Crash

Okay, I promised some grownups behaving badly, so here goes:

A friend of mine, along with two other couples, threw a big party at their house.  BIG party, to the tune of about 200 people, including about 80 kids.  They have a pool, so the kids could swim.  They even had a band.   My husband and I went sans kids.

Anyway, in getting the post mortem from my friend, the host, I heard about two couples who talked to her about the party before hand...and told her that they were going to crash her party. True.  Apparently, they said they do it all the time.  They weren't invited, came anyway, brought people with them, and then did the following:  stayed until after 2:00 in the morning, took the party in the house (this party was strictly outside), drank an entire bottle of Crown Royal that had been purchased as a gift, and smoked in their house!  Seriously, these are real people who go to church, volunteer at school, and who are very well off financially.  Scarier still, they are parents of actual children who will all likely grow into the hopelessly vile rude adults their parents are...  *big breath*

Now I can see (maybe) going to a party with someone who had been invited as kind of a "plus one" person.  Especially if the party was exceptionally big.  I can also see (maybe) hinting around for an invitation.  But crashing a party when you are a full grown adult is an unpardonable offense, especially when you proceed to make a total nuisance of yourself.  If they had crashed and not been assholes, they probably could've gotten away with it.  (It was a big, loud party, and the hosts were all pretty well lit before 9:00)  

So the moral of the story is twofold:  First, if you are going to be a seriously rude pig, do it right and be sneaky;  and second, money does not buy class.  It does buy, in at least one case in the above rudeness, liposuction.

*cue cat meow sound*

Pass/Fail

Well, I did it.  I flunked my first ever mammogram.  "They found a mass in your left breast," she said.  "It looks like a cyst," she continued, "but we'll need some more testing to be sure."  

So I will try my best to FX this test, and get out of there with a "no biggie, sorry for scaring you into pissing your pants."

I started this blog hoping to share funny stories, but this isn't very funny.  Maybe something funny will happen at my next visit.

Although, at the first mammogram, I did get to overhear a conversation between two old people who were discussing torture in Iraq ("they put 'shocky things' on their balls!"), and that led into a conversation about vasectomy.  That caused the man to thank his wife for "making me git 'er done" and then he kissed her on the cheek and told her he loved her. 

That was great.  I saw a tender moment between long married people, and he (hand to God) said "git 'er done".  Now if I had only passed that blasted mammogram, it would've been really funny.

No routine

I am not a person of routine.   Doing things methodically does not come naturally to me.  This drives my husband of german ancestry insane.  He does everything the same way--every time.   The only thing I do the same way every time is iron a man's dress shirt.  

I don't wear makeup, nor do I really do any skin care.  This is mostly due to sheer laziness, and the fact that I don't do routines.   My husband hates makeup of any sort, even lip balm.   I don't abstain from makeup for him, it's just a really handy rationalization for not bothering.  Well, I'll admit that once or twice per year I will wear makeup.  Those are occasions where I'm dressed formally, and no makeup looks out of place.  

So here I am at 40, and my skin has discovered gravity.  I don't know if I could get into any skin care regimen now that I've been so lazy for so many years.  I wash my face in the shower with bath soap (usually Lever) and then I put on either my fancy pants moisturizer if I can find it in my drawer of potions; or likely, just some body lotion because that's always out.  That's usually horrifies women who are three step regimen gals.  I just don't have good routines.

I had a mammogram this week, and during the health history portion of show, breastfeeding came up.  Did you breastfeed?  Yes.  How long?  Four years. (two years each kid)  I always get the same response to this:  A wide eye pop (think Alfalfa on Little Rascals) and a "Wow!" Sometime this "wow" is impressed, and sometimes it's horrified.  I don't take a lot of credit for this feat.  It was laziness!  (thank you, laziness!)  Well, at first it was sheer will, because for those of you who are initiated, you know those first few weeks of hourly feedings take everything you've got.  But luckily, I had good latchers on and it was relatively easy to nurse.  What kept me going?   No bottles.  No washing, mixing, and finding hot water on the road.  I didn't need a routine to breastfeed.  I never once forgot to bring my breasts along.

So this last school year has been a tough one for me.  I don't work outside the house, and both kids were in full day school.  Every day.  Eight to Three.  What wasn't I going to get done?  I would clean closets in the morning, and cook four course dinners in the afternoon.  Glorious cleanliness would be the watchword at our house.  The children would look back on their grade school days with memories of a lovely, tidy home, smelling of dinner and pine sol.  

(cue the screeching tires sound effect here.)

It didn't really work out like that.   Now, I am not complaining about not having a job.  But for someone with routine deficit disorder, having all of that time in front of me is just downright scary.  Plus, I miss the kids something awful.  The first few weeks were terrible.  It was lonely and quiet.  I found myself crying when people asked how great it was to have them both at school.  It got better.  I am at the school anywhere from three to five times per week, but the times vary.  Sometimes I'm there for two hours, and sometimes just for 30 minutes. No routine.   I've been getting the housework done, but I don't have pristine closets and four course dinners.  

Summer starts next week.  Kids home all day.  I'll miss having alone time, I'm sure, but not for a couple of weeks at least.  We need a Summer routine.  Maybe this is my year.

try posting comments

For anyone out there who may actually be reading this...you can now post comments.  I think that I had it locked for registered users only or something...

I have heard from two friends (thank you) that posting wasn't working.

Please try now!  I would love to hear from you.

UPDATE-- I tried posting myself, and I couldn't under "anonymous", but I could with a google account... still working on this...

The Stoop

My nine year old daughter plays soccer.  To be specific, she plays travel soccer. (pause for collective gasp)  For the uninitiated, travel soccer is different than recreational soccer (rec. league).  Travel teams have a separate league that makes everything official and "ruley", and travel teams usually, but not always, have paid coaches in lieu of parent volunteers.  Travel teams are separated by gender (rec. is usually co-ed).  There are many clubs around town, mostly in suburbs.  Many have both travel and rec. teams in them and you generally have to try out for travel teams.  

I get different responses when people find out my daughter plays D-----  soccer.  "Oh, she must be really good."  "You must be crazy, I don't let Precious play on any travel teams."  "She should try out for C----- soccer, they are better."  One thing's for sure, if the person I'm talking to knows anything about soccer in this city, I will get a reaction.  

Last Fall was our first season in travel soccer.  We played a team called FC P-----.  They beat us 18-0.  How is that possible you ask?  I'll tell you.  Nine year olds play 6v6.  We had seven players total for that game.  The opponent had 11.  They had two girls who scored 16 of those goals.  Neither of those girls got subbed out once.  The coach yelled and barked orders the entire game, and the parents whooped and cheered all 18 goals like they were life or death.   And, Jesus help me, someone had a cowbell.   

This games served as an illustration of how bad parents (and coaches) can act.  It also brought out the worst in me.  I was so mad, I could only think of different places I wanted to shove that cowbell.  I also pondered how small that coach's dick must be that he has to compensate by leading a team of little girls into demoralizing other little girls.   So that was last season.  Our girls have come a long way since then, but I still felt a sense of dread when I saw FC P---- on the schedule for this weekend's tournament.  

I went to this game expecting the worst out of their parents.  They delivered.  No cowbell, but lots of shouting.   For the record, there were two fouls called against FC P----.  One of the fouls was committed against my daughter, Jane.  This is apparently my line.  The line which one doesn't cross unless one wants to rue the day.  I saw red.  I know soccer can be a rough sport, but still!  You can't fight instinct.  She got up, tough kid, and so I calmed down.   Then it happened.  Jane had the ball, she was rocking it, and the same kid was trying to tackle.  The opponent's Dad yelled, "Take her down!"  He was only five feet from me, mind you.  After a quick side-eye, I opened my mouth and said, "She can try..."  I'm pretty sure he heard it.  Jane didn't get taken down, she flew past that fouling little punk and when that other girl fell down with the effort, I smiled.   

I stooped.  I stooped so low that I was glad a little girl fell down.  I guess I have to rationalize it by remembering that this self same girl had just shoved my daughter to the ground and was trying to do it again.   I guess I can rationalize anything now.  It's good to be 40.

Oh yeah, our girls won 2-1.  It was sweet.  I'll go back to not caring who wins now, but only if they're not playing FC P----.  Or any other team with a cowbell.

reply all

My mother is a one upper.  Her situation is always better, worse, more or less than yours.  She will compete over the weather.  "It snowed six inches here...how much did you get?"  It drives me crazy.   She must relate everything back to herself.  I'm pretty sure that this is called something by psychiatrists.  I'm pretty sure it's called Narcissistic Personality Disorder.  But hey, I'm no doctor.  

We all have the need to be noticed and acknowledged.  We all appreciate praise when praise is due.  I am no exception here.  However, I draw my line at the "reply all".  You know, that little button on your email.  It is rarely necessary to "reply all" to a mass email.  I send mass emails all the time to entire teams, classrooms, and committees.  I receive them all of the time, too.  In fact, I got one today, addressed to several people, thanking us for helping with a school flower sale yesterday.  I replied to the sender only complimenting the organization, etc. of the sale. (it was the chairs' first year).  Then they started.  The "Reply All's"...  Now I get to read everyone else's gracious comments of "no problem", and "my pleasure".  These are likely genuine sentiments, but I don't need to read them.  They are not for me...or are they?  

I chair a committee at school which provides a "teacher appreciation lunch" once per month.  I have a team of about 30 volunteers.  Not everyone contributes every month, so I just throw the the dates and themes out there and see what sticks.  This results in a slurry of about 100 emails.  The back and forth goes something like this:

Thelma (to all):  "I can bring the Diet Coke."

Me (to Thelma):   "We already have enough Diet Coke, could you bring some Sprite?"

Thelma (to all): "Sure, no problem.  How much?"

Me (to Thelma):  "Two 2 liter bottles.  Leave them in the cafeteria kitchen." (this is stated in every email, but no matter)

Thelma (to all):  "Okay, I'll do it."

Me (to Thelma):  "Thanks, I'll send a reminder."

Now, read these without my responses.   It looks like Thelma is bringing Diet Coke, right?  That's what "reply all" read.  So then I get these emails:

Louise (to all):  "I thought I was bringing Diet Coke, but it looks like Thelma is bringing it instead.  What am I supposed to bring?"

Me:  "You are bringing Diet Coke, I replied to Thelma to bring Sprite instead, but didn't want to burden everyone with all the information.  Please put it in the cafeteria kitchen."

Then, I get this priceless gem:

Eliza (to me):  "Could you please send out an email to tell everyone to stop sending "reply all" messages?  I am completely confused as to who is bringing what!!"

Yes, this is the clusterfuck that is my committee.   Some of it might be bad email ettiquette habits, but I think that most of it is, "see what I'm doing?"  "I'm bringing handmade whatever, what are you bringing?"  Stop showing off.   I don't care what you bring, just bring it...and put it in the cafeteria kitchen.  

Days of Swine and Roses

I would like to announce that the Swine Flu has reported cases here in my city.  There is a child with it at a school on my side of town.  I'll admit, it felt a little more scary knowing that it's here. One of the schools shut down is attended by girls on our soccer team.  They are shut down for a week.  A week.  This infected child no doubt has siblings at other schools, goes to church, plays on sports teams, and on and on...I doubt if it can be contained just be closing the school and spraying some Lysol.   Meanwhile, kids are out of school for a week.  Parents are scrambling to find child care for their kids, and now they have another week of school in June.  All to avoid a runny nose and sore throat.  The front desk at my kids' school is in high dudgeon.  They sent a child home last week because she was coughing.  She is asthmatic.   

We all need to take a deep breath.  

Oh, and the soccer league told us that the girls should not give each other high fives or shake hands at the end of games so as not to spread germs.  Have they ever seen a soccer match?

Sentimental Journey

I was just sentimental about my period.  Say what?  Yes, I just purchased a copy of "The Care and Keeping of You", a book about girls growing up.  My daughter is nine, and she knows most of what she needs to know about her own development, but this is a really great book for her to have on hand so she can read about this stuff in private.

So anyway, I'm leafing through it and there's information about teeth, armpits, acne and sunscreen.  Then there's breast development, buying a bra, and GASP! getting your period.  And then it all came rushing back.  Reading Are You There God?, It's Me, Margaret, chomping at the bit to get that first period, the wonder, horror, excitement, and revulsion all mixed together.  And I got a little sentimental.  Then I kept reading.  Pubic hair, tampons vs. pads, PMS, eating disorders, shaving, etc.  I was exhausted just reading about it, and this doesn't even go near the sex stuff!   I wasn't so sentimental anymore, but it is an awesome responsibility to guide a girl through this time in her life.  There is a lot to our care and keeping.  

I have a great daughter.  I'm excited for her, and me.  Girls will be women.