Black Friday Stupor

Yes, I know Black Friday was a week ago. An early Thanksgiving always makes everything seem earlier, and then I'm in denial about the whole holiday season. Well I guess that usually happens anyway – the whole being-in-denial-because-the-holidays-are-approaching-too-fast-and-I'm-not-even-remotely-ready.  I can't blame it on the early Thanksgiving.

So, the real truth:  I just did not get around to writing this post until a week after it happened.

Money has been especially tight this year due to it being the 2^nd year my husband has been on disability after his stroke. And I, myself cut my hours back to part-time in the spring because I have a certain disability that kicks in when I'm working 40 hours a week, trying to keep a house that is somewhat peaceful and doesn't look like the set for a horror movie, and trying to raise 4 kids with minimal help from my recovering husband.  My disability is called “Crazy Mom.”

Money aside, the girls started working on me a few weeks before Thanksgiving: “Mom, are we going to go Black Friday shopping this year?” Apparently, they have fond memories of getting up at 4 AM, huddling on the heated seats in our minivan, and walking into the stores with our butts steaming. Each time they asked about Black Friday shopping this year, I hemmed and hawed. I tried to be non-committal. But no matter what I said – or didn't say – the girls just couldn't believe that I would skip a family tradition. We went last year. I guess that was when the tradition started. You've got to be careful what you do with your kids around the holiday season, you know. If you make one false move, the children are going to say it's tradition and force you to do it every year at Christmas-time for the rest of your natural lives.

So, with the words “we have negative money” and “I'm not buying anything for you today no matter how much whining, conniving and cajoling you do” ringing in their ears, we did indeed go Black Friday shopping. We didn't get up at a ludicrous hour. Instead it was maybe a ridiculous hour. It was 6 AM when my 10-year-old came in to wake me up. “Tell your sister to make the coffee and I will get up in a few,” I said. I'm so glad my children are fellow coffee-drinkers.

Apparently, I hadn't consumed enough coffee to assist me with the simple tasks of walking and talking, so mid-morning, we headed toward the Barnes and Noble in the Lansing Mall because they have a Starbucks cafe inside the store. As we approached the sprawling store front, there was a very large sign assuring us that, yes indeed, Starbucks coffee was sold at a cafe right inside their store walls. So I took that to mean right inside their store walls. As soon as we entered, I found myself in front of a row of registers. And the smell of coffee was overpowering – I needed to have some, and I needed it NOW. I looked at the friendly cashiers. Then past the friendly cashiers. There were displays of books stacked behind them. “Huh,” I wondered, “Where do they make the coffee?” So I carefully scanned the entire section to see if I could find a menu or coffee makers or cups or anything that indicated that this cafe right inside of Barnes and Noble actually served coffee. Nothing. So I did what any rational human being would do in the situation. I just stood there. And waited for coffee to appear. I would occasionally search the faces of the friendly cashiers and wonder why they weren't offering to help me in their chipper, friendly cashier way, “What can I get for you?” or “May I help you?” Still nothing. Then I saw some laminated sheets next to each cash register. That must be the menu, I thought. I picked it up, asked, “Is this the menu?” and then realized that I was reading about payment and return options. Finally the heavens opened and it was revealed by divine intervention that this was not the cafe. So, I tried to cover my error and quickly said, “I mean, where is the cafe?” The friendly cashiers pointed and I turned around to see a giant Starbucks cafe a few aisles over. I quickly walked away with my kids to get some coffee.

Sometimes I can't believe they let me go out in public.

Bailout?

I dropped 3 of my kids off at school this morning, dug through the massive collection of wadded papers in my 3rd grader's cubby, and returned home, humming the Funeral March.

dum dum dum DUM da-dum da-dum da DUM!

The above-mentioned 3rd grader is my son, who stayed home from school today.  Oh no, he is not sick.  This is a first in our household:  I kept my son home today to do his homework.  Irresponsible parent, you say?  Enabling, you say?  Clearly you don't understand the parameters under which I kept him home.

Yesterday, his teacher sent home a reminder about missing work so that we could help him catch up before the trimester ends.  Tomorrow.  That may have been enough warning for your average 3rd grader.  Not so for my son.  He was missing approximately 48 pieces of homework (I am not even close to exaggerating). 

Let me explain a little bit here.  My son is quite intelligent.  Brilliant, even.  And his mother may be slightly biased.  Anyway, he is performing well above grade level in all subjects.  He writes very clever stories and builds incredible structures with his legos.  He regularly humors us with his creative stories and precocious vocabulary.

But he is a slob.  Disorganized.  Haphazard.  You get the picture.

I knew this was an issue.  I thought that I was doing well at regularly checking in with his teacher and making sure we were catching up on late assignments.   Obviously, my assumptions were erroneous.

So this morning, after dropping the other kids at school and humming the appropriate dirge for the situation, I made his favorite breakfast - egg, sausage and cheese burritos, accompanied by hot chocolate and orange juice. 

Are you thinking of words such as coddling?  spoiling?

Once again, clearly you misunderstand me.  Think of Ben Linus treating Kate to an exquisite breakfast by the ocean shortly after capturing her and her friends.  Ben tells Kate that he wants her to have something nice to remember because the next 2 weeks are going to be very unpleasant.  Yeah, it was like that with my son.  I made it clear that today would not be fun. 

It will be a whip-cracking, homework-cranking day.  No TV, no computer, no legos, no toys at all until every last crumpled paper is finished.

Oh, no.  It will not be a fun day at all.

And once that is done, the hubs and I will have to come with some very strict criteria under which he operates from now on.  Because I assure you I will not be bailing him out in college.

Shaming the Dishwasher

In general,  I am very thankful for electrical appliances.  I often feel a sense of gratification after loading up my washer, putting a cake in the oven, or turning on the vacuum cleaner.  I know that when I come back, I will have a clean load of clothing, a delicious cake, or a clean carpet.   


However, it's been a long time since I've felt that way about the dishwasher.  Now, when I load it up, I taunt it, "What are you going to leave caked on my dishes this time?"  I even spend extra time rinsing off all the little particles of food so it will just have to finish off the miniscule traces that I've left behind.  "There, you stupid, lazy, good-for-nothin', brackin' frackin' piece of worthless junk.  I washed the whole dang thing by hand!  Could you at least sanitize it for me???"  You might suggest that I talk nicer to it, but believe me, I've tried that.  And I've tried cleaning it on a regular basis - running vinegar through it, running bleach through it, running it empty so it can wash away any hidden grime - but to no avail.  It's still just a 90-lb. weakling.  I still have greasy dishes.  Sediment.  Baked on gunk.

I often end up washing many things by hand, and only putting the "sure" things into the dishwasher, like drinking cups. . . .that had only been used for water.

Here is a list of things that I believe that my dishwasher can no longer remove:

gravy
ketchup
mustard
mayonnaise
salad dressing
peanut butter
jelly
milk
eggs
oatmeal
applesauce 
frosting
chocolate
grease
oil
shortening   
butter
pudding
jello
soup
cream cheese
guacamole
refried beans
bananas
smoothies
yogurt
ice cream
potatoes
spaghetti sauce
custard
mousse
mashed potatoes

Here is a list of things that I know, for a fact, that my dishwasher can remove:

Cool Whip

In today's tough economy, we can't just go out and buy a new appliance, especially when the old one still "works" (and I hope you know that I use that term in the most sarcastic way possible).  So I've been left trying to finesse the piece of scrap (I wanted to leave the "s" off that word, but I didn't want to offend anyone) that is wasting space in my kitchen.  Still, nothing.

Finally, I've resorted to this.  Please don't think I'm being too harsh.  It's just that I've tried everything else. 

As I tried to take this picture this morning, my daughter walked right in front of the camera.  I snapped at her, "Can't you see I'm trying to take a picture here???"  My other daughter leaned over and whispered, "I think Mom has gone off the deep end."  

Obviously, they have no idea how maddening this situation is.

My Son, The Camaro Nut

I'm a little worried about my son. He is 7.

The other day, he said, “My favorite kind of car is a Camaro.”

“Really?” I asked. “Where did you see a Camaro?”

“Oh,” he replies, “I didn't see one. Matt just told me they're the coolest car ever.”

Fear strikes my heart as I jump to the only conclusion possible: My son will be a mulleted, heavy-metal-band-loving, Camaro-driving pothead.

Yes, I know this is a stereotype. But if you grew up in podunk-ville Michigan where every kid wanted a souped up muscle car, you would jump to the same conclusion. Some kids actually saved their meager earnings from working on the family farm or at the local fish processing place, and they were able to live their dream of squealing their tires in front of the high school before they went home to don their shit-kickers for the evening milking. Others were so desperate, they just painted flames on their AMC Gremlins and hoped no one would notice how slow they were going while they pushed their cars down the street.

Here's a question: do ALL boys EVERYWHERE end up craving cool cars? Is it inherent in the male gene, or is there an unspoken code among all males of our species that all little boys must desire cool cars when they grow up? I mean, have you ever met a little boy who wanted nothing more than to grow up and drive a 15-passenger van? Or a station wagon?

Anyway, my fears about my son began to grow, when days later, I found him sitting on the couch, remote in hand, completely absorbed in “Dream On” by Aerosmith, which he found on YouTube. I'm also fairly certain I've heard him humming “Stairway to Heaven” recently. Pink Floyd is next, I just know it.

I admit I will probably not have to deal the pothead part. (Or is “pothead” not politically correct any more? Maybe I should say  “cannabis connoisseur.”) We talk openly to our kids about smoking, drinking, and drugs and all the problems that could ensue. In addition, my super-sonic sense of smell can detect that stuff from a mile away. Yes, I may have encountered the smell of weed more than once in my life, but I have never tried it, I promise. And I never bought the story that the scent was a Renuzit air freshener.

In the end, I bought my son a folder with a picture of a Camaro on it, for him to use at school. He seemed thrilled with it, and it seems to have appeased his Camaro hunger. 

My fears have been allayed for the time being.

Band-Aids

The last time I bought band-aids, I got some cool kid-friendly ones.  I am pretty cheap, so that doesn't happen very often.  It's usually the hard plastic variety that don't bend or breathe, are not waterproof or clear, and just basically stop the bleeding long enough for the band-aid to fall off.  Besides, we all know that if we buy the fun band-aids, they're gone in, like, 17 hours because everyone has a life-threatening cut that can only be soothed by Curious George.  Even while I've been sitting here with the box of band-aids next to me (I need visual aids), my daughter came over and just took one for no reason.  Her reason?  "I had a pimple on my elbow."  Sounds kind of fishy to me.

Well, for some silly reason, I have been getting many more paper cuts and hangnails than usual, and I neglected to purchase any grown-up band-aids.  So guess what I've been wearing?  Yup, it's a toss up between Disney Princesses or Spiderman.

Yesterday, I went grocery shopping.  I don't usually get too gussied up just to buy toilet paper and mac & cheese, but I try to look like I at least care a little bit.  So, I showered, shaved, put on some deodorant and enough makeup to cover up my chin whiskers (I really can't wait until I can afford laser hair removal).  After bandaging up a small nick that I sustained while shaving, I was ready to go.

I went to many different stores in my quest to obtain vittles for the brood.  (Believe it or not, that word is really spelled "victuals", but who on earth would know what I was trying to say if I didn't spell it phonetically?)  (Also, can you tell by my lavish use of parenthetical sentences, that I have severe ADD?)


I even went to Kohls - my favorite store in the Universe, case you didn't know - with the pretense of returning a few items.  But for me to leave Kohls without an actual purchase is inconceivable.  That's what my Kohls credit card is for, right?  I managed to find 2 dresses and 3 pairs of shoes.  (Don't judge me - I haven't bought new shoes for myself since. . . well, never mind.  Just don't judge me.) Oh yeah, and I guess I picked up a few things for Father's Day, too.

Once the errands were completed, I loaded myself into my van with all my goodies.  I looked down at my leg and noticed a little white sticker, which happened to be only slightly whiter than my Michigan pallor.  It stared up at me in bold black letters, a band-aid shaped like a skateboard (which is really not that unusual, come to think of it) that read,

Skateboarding is not a Crime!

I am re-posting this particular story because an old friend just started a new blog called Rev. Dr. Garbage Man. And on his FB page, he posted this picture of one of his findings as a Garbage Man.

Although I didn't previously ask for permission to use this photo, you can go to Rev. Dr. Garbage Man's blog and give him the credit for it.

But here is MY story, from a few years back:

Aren't You Glad We Didn't Bury the Squirrel There?  October 17, 2010

A few days ago, my children were out in the driveway after Daddy had driven away to get us some Frosties from Wendy's. Low and behold a fat squirrel lay in the driveway. It wasn't squashed or anything. It was just. . . .there. My kids came rushing in: “Mom, there's an injured squirrel in the driveway!” While their little hearts were gushing with compassion, and undoubtedly their little brains were overflowing with ideas about how they would play nursemaid to the ailing squirrel, I was thinking, “Oh, great, it's not dead yet. That means we'll have to find some “humane” way to put it out of its misery.” My mind quickly recalled an unfortunate incident that happened when I was around 10 years old, where I witnessed an injured chipmunk being bashed over the head with a shovel. Not a pleasant memory.

Obviously, this was a man's job. So I herded the children inside and waited for my husband to return. I dragged the trash dumpster into the driveway so that he would stop before running over the squirrel, although in retrospect, that would have solved the problem of having to put the squirrel down.

He was not pleased to have to deal with an overgrown rodent before enjoying his Frosty. He and I stood there and pondered the squirrel for several minutes, trying to decide what to do, and debating about whether the squirrel was alive or dead.

“Look, his little chest is moving.”

“No, he's not moving.”

“Yes, Get a mirror and put it in front of his mouth.”

“No, if he was alive, he'd be struggling to get away.”

“He's alive! He's just stunned.”

My husband finally went and got the edger. The shovel was in the deep, dark back yard and my husband did not want to go that far for a dying squirrel. So he tried to pick it up with the edger and then he said, “Let's just bury it over there,” motioning to the neighboring yard, where there the house is being renovated by Habitat for Humanity, and it just so happened that they had started digging up the yard that very day. So, my hubby figured that they would never know the difference if we buried a rodent carcass in the yard. However, knowing a bit about landscaping myself, I pointed out that they may actually have to dig deeper to plant things like trees, or to pour cement for a sidewalk. My husband insisted that no one would notice.

Luckily, our friend Brad happened along just at that time. Brad was out walking his little dog, a shi tzu-yorkie mix, which by the way, is a little bit of a humorous scene. Brad is a Man's Man. Brad is meat-and-potatoes man who works hard at his job as an accountant a cowboy and comes home in his Suzuki Samurai Dodge Ram truck and quaffs several MGD's without batting an eyelash. (Also, Brad is not his real name. I told him I was going to write about him and he suggested that I call him Brad. I think he wanted me to draw some comparison between him and Brad Pitt, but I'm a humor writer, not a fantasy writer.) So, it's just slightly amusing to see Brad walking this little rhinestone-studded-collar-wearing fur ball.

Anyway, I breathed a sigh of relief when Brad walked over and offered to help. I figured I would leave the men to it and told my children not to watch because I didn't know what they would actually do. However it got taken care of, the squirrel was removed from our driveway and moved on to a better place – I simply did not ask for details.

A few days later, I noticed a lovely little evergreen shrub had been planted in the neighboring yard. Yup! You guessed it - in the exact place that my husband had suggested we bury the squirrel. So, I had to take the opportunity to tell him that I was right. And that I hope he didn't actually bury the squirrel there after I went into the house.

Because nothing says, “Welcome to the neighborhood” like a dead, rotting animal buried in the front yard.

"Reverend Doctor Garbage Man"

Hey there!  Check out my new blogger friend, who also happens to be an old IRL friend.  This man was solely responsible for my spending 15 months in the Philippines after graduating from college.  Ok, so maybe not "solely responsible", but he was the one who suggested I do some missionary work there, and he helped make arrangements for me to go.  I will be eternally grateful since he was so instrumental in orchestrating that life-changing experience.

Without further ado, here is Reverend Doctor Garbage Man.

Please check out his blog and let him know what you think!