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?

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.

Do What?

It's happened again.

That dull look on the face of my long suffering husband when I relate what is apparently a 'chick moment' that he simply cannot relate to or with.

Meanwhile, my eyes are flooded with tears, my sides ache and I can't breathe from laughing so hard at whatever it was that turned the giggle box over.

When I regain enough composure to ask why he isn't laughing, he replies, 'It must be a girl thing."

Alrighty then.

Humor IS subjective. But the difference between male and female humor apparently has a demilitarized zone. Who knew?

Lines from movies like "Steel Magnolias" that send me into a virtual apoplectic fit of laughter scarcely garner a notice from Rick. Likewise, comic strips that leave me helpless with laughter don't even register one tick on the mirth meter for my husband.

But he will laugh himself silly over things that leave me scratching my head.

For years, I attributed this difference to the regions of the U.S. which were our birthplaces. I just assumed western humor and southern humor were three different things.

But now I realize that it goes far deeper than I once supposed.

Differences in male humor and female humor trumps all regional and societal norms. It truly is Venus and Mars.

How to bridge the gap? Once in a while, we find humor in the same phrase. And we use it as a secret code between us in social settings to remind us of those close moments of shared comedy that define our humor zone. The humor zone, like the erogenous zone, must be stimulated regularly or it withers away.

But not everyone is triggered by the same stimulation.

While I can appreciate the subtle intricacies of the 3 stooges, I prefer a brand of comedy that is a bit more emotional and more intellectual. I'm no slouch. I DO enjoy a good pie to the face and a bit of seltzer down the pants from time to time, provided I'm on the watching end and not the receiving end.

Having said that, you have to know that too much of a good thing can dull the senses and ruin the comedy appetite for me. After all, too many pies are too many pies.

So what defines what is funny to us?

Circumstance, upbringing, gender . . . I'm not sure.

Regardless of how many times I see it, the movie 'What's Up, Doc?' cracks me up. I know it well enough to say the lines along with the actors. But it is STILL funny. To me.

Have you had a laugh today? May I recommend one? You'll feel better.

Another day, another bus

Back to school for Jared today.

The summer has flown past us with calendar items filling the days and nights and travel taking virtually the entire month of July away.

Now, we are barely into August and the dog days of summer while the school year now presses upon us all.

Jared is a sophomore.

Just saying those words seems somewhat odd. When he was just so tiny in the ICU with wires and hoses and all kinds of machinery hooked up to him to preserve life, we weren't sure he would make it through the day.

Now, we are fast approaching his 16th birthday, which is a feat that at least one doctor was certain would never happen. I wonder if it would be rude to look her up and remind her of her dire predictions now.

But the bus will be here soon.

His new driver called to tell us the approximate ETA for her arrival. She just lives around the corner from us and this is a new inner city route that will take the special needs children to their magnet school in our community. I assured her that the school is accustomed to things taking longer for the special needs kids.

She said Jared is the second child she picks up for the day. She also said she is excited to get to know us. The feeling is mutual.

While we will miss "Miss Nancy" who has been his driver for years, we continue to press onward knowing that all things change.

But regardless of the optimism in the air of this newly minted school year, it is still too soon to be back in school.

In my miscreant youth, school didn't start ringing the bells until after Labor Day. Then some idiot decided to start the last week of August. That was hot enough.

But now, because we cannot get a State School Superintendent who has the nerve to say that ALL schools receiving ANY state money at all MUST have the same calendar, everyone is on their own terms in preparing a calendar for the year. Dumb.

The children will survive just fine without a fall break and a parenting day break and a virtual month at Christmas. They don't need breaks for all of the various postal days off. What they need is a consistent schedule and a later start date. They even toss in 'weather days' just in case we get some . . . weather, I mean.

How dumb is that? The days are off days built in. Sadly, they never coincide with bad or threatening weather so they aren't really a brilliant idea. Poor planning if you ask me.

Then there are the days where students do nothing but take mandatory tests to see how well they are doing. Sure, those are meant to ensure that the "No Child Left Behind" standards are being met. Brilliant. This is the same plan that would have my severely disabled, short bus riding child to be in a mainstream classroom.

Again, we are back to poor planning.

So, as we get geared up with new and shiny supplies and clothes and an array of equipment to meet Jared's needs for the school year, we welcome the new driver and miss the old one, we revel in the thought that the weekend is only three days away and remember the days when summer was actually all summer long.

Time to board the yellow cheese box for the hot ride to the school.