Report Cards for Parents

Ah, another school district has decided that what kids need is parents afraid of the system. They're talking about sending home report cards for parents, grading us on things like whether our kids seem to have had an adequate breakfast, and whether they completed their homework, and whether they're dressed appropriately for the weather.

I have 2 kids in high school. Their definition of an adequate breakfast is not necessarily what my husband would call an adequate breakfast. But it is food, and it gets them through the morning. Actually, sometimes it gets them through the entire school day, aside from a bottle of OJ in the hall, because my 2nd son thinks there is only one thing on the entire cafeteria menu he can choke down.

The weather has turned cold. That means Hubby and I are bundled for the weather. It also means we frequently start the day with a reminder for the Sons to wear a jacket. Do they? Sometimes. Because they don't want to carry a coat all day, or wear one in class all day, but they don't use a locker, at school, because they feel they don't have enough time between classes to stop at a locker. They just carry all their gear with them, all day.

I ask them about their homework. Do they have a lot? Have they organized their time so they can complete it all? Do they understand the assignment? Do they need a trip to the library, or for me to print out something for them? Do they have any questions Hubby or I could help with? Do they need a proofreader? Are they turning things in on time?

And sometimes, you know what? THEY LIE.

And the way I see it, they might learn more from lying to me, skipping an assignment, and getting a lousy grade, than from me going through their backpack, forcing them to do the work, and handing it in for them.

These report cards forget that the biggest thing parents are trying to teach their kids is personal responsibility. Teachers and administrators seem to think that parents should do everything for the kids, instead of encouraging kids to do things for themselves.

This reminds me of something that happened years ago, when the Sons were in private school.

Son #1 is the kind of kid to pick things up, walk around, and then put them down somewhere unexpected. If I can't find my nail clippers, it's because he was clipping and walking, and then finished his nails and dropped the clippers on the rug somewhere. And of course there was that time he took my car keys and left them in a pile of toys...took me 2 weeks to find the damn keys.

Anyway, this is a habit of his.

When he was in 3rd grade, he used to cart his backpack and lunch bag around the house in the morning. Often, he would drop his lunch in some mysterious corner of the house, and after dropping him off at school I would find the lunch, while cleaning. I'd then drive back to the school (a 45 minute round trip) to bring his lunch.

After a while, I decided he was gaining nothing from this experience. And, you know, I had a preschooler at home, who didn't need to spend his mornings in the car, when he could be coloring or building with blocks or being read to. So I told Son #1.

"The next time this happens, I'm not going to drop everything to bring you lunch. You're going to be hungry at school, if you forget your lunch. So you better remember it."

And of course he didn't. For several days in a row, I found his lunch in the downstairs bathroom, in the toy room, wherever, and I put it in the fridge. And each morning, I'd remind him of his freshly made lunch, sitting next to the backpacks by the front door. And again, he'd wander around with it and drop it.

On the 4th day, we were scheduled for a teacher conference. Mrs. Rizas tore me a new one.

"I KNOW you have four children. I am sure you are very overwhelmed. But No Child of Mine would EVER come to school without lunch."

I explained that I was trying to encourage Son#1 to be responsible for his own stuff--that he was too old to be expecting Mom to rescue him from his own cluelessness, and a little hunger might remind him.

She again commented that I must be "overwhelmed" by the daunting task of raising 4 boys. She had, in compassion for my neglected child, provided him with cheese crackers and juice each day, at lunch, so he would not be hungry.

And I again corrected her. I was not neglecting my oldest son because I couldn't manage to make him a lunch. I was allowing natural consequences to teach my son that if you want lunch, you don't leave it in the bathroom. And, actually, since she was feeding him lunch every day, he wasn't worried about misplacing the lunch I'd made him. The way it played out for Son #1, if he didn't bother to bring his lunch, his teacher would make him one. One he didn't even have to carry!

Needless to say, she never understood my side of things.

I understood her plenty, though. And from then on, I gave up on trying to encourage my son to remember his lunch. I nagged. I inspected. And I often ended up turning the car around, to bring the lunch he'd left in the car. But I didn't get yelled at by his teacher again, that year. I knew it wasn't in my son's best interest, but I also knew that his teacher's decision that I was a poor parent was more dangerous to him, that year, than his own irresponsibility.

These report cards sound like a crap idea.

Mom First, Christine Second (Or, Give Me One Good Reason Not to Eat My Dog)

This morning I woke up before 7, broke out my 40th birthday present, a rug shampooer, and cleaned the dining room and hall rugs.

Then I spent the afternoon at a tae kwon do tournament in which Son #2 was competing. Sons #3 and 4 were supposed to be there, too, but they have strep throat (and, in #4's case, scarlet fever, as well).

On the way home, I stopped to pick up dinner. I bought subs and pizza. I ate a couple of french fries and about 3 bites of sub, and then set my sub on my bedside table, where Hubby and 3 of the Sons were watching TV, so I could take Son #1 to a Halloween party.

I was gone approximately 25 minutes.

When I returned home, my sub was gone. Tomato, bread, and french fry was ground into the bedroom rug. The dog had a very satisfied air about him.

And he had dragged fried peppers onto the freshly shampooed dining room rug, which now has red stains on it.

I am staying up 'til midnight, to provide Son #1 with a return ride home.

All this, on the night when I had ORIGINALLY planned to go with my friend Fiddlin' Writer to see That Band I Love.

Points to the first person who can correctly identify That Band.

Extra points to the first person to convince me my dog is not intentionally driving me insane.

I don't care what you say--I love our SuperWalMart

The WalMart has officially become a SuperWalMart. They have EVERYTHING. EVERY THING.
Today, I stopped in for a few things, and ran into Son #1's first grade teacher---who still rocks, even though Son #1 is 16 now.

As we entered the store, she turned to me and smiled.

"I HATE this store. But ain't it great?!"

I totally agree.

Ooh! Just who I'd hoped!

You're sweet, but not naive -- though you like to be babied like a child at times. You prefer to have a bad boy by your side, but sometimes have problems understanding why he has to run off to take care of business. You want to settle down, yet deep down inside, you are excited by the surprises life throws your way. Take the What Pulp Fiction Character Are You? quiz.

Great Moments in Parenting, #2

Son #1 is having an emotional freakout. These generally consist of yelling at me.

I am calmly, quietly, going about my business (cleaning the kitchen, collecting laundry and trash, wiping urine off the toilet) while calmly, quietly repeating:

"If you want to do well, study. If you need a break from studying, do something else for a while. But yelling at me will not help you. Do something productive with your time, instead of freaking out and yelling."

"I CAN'T DO THAT! I am ALREADY a loser, compared to Dad, OR EVEN YOU."

And here I stand, with a vinegar-soaked washcloth, wiping boys' piss off of the toilet I scrubbed 2 days ago, while being yelled at by a teenager.

He is right. I want the fuck out.

Son #4's Top 5 Worst Halloween Treats

#5-pennies (although, with enough of those, you can BUY a treat)
#4-granola bars
#3-toothpaste
#2-toothbrushes
#1-vegetables

He swears he got a piece of celery, once. Shame on that horrible, horrible neighbor.

WWOZ-great music, BUT

I found this great online radio station, WWOZ.

I listen to them when I can. Lots of great Louisiana music.

However, there is a substantial downside: it also broadcasts all sorts of local events. Like, for instance, the blues festival, the pepper festival, and everything else I wish I could jump in the car and go see.

Oh, well. Southern Maryland has its charms, too.

I'm not whining, I'm Informing the Public

Today was my official "you are 40, so get a mammogram" baseline mammogram day.

All in all, it was less painful than some people have made it out to be, although I am still sore. I have kept my "nipple markers" as a memento.

So, if you are 40 or so, go get a mammogram. Gotta check the girls, ok?

This is Riptide: A Rockumentary

Went to see Hubby's new band, last night, and had a good time.

Caught myself, this morning, all but insisting they Change Things to Make Them Better, Because I Know More Than The Guy Who Is Actually In the Band and Making Decisions.

Dear God, I am turning into Jeanine Pettibone.

But, hey, I always thought David St Hubbins was the hottest member of 'Tap.

"Your Boyfriend's Here."

Yup, Hubby just called from Boatman's, where he is setting up for his gig tonight. Rick, the Wheelchair Dancer, is already there--2 hours before the bands will start to play.

I am practicing my "No, I am busy" look.

But YOU, you need to come to Boatman's tonight and see Riptide, and see Rick, and have fun with me.

Absolutely, you do.

How nerdy are YOU?

Me, I think they pegged me just about right. I don't know enough to be a real nerd.

Riptide Rocks!

...because they have Hubby as their new bass player.

They'll be playing at Boatman's, this Saturday night, 9pm-1am. And I will most assuredly be there.

So, come out, OK? I need some dancin' buddies.

Son #4 has declared it so

The People of Rhode Island are losers.

Their state is so small, it does not even rate its own page in the atlas.

"And, dudes, it's not even an island!"

Rhode Islanders, you have officially been schooled.

Happy Effin' Birthday

Yesterday was my 40th birthday. It was OK.

One of my favorite people took me out for lunch, and ice cream, and cigarettes. And a present! Fiddlin' Writer knows what I need, on those Big Milestone Birthdays.

My favorite person took me out for dinner. He also cleaned the den, and our bedroom, and gave me earrings. Can you guess who this is? Or that there are about a million more reasons why he is one of the most spectacular people, ever?

The Sons each gave me a hug. Which was perfect.

And then, just as I was thinking I had gotten away with 40 unscathed, a Son had one of his patented meltdowns, including yelling at me that nothing I had taught him or his brothers was worthwhile at all.

I went directly to bed. When birthdays go south, best to just duck out.

(he apologized, by the way, both for the content and the timing of his comments. So I guess it actually was a pretty damn good day)

I'm glad I got that over with! Now I can get back to daily stuff.

Dance, yes. Ride, not so much

This Friday, Hubby and I went to see The Idle Americans.

They are awesome. They are the half-band-brothers of ACME Blues Company, and my readers already KNOW how much I love ACME.

So, anyway, the music was great, because it had to be, because these guys are talented and charming as all hell.

WHY AREN'T YOU COMING TO THESE SHOWS WITH US? HAVE YOU NO MUSICAL TASTE? DON'T YOU EVEN WANT TO HAVE A LITTLE FUN? TIME'S A WASTIN'!

(readers outside the Southern Maryland area can just, um, excuse that last one, ok? I know it's not YOUR fault)

One downside, though.

Friday night, the only person who asked me to dance was an actual, bona fide, Jerry's Kid.

I have confirmed, without room for doubt, that although I love to dance, and will dance with just about anyone, I am really pretty selective regarding on whose laps I will gladly sit. I think Hubby has full and exclusive lap privileges, from now on, no matter how insistent the guy is that "I'm not asking for a Lap Dance, it's just that this is how I dance!"

Well, if some amazing fantasy man invites me on his lap, I'll reconsider. But no more charitable lap sitting, for me!

On the plus side, Hubby and I have now devised a code for "this guy is giving me the creeps, help me out!"

Because "You need to get me out of here" was, apparently, too subtle for Hubby, when I said it, Friday night.

I guess the problem is, my "smiling politely while trying not to slide off a moving wheelchair without clinging to the stranger beneath me" face is not all that different from my "having fun" face.

I'll have to work on that.

Fair Impression of Neil Diamond: with video!

Hubby has created his own blog, and wouldn't you know his first entry is about the Neil Diamond impersonator we saw at the fair, a few weeks back. Ya gotta check out the video.

I'm breaking ALL the rules, baby!

Study came out saying that teens' first reaction to cigarettes was crucial. If they felt relaxed by it, they were much more likely to end up addicted.

For the record, let me just say that:

First cigarette, at 15, was awesome.

Second and third, at 18, were fabulous.

Fourth, at about 38, terrific.

Every time I NEED a cigarette, I feel fabulous afterwards. The couple of times I smoked because someone handed me a cigarette (not because I found myself clawing for a pack of Marlboros) it didn't feel good OR bad.

So, what does that make me? Am I an addict with an extremely long time between addictive behaviors? Or am I just....I dunno?

Come on, sciency folks. 'Splain.

Keeping the Sons on their toes

Last night, we were watching (insert predictable crime show, here) and the plot was, one parent died, and the kids were stuck with the other parent.

Hubby and I commented that the sons sure would be bored, with me, because Hubby is a notorious risk-taker, with many a near-death experience behind him, while I am, well, a mom with a literature degree who keeps her risks safely in her head or on paper. As the Sons were trying, lamely, to convince me that nooooo, I am not boring, they wouldn't mind living with me, they love me, la la la, Hubby piped up with:

"Yeah, but WHICH one of us nearly got her ass handed to her, in bar fights, TWICE this year?"

The boys all looked at me in awe. I am their biker bar brawl mama. Wooooo!

Ever feel like you could just kiss a total stranger?

Last night, I met Hubby at a local bar. But before I could get to his table, a man stopped me. Tall guy, muscular. Nice face.

I had something he wanted to see, up close. He wouldn't let me go, until I showed him.

He made it clear, he wasn't going to take "no" for an answer. He was totally focused on me, and his eyes were locked on my face like I was the only woman in the room.

Hubby could wait. This guy mattered. Because, for that moment at least, I mattered to him. And he was curious about me, in a way few men are, these days. Honestly, even though my husband was just across the room, I never even considered holding back. I gave him exactly what he wanted. And we both were satisfied.

Yeah, God bless the bouncer who cards a woman the week before she turns 40.

Entitled Teens: Ever So Much Fun

Two of the Sons are old enough to have a social life, but not yet driving. Which means that either I am driving, or I am supervising teen gatherings. Neither of which bug me. I am happy to be involved, happy to have their friends come over, happy to meet these kids, happy to drive them where they want to go--and sometimes I even want to go to those places, myself. All is well, right?

Except.

They also feel old enough to Not Have to Explain Things to Mom. So we have a lot of conversations like this:

"Are we free on Saturday?"

"Why? What time? What kind of free?"

"I want to do something. Are we free?"

"I don't know. What are you asking, specifically?"

(because, as you moms know, I need to know

-if I need to be there, or just provide transport
-if the Son's potential plans conflict with something already on the calendar
-if the entire family needs to be free, or if he wants to go somewhere just by himself

etc, etc.)

That gets me plenty of eyerolling, but precious little detail.

This week, Son #2 wants to go to a concert. It actually sounds like one most of us would enjoy. But Hubby is performing, as well, that evening. I asked Son #2 when his concert started, and when it would be ending. It took 4 days to get a straight answer. Because he thought, "I'll just call you when I'm ready to come home" was going to be enough.

As it turns out, his concert ends an hour before Hubby goes on stage. That gives me just enough time to pick up the Son, drop him at home, and dash off to dance with Hubby's mic stand.

Somehow, Son #2 doesn't understand that I WANT to be available to him, as much as possible, and I WILL fudge my schedule, most of the time, but my days of sitting by the phone, waiting for a 14-year-old boy to call, have been over for, oh, let's say 26 years.

What do you MEAN you didn't go to the store?

"Mom, did you get OJ?"

no.

"Did you get Ovaltine?"

no.

"Do you need help getting stuff out of the car?"

no.

"Well, what DID you get at the grocery store?"

nothing.

"Why didn't you get anything?"

because I didn't go to the store. I went to the gym. God forbid I should leave the house for anything other than bringing in more provisions for the Sons.

Brave monks of Burma

Yes, I said Burma. Because years ago, I had a Burmese friend, who noted the change of name to Myanmar with a roll of the eyes and "What are they calling my country, now? Oh, yeah, right," attitude.

If you haven't noticed, the Burmese monks are protesting. And civilians, too. The photographs are stirring. They are risking their lives, for democracy.

May they succeed.

Sure, I'll clean the house

I read some common-sense parenting advice in the paper this weekend. Long story short, don't nag. Do.

In other words, if you ask your kids to clean their room, and they don't do it, don't pester them. It is ineffectual and annoys the hell out of you. Instead, clean their room. Thoroughly. Stuff that they think belongs on the floor, but you think belongs in the trash, goes in the trash. You end up with a clean house, without nagging, and they end up (maybe) realizing that if they cleaned their room, you wouldn't steal their stuff.

So today I spent a little time in one of the Sons' bedrooms. The thrift store will be richer today, and quite a lot of scrap paper will be recycled.

I still can't find the source of the stench in there, though. Guess this is a long-term project.

A Fair Impression of Neil Diamond

It's County Fair weekend. Hubby, the Sons and I always go to the fair. And usually, the Sons and I feel rushed to get out of there, because Hubby can't stand more than 2 hours of fair. This year, for the first time, I think everyone came home happy.

Fiddlin' Writer and I took The Sons (hers + mine = 6 boys between 15 and 11) on School Day. FW and I parked ourselves at the food court for eight hours of Deep Conversation and Fried Food, and let the Sons run wild. Friday Highlights:

-aforementioned Deep Conversation and Fried Food
-Most of the Sons hugged a county health department employee dressed in a weasel costume, earning them goodie bags
-I got to speak all of maybe 2 minutes' worth of Thai, with the guys who sell grilled chicken
-"Bible Fights" with the New Testaments handed out by the Gideons (God bless 'em)
-The Sons seem to be getting over their collective terror at rides worth riding. So maybe there is hope we will actually be able to enjoy a theme park, sometime before they all move out

Saturday, I pretty much slept all day.

Today, we went to brunch at Bear Creek Barbeque. It is AWESOME. And then we headed back to the fair.

In the spirit of "the Sons were big enough on Friday, so why not?" Hubby and I bought them all ride-all-day wristbands, gave them each snack money, and roamed the fair in peace. And that is where we found Neil.

He strolled the aisle and sang September Morn while smiling down at me. I tried, really tried, not to laugh. But I could not help myself. Often, Hubby drowned out The Neil, with his own passionate contributions to the show. I think we were the youngest people in the building, aside from Neil himself, and we had the best time, even though Hubby kept begging me to keep a straight face.

By the time Neil was done singing, Hubby had had enough of the Fair. So I dropped him home. He dared me to go back, and flirt with Neil, "So long as you don't go home with a Neil Diamond impersonator. Get him to sign your boob. Have somebody take your picture with him."

I tried. But when he started "Love on the Rocks", I had to leave the room before I hurled. I can't listen to that twice in one day.

That second voice you hear? Hubby.

It's almost the worst thing I could say, to Hubby

Hubby mentioned, in the car last night, that some dj actually asked who was better: Hendrix, or Clapton?

"Can you believe it? There's no question!"

Except, of course, he did not realize that he was sitting next to someone who is on the other side of the fence, and has been quietly keeping her opinion to herself for more than 2 decades.

Dear God, how do a Clapton fan and a Hendrix fan end up married? To each other? The tragedy of it all...

Oh, and can any of you guess which one of us is which?

Stealing a Meme from Carol, the Menopausal Housewife

1. Where were you 1 hour ago? in bed

2. Who will your next kiss be with? Son #3, most likely

3. Do you kiss a lot of people? Hubby & the Sons

4. Are you wearing socks right now? no

5. When was the last time you went out of state? Last night

6. Have you been to the movies in the last 5 days? No

7. What was the last thing you had to drink? Iced green tea, topped off with Diet Peach White Tea

8. What are you wearing right now? Frumptastic "Indian Rocks Beach, Florida" nightshirt

9. What was your last purchase? $55 in junk food, at the Verizon Center

10. Last food you ate? Popcorn

11. Who was the last person you talked to on the phone? My mother in law

12. Have you bought any clothing items in the last week? New sneakers

13. Do you have a pet? Good God, yes

14. What’s the last sporting event you watched? I caught a few minutes of the Skins game

15. Are you a pirate? No. More of a saucy wench

16. If you could be anywhere right now, where would you be? I plead the 5th

17. What is the last thing you purchased online? bra & thong (ooh, baby)

18. One thing you hate about yourself? not enough discipline

19. What’s your favorite soup? avgolemono, from the Silver Palate Cookbook

20. Do you miss anyone? Yes. Granma Bolz, mostly

21. Last play you saw? Sarah, Plain & Tall, I think.

22. What are your plans for the day? Write, answer email, clean house, hit the gym, and then spend the rest of the day at the county fair

24. Ever go to camp? I camped with the girl scouts, but not a "leave your parents and make out with boys from the camp on the other side of the lake" kind of camp, no

25. Were you an honor roll student in school? On rare occasion

26. What do you know about the future? It's coming, ready or not

27. Are you wearing any perfume or cologne? no

28. How is one to classify? First, you must observe. Then, decide what characteristics are most important...

29. Do you have a tan? No. Tans are for people without stuff to do.

30. How old do you want to be when you have kids? I was not quite 24...

31. Last person who made you cry? Me

I got this meme from Carol, who is making me a replacement charm bracelet for the one that got lost in the mail. Feel free to adopt the meme as your own. They are pointless and stupid, but I enjoy them.

Things I said because I'm a Mom, #103

LARP Boffers.

as in,

"Put away your LARP boffers."

Hubby, of course, refuses to say it. "LARP Boffer" is one of those things that the boys have started saying, that Hubby is ignoring to the best of his ability. Like when Son #2 says "Indeed", or "Verily".

I, however, come from geekier stock. I can take it.

Then why do some guys smell so much better than others?

New study says "it's not his sweat, it's your nose". OK, I am game.

But, if it's all in how I PERCEIVE smell, how come men don't all smell the same? There should be a generic Guy Smell, I would think, for me. All men would smell like that.

In reality, though, as on the pages of this blog, some of them smell goooooooood. (Hubby, I am talking to you). And others, well, Ick.

And I am carting the same nose around, everywhere I go. I think this is one of those studies that doesn't mean anything.

The Dog

Yesterday, our dog puked on the bed. He also puked on the living room rug. And so, my day is planned for me. I shall be laundering comforters and scrubbing rugs.

Oh, the joys of dog ownership are boundless.

Plus, I hurt my finger...opening a box of band-aids.

It's gonna be a long week.

I stopped by the high school, yesterday

...to drop off a school fee check that had been mouldering in the basement for the past 3 weeks. God help these children, when they have to pay a mortgage and the electric bill Every Month, and On Time, Too.

Every staff member I saw encouraged me to wait right where I was, rather than brave the halls during change of class. But I had an interview to get to, and besides, I am not afraid of a hallway full of teenagers.

I ran into Son #2, in the hall, but he had that shell-shocked freshman look and didn't notice me. Maybe 10 steps later, I saw Son #1, and he saw me.

"HEY, MOM!"

He turned around to walk with me. He threw his arm around my shoulder. He shouted to his friends.

"Check me out! I'm with my girlfriend! She's an Older Woman! See, I'm with my girl!"

He walked me all the way across the building, to the front entrance, laughing and joking with me the whole time. It reminded me very much of the way my Uncle the Body Model used to joke and flirt with my grandmother. Very sweet. And perhaps, as Hubby says, evidence of the Italian Gene.

At the door, he whipped his arm off of my shoulder, waved his hands around, and made a face.

"QUIT IT, MOM! You're EMBARRASSING me!"

I swear, the boy is charm.

Six years, today

Yesterday, Son #1 got into a political argument with a girl down the street, while walking home from the bus stop. She is convinced that:

Bush masterminded the 9/11 attacks
Bush did this "because he is an idiot"

Son #1 questioned how someone could be a mastermind and an idiot at the same time. So she moved on to her next point:

We should not fight terrorists, we should TALK to them. We should COMPROMISE.

Son #1 called her attention to the concept that people who have stated publicly that they want you to follow their religion exactly or they want you dead, are not the kinds of people you can talk into a compromise.

"But being Muslim wouldn't be that bad!"

He looked at her in her cute little outfit, blonde hair exposed to the sun, and said, "It might not be that bad for me, but if you wanted to leave the house without your brother, then being Muslim probably wouldn't be so great for you."

He came home shaking his head. He is not going to change any minds, at the bus stop, and he knows it.

And today I woke up and thought, "six years ago, today." Six years ago, this morning, some of us got a major wake-up call. Maybe not the girl down the street, but some of us. So I put our flag up, out front. I can see it from my desk. And I am so proud of my country, and of the military and governmental efforts that have, so far, prevented another 9/11 here. I am kind of a misty-eyed patriot, on my best days, so there you have it.

Son #4 was with me, when I put the flag out.

"Sooooo, does this make it a holiday?"

That's Son #4, always looking for a reason why we don't need to do school.

"No, sugar, it's not a holiday. Just a day worth remembering."

Sometimes, being cheap & lazy pays off

And in the case of microchipping, well, let's say that Otis, Ellie and Jake would thank me, if they could, for not bothering to have them microchipped. Because, holy bejebus, those things cause CANCER.

Ah, the joys of dancing with drunks

"YER BEAUTIFUL! Ya know, I'm 28, and I've been single since I was 23. YER BEAUTIFUL."

Naturally, I thanked him, the first few times. And when he noticed the ring on my finger, and asked about it, I whipped out my photo of Hubby & the Sons...to make things absolutely clear. But inside, my initial urge was to say,

"Shut up and dance, OK? You're drunk as a skunk, and I have been married since you were 9 years old."

I really need to collect more "fun, intelligent, soberish men who like to dance and know I'm crazy about my husband" for these nights out. Because dancing with the crowd is less fun than it oughta be, for a person who loves to dance.

A little-known reason not to have a dog

Growing up, I had few pets. Fish, mostly, because my dad liked them. A hamster, until he caught pneumonia and died. I always wanted a cat, but that was Not an Option, until I moved out and married a fellow cat person. We have had cats almost our entire married lives.

About eight years ago, in a moment of blind insanity, we got a dog. Otis is the bane of my existence. (the short version: he craps everywhere, and there is nothing I can do about it.) But my children LOVE him. We take good care of him. He'll be the happiest carpet-befouling canine on the planet, until such time as Dog calls him home.

But let me tell you something I didn't know about dogs, until this year: dogs can have nightmares.

Sure, sure, we've all watched dogs twitching in their sleep, like they're chasing squirrels or something. It's adorable. But my dog doesn't do that. Most of the time, he just lays there and snores. Barely moves a muscle.

Once in a while, though (like at 2am today) he screams, in his sleep.

It is not a doggy sound. It is almost human.

It is more like a crazed, machete-wielding maniac has leaped into my bedroom, intent upon killing our entire family and stealing our souls. It gets the adrenaline PUMPIN', in old Christine.

After a couple rounds of "OTIS! IT'S OK! WAKE UP! OTIS! OTIS! WAKE UP!" he goes back to sleep, and snoring. He's happy as can be.

I, however, am up for the foreseeable future.

My whole face hurts

Hubby got a motorcycle, yesterday. We went for a ride, last night, for about an hour. My whole face still hurts, from smiling so hard.

Even unsolicited gifts come with strings attached

As some of you know, a couple of years ago my car fell apart. Windows broke off, the battery constantly needed to be recharged, things got quirkier and quirkier by the day. We needed a new car, but it was not our highest priority--we figured we'd save up for it, and get one when we could. Then my mother in law offered to help us buy a car. We did not ask her to, we did not beg for a loan, she just got tired of seeing me drive around with saran wrap instead of a window, I guess. And she can make these bold, expensive gestures.

She offered us a chunk of money towards a car. She also all but insisted we buy a certain model, but the one she liked wasn't big enough for our tall sons, and it was also a lot more expensive than the one we ended up getting--so, yes, we would have had to pay a lot of our own money we didn't have for a car not as good as the cheap one. In fact, the car the Sons now call "The Powerful Mom 5" actually cost less than my mother in law had originally offered to give us "toward" the car. So we ended up needing less money than she'd offered, which kinda pleased us.

She stroked the check. We were grateful. I LOVE my car. And we have made it clear that we are thankful. It has been amazing, feeling like she just DID this for us, out of kindness, and never asked for anything in return.

Then yesterday we went out to lunch with her, in my car. And she asked the Sons all to be quiet and listen to her, because she had something to say.

"You know I bought this car for YOU. This is YOUR car. You're just letting Mom drive it, until you're old enough. And that's really nice of you, to let Mom drive your car. So, you should wash and vacuum it every day, because in a little while it won't be Mom's car anymore, and you want it to be in good condition when you get it from her."

I'm just gonna love that, the day the Sons decide I need to start hoofin' it everywhere. Thanks, Mom-in-Law, for the undermining. I really needed that shit, yesterday.

Christine's doing something....right?

Last night, after jumping up to sing backup on Mustang Sally, a woman with whom I'd shared a microphone pulled me aside.

"Do you have a sister named Tonya? You look EXACTLY like my friend Tonya."

She then pulled me around to her group of friends.

"Doesn't she look JUST like Tonya? If she had blond hair, they'd be twins."

Everyone in her group agreed. I am a dead ringer for Tonya. So, naturally, I asked:

"So, who is this Tonya? Is she nice?"

"Tonya's a hooker!"

Please Mind the Hunch

Sons:

Your mother has worked as a freelance writer since 2001. That means you have had more than 6 years to observe her and her work habits. And more than 6 years' worth of repeated requests to Leave Mom Alone When She's Working.

A tutorial:

If Mom RUNS down the hall, half dressed, clearly crazed, and throws herself down in front of the computer

If she hunches over the keyboard, wild-eyed, typing as fast as she can

If she is clearly ignoring you

Really trying hard to ignore you

Looks like she is mumbling to herself

and starts making odd head movements, like she hears music in her head

DON'T TALK TO HER. MOM IS WORKING. YOU CAN HANDLE IT. IT CAN WAIT.

I swear, my children refuse to acknowledge that I have anything better to do than answer their every question, the second they think to ask it.

I love them, honestly I do. But I wish, sometimes, I had an office with a door.

Holy crap, Crystal, you ARE my role model

You've got to read this. Talk about pulling out your maternal A-game. Scroll down to the entry entitled "role model". And be ready to crack up.

You can guarantee her son won't pull the "I know it's 6pm on a Sunday the first week after school started and my grandparents are here but I need a graphing calculator by tomorrow morning" thing I got last week.

my teen is too mature for MySpace

I got one of those "friend requests" on MySpace today---and the name looked familiar, so I was looking at the friends lists of some of my friends (repeat yourself much?) to figure out where this guy heard of me.

Son #1 looked over my shoulder and said, "YOU are on MySpace? Isn't that kind of CHILDISH? I think you're a little OLD to be hanging out with the kids on MySpace, Mom."

"Yeah, well, LOOK at my friends. They're not teenagers. All my MySpace Friends are old people, too."

"Yeah, Mom, and that's kinda creepy. They're all weird."

I've been schooled by my own offspring.

Hubby: An icon of sympathy

In the middle of my sniffly morning, I look over at Hubby and all I can think to say is, "I'm turning 40, sweetie."

He's 43. He's been there. And when he turned 40, I did what I could to let him know that 40 was no big deal, that he was as hot as ever, that he had a lot of adventure ahead of him, that he was just hitting his stride, really, with enough experience and wisdom to pull it all off.

I figured I'd get some of that back. Here's a quote:

"Not 'til October, Christine. Don't come cryin' to me! Forty? I KNOW."

I think I need to sit down

I am having a wave of "I'm turning 40 in October" this afternoon. For the record, I am not handling 40 well, at all, thus far.

It's all a matter of perspective

Last night was Open Mic Night. I LOVE Open Mic Night, because I dance like a fool all night. But last night was especially fun:

Son #1 saw me in my jeans, denim jacket, understated makeup and platform wedges and said I looked "A little prostitutey, but not in a bad way, Mom!"

This made me a little nervous, so I asked several Adult Peoples for their opinion. The consensus was that I didn't look prostitutey at all, but rather
A) fine (yes, ladies, that was my husband who tossed out that heartwarming compliment. And no, he did not say I looked "fiiiine". It was just "sure, yeah, you look fine." Hubby is a guy.)
B) a little hot
C) like a biker chick
D) "Good. I mean, you look REAL good."

I especially liked that last one, as you can imagine. Men who can sling a compliment like that are AWESOME.

Also fun, and a personal first: As I walked into the bar, the singer who leads Open Mic Night saw me and yelled, "Hi, CHRISTINE!" I felt like a total band fixture. Which is a major goal for me, these days.

I also discovered, over the course of the evening, that I actually still AM capable of dancing in platform wedges. This is a skill I have not used since 1986, when I met Hubby, who is an awesome musician but not one to dance. So, yes, 21 years later, and after just a little nervous shuffling on the dance floor, I was able to work it like I meant it. 'Cause I most certainly do.

First day of school

Sons #1 and 2 got on the high school bus, this morning, and all is well. Meaning:

-they were bored, but not morbidly so
-there is an "adorable, tiny, genius girl" in Honors English
-Son #1's former health teacher was fired over the summer, for child molestation (but Son #1 didn't see it coming)

Today was also the first day of school for Sons #3 and 4. Homeschooling 2 is easier than 3. Homeschooling 2 is infinitely easier than 4. My house is quiet and I have hardly anything to grade, this evening.

And lastly, today was the day my new, Oasis washer and dryer arrived. They are fast. They are efficient (or so they say). They are nearly silent. I am quickly catching up on heaps of laundry, because they are massive. Plus, they are a stylin' blue. Can't beat that.

I am burning cinnamon candles, which smell great to me and the Sons, and smell like "something's burning!" to Hubby.

And now, I shall fill out the reams of demographic forms required by the state, and fold my fluffy, warm, dry clothes. That's an evening's entertainment, right there!

Things I said because I'm a Mom, #102

"Come ON, boys! You know the difference between clean and dirty, so get it DONE. I don't have any STUPID children. This is not rocket science. Just clean the den so that it looks clean!"

I don't sound particularly like my own mother, but I think I was channeling some mom, somewhere, just then...

For Kim

Encore Antiques, Mechanicsville, Maryland

Give me a man who looks like a man...

But, um, I think having chest hair implants is against the whole spirit of retrosexual manliness.

Oh, yeah, I'm on Facebook, too

Beth told me to get a Facebook page, so I did.

If Beth told me to jump off a bridge, would I do that, too? Probably not, but, you know, Beth is cool.

It may not be on the Metro line, but...

we do get to see stuff like this, out in the Happy Boondocks.

See, this is why I can't get anything done

Tomorrow is Hubby's mom's birthday. I, of course, already arranged for her to receive a fantastic edible arrangement, tomorrow.

Hubby's family, however, is more of the spontaneous sort. They decided, yesterday, that we will all get together tonight for dinner. Great idea.

But it also means I need to bring a gift.

For my mother in law.

Who has everything.

Hubby suggested I print out a photo of the family, and frame it. Easy, right? I found the perfect shot of Hubby, the Sons, and Hubby's Aunt Gloria, taken while we were on vacation last month. I went to Target, with my memory stick.

Target has 2 photo printing machines. One was broken. The other one was dominated by a woman who didn't know how to use it. When she finally gave up, I realized that the non-broken machine was not compatible with my memory stick. Target is also where I saw this lovely sign. So enthusiastic, they are, about being slightly less helpful!

Wal-Mart is becoming a Super Wal-Mart. So their photo thing is down for the next week.

K-Mart doesn't have one anymore.

Best Buy and Staples don't use photo paper--just regular printer paper.

The CVS near us no longer accepts my memory stick.

But the CVS downtown, the SEVENTH STORE I VISITED, was able to process my photo.

Aw, my son can't tell I'm past my sell date

On the way home from the orthodontist's office, Son #2 opened The CD Mom Always Keeps in the Car and Usually Plays, Unless Dad is There Because He is Sick of It.

Because, the Sons are not yet tired of ACME Blues Company, and are almost as happy to listen to them as I am. They even sing ACME songs, for their own enjoyment. Or, in the case of Son #4, to charm Mom with a kiss on the hand and a couple of bars of "Sugar Mama".

Anyway, Son #2 noticed the autographs.

"How did you get them to sign this?"

So I told him, "We asked them. They play really small places. We talk to them, sometimes, between sets. That's how we first started to go see them: Dad knows their bass player."

He was suitably impressed. Also, completely clueless.

"Ya know, Mom, if you've got married women with children asking for your autograph, you must really know you've made it."

The Blogger Next Door

Uncle Sam (well, actually, those "Pueblo, Colorado" consumer people) is creating a government blog. Sure, I'd love to know what the government had for breakfast, or why the government is annoyed by its visiting relatives, or whatever adorable thing the government's kids said this morning.

Anyway, long story slightly less long, they're surveying all us opinionated American people to find out which name we prefer for the blog. I voted. Because I am nothing if not opinionated and American.

Go ahead and take the survey, yourself. Call it practice for election day.

I bet you can guess which one I picked. Because smart blog readers can Read a Blog Entry Title and Get a Clue.

My Editor is an Idiot

It's been a while since I last blogged about my editor. This one, though, you will love.

Yesterday I interviewed a doctor. It turns out I had interviewed her about a year ago, when she was in a group practice. But, you know, after I submit my articles I don't generally read them--just grab a copy for my clip file, mainly to remind myself to send an invoice if my paycheck doesn't arrive. So, I hadn't looked at the article from last year, although I planned to, post-interview, if I needed some background information.

I showed up for the interview, and got the cold shoulder. This is a doctor whose practice opened 2 days ago. She has no patients. There was no one there but the doctor, her receptionist, the doctor's 2 children (who immediately excused themselves to go to the library) and me. But for some reason the doctor made me wait 20 minutes, before she would meet with me. "How rude!" I thought. "What is up with this? Do doctors HAVE to make you wait?"

All shall become clear.

When I finally got her to speak with me, the interview went well. I got everything I need. And then I pulled out my camera.

"You took a lovely picture of us, last year," she said. "But I'd appreciate it if you didn't call me the 'not thin' doctor, this time."

It turns out my editor had printed, as the caption to the photo, the notes I'd sent her to help her identify the 3 people in the picture, all of whom were wearing those white lab coats.

There was a male doctor. OK. And 2 female doctors. One of whom was the lady I saw yesterday. The other was skeletally thin. Mary Kate and Ashley thin. It was actually one of the few instances in which I thought someone was so thin as to be unattractive. So, yes, I had told my editor that she was "the thin one, with darker hair".

And she printed it. For 49,500 families to see.

Hubby, of course, said, "Well, it's not like you said she was The Fat One. And you didn't even mean for that to be published." And he is right, on both counts.

But as a chunky chick myself, I completely understand how that poor woman could remember, a year later, the exact wording she'd read in the paper that morning. I was mortified. If making me wait 20 minutes was the best she could do, heck, that's OK by me.

But let me reiterate: my editor (also a woman, by the way) is an idiot. I'm gonna have to be a lot more careful about how I describe my photos.

Busted

"Ya know, Mom, I had no idea you were raised Catholic, until Mom-mom mentioned it, this weekend."

Thanks a lot, Son #2. That'll help me get along well with your grandmother, for years to come.

Incorrigible--a salty post, for those who can handle salt

"Ya mean I can't say 'piss'?"

"'Bitch', is that a curse word?"

"You're kidding, really? You don't want me to talk about shit? Why not? Man, I've got to really watch out. I guess I can't say 'fuck', either, huh? You know what they say, you can talk about fucking, you can fuck, but you can't say 'fuck'."

"You know, if I had breasts, I'd never get anything done, because I'd just be playing with them all day."

No, this is not everything that came out of Jesus Bill's mouth today. Just a sampling. Since, like dinner. Which was around 7. And he went out to be in his camper around 8:30. And I think I blanked out about half the time.

By the time we parted, he was muttering "Jesus, Bill!" after every other sentence.

Son #4 visits Loveville

Yesterday, I dropped the Sons at a friend's house for a sleepover. On the way, we passed through Loveville.

Loveville is just a town. Nothing special, except at Valentine's Day, when everyone drives there to have their mail sent from the Loveville post office.

But yesterday, Son #4 saw the "now entering Loveville" sign, and cracked up.

"Look, Mom, we're in Loveville. Rainbows are going to appear over the road, and all the people will look like this (jazz hands and full, twinkly smile) and bunnies will hop out to wash your car."

The magic of Son #4 is that not only does he crack me up with stuff like this, I also find myself looking for rainbows and dancing pedestrians and bunnies with little rags and bottles of Windex. His cheerful, silly vision is just contagious.

And, somehow, when the road is just a road and there are no dancers and no rabbits, I don't feel disappointed, either. More like, "Oh, well, I didn't see it, but it's gotta be out there, somewhere."

Son #4 makes up for most of the crap of life.

The Second Coming of "Jesus, Bill!"

Hubby's brother is in town. He's camping in our driveway. This is his second visit to the Happy Boondocks. Last time he was here, he earned the moniker "Jesus Bill".

Bill says whatever he wants. Bill pretty much DOES whatever he wants. So, for example, he'll sit in a minivan full of the Sons and discuss his opinions on abortion, the Iraq war, Jennifer Love Hewitt's breasts, and intestinal mucus. His opinions are predictable and outlandish, and he brooks no disagreement. He also will not refrain from airing those opinions, loudly and at length, no matter what.

Last time he was here, Hubby and I were constantly trying to get him to mellow out on the inappropriate language and subject matter, while around the Sons. We were totally ineffective.

Every time he'd start, I'd either send the Sons to another room for some trumped-up chore, or start babbling about whatever came to mind, just to redirect the conversation. I am not very good at conversation redirection, so I end up sounding like an idiot who can't stop talking about trivial crap. I must really be making an impression, with the inlaws.

Hubby, on the other hand, would whip his head around to his brother and say, "JESUS, BILL, the boys are right here!"

And so, a nickname is born. All hail "Jesus Bill".

The creepy totems of motherhood worship

I have 4 kids. Everybody knows this, not least my mushy abdominal section.

I stay home, and have curtailed my career, mostly because of those 4 kids. I am gearing up for my 6th year of homeschooling. My calendar is black with their social engagements and sports practices and school events and whatnot. I have Mommy Cred, ok?

But I really don't need the creepy totems of Motherhood Worship.

Like this necklace, which my mother gave me today because SHE ALREADY HAS ONE JUST LIKE IT. Can't we have kids, and raise them, and love them, without having to wear a dorky billboard around our necks, advertising the existence of our kids?

I'll wear this the day you see me in a Christmas sweater.

I can't stop tweaking my MySpace page

Yes, for stupid reasons known only to the chosen few, I have a MySpace page. I don't need one, it's silly, I already have a blog and a couple of web sites and email addresses out the wazoo, but there ya go. The pull of MySpace is stronger than gravity.

Lately, I admit, I am spending way too much time playing with my profile, on MySpace.

I should grow the heck up, already.

Do I have to spell it out for you?

Hubby and I are going away for the weekend, in celebration of 19 years of wedded bliss. We'll be leaving the Sons and dog at my parents' house, conveniently located halfway to our beachy hideaway. You know where this is going, right?

Son #1 is throwing a royal conniption. He is mature enough to stay home alone. He can take care of himself. There is only a little more than 2 years before he hits "the magical age of 18, when I can take care of myself, so what's the problem?"

So far, he thinks we are taking the unreasonable step of sending him to stay with his grandparents because:

we think he's retarded
we think he's a criminal
we think someone will break into the house and kill him
we don't realize that he stays home alone when we go out for the evening, and a weekend is the same as an evening

He has been muttering and kvetching and refusing to shower or pack for the past 2 hours.

First of all, he is ka-razy if he thinks I'm letting a 15-year-old stay home alone for 2.5 days. Just, no.

But secondly, can I just tell you how hard it is to keep from laughing, when his behavior this morning is PROVING beyond a shadow of a doubt that there is no way he is mature enough to be left alone for the weekend. The bickering is annoying as hell, but at least it reinforces for me that Hubby and I have made the right choice.

Ah, those teen years.

My accent...

What American accent do you have? Your Result: The Northeast Judging by how you talk you are probably from north Jersey, New York City, Connecticut or Rhode Island. Chances are, if you are from New York City (and not those other places) people would probably be able to tell if they actually heard you speak.
Philadelphia
The Inland North
The Midland
Boston
The South
The West
North Central
What American accent do you have? Quiz Created on GoToQuiz

Study says young adults don't have health insurance

Ya know why young people don't have health insurance?

Because most young adults don't need it. But then they get married, they start thinking about having kids, and they realize that their kids need health care. And they get established in adult jobs, which generally have some kind of insurance provision. And they start paying into those flexible healthcare spending accounts.

Young adults aren't "adopting an attitude that their youth protects them." In the vast majority of cases, their youth actually does protect them.

Honestly, until I was 24 (and married, and pregnant, and both of us employed) I could handle just about everything that came my way with aspirin and a can of chicken soup. And if I hadn't been pregnant, I wouldn't have noticed our medical coverage, even then.

In fact, I don't really remember needing to see a doctor for my OWN health for anything other than an annual girly exam until I was about 29.

And Hubby, well, aside from the occasional stitch, that freakish bout of the mumps, and the time he scalded his throat so bad he couldn't swallow, he didn't need a doctor until he broke his leg (spectacularly, I might add) at 42.

Granted, I am one of those annoyingly clean-living people. If I were a heavy drinker or a smoker or a drug user or liked risky sports, I guess I would have been in the doc's office more.

But, hey, that's why if you don't have health insurance, you better do whatever you can to protect your health...and find a job with benefits. The universe rewards those willing to plan a bit.

MySpace revelations

I got a MySpace page, not too long ago. Today, I got one of those emails from MySpace, telling me to look at my comments...which I did. And as I was admiring my page, with all those little photos of my Friends on it, I realized something.

My MySpace Friends are:
2 musicians
2 bands
a DJ
a dancer

I think I am one of those talentless music junkies who hang out with the cool kids and make them cookies. I had no idea.

How do you do it?

As a homeschooling mother of 4 Very Talkative Sons (one of whom, I swear, is a gold medalist in the Talking Olympics, somewhere), and a freelance writer with aspirations of writing More than Just the Stuff on My Deadlines Calendar, I am often asked HOW I get anything done at all. This usually comes from people with one kid, or no kids, who I guess picture me Mary Poppins-ing all day and whipping literary genius out of thin air. When really I am just kind of an average Mom, on a good day, and a hack, most of the time.

Today, I spent a chunk of time doing 12 loads of laundry at the laundromat, and then I went to the gym so I don't completely fall apart, and then I went home to tidy up the mess that appears when I'm gone for 5 solid hours. And then I wrote Hubby an email, because tomorrow is our anniversary and I want him to know that I noticed.

It is now 8pm. I am kinda beat (after all, I was up 'til 2 last night, and got about 4 hours of sleep). I am up against an important deadline, and there is a TV on down the hall, and Talking Boy is at it in the basement, and my corner-of-the-living-room office is not cutting it, Cones of Silence-wise.

I spent a few minutes imagining what life would be like if I had a real office, with walls and a door, and ten-inch thick walls. I decided, on second thought, that if I really did have a soundproof room, I would probably never come out. And that would be bad.

So I did the next best thing. I am wearing earplugs.

They are surprisingly effective. I can barely hear anything.

They are also unbelievably uncomfortable. Perhaps that will help me write faster, in anticipation of removing the giant, pink, expand-o-pains in my head holes.

Woooo!

Got back from the ACME show a bit ago.

A quick recap:
2 members of the band hugged me (they always do, sweet guys that they are)
A band girlfriend seemed genuinely happy to see me
A bar regular danced with me half the night, and introduced me to all her friends
2 men told me I was pretty
2 men asked me to dance
2 men told me I was a good dancer
I took some pictures that are almost certain to be grainy as crap, but I don't care
and I got home less than 20 minutes after the band stopped playing, to a house full of boys lifting weights

In other words, I had a total blast, even though none of my loser friends came out to the show and my poor, non-loser husband was too exhausted to make it, either. Work, and responsibilities, and important stuff like that puts a cramp in your party schedule, sometimes.

ACMEeeeeeee is coming! But that takes some explaining, apparently

Hubby and I have been telling EVERYONE to come out with us to the Country Store in Leonardtown tonight to hear our favorite blues band, 2006 WAMMIE-nominees ACME Blues Company.

At work, at the salon, at the drive-through coffee place, everywhere we go, we put in a plug. Because they are awesome, and we want to pack the house.

Yesterday, I ran into someone at the gym, so naturally I told her to come.

"Blues? What is that? Is that like bluegrass? Country?"

OK, I think I see, maybe, a little bit of the problem. We live in the middle of nowhere. No one knows anything.

I shall be the Ambassador of Cool for the Happy Boondocks.

Clutter

I try, a little every day, to eliminate the clutter that has taken over my house.

So far, that has led me to get rid of almost every piece clothing I do not absolutely LOVE, and 90% of the books I'd kept around since college. I have very few knick-knacks, except for photos, shells I've picked up on the beach, and the occasional Thai thing we brought back when we returned Stateside.

I do not buy videos. I do not buy CDs. I only buy children's books that we need for school, and most of those I re-sell at the end of the year.

Same with clothes for the Sons--when they outgrow it, stain it, rip it beyond repair, it is out the door.

I generally can resist the latest kitchen gadget, or any other space-consuming thing.

When my birthday comes around, I tell people not to get me anything, and I MEAN IT. Because I don't want stuff taking up space in my house. I want to see the bare floors, clean surfaces, and, most importantly, I want to be able to spend my time doing stuff, instead of maintaining things.

So, why is my house completely crammed with crap? I can't stand it. Can't. Stand. It.

Oh, sure, I can pull THAT one out of my hat...

"Mom, I'm going for a walk. After I get back, can you teach me two things?"

"I don't know---what two things?"

"Algebra, and how to use a fountain pen."

That Son #2. He is a hoot.

The joys of almost 40

My heels are like tree bark, I swear. And I used to have cute feet! I'm just racking up those satisfying moments. And 40 is just...a couple of months away. The excitement that awaits! I can't stand it!

Cosmic Mama at Park Rock

Hubby's new band has a name, at last: Cosmic Mama.

And they will be playing Park Rock Fest, in September.

And I will be tie-dying and silk-screening t-shirts, to sell at Park Rock Fest.

And you will all come.

That is all.

Come out and see ACME this Saturday, with me!

Hubby and I will be at the Country Store in Leonardtown this Saturday night, to see ACME Blues Company. Ya gotta go. It'll be great. TRUST me. Have I ever steered you wrong?

And, in more exciting band news, Hubby's band seems to be solidifying. He's at practice as we speak.

They even have a tentative gig scheduled for October.

No name yet, but I'll let you know when they pick one. Woo! Hubby's gonna be back on stage! I can't wait!

Fun Molly Hatchet show, last night

I'm travelin' down that lonesome road.
Feel like I'm dragging a heavy load.
Yeah! I've tried to turn my head away,
Feels about the same most every day.

I've been tagged! (yes, I begged for it)

So, thanks to ALF, here are 8 of my habits:

I check my email obsessively, and am so hooked on AIM that I carry my laptop all over the house so I can talk with my friends while I clean.

I like being weighed down, while I sleep. So, I often pile pillows on top of myself, in bed. It's cozy.

I swear more than I should. I swear less than I do in my head, though, so cut me some slack.

I have to clean the kitchen before I cook. Dinner takes a while, around here.

When I'm upset, I listen to really loud music, while cleaning. If you smell furniture polish, assume the worst.

Every year or so, when we drive to Florida, I have to stop at South of the Border to buy Blenheim's Diet Ginger Ale. I let myself have a bottle maybe twice a week, until they run out.

If you talk through the movie, I will hate you.

I can't shop with other people, because I tend to buy what THEY like, and hate it when I get it home.

Oh, and Andrea, Kerry, Kim, Nancy, Carol: TAG, you're IT!

I've gotta call Dad

This morning, my mother called to inform me that I needed to Save the Date in October, because she has reserved a table for us at a "vintage wedding gown fashion show and tea" at her church. My sister will be modeling my great-aunt's wedding gown.

"DOESN'T THAT SOUND FUN?"

"Well, not really, no."

"Women LOVE going to teas. It'll be lovely."

Oh, holy mother of God.

Those of you who knew me (way back in the way back of 1988) will remember that for my own wedding, I was leaning towards running off to the justice of the peace, and having my best buddies meet us for nachos, afterwards (Yes, Andrea, that means you!) To keep the peace, I pretty much agreed to anything and everything my mother wanted, for my wedding. I was just glad to live through it.

And those of you who know me now, know that I'd sooner have dental surgery without anesthesia than sit for tea. Chug iced tea while screaming and jumping up and down in front of my favorite bands, yes. Eat cucumber sandwiches with my mother's church friends while Mom pretends my sister is getting married? No.

I will either have to enlist Dad in the "explaining to Mom that Christine would rather strap weasels to her face than go" effort, or I will have to fake catastrophic, contagious illness on the day of the event.

OK, readers, I have less than 3 months. Can you give me some tips on how to feign something really gruesome and communicable? Gimme your best shot.

'Cause Mom, Dad, and Denise share a phone.

A Jolly Rancher is Not a Sprinkle, Sir!

We just got back from the Happy Boondocks Horrible Theater. The Simpsons Movie is hysterical. We all loved it. People were clapping, in the theater. And then we just had to walk down to the 7-11 to get Simpsons tie-in junk food.

If you have any inclination at all to see this movie, GO, I tell you. Yes, there were a few shocking moments (gotta earn that PG-13) but it was the best movie I've seen in ages.

The worst part of Hubby's Band Cycle

I love it when Hubby is in a band. He's having a blast, I go to all his shows, I get to take pictures and dance and have a good time, and between sets we hang out. It's great.

When Hubby's not in a band, that's OK, too. He's bored, so we go out to listen to other bands, or so he can join open mic nights. Again, I get to take pictures, dance, have a good time, and hang out.

Today, however, we are in that in-between stage: he is practicing with a new band, but they are not yet ready to play out. So he's busy, he's tired, he's heard enough music lately, he doesn't want to go out. Tonight is the regular blues open mic we've been attending all summer--him to play, me to watch & listen. Tonight is also practice night, for the new band he's joining. So, he's not really expecting to want to go out.

But me? I want some live music! Darn.

We'll see what happens....

Terrorist attack attempt? Could be.

Hubby works on a Navy base. This is the email he received today. Great googly moogly.

Yesterday we got briefed by NCIS on an incident that occurred out in
town that directly affected the security of our base.

Around 1700 Monday, 23 July, a truck driver of Middle Eastern decent
approached a Hispanic man in the San Souci parking lot area offering
him
$200 to drive his trailer truck on base. The Hispanic man turned him
away and then reported it to the authorities. No one knows what was
in
the trailer truck nor did the trailer truck attempt to gain access to
the base. The Security group wants to spread the word so everyone can
be very vigilant and report any suspicious activities to the
authorities. They are asking that if anyone notices anything to please
call 911 and identify their location and what they have seen. Local
authorities are aware and are on the lookout for this individual or any
other suspicious activities.

Please disseminate this information to your groups, the more awareness
we have, the better.

Respectfully,
V.M.
NAWC Anti-Terrorism Officer

Nothin' like a new pair of jeans

Yesterday, I'll admit, was one of those massively crappy days. I should not have gotten out of bed, I think, except to go to the gym.

Son #1 also managed to have one of those days. It's a hormonal harmonic convergence. So, I took him to Walmart to buy more black jeans and t-shirts, since he lives in them and school starts in less than a month.

While I was there, I tried on the next-size-down jeans. And they fit. Perfectly. So I bought 2 pair, and I am wearing them now, and I feel ever so much better.

I may be completely messed up in the head, but I am at least getting back in shape.

Hi! How are you?

So far today, I've been to the high school, the bank, the grocery store, the newspaper office, and a fast food restaurant.

9 people have asked me how I was. Each time, I smiled and told them I was Great! and asked how they were. They, if they bothered to respond, were also Great! Even the guy with two broken fingers on his dominant hand.

Nine times, today, I felt like the only real response would have been "Shitty! But, hey, thanks for askin'!"

Boys and Men, Redux

We've been back for 2 days.

The night we returned, the Sons spent with their best friends. Great for them, great for the friends, great for me and Hubby because we could enjoy a silent house.

Son #1 puts on his swim trunks, and his friend takes one look, and says:

"Where'd you get that suit? The Gay Store?"

Son #1 knew exactly what to say.

"Why, Jack? Are you attracted to me?"

Open Mic in Indian Rocks Beach, FL

We spent most of yesterday with Hubby's cousin and his wife. Great couple, lots of fun. Plus, they brought the world's largest tub of fudge stripe ice cream, so the boys will be happy for the rest of the week.

Then we went to an Open Mic at a bar down the street. Hubby played bass and drums.

He was, as always, awesome.

The regular, standing drummer really kinda stank. But, hey, it was his drum set, so what can you do?

If you are Hubby, and hear the guy completely butchering song after song, there will come a point where you will take off the bass you've borrowed, and insist that its owner learn Little Wing right there, instead of letting you play it on her bass. You will then run around behind the drum kit, and tell the crap drummer that you ARE going to play that song, because you KNOW it. You will then take the sticks right out of his hands, and proceed to tear the place UP.

Then, you will feel a little sheepish, and offer to help the guy carry his equipment. But he's not going to let you.

More proof that men are just bigger, meatier boys

Went to my brother-in-law's for a barbecue, yesterday. Brother-in-law takes one look at Hubby in his stylin', Hawaiian print swim trunks, and asks,

"Where'd you get that suit? The Gay Store?"

Hubby immediately fires back, "Why, Bob, are you attracted to me?"

If you give a moose a muffin...

If at 5:30, you suggest you'll go cook dinner....

Hubby will suggest you go out to eat, instead.

If you agree to go out to eat...

Hubby will insist he drive around looking for good places to go, first.

If he finds some great places...

He'll decide he'd rather go there tomorrow, and grill tonight.

If you agree to grill...

He'll decide he'd rather have steaks, than the seafood you have in the house.

If you tell him you don't want to be doing dishes at 10pm...

He'll swear it'll just take him a minute to get steaks.

If it in fact takes more than an hour...

you'll be sitting here blogging, at 9pm, waiting for Hubby to come home with the steaks you are too tired to eat.

That's what I get for trying to be cute

We're on vacation. For the Sons, that means "only wear the bear minimum of clothing Mom requires". For Hubby, that generally means "no office clothes". For me, thinking of all the time I won't be spending scrubbing toilets and scooping dog poop, vacation is a chance to wear the cute clothes.

Today, I pulled out my favorite, crisp, white shirt. It is great, any time, but just fantastic, with a little bit of a tan. So I woke up, put it on, and instantly felt beachy-glamorous.

Floating on vacation waves, I went downstairs to make the Sons and their cousin Belgian waffles. And that was my big mistake. The Belgian waffle maker was less than clean, and it left several greasy smears on my shirt.

I pretreated it, I washed it, the smears were still there. So I pretreated it again, and washed it again, with the next load of laundry. I just pulled that out, and my fabulous white shirt is now covered in blue dye, from, I think, a beach towel.

I just put it in the wash for the third time today, with all the bleach I think it can stand, all by itself. My hopes are not high.

I should just wear crap clothes, like I do at home. Who's looking at me, down here, anyway?

Well, you can tell I'm on vacation

...because I am dropping F-bombs, on my blog. So sorry, to those of you with delicate eyeballs.

But, I guess you're not too delicate, or you'd be looking elsewhere. So, if I want to say it, I'm gonna say it.

One Word Meme

I stole this off of Curly Girl's blog. Check her out.
One word meme

1. Where is your cell phone? bedroom

2. Relationship? steady

3. Your hair? tangled

4. Work? fun!

5. Your sister? tall

6. Your favorite thing? quiet

7. Your dream last night? private

8. Your favorite drink? tea

9. Your dream car? motorcycle

10. The room you’re in? dining

11. Your shoes? thongs

12. Your fears? stagnation

13. What do you want to be in 10 years? sexy

14. Who did you hang out with this weekend? family

15. What are you not good at? discipline

16. Muffin? buttery

17. One of your wish list items? band

18. Where you grew up? Maryland

19. Last thing you did? journal

20. What are you wearing? jeans

21. What aren’t you wearing? makeup

22. Your pet? multitudinous

23. Your computer? portable

24. Your life? busy

25. Your mood? torn

26. Missing? waist

27. What are you thinking about right now? Shutterfly

28. Your car? cluttered

29. Your kitchen? crammed

30. Your summer? relaxing

31. Your favorite color? teal

32. Last time you laughed? sunrise

33. Last time you cried? writing

34. School? life

35. Love? writing

The Police

We saw The Police last night.

We'd been told by several people that they SUCK, this time around. Some people complained that they "can't jam...they only played things exactly like on the record. Why go see them, if you can listen to them at home and it sounds the same?" We'd also been told, by other people, obviously, "they didn't play ANYTHING the way it was on the CD. It was all re-mixy and weird."

So, Hubby and I kind of went into last night's concert expecting The Police to find some way to really disappoint.

We also were told that the seats we had were some of the worst seats in the St Pete Times Forum. That, basically, ANY seats would have been better than the ones we blew outrageous sums of money on. So, we figured, "Well, if they suck, at least we won't have to look at them."

We were told that parking was impossible.

We also were given about 6 different sets of directions, each of which had no connection to the others, so we pretty much assumed we'd miss half the show.

And then we got there. About 10 minutes before the Police came on. We breezed into a parking place. We settled into our seats, AND THEY HAD MOVED THE STAGE, so it was directly in front of us. We had some of the best seats in the house, except for those first couple rows on the floor.

And The Police, they ROCKED. They were flippin' awesome. They played just about everything we wanted to hear (though I could have used Murder by Numbers, and Hubby spent the whole night screaming "SYNCHRONICITY!!!!!!!" like Sting was going to look up, wave at him, nod, and say, "You know, man, you are absolutely right, we'll play that one next."

Some songs were very much like we remembered them from when I was a teenager and too young to attend concerts. Which was terrific.

Some songs were very UNlike those memories. They'd play a few notes, and then we'd realize, OH MY GOD! I LOVE THIS SONG! and it was a new, totally cool thing.

Sting was, well, Sting. Sting is great. There is a REASON he only needs the one name.

Stuart Copeland was fucking fantastic. Hubby said he was a little less energetic than twenty years ago, but honestly I couldn't stop watching him. Just terrific.

And Andy Summers? I admit, with a few notable exceptions, I usually don't notice guitarists. I am, as a rule, all about bass and drums. Perhaps that's why I loved The Police so much, as a teen, and still do---it's bass and drums, and, oh, yeah, they have a guitarist, too. And he was good, last night.

But, you know...

If you're going to be on the Jumbotron...

And they're going to zoom in on your hands, while you play leads...

And you're not 30 anymore...

Maybe you should wear a pair of gloves to cover up those liver spots.

We stayed long after the show ended, hanging out in the suite with my brother in law's friends. Fun guys, and I think they are going to come see Hubby play here in Indian Rocks Beach, later this week.

By the time we got out of the suite, all the vendors were packing up. Since they are just wage slaves, and none of them owns the company, they refused to sell us a t-shirt (and for $35, I want my t-shirt to come with Stuart Copeland IN it, not just his picture ON it, but that's a different story). They refused to sell us a poster. So we left.

You know, the elevator had posters, too. Free posters.

And so we went outside, looking for The Police, hoping they'd sign our poster. No sign of them. We did, however, find a member of Tampa's Finest. And he signed it for us.

Nothing beats a stolen poster, except maybe a stolen poster autographed by a cop.

We have escaped the Happy Boondocks

...for the week, at least. And in a stroke of genius, we have fed the children and are leaving in a minute for Dinner at a Decent Restaurant, Just the Two of Us.

People tell me I'll miss having children, but at this point I have to take their word for it. Because a dinner with just my husband, someplace that serves food my kids would rather starve than eat, sounds flippin' awesome.

Aaaah! Raogarnane! Gimme da one! Gah!

We are leaving the Happy Boondocks for a few days in the veritable Lap of Luxury. Today was pack day...which also included short trip to the ladies' clothing department, because I wanted to be stuffing my duffle with clothes I actually don't mind wearing.

So, I had the Sons evaluate my purchases. They are fairly happy with my choices, although there was some disagreement on a certain black, lacy, cap-sleeved thing. (Son #1 thought it looked Goth, and cool. Son #3 thought it looked Goth, and, um, not cool. But all the boys defer to the fashion sense of Son #1, who, after all, is the only kid in the house with strong fashion opinions, based on what he sees in the outside world).

We are also packing the obligatory "one fancy outfit, just in case". So, I pulled out my 2 fairly nice dresses. One got the immediate nod, from all and sundry, as they had seen me in it just a few weeks ago. The other required a quick view, before Son #1 was willing to vote.

"Sparkly dresses, well, they can look nice, but they can also make you look kinda fat. You don't want to look like the Crazy Cat Lady."

Son #1 put the kibosh on the dress.

"You don't look fat, you don't look like the Crazy Cat lady, but the shoulders are...boring. They don't look like they go with the rest of the dress."

I may not have raised a son who will diaper my grandchildren or wash the dinner dishes, but my future daughter in law can rest assured that he will tell her exactly what he thinks, without making her feel like a sea cow.

I feel so...proud.

UPDATE! Because, the minutiae of my day is so important to y'all

Son #1 came home from the park this afternoon and told me that he had run into The Other Boy Who Might Have Been Under a Death Threat This Week.

Said Boy had no idea, of course. But his first response was not the "Holy crap!" one might expect. What did he say?

"AGAIN?"

Yup, apparently, this happens all the damn time.

Also, I found my keys. They were in the basement, in the middle of some sort of lego/Monopoly hotel/airsoft gun pellet village. So, my keys are safe, my car is safe, my sanity is no longer in question. It was The Boy, all along. Shoulda known.

And now, I can go do the stuff I've been wanting to do all afternoon, but have neglected in favor of looking at every surface in my house as if it would magically sprout keys.

Woooo!

Where are my KEYS, dammit?

A few days ago, I was driving around town running errands/mulling life/writing in my head, desperately trying to hold my thought long enough to get out of the car and to my desk to write it down.

As I entered the house with my armloads of groceries, all the Sons and the Hubby all started talking to me. Like, one after the other. This tends to shut my brain down.

I put my keys down, somewhere, and I have no idea where. I have been searching all over, to no avail. And today, was even doing the "look through all your dresser drawers" thing, which netted me a lot of stuff that can go to the thrift store, and a dresser and end table that no longer need dusting, but still no keys.

We now only have my husband's spare set. I am not liking this at all.

Read about it here, Part 2

So, this tiny teacher woman (she is not even five feet tall, sweet young thing) and I discussed the whole mess, quickly and quietly, in the hall. She suggested that Son #1 attend her second period class, so he would be out of class when the girl was there, in an unexpected place at a time he usually would be home, and so that he could get the classroom instruction he needs, without interruption. She also agreed with me that the next place to go, for me, was the police.

So I drove The Son to the state police barracks, and spoke with Officer Tyer. Officer Tyer took down all the details, and said that though he agrees that the school (and especially this particular high school) absolutely needs to report stuff to them that they generally choose instead to sweep under the proverbial rug, that until she actually brings a weapon into the building and starts shooting people, it is not a police matter. The school has jurisdiction, where threatening speech is concerned.

He also thought it was a bad decision not to let the teacher know what was going on, but since I had handled that part of it, he didn't need to.

He said he'd call the school, and make sure they were doing everything they needed to do on their end, including things like watching her enter the building, to ensure she wasn't wearing voluminous clothes and a giant satchel that would be good hiding places for weapons. He told me that he would call me if he felt they weren't handling things, but that if I didn't hear from the state police I could assume he had checked it out and decided it was not something I needed to worry about.

So Son #1 and I went out for breakfast. He ate an entire Subway restaurant. And then we swung home, to kill a little time until second period class was ready to start. And I re-checked my cell phone, looking for the message the assistant principal swears he left me on Tuesday afternoon. As I suspected, there was no message, because he is a lying, ass-covering weasel.

Then we went back to the school. As we pulled in, a few minutes before first period is scheduled to end, we see The Girl's dad, walking towards the school. And The Girl, walking away from the school, with a guidance counselor. We pulled out of the parking lot, and waited across the street at a convenience store until it looked like they were going to leave. The Girl and Her Dad left the school, and I walked Son #1 in to touch base with his teacher.

Apparently The Girl sat through the first third of class, like a stone, and then asked to be sent to the guidance office, where they did whatever they do, and she left. She will not be coming back tomorrow. When she comes in for the final exam, on Monday, her parents will be in the classroom with her.

As it stands, I guess The Girl is getting some help. The teacher is furious that the administration was ready to leave her completely in the dark about a potentially violent classroom situation. And Son #1 feels relieved, and ready to finish out the last couple hours of school.

And me? I am glad that it seems to be resolving itself. I am reassured, also, that This Fabulous School on the Richer Side of Town is really not any better than The Ghetto School My Kids Attend. And, I am all hopped up on adrenaline.

A big part of me, though, wishes I could go find The Girl and hug her, hard. And let her know that though I have ratted her out to the authorities (geez, repeatedly, now), I really wish her only the best. May she grow up and get better and graduate and get a job and a husband and children and a happy, productive life, and look back on these days with wonder at the girl she used to be.

Read about it here, but hopefully not in the newspapers

Son #1, who went back to public school after 4 years at home, missed the first quarter of the school year. Soooo, he ended up needing to take a semester of algebra, over summer school. This has been a pretty positive experience: his teacher is making the work easily understandable. He has 3 days left of class.

This Tuesday, That Girl Who Bit Him Last Year and Was Subsequently Committed passed him her phone number. Then she told him that she was going to check back into the mental health facility, this coming Monday, because she "had a nervous breakdown with her psychiatrist, and told him that she can't tell the difference between dreams and reality, and she wants to kill all her friends and herself."

Son #1 told me this in the car, on the way home from school.

Upon our arrival home, I made three phone calls. First, I called Hubby to tell him what was going on. Then I called the school, reminded them that this girl had been in and out of a mental institution last school year and that she had physically attacked my son in the past, and told them all about what she'd said that morning in class. The Assistant Principal in charge of summer school, Mr. Myers, assured me that they would investigate it, handle it, and report back to me.

Then I called the poor girl's mom, to let her know. She was very apologetic, and it was clear to me that the whole family is trying everything they can, to get this girl the help she needs. She said that they had thought she was getting better, and that she had not mentioned these kinds of thoughts or wishes. She said, "I guess she won't be going back to school, we'll have to take her back to the hospital."

Then it was July 4th, and I was all about going out for pizza and shooting off undocumented alien fireworks with Hubby and the Sons. But I figured the smart thing to do would be to escort Son #1, the boy who stole my heart, into the school building a little early, this morning, to talk with the assistant principal and get his assurance that this girl would not be in the building.

So, today I headed over to the school and asked to speak with Mr. Myers, the assistant principal, and he told me "we have handled it."

I asked what he meant, by "handled it": Did "handled it" mean "we know she will not be in school today, tomorrow, or Monday, because we know she's been committed"?

No.

"Handled it" meant, "we have done all we are going to do, and we are not going to tell you anything, to protect her privacy".

So I asked, "Is she going to be in the building, today? Because my son is not going to be in the building, if she is. He and one other student are the only ones who have, according to her parents, treated this girl with anything approaching kindness, so when she says she wants to kill her friends, MY SON IS ONE OF TWO PEOPLE SHE IS TALKING ABOUT."

The assistant principal and a woman who did not introduce herself, but whom I assume to be the school counselor, offered to let Son #1 take all his assigned work into the media center, and work on it alone, so he wouldn't have to be in class with this girl. But, um, the reason he's in school is to spend time with the teacher. And being all alone in a library is not exactly the same as being protected from a girl who has stated her intention to kill you.

So, I suggested that maybe I should talk with his teacher, and see what she thought was the right thing to do. Maybe Son #1 could meet with her privately, instead of during class time, to complete his last 3 days of school.

We ran into the teacher in the hall.

She had not been told about the threat.

The assistant principal had come to her classroom and asked her cryptic questions about the girl, but didn't tell her why, and didn't tell her where the investigation led. It was all news to her, and if I hadn't told her she wouldn't have known. So, I would say, that is about the most piss-poor version of "handled it" that I can imagine. Wouldn't telling the teacher be the first thing any reasonable administrator would do?


I have to run, but I will post Part Two of the Saga, later today.