of driving one more kid to one more soccer practice or school activity is enough to make me hyperventilate and clamp my legs firmly shut. I can’t even imagine having to help one more kid with fractions, or, God Forbid, teach one more kid how to drive. The fact I have two more to teach is daunting enough. I don’t need to add to the heartache.

Last week at church, it seemed MA had solved my problem. She handed me the bulletin and said “Please mommy, can’t we do this?” She pointed out the printed plea for parents to foster infants while they awaited adoption. Truly it seemed an answer to my prayers, the sign I had been waiting to receive. I let my eyes go misty as I imagined how it might play out….

We have filed all the necessary paperwork. We have received preliminary approval. All that is left is the home study. I am at home, frantically cleaning, when the doorbell rings. The dogs go wild, baying and howling like the Baskerville Hounds. If anyone is familiar with schnauzers, I have two, and their barks have actually shattered wine glasses in our house. Lulu the golden retriever skids into the room, across the hard wood floor and crashes into the front door, then proceeds to bark like Jack the Ripper is about to crash through the door with a a chainsaw. I look out and see that it is the home study people.

I thought they were supposed to come tomorrow, but apparently I have gotten the day wrong. I am dressed in sweatpants with holes in the crotch, a bleach stained t-shirt that is three sizes too big, no bra and pink fluffy slippers. My hair is dirty. It has three clips in it; the one I put in that morning and the two I have picked up while cleaning. I also have one of the goddess’s shiny pink headbands holding my bangs back, having picked it up off the floor as well. The house rates an F-5 on the Fujiama Disaster scale. I rush around trying to make a dent, but it’s too late. I have to open the door.

I straighten my t-shirt, remove two of the clips, forgetting the headband. I call to Hugo and he appears in the doorway, wearing his Guinness Pajama pants and clutching a beer can. “Put that beer down,” I hiss, “the home study people are here.” He looks at me blankly, then stares down at himself in horror and bolts for the bedroom. Plastering on a smile, I open the door and brightly greet the couple on my porch.

“Hey, come right in,” I say, trying to hold back the snarling dogs who were supposed to be at the office when the home study happened. “Don’t mind the pitbulls, they don’t bite,” I said, laughing a bit too loudly. They gaze at the dogs in horror and I realize this probably wasn’t the best time to trot out my pitbull line. “Hold on just a minute,” I say and grab all three dogs and drag them forcibly across the room, over the laundry mountain and towards my bedroom. Lulu manages to become entangled in a polka dotted bra and I have to stop and disentangle her, muttering obscenities under my breath. I open the door, shove them into the bedroom where Hugo stands half dressed and staring at me in horror, and I slam the door shut. Turning around, I plaster my best fake smile on and say “won’t you come in and have a seat?”

They gingerly step forward, over the laundry and the polka dotted bra, and walk into the family room where further destruction greets them. The remnants of the goddess’s happy meal lunch are on the coffee table. “Beavis and Butthead” is blaring on the TV. Half empty potato chip bags decorate the side tables and an empty popcorn bowl is on the floor. I apologize and try to explain how I got the date wrong as I attempt to pick up some of the debris. “Sorry about the mess,” I mutter lamely, “but it’s hard to cook meth and keep the house clean at the same time….” Crap, what the hell am I thinking??? That’s WORSE than the pit bull joke!!

About that time, Lulu the wonder dog comes bounding into the room with a decapitated Barbie doll in her mouth. The goddess is upstairs wailing about the demise of her Barbie and I hear Napoleon shouting “It’s just a Barbie doll so quit cryin’ you little monkey!!”

“DON’T CALL ME A MONKEY,” the goddess screams shrilly.

“Monkey….MONKey…..MONKEY!!!!!” Napoleon screams back gleefully.

“SHUT UP YOU FREAKS!!!! YOU’RE SO IMMATURE!!!!!” screams MA.

I smile weakly at the home study people and hope they don’t notice the Swiss Army knife Napoleon has left on the table, plunged point first into a picture of the University of Alabama Mascot, Big Al. The screaming from upstairs continues, followed by bangs and shouts. Hugo comes charging out of the bedroom, half dressed and bellows up the stairs “SHUT THE HELL UP, ALL OF YOU, OR I’LL GIVE YOU SOMETHING TO CRY ABOUT!!!!!” He wheels around with a dazzling smile and strides forward with his hand outstretched. “Hey I’m Dr. Hugo Bruno, sorry about the mess…”

His outstretched hand is ignored and without speaking a word, the couple turn on heel and march back toward the front door. The woman’s high heel snags the polka dotted bra as she leaves, but I can’t summon up the will to call out to her and it drags behind her out the door and to her car. Not only will we not be getting a foster baby, it looks like we’ll be losing our biological children as well….

“Can we do this mom?” MA whispers to me.
“No sweetie,” I whisper back, “I don’t think we’re foster parent material.”

The kids are gone. The house is quiet. I have done absolutely nothing useful today. Some people can’t stand clutter and must restore order before they can rest. I am not one of those people. I can step over empty boxes and walk by piles of dirty clothes in complete serenity. To sort of paraphrase Jesus “the mess we will always have with us, but I will not always be here.” Hmmm, that made sense in my head, but doesn’t seem quite right in black and white. Basically, I’m always gonna have dirt and laundry to deal with, but I won’t always be mentally agile enough to surf the net. Not a great excuse, but it’s MY excuse!!

So far today I have taken a long soak in the tub, eaten breakfast, read numerous blogs, written numerous emails and read the paper. It’s the first time I have picked up a paper in over a week. Frankly, I needed a break from the economy. And from Afghanistan and Zimbabwe and all the other tragedies that pass for news. I must say, I didn’t miss it. It was nice being out of the loop and not knowing that Israel and Palestine are bombing the hell out of each other again. Did I really need to know that to be a more fulfilled person? However, I did miss the comics and the letters to the editor, which some days, are one and the same. And of course, I had to read the obituaries. 

I know I am way too young, but as I have said before, I am a faithful obituary reader. Probably I’ll note some new disease outbreak before the CDC ever figures it out. After all, they are stuck in their fusty laboratories, staring through microscopes, while I am conducting anthropological research through the obits. I definitely gather far more useful information reading the obituaries than I could staring at a slide under a microscope. I need to offer my services to the government as a professional obituary reader. I’ll make a chart and use color coded push pins to denote causes of death and look for patterns. Or maybe make a smiley face. This is very tricky research since often the obit offers little information as to cause of death. You really have to be Sherlock Holmes to ferret out the truth. They use flowery language like “passed on to be with his Creator” or “returned to the great kingdom of heaven” when all the reader really wants to know is if the deceased was found dead of a heart attack in bed with the cross dressing CEO of the local bank. Newspapers tend to skimp on good details like that.

Anyway, as I was perusing the obits today, it struck me as odd that they always list the “survivors”. JIM SMITH IS SURVIVED BY HIS WIFE PATSY, HIS DAUGHTER BETSY AND HIS ILLEGITIMATE SON BARNEY. Or this: SURVIVORS INCLUDE….. Well, why do they call them survivors? Makes it sound like everyone was on the Titanic together and Jim missed the lifeboat and became a popsicle, while Patsy, Betsy and Barney got a free pass to live another day. Or that they were out swimming and Betsy pushed Jim toward the great white shark and he was eaten while she managed to swim to safety. If Jim actually died of lung cancer after smoking three packs a day for thirty years, I think “survivor” is a bit of a misnomer. If I were the editor, I would change it to read JIM SMITH WAS OUT LIVED BY HIS WIFE PATSY, etc. Doesn’t that ring a little more true? She didn’t SURVIVE Jim’s death, she simply OUTLIVED him. A minor point of semantics, but I’m just saying…

In my fantasy newspaper, I would offer an O”BITCH”UARY column where the SURVIVORS could freely sling mud at the deceased. I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but some of them are just asking for it. Why we supposed to remember the good things about people after they’re gone? Usually it’s the bad things that stick out anyway. “JIM SMITH WAS A CHEAP SON OF A BITCH AND HE CHEATED ON ME WITH THAT WHORE OF A RECEPTIONIST AND I HOPE HE ROTS IN HELL” says wife Patsy. I think this would make for more entertaining reading and would give the SURVIVORS much needed closure. I know more than one person has probably gone to a funeral for, say, Great Uncle Alfie and has seethed with resentment thinking of the times Uncle would pinch his or her butt or that time when he took the Social Security check and gambled it all away at the dog track and Mom and Dad had to use the vacation money to pay for Aunt Bertha’s medications. O”BITCH”UARY….a great concept and you heard it here first!!

I guess I am too immature to read the paper, but I was entertained by one other piece of news I ran across today. It seems Burger King is catching some flak for its recent ads about Whopper virgins. Personally, I”m not offended by the ads, I just find them incredibly stupid. If you trek out to remote Siberia and offer the residents of a frozen steppe a Big Mac and a Whopper they’re hardly going to be the best judge of a good burger. They eat seals and whale blubber or maybe the occasional grub, not beef. It amazes me that Burger King is apparently laying out big bucks to some advertising agency and this is the best those fine minds on Madison Avenue can do. Mind you, the ads are a whole lot better than the ones featuring the creepy “Burger King”. Those freaked me out completely. Big, scary plastic looking Burger King comes toward me, I am going to wet myself and run screaming in the other direction. He might have a whopper, but I’m not interested!

I’ve wasted enough of your time here. I went back to reread the obituaries to see if I missed anything fun but it was kind of a slow news day. I did see one once where it instructed mourners “in lieu of flowers, send money to the family.” I like that idea. Funerals are expensive and flowers die. Send me money to defray the cost of planting great Aunt Agatha since Social Security kicks in a whopping $250 for burial and the average funeral costs considerably more than that. And if there’s any money left after the funeral, the mourners can head to Burger King and eat a whopper in memory of the deceased!! 

When we left Wisconsin Friday morning, it was 25 degrees. Today, back home in Alabama, it’s 75. That’s a net gain of 50 degrees. I’ll probably have pneumonia next week.

When we got up this morning and looked out the window there was no snow on the ground, meaning the clothes we have lived in for the past week are no longer appropriate. What to do? This is the time of year I hate living in Alabama. I’ve put everyone’s summer clothing away, packed it up and out of reach to avoid those January battles when the goddess wants to wear a tank top and short shorts. Unfortunately, we have days even in January, when that clothing is appropriate. So then it has to be hauled down from the shelf and out of the box. It’s enough to make you spit. Really.

I managed to scrounge together some clothes for the goddess. Hugo and Napoleon wear shorts year round, so they had no problems, and MA wears jeans year round, so she was good too. Then there’s me. I stick my summer clothes on a shelf in my closet. But during the month of December, my closet resembles one of those post Katrina pictures from New Orleans. The closets in the master bedroom are too small for this house. When friend Nancy built the house, she totally skimped on the closets. I could maybe squeeze two midgets in there, side by side, but it would be a very tight fit and they wouldn’t be able to breathe. And naturally, everything in the house winds up in my closet. It’s the repository for the nice dresses I don’t want to hang in the girl’s closets, for wrapping paper and bows, and for all manner of minutiae that can’t find a home anywhere else. In December, this muck is all stirred up with the hiding of presents and the finding of wrapping paper and the digging out of winter boots that need to go to Wisconsin. It’s a scary place. One day I might write a novel about my closet because it’s a universe unto itself.

After I got the goddess dressed, I fortified myself with a swig of Diet Coke and I waded into the fray. I flung sweaters to the side and a suitcase fell on my head. There was a long wire leading up to a stereo speaker which I nearly yanked onto my head as well. I dug and cursed and sweated and thought about wearing jeans or just staying in my pajamas. But it’s just too warm outside. After ten minutes, I finally managed to unearth a pair of shorts that weren’t too ragged so I grabbed them, barely escaping with my life. Then it was off to the shower to commence with the trimming of the winter pelt.

Normally, I don’t find it necessary to shave my legs during the winter. No one sees them other than my husband and frankly, my whole body could be covered in 6 inches of fur and he’d still be trying to jump me. But to wear shorts, the pelt must go. I grabbed the hedge clippers and hit the shower. Shaving winter growth is no easy task. I started with the hedge clippers and managed to get it down to a reasonable length. Then I attacked with the razor. The first razor, the one that’s been sitting in the shower since the beginning of time, didn’t even make a dent. Seriously, it didn’t even touch skin. I grabbed another one with a sharper blade and managed to scrape off a few hairs. It took a lot of effort and perseverance, but I finally managed to get one leg smoothly shaved. I’ll probably need a blood transfusion to replace what I lost during the process, but the hair is gone. The other leg leered at me, covered with fur and threatening to devour my Gillette blade. I sighed and attacked that one next. Finally, I was reasonably hairless.

However, after a week indoors with the furnace running full blast, my skin resembled 40 grit sandpaper. It was in desperate need of moisture so I coated myself head to toe with Jergens. Once I was suitably greased up, I wriggled into the shorts that were a bit tighter than normal after a week of cheese, beer, and Christmas cookies. I slipped on some flip flops, ignored the talons jutting off the ends of my toes, and stepped out into the sunshine. I breathed in deeply, and then started coughing as my lungs filled with pollen from the plants tricked into blooming by the heat.

Still, it’s good to be home. Suitcases cover every inch of the floor. Strange pieces of plastic with sharp edges lurk beneath tables and peek out of overturned bags. The house is so cluttered with crap right now it would make Martha Stewart weep. Since getting home, we have Christmased with friends, Christmased with family and in a few minutes, we are going to Christmas with more friends. But tomorrow, I am shipping all three kids off to the homes of their grandparents, and I am going to sit down and enjoy a much needed silence!! I hope you all had wonderful holidays; I am looking forward to catching up on blog reading now that I have an internet signal again!!!

Wisconsin.  Land of ice and snow.  I am huddled in a room watching a rerun of “Steel Magnolias”.  Have laid in a supply of wine and Ho Ho’s.  I can’t get Ho Ho’s in Alabama so I gorge myself on them up here.  Packers lost last night, so state has declared day of mourning.  Really, that’s not even hyperbole.  Football is god up here.  I’ve eaten a lot cheese.  It’s damn cold.  <P />
The high on Sunday was 2.  With the wind chill, it was about thirty below zero.  It has been too cold for the kids to play outside.  They sit at the window and stare at the drifts of snow.  The snow we came to see that they cannot play in because it’s too cold.  As you can imagine, they are less than pleased.  They don’t seem to grasp the concept of the tips of their darling little noses turning black and falling off their wee little faces.  Fortunately, we have been able to round up a couple of cousins for entertainment.  <P />
Two days before Christmas.  No presents are wrapped.  I feel obligated to buy more for the people we will be seeing.  Am wondering what I can hock to buy a couple more Christmas scarves.  I wonder what Santa would give me for a lap dance?  <P />

This is the first internet signal we’ve been able to get all week.  I typed a whole blog at my sister in law’s house last night and when I clicked “publish”, I got the internet explorer message of death:  INTERNET EXPLORER HAS ENCOUNTERED AN ERROR AND MUST CLOSE.  WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEND AN ERROR REPORT?  No, I don’t want to send an error report, I want my FREAKIN’ BLOG POST BACK YOU BASTARD!!!  Well, like I tell my kids, People in Hell want Ice Water.  We don’t always get what we want.  <P />

I am going to try and click publish and see what happens.  Maybe it’ll take.   Maybe it will float away into the black hole of the internet.  In case it publishes, I would like to wish you all a Blessed Christmas and/or a Happy Hannukah/Kwanzaa.  If it doesn’t publish, well, F**K it.  Smooches!!

I am going to firebomb Oriental Trading Company. First I’ll have to google “molotov cocktail” to learn how to make one, but then it’s on baby!! Oriental Trading Company, proud purveyor of useless crafts that are manufactured in China with lots of melamine and lead based paint. Their offices are conveniently located in Omaha Nebraska, so I can blow up headquarters, then drop my children off at the nearest hospital holding signs that read “free to a good home.” It’s a win-win for me!! 

 This morning, the goddess reminded me I had signed up to help with the second grade craft day. I had dutifully written this on my calendar and then promptly blocked it from my memory. I hate crafts. I don’t craft at all. I get confused by crafts with all their stupid little pieces and the ten pages of detailed instructions that are supposed to help you create a 2 inch foam Santa. But the goddess’s teacher caught me in a weak moment, and I agreed to help. The craft seemed simple enough: create a jolly little Santa face out of pre-cut pieces of fun foam. Only glue was required. My job was to write the child’s name on the back of the Santa hat and then offer assistance as necessary.  

However, these little goodies were ordered from the diabolical Oriental Trading Company. Each child was given an individual packet, supposedly containing all the pieces. But when you are dealing with OTC (24 Santa kits for $2.99!!!) things aren’t always as they should be. In each class, at least two kids had packets with two Santa faces. Yep, I know all about the Two Faced Santa. You sit on his lap and he PROMISES you he’s going to bring you the Guess jeans with the little zippers on the legs, but come Christmas morning, that squishy package turns out to be a value package of Fruit of the Loom tighty whities. And the high top Reeboks he promised? He brought the Pay Less knock-offs. Santa talks out of both sides of his face, that’s for sure.

In the second class, one child’s packet contained only one googly eye for Santa. “Don’t be sad,” I told little DeMarcus. I told him he was actually making a limited edition “White Beard the Pirate” ornament. “Arggghhh, maties,” says White Beard heartily, “I’ll not be bringin’ yer Christmas loot, I’ll be takin’ it!!” I helped DeMarcus position Santa’s hat rakishly so that it covered the spot where the eye should have been. Freakin’ Martha Stewart, that’s what I am!!

My favorite was the googly eye with no black center. I walked by one child’s desk and noticed his Santa’s eye looked filmy. I called the other mom over and said “Look Sheila, Santa has a cataract!!” No wonder that sleigh swerves all over the place. Santa is visually impaired. OTC should have included a pair of black specs and a white cane. The Salvation army Santa is the real thing; Santa lost his license because he’s legally blind!

The teacher sat at the front of the room giving detailed instructions for creating the Santa. The face was a tan oval and she instructed the children to turn it sideways, because Santa has a chubby face. In every class, two or three classes opted for the more fashionable anorexic Santa face and then couldn’t figure out why the beard was then too big for the face. Inevitably, they discovered this after they had already glued most of his features on to the face. In those cases, I had to put on my plastic surgeon hat and deconstruct the face, then reconstruct it appropriately. This involved removing the googly eyes and the pom pom nose and wiping off the half gallon of glue Mary Jane used to affix the features to the face. Then I had to painstakingly detach the pompoms that had glued themselves to my fingers and instruct Mary Jane on how to use a DOT of glue to affix said pompom to Santa’s face. It made me want to drink….a lot!!

By the time I had guided six classes of second graders through this demonic craft, I had a raging headache from squinting at the tiny directions and huffing all that Elmer’s glue. I came straight home and took a two hour nap. And as soon as I post this, I’ll be checking out the molotov cocktail site! Ho ho ho!!  

I am going to run away from home. Really and truly. The people that live here are driving me crazy. Particularly the blonde goddess. Lately, she has developed a stubborn streak to rival any mule in recorded history. The answer to any request, no matter how simple, is no. Accompanied by a toss of the shiny blonde head and the stomping of the tiny little feet. One day I am going to snap and I am going to toss my hair and stomp her. Or maybe I’ll just run away.

That’s what I am going to do. I am going to tie my belongings up in a bandana, stick a pole through the bundle and hit the open road. Take a bottle of cheap wine with me and live under a bridge with the other hobos. At least it will be quiet. I’ll eat out of trash cans if I have to; I’m not proud. Anything to get me away from helping the goddess with her homework.

Her homework for today was to write a paragraph with five of her vocabulary words. I asked her to sit down and do it. She said “no”. I ordered her to sit down and do it. She declined. I threatened to inflict bodily harm upon her. She answered in a negative manner. “Do Your Homework,” I barked, and I stalked out of the room.

A few minutes later, a strange sight greeted me. The goddess was sitting at the table diligently writing her paragraph. I was so proud. Then I made the mistake of asking her if she was using her vocabulary words. She looked up at me with her huge blue eyes and shrieked “YOU DIDN’T TELL ME TO!!!!!!!” She then proceeded to wad up her homework and throw it in the garbage before I could look at it. A lot of times, spelling words and vocab words overlap, so the work likely could have been saved. But she was having none of it. She then launched into an epic temper tantrum, ranting and screaming, carrying on like a possessed child. Finally, I sent her to her room.

While she was up there, presumably levitating above the bed and spewing green pea soup, I made my second mistake. I opened her homework folder and discovered a math sheet covered with red ink. Her grade was a 61% and the teacher had written a note voicing her concern. As I looked it over, I voiced my concern aloud in a very colorful manner. Because the school is failing to teach my child math. This is not a teacher issue. I love her teacher and have tremendous respect for anyone who is stupid enough….er….who chooses to make teaching his or her profession. It’s damn hard work, much harder than I ever want to work.

My issue is with our school district which has jumped on yet another “reinvent the wheel” bandwagon. Our new math program is called the Mobile Math Initiative and it is a program designed to make learning math virtually impossible for young children or their parents. (For those of you who do not reside in the Deep South, land of grits and gravy, the correct pronunciation is MO {long O} Beeeeeeel.) The initiative has the full support of our school board and also of the major pharmaceutical companies who rake in record profits when frustrated parents, trying to help their offspring with math, are forced to seek pharmacological intervention. I don’t do math. If I get two plus two to come out right, I am thrilled. I handed the hemorrhaging paper off to my husband and told him he could help her with it. He looked at it and sighed. Then he called her down. He sat her at the table, showed her the paper, and then told her they were going to rework the problems.

This launched temper tantrum number two. The child commenced with such a wailing and carrying on that even the dogs were hiding. To his credit, my husband was being very patient, but she absolutely refused to listen. Every time he made a suggestion, the goddess would say “BUT…..WE…..CANT’…..DO….IT…..(GULP, SNIFF, HICCUP)…..THAT……WAAAYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!” Really, pardon my French here, but this math is some crazy shit. She is supposed to show how to make ten using five different strategies. So just what in the F**K is wrong with the one good strategy of FIVE PLUS FIVE????? It worked for me when I was a kid and I have even managed to grow up to lead a productive life and be a highly paid substitute teacher!!!  

It took over an hour for her to complete her homework and to correct her math paper. By the time it was over, we were all drained. Her face was red and her eyes were swollen. My husband had pulled out several hunks of hair and he doesn’t have all that much to spare. And me? My sanity was hanging by a thread. I had the Xanax bottle out and open and was counting the pills compulsively, wondering just how many I would need to take to make the goddess’s math homework make sense. Luckily, we had a Christmas party tonight, so we were able to escape the children and leave them home alone. And that, my friends, will make an interesting blog for tomorrow!!

Ok, I can’t write this week. I have typed and re typed the same post and every time I end up deleting what I’ve written because it’s boring. Subbing for MA’s class was good. I dressed appropriately in non embarrassing clothing. I brought candy. The kids loved me. I only danced once, and the class wasn’t paying attention to me anyway. MA was in the classroom directly across the hall, sitting near the open door and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. I swiveled my hips and I mouthed “I love you” at her. Only MA and three of her friends saw me gyrating wildly in the doorway. The look on her face will sustain me for many months to come. It was enough.

I took MA shopping on Saturday night so she could buy gifts for her friends. We were there for three hours and I wanted to die. I hate shopping. We got along really well, which is surprising. In Claire’s Boutique, I wandered around as she perused the earring selection. I tried on a tiara and it got stuck in my hair. This is probably why I am not royalty. I have no flair for tiaras. I had to call her over to dislodge it from my head. And she didn’t even get mad at me. I think she’s mellowing.

We went to the Coach store and she pointed out her heart’s desires to me. I guffawed at her. We went to a department store and she pointed out the Juicy Couture sweat suits to me. I guffawed at her. I am going to confidently state here in these pages that I will NEVER pay $148 for a pair of sweat pants. Good God, I can buy Hanes Her Way sweatpants at Wal-Mart for $3.88 a pair. I can buy her a pair in every single color and spend less than $20!! When I grow up, I am going to design sweat suits. My name starts with a “J” and so I will use my initial as a zipper pull. This will enable me to charge an obscene amount of money for a velour sweatsuit that I will have manufactured in Malaysia by workers who are paid $.37 a day.

Today, I did more Christmas shopping. It was raining and this causes people to drive very slowly. In fact, it took my forty five minutes to go five miles. I was ready to chew off my steering wheel. I went to World Market to purchase a single item that was featured in Sunday’s paper. I walked in to the store and wandered around aimlessly, trying to locate the item. I couldn’t find it. So I asked a store employee where to find it. She then proceeded to wander around the store aimlessly, trying to locate it. I followed her thinking ‘I could’ve wandered around aimlessly on my own’. The reason I asked her is because, silly me, I thought since she worked there, she might actually know where said item was. I expect way too much out of people. The item never was located.

Even without the help of the sales force, I managed to finish my shopping. Now all the loot must be wrapped. I hate wrapping. I am not good at it. I can’t even put a tiara in my hair, so don’t think I can manage to wrap a gift without hurting myself. The blonde goddess could probably wrap more competently than me. I can’t cut straight. I can’t tie bows. I am so envious of people who can produce beautifully wrapped packages. Is Christmas over yet?

Friday, we are leaving for Wisconsin. We have never spent the holiday away from home before so this will be an experiment. We are heading up to the snow and the ice. It will be 70 degrees when we leave here. It will be 2 degrees where we are going. Probably not the smartest decision we’ve ever made. Plus, we get to haul all the Christmas crap up north with us. Fourteen hours in a car with three crabby, fighting children. Excuse me, I am going to go and start drinking NOW!!!!!

This is how you get a substitute teaching job: there is a web site and you check it about a million times a day and out of the million times, one time you will click and a job will be listed. I found out early in the game you can’t give it a lot of thought. You either click accept or it’s gone. I’ve had a couple snatched away from me while I was pondering whether I wanted to work or not.

Yesterday, pickings were slim. Early in the morning, Mr. Nakayama from the high school needed a sub for his math class. The system doesn’t list the actual class names, it just says math. This is going to sound racist, but based on his name, I decided his class was probably way too hard for me to teach. Japanese people are much better in math than me. He probably teaches Advanced Principles of Mathematic Computing That Only Asian People and Highly Evolved Caucasian Nerds Can Understand, Section 1. Much better for me to just stay home and surf the web.

Later in the day, a Special Needs teacher posted her desire for a sub. I called Nancy right away because Nancy used to be a teacher before she wised up and quit her job. “Hey Nancy,” I said when she answered, “is Special Needs the same as Special Ed?” She said yes, so I ignored that one too. Let’s be honest. I am a sensitive and empathetic person, but I have my limits. And Special Needs is my limit. I don’t do nose pickers and I don’t do droolers. No disrespect to anyone with a special needs child (or a nose picker for that matter) but I would not be comfortable in that setting. And I think it’s very rude to change the name to “Special Needs” to try and net innocent subs.

Today, I logged into they system and nearly fell out of my chair. MA’s history teacher had put in a request for a sub on Friday! I clicked on Accept so fast the mouse was smoking. How could I pass up a chance to sub in my child’s classroom?? This is a dream come true for me!!

But wait, it gets better!! I emailed him and we began an email exchange, whereby I discovered he is deathly ill but still has some new material to be covered. After a couple of emails, I talked him into letting me have tomorrow’s class too! I am teaching her class two days in a row!! He did claim the right to give her the good news: “BTW, PLEASE let me tell Abby you’re my sub. I TOTALLY want to see the look on her face.” Can you tell he and I get along great? He emailed me a few minutes later with this update: “I told her already. She looked quite shocked. I told her at the start of class, and she said, “now I’m in a bad mood!” Isn’t that awesome??!!!

School gets out at 3:05. At 3:06, my phone rang and Caller ID informed me it was my daughter. I answered “hello” in a very innocent tone. She said, very sternly, “MOTHER, when I get home, we need To Talk!” All I can say is she does a great impression of me!! When she got home, all she said was “Is it true?” in a despairing tone. When I answered affirmatively, she snarled, “Fine, but I’m picking out your outfit!!”

Do you know how much fun I can have with the outfit? Should I wear the embarrassing Christmas sweater and my elf socks with the bells? Or should I wear a pair of stirrup pants (do they still make those???) and tease my hair up really tall? Maybe I’ll opt for a polyester pant suit and orthopedic shoes. I really need to go shopping tonight because I want to wear my VERY BEST for the princess and her peeps!!! Do they still say peeps? I need to get jiggy with it.

The down side to all this, because there’s always a down side, is that I actually do have to teach tomorrow. I will not be reading any novels. I will be sharing all my knowledge of ancient Rome with the little angels. Which consists of “Rome is where the Pope lives and he drives around in a really great car called the Pope mobile.” Then I’ll have 54 minutes to try and make up some stuff about Rome. I am thinking about bringing my copy of Mel Brook’s “History of the World Part 1.” There’s a great section on ancient Rome and I can discuss the literary implications of the following exchange between Josephus the slave and Oedipus the beggar: “Hey Josephus,” says Oedipus. “Hey Mother F***er,” replies Oedipus cheerfully. Think that’ll fly with the school board?

Friday through Monday was a roller coaster for me. Between working (ME…WORKING????), kids activities, my activities, and life, I am exhausted. Today is the first day I’ve had to catch my breath. Life is coming at me fast!!

I subbed at the high school Friday. That was fine. Saturday morning, the goddess had her First Reconciliation. Yes, that’s right, we are freaky Catholics. And we feel the need to go and tell another human being everything we’ve done wrong so that we can receive absolution. I have to admit, it’s kind of refreshing. I know it’s not supposed to work this way, but it’s like getting a blank check to go out and be bad. I doubt the Pope endorses the view of “My sins are Forgiven….Yippee….Let’s go commit some more!!!!” but I never said I was a good Catholic.

Anyway, the goddess was going for the first time and she was super nervous. I tried to keep her calm as the service began. It was a very nice service. Or it would have been had we not been seated next to a family with a fractious two year old who insisted on talking in his OUTSIDE voice to the little girl behind him. This caused me to be highly irate. I normally don’t do this, but I actually glared at the parents in a very disapproving way. I figured I was going to confession so I might as well be as nasty and judgmental as possible.

I am a very understanding and compassionate person. It’s why 98% of the world tramples all over me. I wouldn’t call myself a door mat, per se, but I might lay claim to the title of really nice area rug. I try to empathize with everyone. However, I draw the line at major life events I am trying to experience with my child and that are being ruined by Tommy Toddler playing a loud game of peek a boo in the pew next to me. I know it’s hard to find a baby sitter on a Saturday morning. I know both parents wanted to share the experience with their child. However, that does NOT give them the right to ruin it for everyone else. One parent should have snatched that kid up, taken him out to the vestibule, and performed a butt whuppin’ upon said toddler. And then stayed out there with the little monster. Fortunately, it was a very short service and I managed to restrain myself from thus advising them. The goddess was able to confess her sins (to an archbishop no less!!) and I was able to keep from committing a mortal sin, so I deemed the morning a success.

Sunday was Brownie day. We took all the little Brownies Christmas caroling to collect canned goods for the food bank. Turns out I’m tone deaf and can’t lead them in song. Actually, this was no surprise to me. I had to be removed from my post as head caroler and was demoted to sign holder. We spent an hour caroling and managed to hit four houses and collect a can of cranberries and a bag of rice.

Not impressed? You try taking twelve 7 year olds caroling. Some of them tried to run from house to house. Some barely managed a nursing home shuffle. At every house, a good five minutes was spent debating which song would be sung. A fight broke out over who was going to BE Rudolph, even though we were singing, not performing a theatrical production. They were instructed to ring the bell once and wait. At one house, when no one came to the door, they all pushed up, trying to see into the windows because they were sure someone was there and just ignoring them. Which was probably true. At another house, a dog came to the door with his owner. Another scuffle ensued as the girls fought savagely to see the dog. Because dogs are such exotic creatures and many of the girls had never seen one before outside of a book.

I’m lying. Why do girls freak out over dogs? I have witnessed this behavior in girls of all ages. I have taken my older girls on hikes and we will see all sorts of wildlife and they’ll roll their eyes. But let a domesticated canine enter the scene and they’ll turn into raving maniacs, throwing themselves upon the poor creature.

By the end of this little excursion, I was completely exhausted. But was my day over? Oh no, I had Bunco that night. Which is not stressful, but still something I had to attend. I was supposed to bring an appetizer, so I stopped at the Publix and bought a container of refrigerated Mexcian cheese dip and some tortilla chips. My sheer presence was going to have to compensate for my lack of cooking. I had to rush through the game, which I won, and then it was off to my next event. MA had an indoor soccer game at 8:30.

MA is not the best soccer player in the world, but what she lacks in finesse, she makes up for in sheer brutality. She’s 5′4, weighs 115 pounds and can easily fell somebody twice her size, then jump back and look shocked, as if she can’t believe her own strength. Within five minutes, the game had to be stopped because she leveled another player. The girl writhed on the ground for five minutes and had to be helped off the field. I’m an area rug and MA is Hulk Hogan. Did I really birth her?

The game was over at 9:30 and no one had to be med flighted out which was good. I’m not sure how much we have left on the liability policy we had to take out after MA started playing rugby…er, I mean, soccer. We got home at 10 p.m. and that was when I made the mistake of checking the internet and seeing that a sub position was open on Monday. Stupid me, I took it.

Yesterday I worked all day. This substitute teaching gig is pretty good. The kids came in, I took attendance and gave them their assignment. Then I read a book for the rest of the hour. I read Amy Tan’s “Joy Luck Club” in its entirety yesterday and got paid $75 to do so. I think I’m going to like this job!! I don’t know why anyone wants to actually BE a teacher (Love you Buddha Girl!!) when subbing is so much easier! No messy lesson plans, no actual expectation that I am going to teach them anything useful, no college degree necessary. It’s babysitting 101 and I’m good with it. Because I have a HUGE list of books I need to read!

I did manage to lock myself out of my classroom yesterday and that was a hairy few minutes. Fortunately, one of the other teachers let me in and the door was open before any students showed up. I think locking yourself out definitely falls into the “sweating” category and might have resulted in anarchy in my classroom. I also went to the cafeteria for the first time. I wasn’t going to go, was going to stay in my room and hide, but I taunted myself and called myself unkind names until I finally relented and went. Which is why I was locked out of the room.

After school, I rushed home, gave MA orders and then took Napoleon shopping. He was down to one pair of jeans and they had big holes in the knees. Then I had to take him to a local college because the high school choir is holding their Christmas concert there. I dropped him off and went to the mall and did some more shopping. By the time I picked him back up at 8:30, I was beyond exhausted. When I got home, I crawled into bed and didn’t move.

Which is why, dear reader, my head hurts today. I’ve been burning the candle at both ends and up the middle. Tonight, there’s a band concert and Thursday night is the choir concert. And don’t even get me started on the mess in my house or the lack of Christmas decorations or the fact that my family has eaten cereal or mac and cheese every night for the last week. On the bright side, though, I am sin free!!! So I’m going out to lunch with Nancy so we can catch up on our gossip!! Screw the mess, it’ll wait!!

Because, really the substitute thing was pretty boring. Nothing happened. I didn’t get eaten. They didn’t set the trashcan on fire. I sat at the desk, they did their work and it was all very idyllic. I only had to work a half day and then I was outta there!!

So I am going back again today to see if I can get any blog material. I must say, my body was not designed for working. When I put it in the shower at the ungodly hour of 6:00 a.m., it goes into shock. It’s used to bathing at the more fashionable hour of 1 p.m. Or not at all. Housewives are among the great unwashed. Why waste the water and soap showering when you’re just going to spend the day scrubbing the shower?

Putting make up on is adding insult to injury. My face tries to squirm away from the applicator, but it’s no good. The eyeshadow must go on!! And don’t even get me started on the clothing. This body was designed for sweat pants and t-shirts. Maybe a pair of comfy jeans if I really need to dress, but nice slacks and a sweater? And possibly even jewelry? The shock is almost too much for my body to take.
I have to go now. I have to brush my teeth (what???? at this hour???) and get in the car and drive away. Away from my blog. Away from Pogo. I am going out to mingle with the working masses. All in the name of blog material. This is all for you, my readers!! You are worth it!!