Saturday morning. Sleeping in time. Or NOT.
Jared wanted to show me his love for me by waking me up to make sure I could enjoy the sunrise with him. Normally he sleeps until his bus arrives, but on Saturday, he is COMPELLED to wake up at the crack of dawn . . . and babble and coo until I get up.
Gypsy yawned and padded down the hall behind me after I closed the bedroom door so Rick could enjoy his sleep on his day off. Then, light a streak of black lightening, Gypsy roared past and out the dog door to try and intimidate the 2 men who were surveying the lot next to us. Wonder if they are selling it? Maybe we will have neighbors? Or a parking area? Or more old people? Who knows?
Curiosity killed the cat and in this case my reputation as being the proud possessor of one brain cell.
I walked out onto our carport and said "Hey, inquiring minds want to know - what're y'all surveying for?" The impetus being that they were in MY yard by this point, so I wanted to know if I was about to be moved without my notice or disposessed of a few feet of yard.
The cigarette dangling from the young man's mouth barely moved as he told me they were making a topographic review of the area.
Oh sure.
I believe that junior. You'd not get much of a topo map from a flat L-shaped piece of ground that is about 3 acres give or take. And who would WANT a map of that tiny speck of ground? In the middle of a neighborhood, it is singularly desolate and has only some scrubby pines on the back part of the lot.
A bemused look was on his face when I told him "thanks" and headed back in.
Then I realized WHY he was smiling.
I was in my pajamas. OH HOLY COW!! How could I be so damn stupid???? No, don't answer that, it was rhetorical. (And yes, I DO know what rhetorical means!)
My pajamas are not ready for prime time. Faded, blue plaid, nubbly flannel pj pants that have seen better days, but dang it, they are comfortable, a t-shirt with a hole directly over the right boob from having given blood with a Jimmy Buffet Parrothead theme on it (don't ask me why blood donations and Buffet go together, it was just a cool shirt!) and a fine set of mismatched sox and no shoes. I seldom wear shoes anyway.
Then the reality set in.
That young man now goes home full believing that he was measuring that particular plot of ground for a new long term care facility for those with senile dementia and he has just met the first resident.
I couldn't have showered, dressed in something decent and gone out to offer them something cool to drink and made erudite conversation.
Oh no.
I had to show them act two of the redneck three ring circus. I would have made a good poster child for the evening news where they always seem to find the most ignorant, inbred, hickified redneck to offer their opinion on some sort of newsworthy event.
All I required to complete the tableau was a missing left front tooth. Thanks to cosmetic dentistry, I still have one.
It was a near miss of redneck perfection that would have cemented me in the annals of history.
But I have an orthodontically corrected smile with all of my front teeth right there handy.
Too bad.
My actions could have been excused if I were a redneck.
Isn't that the lyric from a song . . . from a musical . . . "Redneck on the Roof"
"If I were a redneck, deedle, deedle, deedle, deedle, deedle deedle deedle dum..."
August 16, 2008
August 15, 2008
Olympics, Shopping and other exercises
Years of dedication and proper training are required for success. No mere novice can expect to whip in and out with their eyes on the prize and assume they will leave unscathed. It doesn't happen in the sports world - or in the supermarket either.
Hapless individuals who honestly believe they can REMEMBER a full list of items are either delusional or male, which is sometimes the same thing. Men will come home with a bag of food. It will contain valuable nutritional items that will sustain the family for the week. NOT.
There will be steaks and potato chips. Moon pies and a 12 pack of soft drinks. In the interest of healthy eating, there will also be Snickers bars. After all they contain nuts which have been proved to contain all sorts of good things. And those good things are even better when coated with rich caramel and chocolate. Ice cream is a given. It's a food group.
And because the male of the species cares, he will bring home a pizza for dinner and forget all that you asked him to bring home from the fruit and vegetable aisle because he never eats those sprout things anyway.
For the female shopping olympiad, the process is a bit different.
Coupon clipping is the first part of any good shopping trip. Like warming up for a run, selection of the proper coupons and the items that will stock the pantry following this shopping trip prevents nasty injury - primary from flung food when people decree it 'too nasty to eat'.
Also, a list is mandatory. Without a list guiding your path through the store, valuable time on the clock is burned up meandering all over creation searching for who knows what since you have forgotten what you came there for.
Order of operations is next on the agenda of ritual preparation for the marathon ahead. The first column of my list ALWAYS has the essentials. You know what I am talking about - these are the items which prevent mutiny. Milk, bread, eggs - you get the gist.
The further right and down you go across the 4 columns of my list, the less essential the items.
While they make the list - they may not make it to the finish line of the shopping bag for the ride home.
Just like in the Olympics, not everyone gets the gold. And whining isn't tolerated. Taking a child shopping is just like a trip to another nation where you don't understand the language. You find yourself using the time honored ritual of speaking slowly and distinctly as if the creature in the little seat on the buggy can actually understand what you are saying.
They don't.
They only respond to the forbidden items in the store which you will not be purchasing because you actually think you are in charge. Some women can resist the efforts of the pint sized competitors and claim not only the gold but notoriety mingled with jealousy as other mascara streaked, sweat stained women struggle to keep from putting their little charges on a shelf near the sale racks.
Should you actually manage to get the majority of your list stuffed into your cart and avoid the wrangling with the other 'talent' on the trip, you will now face the worst part of the gauntlet. This makes the run through Hell's Canyon seem like a pleasant outing.
This is the part where all of your training and endurance will be brought into sharp focus. Now, you will be asked to keep your young charge's attention focused on ANYTHING besides the point of purchase shelves filled with contraband while you hope to be under budget for the buggy full of groceries.
In every store there is a legal limit on how many checkers can actually be doing their work even though there light is glowing as brightly as the finish line. You have to throw yourself into getting in the checkout line that is open and that has a checker who has worked for more than 5 minutes and can actually count change.
Remember - the Olympic flame burns brightly and the medal count is limited. Patience WILL BE REQUIRED!
The Gold Standard is rare. And it requires that you get ALL of the essentials, ALL of the side items and MOST of the "gee, that's a good idea" items and do it all under the budget and in time to get home before the wrinkle rid signal on the dryer goes off.
Should you manage this feat, you not only deserve the gold medal, but a monument in your honor.
I know, because I faltered at the finish line today.
I was compelled to make a return trip, albeit to a DIFFERENT grocery store, to buy the dessert for the dinner tonight. I know just how the 4th place finishers feel.
Gold is for winners, silver for those who are good but not great and bronze is for those who brought all they had and sucked up the fumes from the first two finishers to grasp a tiny straw of immortality. What do the rest of the pack get?
All I want to know is what does the tin-foil medal look like and which line do I stand in to receive mine?
Hapless individuals who honestly believe they can REMEMBER a full list of items are either delusional or male, which is sometimes the same thing. Men will come home with a bag of food. It will contain valuable nutritional items that will sustain the family for the week. NOT.
There will be steaks and potato chips. Moon pies and a 12 pack of soft drinks. In the interest of healthy eating, there will also be Snickers bars. After all they contain nuts which have been proved to contain all sorts of good things. And those good things are even better when coated with rich caramel and chocolate. Ice cream is a given. It's a food group.
And because the male of the species cares, he will bring home a pizza for dinner and forget all that you asked him to bring home from the fruit and vegetable aisle because he never eats those sprout things anyway.
For the female shopping olympiad, the process is a bit different.
Coupon clipping is the first part of any good shopping trip. Like warming up for a run, selection of the proper coupons and the items that will stock the pantry following this shopping trip prevents nasty injury - primary from flung food when people decree it 'too nasty to eat'.
Also, a list is mandatory. Without a list guiding your path through the store, valuable time on the clock is burned up meandering all over creation searching for who knows what since you have forgotten what you came there for.
Order of operations is next on the agenda of ritual preparation for the marathon ahead. The first column of my list ALWAYS has the essentials. You know what I am talking about - these are the items which prevent mutiny. Milk, bread, eggs - you get the gist.
The further right and down you go across the 4 columns of my list, the less essential the items.
While they make the list - they may not make it to the finish line of the shopping bag for the ride home.
Just like in the Olympics, not everyone gets the gold. And whining isn't tolerated. Taking a child shopping is just like a trip to another nation where you don't understand the language. You find yourself using the time honored ritual of speaking slowly and distinctly as if the creature in the little seat on the buggy can actually understand what you are saying.
They don't.
They only respond to the forbidden items in the store which you will not be purchasing because you actually think you are in charge. Some women can resist the efforts of the pint sized competitors and claim not only the gold but notoriety mingled with jealousy as other mascara streaked, sweat stained women struggle to keep from putting their little charges on a shelf near the sale racks.
Should you actually manage to get the majority of your list stuffed into your cart and avoid the wrangling with the other 'talent' on the trip, you will now face the worst part of the gauntlet. This makes the run through Hell's Canyon seem like a pleasant outing.
This is the part where all of your training and endurance will be brought into sharp focus. Now, you will be asked to keep your young charge's attention focused on ANYTHING besides the point of purchase shelves filled with contraband while you hope to be under budget for the buggy full of groceries.
In every store there is a legal limit on how many checkers can actually be doing their work even though there light is glowing as brightly as the finish line. You have to throw yourself into getting in the checkout line that is open and that has a checker who has worked for more than 5 minutes and can actually count change.
Remember - the Olympic flame burns brightly and the medal count is limited. Patience WILL BE REQUIRED!
The Gold Standard is rare. And it requires that you get ALL of the essentials, ALL of the side items and MOST of the "gee, that's a good idea" items and do it all under the budget and in time to get home before the wrinkle rid signal on the dryer goes off.
Should you manage this feat, you not only deserve the gold medal, but a monument in your honor.
I know, because I faltered at the finish line today.
I was compelled to make a return trip, albeit to a DIFFERENT grocery store, to buy the dessert for the dinner tonight. I know just how the 4th place finishers feel.
Gold is for winners, silver for those who are good but not great and bronze is for those who brought all they had and sucked up the fumes from the first two finishers to grasp a tiny straw of immortality. What do the rest of the pack get?
All I want to know is what does the tin-foil medal look like and which line do I stand in to receive mine?
August 13, 2008
Incompetence
It's a trigger for me.
Although I have had my moments of complete and utter stupidity, I try diligently to keep the fires of idiocy burning on a low flame.
But now, I find that others have raised the art of incompetence to the level of a forest fire in intensity and duration.
I just got a phone call that said Jared was not covered for Medicaid because he hadn't had his annual EPSDT.
You have got to be kidding me!?!?!
The follow up call to the nurse at doctor's office wasn't much better. She now says that Jared didn't have an EPSDT for this year as well.
HOLY HANNAH!!!
Not only DID he have the appointment but WE KEPT IT!!
He even got shots for updating and getting new immunizations to help keep his compromised immune system up to snuff for the new school year.
And I have proof.
My date book in my purse is the inviolable last word of what goes on the 'social calendar' of the entire family.
If it isn't written on the date book, chances are it never happened.
So, just to make sure I wasn't one match away from an inferno of personal incompetence that would make the Chicago Fire look like a weenie roast, I whipped the book out and while on the phone with BOTH the medical supplies provider AND the pediatrician's office PROVED that we were there and that J-man came home checked, parts counted and punctured for the year.
Score one for Momma!
They "found" the proof that he had indeed been there and done that. Oh really. FOUND it. And, were compelled to take the blame.
For once, I am not the incompetent moron. They are. YIPPEE!!!!!
I'm glad I have followed in the footsteps of my own Mother who never let one visit go unrecorded and never allowed one single puncture to miss being entered in her careful shot registry she kept in the little green box on her desk. It was the virtual tour of our childhood.
That same sense of record keeping has prevented our fat from being in the fire on so many occassions. And I am glad.
As a side note, I also have a journal entry for the exam date written in ink and dated. LEGAL PROOF.
But I have to wonder if the crazed ramblings of a psychotic mother who has missed out on one too many naps will hold up in court.
If the judge is a mother - they most certainly will.
Although I have had my moments of complete and utter stupidity, I try diligently to keep the fires of idiocy burning on a low flame.
But now, I find that others have raised the art of incompetence to the level of a forest fire in intensity and duration.
I just got a phone call that said Jared was not covered for Medicaid because he hadn't had his annual EPSDT.
You have got to be kidding me!?!?!
The follow up call to the nurse at doctor's office wasn't much better. She now says that Jared didn't have an EPSDT for this year as well.
HOLY HANNAH!!!
Not only DID he have the appointment but WE KEPT IT!!
He even got shots for updating and getting new immunizations to help keep his compromised immune system up to snuff for the new school year.
And I have proof.
My date book in my purse is the inviolable last word of what goes on the 'social calendar' of the entire family.
If it isn't written on the date book, chances are it never happened.
So, just to make sure I wasn't one match away from an inferno of personal incompetence that would make the Chicago Fire look like a weenie roast, I whipped the book out and while on the phone with BOTH the medical supplies provider AND the pediatrician's office PROVED that we were there and that J-man came home checked, parts counted and punctured for the year.
Score one for Momma!
They "found" the proof that he had indeed been there and done that. Oh really. FOUND it. And, were compelled to take the blame.
For once, I am not the incompetent moron. They are. YIPPEE!!!!!
I'm glad I have followed in the footsteps of my own Mother who never let one visit go unrecorded and never allowed one single puncture to miss being entered in her careful shot registry she kept in the little green box on her desk. It was the virtual tour of our childhood.
That same sense of record keeping has prevented our fat from being in the fire on so many occassions. And I am glad.
As a side note, I also have a journal entry for the exam date written in ink and dated. LEGAL PROOF.
But I have to wonder if the crazed ramblings of a psychotic mother who has missed out on one too many naps will hold up in court.
If the judge is a mother - they most certainly will.
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