Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Aloysius Snuffleupagus at Your Service
A co-worker appeared in my doorway, with a grin on her face: "I sent a friend of mine a link to your snake story, and he didn't believe that I really know you."
"... like, I'm a mystical being?"
"Like, he thought your blog was too cool for me to know you. I was like, 'No, really, she's a co-worker! She's right down the hall!' I thought you'd get a kick out of that."
I do get a kick out of it. Mainly because people who actually know me? Like this co-worker, who is willowy and beautiful and classy? Not so impressed! LOL! So, thanks, blogosphere, for granting me the cool points I never had. Imaginary friends never leave you.
Update: My blog readership is up 28,200% this month according to Google Analytics. I didn't even think that was a real number.
"... like, I'm a mystical being?"
"Like, he thought your blog was too cool for me to know you. I was like, 'No, really, she's a co-worker! She's right down the hall!' I thought you'd get a kick out of that."
I do get a kick out of it. Mainly because people who actually know me? Like this co-worker, who is willowy and beautiful and classy? Not so impressed! LOL! So, thanks, blogosphere, for granting me the cool points I never had. Imaginary friends never leave you.
Update: My blog readership is up 28,200% this month according to Google Analytics. I didn't even think that was a real number.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Impulse Override
"Blech!" Emmie says, and hocks her gum onto the ground. "Dis gum taste like banana farts."
That is exactly what that gum tastes like, and the reason I'm not chewing it. But I can't encourage that behavior. So I have to sit with my eyes closed and just breathe to keep from laughing. It's super funny (banana farts! LOL!), but rude. She sees me do this, recognizes it for what it usually is (a precursor to privileges being taken away) and panics.
"But, Mama, you always tell me to tell da troof!" she pleads. "My brain tell me dat's true, an' den I say it!"
"Yes, but we don't spit our food on the ground - and you don't have to say every true thing out loud. What you said was not polite," I explain. "It's best to think impolite thoughts to ourselves, and not speak them."
She considers this for a moment: "But den I won't hab nuffing to say."
... Unfortunately, she has a point.
That is exactly what that gum tastes like, and the reason I'm not chewing it. But I can't encourage that behavior. So I have to sit with my eyes closed and just breathe to keep from laughing. It's super funny (banana farts! LOL!), but rude. She sees me do this, recognizes it for what it usually is (a precursor to privileges being taken away) and panics.
"But, Mama, you always tell me to tell da troof!" she pleads. "My brain tell me dat's true, an' den I say it!"
"Yes, but we don't spit our food on the ground - and you don't have to say every true thing out loud. What you said was not polite," I explain. "It's best to think impolite thoughts to ourselves, and not speak them."
She considers this for a moment: "But den I won't hab nuffing to say."
... Unfortunately, she has a point.
Friday, June 10, 2011
And so it begins...
The daughter of a friend has asked her Facebook friends to poke me continually. Of course, you know this means war.
Sons and daughters of Augusta, I am Stacey Kathleen McGowen-Hudson. I've heard that I am to old to be cool - that if I were cool, I'd invent something "2.0" or write novels about supernatural wusses. But I see a whole army of Gen Xers here in defense of the tyranny of tweens.
You have come to social media as free users, and free users you are. What would you do without social media dominance? Will you strike a blow for generational superiority? We are not the generation that brought you brooding vampires and Justin Bieber. We are the generation that brought you Cameron Crowe and Richard Linklater's cacophony of suburban romantics/malcontents, and Pearl Jam and Nirvana! (We're going to ignore that little Spice Girls hiccup)
"Poke?" you may ask. "Against the tween mob with all day to troll Facebook? No, we will defriend; and we will live to post status updates another day."
Aye, poke and you may get flamed. Run and you'll continue to update your status -- at least a while. And tweeting in your beds many years from now, would you be willing to trade all the posts from this day to that for one chance, just one chance to come back here and tell our tweenemies that they may take over our pop culture with corporate music and asexual monsters, but they'll never take our tweetdom?!
So poke them. Poke them all!
Sons and daughters of Augusta, I am Stacey Kathleen McGowen-Hudson. I've heard that I am to old to be cool - that if I were cool, I'd invent something "2.0" or write novels about supernatural wusses. But I see a whole army of Gen Xers here in defense of the tyranny of tweens.
You have come to social media as free users, and free users you are. What would you do without social media dominance? Will you strike a blow for generational superiority? We are not the generation that brought you brooding vampires and Justin Bieber. We are the generation that brought you Cameron Crowe and Richard Linklater's cacophony of suburban romantics/malcontents, and Pearl Jam and Nirvana! (We're going to ignore that little Spice Girls hiccup)
"Poke?" you may ask. "Against the tween mob with all day to troll Facebook? No, we will defriend; and we will live to post status updates another day."
Aye, poke and you may get flamed. Run and you'll continue to update your status -- at least a while. And tweeting in your beds many years from now, would you be willing to trade all the posts from this day to that for one chance, just one chance to come back here and tell our tweenemies that they may take over our pop culture with corporate music and asexual monsters, but they'll never take our tweetdom?!
So poke them. Poke them all!
- https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1586175349
- https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100001734013824
- http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1330288065&ref=ts
- https://www.facebook.com/Madalyn.Carlson
Wednesday, June 08, 2011
Emmie's nightmare - and mine, too!
"I had a bad dream, Mama!" Emmie said.
"Oh, no, what was it about?"
"It was about a bad man who turned everybody into grown-ups - even me!"
"Oh, no, what was it about?"
"It was about a bad man who turned everybody into grown-ups - even me!"
Monday, June 06, 2011
And the next American Idol is...
I was visiting with my friend, Amber. During our conversation, I notice Emerson building a stuffed animal wall in front of Amber's daughter, Evie.
"Now, you can't cross dis line, or else you gonna be in trouble," Emmie said, as politely as one can say such a thing to a 3-year-old.
Evie's little face crumpled, and I realized that they weren't playing a game. Emmie didn't want Evie near her new toy, a karaoke machine Amber had just gifted her. (I foresee thousands of hours of Bieber in my future, and it is not pretty.)
"Emerson!" I said. "That's not how we treat other children."
Evie buried her face in Amber's lap, clearly upset.
"She thinks you're serious, honey; tell her you were joking," Amber said.
Emmie was totally serious, but she obliged, gently telling Evie she was just teasing, and they could play together. But then she turned to me, karaoke microphone in hand, with a plea for understanding: "But, Mom, I'm gonna be a famous singer when I growed up an' I hafta practice!"
I was stumped as to which misconception to address first. The one that says I'm going to approve that career choice, or the one that says you can stomp a 3-year-old's feelings to get there.
I guess I'll be paying for piano lessons soon.
"Violin," Emerson corrected me. "But I already knowed how to play it."
Oh, well, cheaper for me, then.
"Now, you can't cross dis line, or else you gonna be in trouble," Emmie said, as politely as one can say such a thing to a 3-year-old.
Evie's little face crumpled, and I realized that they weren't playing a game. Emmie didn't want Evie near her new toy, a karaoke machine Amber had just gifted her. (I foresee thousands of hours of Bieber in my future, and it is not pretty.)
"Emerson!" I said. "That's not how we treat other children."
Evie buried her face in Amber's lap, clearly upset.
"She thinks you're serious, honey; tell her you were joking," Amber said.
Emmie was totally serious, but she obliged, gently telling Evie she was just teasing, and they could play together. But then she turned to me, karaoke microphone in hand, with a plea for understanding: "But, Mom, I'm gonna be a famous singer when I growed up an' I hafta practice!"
I was stumped as to which misconception to address first. The one that says I'm going to approve that career choice, or the one that says you can stomp a 3-year-old's feelings to get there.
I guess I'll be paying for piano lessons soon.
"Violin," Emerson corrected me. "But I already knowed how to play it."
Oh, well, cheaper for me, then.
Saturday, June 04, 2011
How an injured child sent me into an existential crisis
We're at the Columbia County Library when a little boy - about 7-years-old - injures himself at the splash pad. There are tears. Some shrieking. His knee and ankle are skinned, and he is distraught.
"Nooooo!" he shrieks at his dad, who is trying to rinse the cuts with cold water. "Get away from me!"
It's all I can do to keep from snapping my fingers at him and giving him a time-out. But his father is gentle, less authoritarian than I am.
"Hey," he crouches down next to his son. "Daddy used to do this all the time. It'll feel better soon."
"GO AWAY!" he shrieks. His father complies, retreating around the picnic table to let his son deal with it on his own.
After about a minute, he cries, "Uhhhhhh! Help meeeee!"
These are dramatics I would not tolerate from Emerson. Our motto is "No tears, no blood" for the simple reason that hysterics solve nothing - and she is prone to the dramatic. But I am touched by the loving response from both of his parents, even as the boy continues to direct his frustration and pain at them. He barks. They soothe.
I offer them the Ziploc bag of ice in our cooler. The boys shrieks at them. They back off again. Shortly, he calms. They try the ice.
"Get it off me!" he yells.
They comply. I tuck the bag back into the cooler and go back to my book, surreptitiously observing. After a few minutes, he asks to go play, and runs off.
Although not the tactic I have chosen, I am impressed with the calm and love with which they treat their children. And it reminds me of a time when my brother, about 7 years old, hurt himself while riding his bike in our neighborhood.
His leg skinned and bleeding from a scrape that covered most of his shin - certainly a painful injury - he lay on the couch. My mother and sister and I crowded around him with ice, towels, and Bactine.
"I hope I don't die!" he cried.
We laughed, and his involvement in the pain was broken. He grinned sheepishly through his tears. "I'm not going to die?" he asked. We assured him that dying from scrapes was not so common in the 1980s.
So we coddled him, but I don't coddle Emerson as much. What is the best way to handle these situations? Different techniques for different children? Or a blanket approach to each child? I don't know about anyone else, but I sometimes feel like each choice I make - whether to soothe her after an injury or help her to shake it off, for example - alters Emerson's future in some way. And that's a daunting sensation. But maybe that's what parents are supposed to feel.
How can we ever know if we're making the right choices? Is it in how the turn out as adults, or how they behave as children? Their ability to handle the day-to-day, or their relative grace under pressure? Their personalities and manners, or their professional accomplishments? And, of course, how much "nurture" can change the "nature" of our children?
Still, every time Emmie does something out of the ordinary (such as beat a four-year-old in a foot race, then turn and scream "In your face!" and yes, she did just do that) I worry. Will people appreciate the quirky sense of humor I have accidentally passed on to her? Or will they see a smart-alecky brat who needs to be put in her place? (Like my fourth grade teacher - thanks so much, Mrs. Van Tone.)
And will this panicking child, in pain from the two quarter-sized patches of missing skin on his knee and ankle, remember that he was allowed to order his parents around, or will he remember the depths of the kindness and selflessness in their response?
Do we only ever find out while spending thousands in therapy? Or is private self-examination enough? Is self-examination, perhaps, even the whole point?
I don't know. Does anyone, really?
"Nooooo!" he shrieks at his dad, who is trying to rinse the cuts with cold water. "Get away from me!"
It's all I can do to keep from snapping my fingers at him and giving him a time-out. But his father is gentle, less authoritarian than I am.
"Hey," he crouches down next to his son. "Daddy used to do this all the time. It'll feel better soon."
"GO AWAY!" he shrieks. His father complies, retreating around the picnic table to let his son deal with it on his own.
After about a minute, he cries, "Uhhhhhh! Help meeeee!"
These are dramatics I would not tolerate from Emerson. Our motto is "No tears, no blood" for the simple reason that hysterics solve nothing - and she is prone to the dramatic. But I am touched by the loving response from both of his parents, even as the boy continues to direct his frustration and pain at them. He barks. They soothe.
I offer them the Ziploc bag of ice in our cooler. The boys shrieks at them. They back off again. Shortly, he calms. They try the ice.
"Get it off me!" he yells.
They comply. I tuck the bag back into the cooler and go back to my book, surreptitiously observing. After a few minutes, he asks to go play, and runs off.
Although not the tactic I have chosen, I am impressed with the calm and love with which they treat their children. And it reminds me of a time when my brother, about 7 years old, hurt himself while riding his bike in our neighborhood.
His leg skinned and bleeding from a scrape that covered most of his shin - certainly a painful injury - he lay on the couch. My mother and sister and I crowded around him with ice, towels, and Bactine.
"I hope I don't die!" he cried.
We laughed, and his involvement in the pain was broken. He grinned sheepishly through his tears. "I'm not going to die?" he asked. We assured him that dying from scrapes was not so common in the 1980s.
So we coddled him, but I don't coddle Emerson as much. What is the best way to handle these situations? Different techniques for different children? Or a blanket approach to each child? I don't know about anyone else, but I sometimes feel like each choice I make - whether to soothe her after an injury or help her to shake it off, for example - alters Emerson's future in some way. And that's a daunting sensation. But maybe that's what parents are supposed to feel.
How can we ever know if we're making the right choices? Is it in how the turn out as adults, or how they behave as children? Their ability to handle the day-to-day, or their relative grace under pressure? Their personalities and manners, or their professional accomplishments? And, of course, how much "nurture" can change the "nature" of our children?
Still, every time Emmie does something out of the ordinary (such as beat a four-year-old in a foot race, then turn and scream "In your face!" and yes, she did just do that) I worry. Will people appreciate the quirky sense of humor I have accidentally passed on to her? Or will they see a smart-alecky brat who needs to be put in her place? (Like my fourth grade teacher - thanks so much, Mrs. Van Tone.)
And will this panicking child, in pain from the two quarter-sized patches of missing skin on his knee and ankle, remember that he was allowed to order his parents around, or will he remember the depths of the kindness and selflessness in their response?
Do we only ever find out while spending thousands in therapy? Or is private self-examination enough? Is self-examination, perhaps, even the whole point?
I don't know. Does anyone, really?
Thursday, June 02, 2011
I Have Had it With These Monkey-Fighting Snakes on This Monday-to-Friday Plane (Subtitle: 911 is Not a Joke)
Augusta, Ga. - It was a morning like any other. Hahaha! Who am I kidding? None of my mornings are like any others!
I woke up at 4:30 for absolutely no reason and decided I would start my day. "This is awesome! I'm gonna be early to everything!" I thought, and toddled down the hall to go potty.
And then I noticed that Emmie had left her iPod earbuds in the floor - because at 4:30 a.m. to a nearsighted person not wearing her glasses, hot pink headphones and a brown snake look exactly like, amIright?
Wait, a snake?!
Yep. In my hallway, pressed up against the wall in an 'S' shape, was a snakey snakelike snakeiful mcsnakerson.
It looked like this:
This is not a photo of the actual snake. My Blackberry was beside the bed. In my bedroom. Where my child was sleeping. And the snake lay between the two of us. That was not ideal.
"I'll just sneak to the bedroom," I reasoned. I've read that snakes would rather freeze than fight. They prefer to play dead or blend in. So I smooshed myself as far into the wall as I could, and slid down the hallway.
"Ooohhh, bleep bleep bleep!" I whispered. Only I didn't say 'bleep.' I didn't say 'bleep' a lot.
Turns out, it wasn't such a good plan. The snake - which was well within striking distance in my narrow hallway - did not freeze, or play dead, or try to bite me, or apologize profusely in a British accent and offer to show himself the door. All of those would have been preferable to what the stupid snake - which had obviously failed serpent school in the House of Slytherin - chose to do: shoot directly into the bedroom where Emerson was sleeping.
Bleeeeeeeep! Oh, bleepbleepbleep!
It gets worse. We moved in only a couple of months ago, and the mattress and box spring are still sitting on the floor. I have the bed frame, but there are bolts I need and something-somethings and I haven't gotten around to doing that crap yet. Point being: Snakes follow heat sources, and the only source of heat in the bedroom was my sleeping child.
Sleeping child. Low-lying bed. Deadly viper. These things do not inspire a chorus of "Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy."
At the doorway, the snake stopped, and turned. And it made a face like this:
Motherbleeper.
"Emerson!" I called loudly.
"whhuu?" she answered, sleepily.
"We have a problem." From the hallway, I felt her mood change. "Turn on the light. But don't get out of the bed."
The nightstand lamp clicked on. The snake paused in the doorway, confused. I saw my shot. And in 3-D, slow-motion, Eterna Vivid 250D 8546/8646 with special effects by Wetta and audio from the $6 Million Man, I leapt heroically.
(Pity I was not wearing the cool mom jeans.)
I landed on the bed and grabbed the telephone as the snake slid under the armoire.
"Wuss wrong, mama?" Emmie asked.
"There's a snake in the room," I said, and bravely dialed 911. Yes, people, I called emergency services. Because when there is deadly wildlife in my house, I totally panic.
Emmie scrunched behind me, moaning softly. "Is it poisonous?" she asked.
"Actually, the term is venomous when referring to snakes," I said. Yes, I am a giant nerd.
"It is vemmonous?" she asked.
"I don't know," I answered. "Could be. Probably not. But we're going to be careful, just in case."
"911, what is your emergency?" the operator answered.
"Girl, there is a copperhead in my bedroom," I blurted.
The operator, who is surely accustomed to more terrifying situations, made a noise like this:
(That is what Willis was talkin' about, y'all!)
I'm pretty sure that isn't protocol.
"Are you in immediate danger?" she asked. Suddenly, I realized there were probably better courses of action I could have chosen...
Nope, nevermind. Don't care. "Yes," I replied. "Although it's possible that it's not a copperhead. I didn't ask it. So your officer might show up and laugh at me."
"They won't laugh at you."
"Ma'am, have you met your officers? They will laugh at me, and I will deserve it."
"[snort] ...Okay, where is the snake now?"
"Under the armoire- no, wait, it's coming out from under the... no, it's going back - aw, crap. It's right by the door." I pointed it out to Emmie, and then had to stop her from going over to make friends.
"Can you get out of the room to let the officers in?"
"I wasn't planning on ever getting off the bed! I could climb out the window, but then we'd all be locked out. Can't they just shoot the lock? Or burn down the door with a flamethrower?"
As it turns out, shooting locks is not standard protocol. And the Richmond County Sheriff's Department does not issue flamethrowers to its officers - a gross oversight. Finally, I agreed to try. I snuck towards the door with Emmie behind me. I thought about dwarf-tossing her into the hallway. But the snake retreated again. I picked her up and swung her gently through the door and into the hallway, where she landed gracefully. Me, not so much...
"Are you out of the room?" the operator asked.
"Emmie is."
"Where are you?"
"I'm near the door."
"Can you get out?"
"No!"
"Why not?"
"My legs won't move."
"Why not?"
"I think they're scared!"
I heard her chuckle. Emmie motioned from the door: "Come on, Mama! You can do it!"
I would not be upstaged by my 6-year-old. "Oh, bleepbleepbleep!" I said, and jumped again.
We ran down the hallway to the sound of the operator's laughter (I liked and appreciated her humor), unlocked the front door and jumped onto the couch. We stood there - on the couch - until an officer showed up.
"You got a snake?" he asked. "I like snakes."
"You like vemmonous ones?" Emmie asked. I thought it a practical question. He grinned and I pointed the way. He was relaxed and interested. I got the feeling he rather wanted to find the snake - and that made me very happy.
A second officer showed up. Oh, how I love the RCSD.
"You got a snake?" he asked.
"Yes. Enormous," I answered.
"Spittin' cobra?" he grinned.
"Hell, yes," I answered. He chuckled and moseyed down the hall.
I was a little concerned. These guys - I'm going to call them Poncho and Lefty because of their cowboy-like resolve - seemed utterly unfazed by the situation. They were dripping weaponry and Kevlar, but their ankles were totally unprotected. I have it on good authority that snakes LOVE ankles.
Just then, a third officer stuck his head in the front door and peeked around. Seriously, if you ever need anything done at 4:30 in the morning, call the RCSD. I have a feeling they'd have shown up for a cockroach. And I like that about them.
"You got a snake in your house?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. The other officers are in the bedroom," I replied.
"Uh-uh, I ain't goin' back there," he said. And I didn't blame him, because in my mind it was now a 20-foot-long black mamba with a laser gun attached to its head.
"Are you skeered?" Emmie asked him.
"Yes, I am," he replied, without embarrassment.
"Hey, come on back," Poncho called. The third officer - whom I'll call Curly - shook his head with resignation and walked very slowly to the bedroom.
The snake had slithered out from under the armoire, and I could hear the officers moving things around to find it. Drawers opened and closed. Doors slid. I had dumped out almost the entire contents of my underwear drawer looking for a pair of socks yesterday, so I'm sure they went through those, too. Great. At least they were clean, Mom.
Poncho came out: "You got a broom?"
I pointed him to the utility closet.
"Hey," Curly peeked out of the bedroom. "I think we found it."
That was fast! I skipped down the hall, Emmie behind me.
"Is this it?" Curly asked - AND THREW THE SNAKE AT ME!
BLEEEEEEP!
I screamed and jumped and shrieked and ran. My neighbors are probably still in GRHealth, recovering from the heart attack I gave them. But Curly had not really thrown a snake at me, which would - in my opinion - have justified me picking up my sofa and bashing him to death with it. He had tossed one of my belts. Emmie knelt on the floor, laughing so hard that her stomach hurt and she couldn't stand.
I chased him down the hall. He ran from me, laughing at his cleverness. Oh, so hilarious, officer! I smacked him in the arm.
"It's a good thing you're wearing a gun or I would murder you!" I exclaimed. Then I apologized, because that is not a smart thing to say to an armed officer whom I just assaulted - and totally got away with it, too. He was too busy laughing to notice. Yeah, just keep it up, chucklehead.
Emmie was still shrieking with laughter. Somehow, this was not going as I expected. I wanted a platoon of soldiers from Fort Gordon to march up, kick in the door, show the snake their boomsticks, and fill it full of hot lead.
Poncho and Lefty called Curly back into the room. He reluctantly complied.
I have a photo that I will not post to protect the identities of the three officers whose responses I appreciate so much: Poncho is on his knees with my broom, trying to get the snake out of the closet. Lefty is standing behind him, acting as backup. Curly is hiding behind Lefty, gripping his belt and peeking out with a flashlight. It was an awesome scene.
"We got it!" Lefty called. "For real, this time. Do you want to see it?"
Curly shot out the front door. That's how I knew Lefty was telling the truth. Emmie and I trotted down the hallway. The snake was coiled around Poncho's hand.
"What is it?" I asked.
"I dunno," Poncho said. "I might take it home and find out."
He asked if I wanted a photo (hello, of course), and then slid the snake into a drawstring bag. The officers were on their way in seconds, waving off our gratitude. Curly was still chuckling.
"Bye, polices! Fank you!" Emmie called.
She and I sat back down on the couch and grinned at each other.
"Well, that was an adventure, wasn't it?" I said. Emmie laughed and nodded.
And then someone knocked on the door. It is just a big frickin' party at my house.
"You got a snake?" It was a lady in a khaki uniform, holding a snake pole. Dispatch had also called Animal Control.
"Oh, they just took it," I said, brightly. She glared.
"Who just took it?"
"Um, sheriff's deputies?" I said. She continued to glare. "But I have a picture!"
I proudly held up my Crackberry. She looked at me like I am an idiot - which, frequently, I am.
"That is a wood snake," she said, then turned on her heel and stomped off into the darkness. And then it occurred to me that maybe Animal Control doesn't work 24 hours. They probably dragged this poor lady out of bed for nothing. I'd have glared at me, too.
Just then, the alarm went off. Only it wasn't a dream. It was 6:30 a.m., and I was no further along in my day than I was when I woke up two hours before. Of course.
"I can't believe you called 911," Scott said. "I had that python for all those years, and you call the police?!"
"If I'd called you at 4:30 in the morning and asked you to come get a snake, would you have come?"
"Hell, no. I'd have told you to sweep it out with the broom and I'd have gone back to bed," he scoffed.
"And that's why I didn't call you, smarty."
Will I call 911 again if a snake shows up in my house again? Bleep, yes! Maybe they didn't quarantine my home and call in the CDC, or the World Wildlife Fund, or whoever. But they were polite and efficient, funny and kind. And they got the snake.
I did a critter patrol the next couple of days, in case there was a gaggle or a flock or a nest. While I didn't find any more snakes, I did completely overreact and murder Emmie's jump rope with the broom.
Ooh, side note, herpetologists: A group of snakes should be called a murder, like crows.
So what did I learn, boys and girls?
First, it is illegal in Georgia to kill nonvenomous snakes... even if you reallyreallyreally want to.
Second, RCSD is woefully undergunned. Look into flamethrowers, Sheriff.
Finally, never, ever get ready for bed and think, "It's just me and Emmie. Who cares what I wear to sleep?" Because if I'm ever again jumping up and down and running from a snake/belt, I really want to be wearing underwear.
YES, MOM, I DID JUST SAY THAT. And someone, somewhere, is thanking me for it. Probably - especially - the Richmond County Sheriff's Department.
I woke up at 4:30 for absolutely no reason and decided I would start my day. "This is awesome! I'm gonna be early to everything!" I thought, and toddled down the hall to go potty.
And then I noticed that Emmie had left her iPod earbuds in the floor - because at 4:30 a.m. to a nearsighted person not wearing her glasses, hot pink headphones and a brown snake look exactly like, amIright?
Wait, a snake?!
Yep. In my hallway, pressed up against the wall in an 'S' shape, was a snakey snakelike snakeiful mcsnakerson.
It looked like this:
 |
| This is a venomous copperhead. Not usually deadly, but it can cause severe tissue damage. |
This is not a photo of the actual snake. My Blackberry was beside the bed. In my bedroom. Where my child was sleeping. And the snake lay between the two of us. That was not ideal.
"I'll just sneak to the bedroom," I reasoned. I've read that snakes would rather freeze than fight. They prefer to play dead or blend in. So I smooshed myself as far into the wall as I could, and slid down the hallway.
"Ooohhh, bleep bleep bleep!" I whispered. Only I didn't say 'bleep.' I didn't say 'bleep' a lot.
Turns out, it wasn't such a good plan. The snake - which was well within striking distance in my narrow hallway - did not freeze, or play dead, or try to bite me, or apologize profusely in a British accent and offer to show himself the door. All of those would have been preferable to what the stupid snake - which had obviously failed serpent school in the House of Slytherin - chose to do: shoot directly into the bedroom where Emerson was sleeping.
Bleeeeeeeep! Oh, bleepbleepbleep!
It gets worse. We moved in only a couple of months ago, and the mattress and box spring are still sitting on the floor. I have the bed frame, but there are bolts I need and something-somethings and I haven't gotten around to doing that crap yet. Point being: Snakes follow heat sources, and the only source of heat in the bedroom was my sleeping child.
 |
| This was the scenario in my head. Who is impressed with my awesome photo editing skillz? It looks totally real! |
Sleeping child. Low-lying bed. Deadly viper. These things do not inspire a chorus of "Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy."
At the doorway, the snake stopped, and turned. And it made a face like this:
 |
| I swear, y'all. This is what it did. Then it chuckled and licked its chops. |
Motherbleeper.
"Emerson!" I called loudly.
"whhuu?" she answered, sleepily.
"We have a problem." From the hallway, I felt her mood change. "Turn on the light. But don't get out of the bed."
The nightstand lamp clicked on. The snake paused in the doorway, confused. I saw my shot. And in 3-D, slow-motion, Eterna Vivid 250D 8546/8646 with special effects by Wetta and audio from the $6 Million Man, I leapt heroically.
(Pity I was not wearing the cool mom jeans.)
I landed on the bed and grabbed the telephone as the snake slid under the armoire.
"Wuss wrong, mama?" Emmie asked.
"There's a snake in the room," I said, and bravely dialed 911. Yes, people, I called emergency services. Because when there is deadly wildlife in my house, I totally panic.
Emmie scrunched behind me, moaning softly. "Is it poisonous?" she asked.
"Actually, the term is venomous when referring to snakes," I said. Yes, I am a giant nerd.
"It is vemmonous?" she asked.
"I don't know," I answered. "Could be. Probably not. But we're going to be careful, just in case."
"911, what is your emergency?" the operator answered.
"Girl, there is a copperhead in my bedroom," I blurted.
The operator, who is surely accustomed to more terrifying situations, made a noise like this:
(That is what Willis was talkin' about, y'all!)
I'm pretty sure that isn't protocol.
"Are you in immediate danger?" she asked. Suddenly, I realized there were probably better courses of action I could have chosen...
Nope, nevermind. Don't care. "Yes," I replied. "Although it's possible that it's not a copperhead. I didn't ask it. So your officer might show up and laugh at me."
"They won't laugh at you."
"Ma'am, have you met your officers? They will laugh at me, and I will deserve it."
"[snort] ...Okay, where is the snake now?"
"Under the armoire- no, wait, it's coming out from under the... no, it's going back - aw, crap. It's right by the door." I pointed it out to Emmie, and then had to stop her from going over to make friends.
"Can you get out of the room to let the officers in?"
"I wasn't planning on ever getting off the bed! I could climb out the window, but then we'd all be locked out. Can't they just shoot the lock? Or burn down the door with a flamethrower?"
As it turns out, shooting locks is not standard protocol. And the Richmond County Sheriff's Department does not issue flamethrowers to its officers - a gross oversight. Finally, I agreed to try. I snuck towards the door with Emmie behind me. I thought about dwarf-tossing her into the hallway. But the snake retreated again. I picked her up and swung her gently through the door and into the hallway, where she landed gracefully. Me, not so much...
"Are you out of the room?" the operator asked.
"Emmie is."
"Where are you?"
"I'm near the door."
"Can you get out?"
"No!"
"Why not?"
"My legs won't move."
"Why not?"
"I think they're scared!"
I heard her chuckle. Emmie motioned from the door: "Come on, Mama! You can do it!"
I would not be upstaged by my 6-year-old. "Oh, bleepbleepbleep!" I said, and jumped again.
We ran down the hallway to the sound of the operator's laughter (I liked and appreciated her humor), unlocked the front door and jumped onto the couch. We stood there - on the couch - until an officer showed up.
"You got a snake?" he asked. "I like snakes."
"You like vemmonous ones?" Emmie asked. I thought it a practical question. He grinned and I pointed the way. He was relaxed and interested. I got the feeling he rather wanted to find the snake - and that made me very happy.
A second officer showed up. Oh, how I love the RCSD.
"You got a snake?" he asked.
"Yes. Enormous," I answered.
"Spittin' cobra?" he grinned.
"Hell, yes," I answered. He chuckled and moseyed down the hall.
I was a little concerned. These guys - I'm going to call them Poncho and Lefty because of their cowboy-like resolve - seemed utterly unfazed by the situation. They were dripping weaponry and Kevlar, but their ankles were totally unprotected. I have it on good authority that snakes LOVE ankles.
 | |||
| Good morning. I am going to bite you, paralyze you, and eat you alive. I will only be momentarily annoyed by your bulletproof vest. |
Just then, a third officer stuck his head in the front door and peeked around. Seriously, if you ever need anything done at 4:30 in the morning, call the RCSD. I have a feeling they'd have shown up for a cockroach. And I like that about them.
"You got a snake in your house?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. The other officers are in the bedroom," I replied.
"Uh-uh, I ain't goin' back there," he said. And I didn't blame him, because in my mind it was now a 20-foot-long black mamba with a laser gun attached to its head.
 |
| Please tell me someone else gets this joke. |
"Are you skeered?" Emmie asked him.
"Yes, I am," he replied, without embarrassment.
"Hey, come on back," Poncho called. The third officer - whom I'll call Curly - shook his head with resignation and walked very slowly to the bedroom.
The snake had slithered out from under the armoire, and I could hear the officers moving things around to find it. Drawers opened and closed. Doors slid. I had dumped out almost the entire contents of my underwear drawer looking for a pair of socks yesterday, so I'm sure they went through those, too. Great. At least they were clean, Mom.
Poncho came out: "You got a broom?"
I pointed him to the utility closet.
"Hey," Curly peeked out of the bedroom. "I think we found it."
That was fast! I skipped down the hall, Emmie behind me.
"Is this it?" Curly asked - AND THREW THE SNAKE AT ME!
BLEEEEEEP!
I screamed and jumped and shrieked and ran. My neighbors are probably still in GRHealth, recovering from the heart attack I gave them. But Curly had not really thrown a snake at me, which would - in my opinion - have justified me picking up my sofa and bashing him to death with it. He had tossed one of my belts. Emmie knelt on the floor, laughing so hard that her stomach hurt and she couldn't stand.
I chased him down the hall. He ran from me, laughing at his cleverness. Oh, so hilarious, officer! I smacked him in the arm.
"It's a good thing you're wearing a gun or I would murder you!" I exclaimed. Then I apologized, because that is not a smart thing to say to an armed officer whom I just assaulted - and totally got away with it, too. He was too busy laughing to notice. Yeah, just keep it up, chucklehead.
Emmie was still shrieking with laughter. Somehow, this was not going as I expected. I wanted a platoon of soldiers from Fort Gordon to march up, kick in the door, show the snake their boomsticks, and fill it full of hot lead.
Poncho and Lefty called Curly back into the room. He reluctantly complied.
I have a photo that I will not post to protect the identities of the three officers whose responses I appreciate so much: Poncho is on his knees with my broom, trying to get the snake out of the closet. Lefty is standing behind him, acting as backup. Curly is hiding behind Lefty, gripping his belt and peeking out with a flashlight. It was an awesome scene.
"We got it!" Lefty called. "For real, this time. Do you want to see it?"
Curly shot out the front door. That's how I knew Lefty was telling the truth. Emmie and I trotted down the hallway. The snake was coiled around Poncho's hand.
"What is it?" I asked.
"I dunno," Poncho said. "I might take it home and find out."
He asked if I wanted a photo (hello, of course), and then slid the snake into a drawstring bag. The officers were on their way in seconds, waving off our gratitude. Curly was still chuckling.
"Bye, polices! Fank you!" Emmie called.
She and I sat back down on the couch and grinned at each other.
"Well, that was an adventure, wasn't it?" I said. Emmie laughed and nodded.
And then someone knocked on the door. It is just a big frickin' party at my house.
"You got a snake?" It was a lady in a khaki uniform, holding a snake pole. Dispatch had also called Animal Control.
"Oh, they just took it," I said, brightly. She glared.
"Who just took it?"
"Um, sheriff's deputies?" I said. She continued to glare. "But I have a picture!"
 |
| Tremble at the rabid anaconda with razor claws and wings of flame! |
I proudly held up my Crackberry. She looked at me like I am an idiot - which, frequently, I am.
"That is a wood snake," she said, then turned on her heel and stomped off into the darkness. And then it occurred to me that maybe Animal Control doesn't work 24 hours. They probably dragged this poor lady out of bed for nothing. I'd have glared at me, too.
Just then, the alarm went off. Only it wasn't a dream. It was 6:30 a.m., and I was no further along in my day than I was when I woke up two hours before. Of course.
"I can't believe you called 911," Scott said. "I had that python for all those years, and you call the police?!"
"If I'd called you at 4:30 in the morning and asked you to come get a snake, would you have come?"
"Hell, no. I'd have told you to sweep it out with the broom and I'd have gone back to bed," he scoffed.
"And that's why I didn't call you, smarty."
Will I call 911 again if a snake shows up in my house again? Bleep, yes! Maybe they didn't quarantine my home and call in the CDC, or the World Wildlife Fund, or whoever. But they were polite and efficient, funny and kind. And they got the snake.
I did a critter patrol the next couple of days, in case there was a gaggle or a flock or a nest. While I didn't find any more snakes, I did completely overreact and murder Emmie's jump rope with the broom.
Ooh, side note, herpetologists: A group of snakes should be called a murder, like crows.
So what did I learn, boys and girls?
First, it is illegal in Georgia to kill nonvenomous snakes... even if you reallyreallyreally want to.
Second, RCSD is woefully undergunned. Look into flamethrowers, Sheriff.
Finally, never, ever get ready for bed and think, "It's just me and Emmie. Who cares what I wear to sleep?" Because if I'm ever again jumping up and down and running from a snake/belt, I really want to be wearing underwear.
YES, MOM, I DID JUST SAY THAT. And someone, somewhere, is thanking me for it. Probably - especially - the Richmond County Sheriff's Department.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Gift horses and party invitations
I was kind of irritated that a photo of a snake was maybe my most popular blog/social media post ever - more than 100 comments. Because if you gift me with a horse, I'ma be all up in its mouth.
And just after threatening to start blogging about animals and rainbows instead of my goofy life, wouldn't you know it, I get a phone call from a company (see who below) inviting me to come to an opening as a member of the media.
"Oh, I'm not with that newspaper anymore," I said. "But I can give you the correct contact name."
"No, I had you down as the author of the blog Momnesia," she said.
Annnnd, you WANT me to write about your event? Have you even read my blog? Because, I will show up to your lovely event and one of four things will happen:
1. My weirdo magnet will kick in and draw directly to me the one person in the room you LEAST wish me to write about
2. I will somehow injure myself
3. I will somehow injure another person
4. There may be accidental nudity
Trust me, ma'am, as flattered as I am that you invited me because you think someone might be influenced by what I say, inviting me to any event is the best way to make sure the police show up. I live pretty quietly, and I still get neighbors attacking me with machetes, pit bulls snacking on my child's face, exploding stroganoff of certain death, and the most recent entry into the "Who is This God Person, and Why is He Messing With Me?" game that is my life, the 20-foot cobra that invaded my home last week.* **
So, thank you, for the invitation, but it's safest for all involved if I decline. Also, it's during the work day, so I can't leave my job for a party.
But, if any of my two readers (hi, mom and dad) is looking for a new dish, Applebee's is unveiling a revamped menu soon. I'd tell you about it, but I didn't get to try anything. And aren't you glad for that? Because, in case you haven't heard, there's a giant asteroid passing within 200,000 miles of the earth. If I were you, I'd go to Applebee's because I'm not there right now.
And that means you'll be safe.
* According to experts, it wasn't a cobra
** But I think they're lying.
***No one was harmed in the making of this blog post. For once.
**** This is not a paid entry.
***** However, if Applebee's wanted to slip me a Benjamin or two, I would not complain.
****** Actually, I would. There's that gift horse thing again.
And just after threatening to start blogging about animals and rainbows instead of my goofy life, wouldn't you know it, I get a phone call from a company (see who below) inviting me to come to an opening as a member of the media.
"Oh, I'm not with that newspaper anymore," I said. "But I can give you the correct contact name."
"No, I had you down as the author of the blog Momnesia," she said.
Annnnd, you WANT me to write about your event? Have you even read my blog? Because, I will show up to your lovely event and one of four things will happen:
1. My weirdo magnet will kick in and draw directly to me the one person in the room you LEAST wish me to write about
2. I will somehow injure myself
3. I will somehow injure another person
4. There may be accidental nudity
Trust me, ma'am, as flattered as I am that you invited me because you think someone might be influenced by what I say, inviting me to any event is the best way to make sure the police show up. I live pretty quietly, and I still get neighbors attacking me with machetes, pit bulls snacking on my child's face, exploding stroganoff of certain death, and the most recent entry into the "Who is This God Person, and Why is He Messing With Me?" game that is my life, the 20-foot cobra that invaded my home last week.* **
So, thank you, for the invitation, but it's safest for all involved if I decline. Also, it's during the work day, so I can't leave my job for a party.
But, if any of my two readers (hi, mom and dad) is looking for a new dish, Applebee's is unveiling a revamped menu soon. I'd tell you about it, but I didn't get to try anything. And aren't you glad for that? Because, in case you haven't heard, there's a giant asteroid passing within 200,000 miles of the earth. If I were you, I'd go to Applebee's because I'm not there right now.
And that means you'll be safe.
* According to experts, it wasn't a cobra
** But I think they're lying.
***No one was harmed in the making of this blog post. For once.
**** This is not a paid entry.
***** However, if Applebee's wanted to slip me a Benjamin or two, I would not complain.
****** Actually, I would. There's that gift horse thing again.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Rawr!
"Emmie, if you fall in, I'm gonna have to jump on that alligator and wrestle it while you get out. And I don't want to do that because I like my arms attached to my body," I said.
A guy nearby - covered in tattoos and wearing a shirt and baseball hat that both said something crude - leaned over to me: "Don't worry. I got the gator if she falls in. You just get her."
There's something to be said for rednecks.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Bribery works every time
It's 90 bazillion degrees. I'm sweating in places I didn't know I had skin. We've been here for three hours, and I've chugged five bottles of water. Now, Emmie and I are standing in a line for balloon animals that stretches 25 kids back. At 3-5 minutes per balloon animal, we're going to die in this line.
"Em, honey, let's go. This line is so long you're going to be in third grade before you get a balloon," I plead - as though I am the 6-year-old.
"No!" she yelps. We monitored the balloon line for a while. She's patiently waited for the line to diminish, but it hasn't. And now, she's not going to give up easily.
There is an additional concern: Despite the three bottles of water I've made her drink, her entire backside is covered with heat rash. I'd like to get her home to a cool bath and some aloe vera.
"Please? Mommy is going to die," I gasp, then choke, sputter, and pretend to faint on the grass.
She grins, but does not really care. And now I'm covered in grass.
"I'll squirt you with the water hose," I coo from my prone position, tickling the back of her knee. She loves the hose.
She giggles, and folds her arms and shakes her head.
"I'll let you squirt meee," I singsong, and smooch her cheeks. She suppresses a grin.
"I want a balloon," she says, seriously. "A doggie balloon. I nebber had one before, ebber!"
That is an utter lie. She has had many a balloon animal, but none has ever survived even the ride home.
"I'll buy you one at the store," I offer.
She glances sideways. I'm making headway.
"Water hose, balloon, and I'll rent you a movie," I smile like a Cheshire cat. We turned off the cable when we moved, because mommy is a dirty hippie, so she loves to rent $1 movies at Blockbuster Express.
She clenches her fists. She does not want to give in. But it is a good offer.
"Aaaaannd... You can play with my iPod!"
"While I'm watcheend da movie?"
I nod.
"Okay!" she squeals, and jumps up and down.
Yes. I just bribed my child. I don't know what bothers me more: that I bribed her, or that she's for sale.
But when I flip on the air conditioning in the car, I no longer care.
"Em, honey, let's go. This line is so long you're going to be in third grade before you get a balloon," I plead - as though I am the 6-year-old.
"No!" she yelps. We monitored the balloon line for a while. She's patiently waited for the line to diminish, but it hasn't. And now, she's not going to give up easily.
There is an additional concern: Despite the three bottles of water I've made her drink, her entire backside is covered with heat rash. I'd like to get her home to a cool bath and some aloe vera.
"Please? Mommy is going to die," I gasp, then choke, sputter, and pretend to faint on the grass.
She grins, but does not really care. And now I'm covered in grass.
"I'll squirt you with the water hose," I coo from my prone position, tickling the back of her knee. She loves the hose.
She giggles, and folds her arms and shakes her head.
"I'll let you squirt meee," I singsong, and smooch her cheeks. She suppresses a grin.
"I want a balloon," she says, seriously. "A doggie balloon. I nebber had one before, ebber!"
That is an utter lie. She has had many a balloon animal, but none has ever survived even the ride home.
"I'll buy you one at the store," I offer.
She glances sideways. I'm making headway.
"Water hose, balloon, and I'll rent you a movie," I smile like a Cheshire cat. We turned off the cable when we moved, because mommy is a dirty hippie, so she loves to rent $1 movies at Blockbuster Express.
She clenches her fists. She does not want to give in. But it is a good offer.
"Aaaaannd... You can play with my iPod!"
"While I'm watcheend da movie?"
I nod.
"Okay!" she squeals, and jumps up and down.
Yes. I just bribed my child. I don't know what bothers me more: that I bribed her, or that she's for sale.
But when I flip on the air conditioning in the car, I no longer care.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
I had good intentions...
At a community event, a woman complained to us. Teenagers down the way, acting like jerks. Little kids the innocent bystanders. Same old song. I trot off to put a stop to the nonsense.
"Hey, guys?" I approach the group of teen boys, who are firing bean bags at each other in a sort of mini-dodgeball game. They hardly notice me. "Guys!"
Two glance my way, but they continue hurling bean bags the size of sub sandwiches. One pegs another in the eye. The injured boy shouts a curse word.
These are big guys, 16 and 17 years old. They're probably very good kids, but they're in a group. Groups of teenage boys generally share a social IQ equal to a suitcase of dead pigeons.
"ALRIGHT!" I bellow. "Hand them OVER!"
They freeze. I march into the fray, snatching their impromptu projectile weapons.
"I think you all know this was not good decision-making!" I hear myself bark. "If you can't play correctly, you can't play! Bye-bye, have fun somewhere else!"
I have all but one bean bag. The ringleader has the last. I glare at him. He tosses it at my head, and I snatch it out of the air without breaking eye contact. I am the Matrix.
He shrugs and turns, but I see him surreptitiously flip me off as he leaves. That's okay. That's just teenage language for respect. So I let it go, and turn to hand the bean bags to a group of 4 and 5 year olds standing neaby.
"Thanks!" squeals a little girl, and the sweet group of delighted children trots over to play. Rare, it must be, to have the big kids pushed aside for once.
They separate into two groups, divide the bags, take aim... and throw them at each other.
"Hey, guys?" I approach the group of teen boys, who are firing bean bags at each other in a sort of mini-dodgeball game. They hardly notice me. "Guys!"
Two glance my way, but they continue hurling bean bags the size of sub sandwiches. One pegs another in the eye. The injured boy shouts a curse word.
These are big guys, 16 and 17 years old. They're probably very good kids, but they're in a group. Groups of teenage boys generally share a social IQ equal to a suitcase of dead pigeons.
"ALRIGHT!" I bellow. "Hand them OVER!"
They freeze. I march into the fray, snatching their impromptu projectile weapons.
"I think you all know this was not good decision-making!" I hear myself bark. "If you can't play correctly, you can't play! Bye-bye, have fun somewhere else!"
I have all but one bean bag. The ringleader has the last. I glare at him. He tosses it at my head, and I snatch it out of the air without breaking eye contact. I am the Matrix.
He shrugs and turns, but I see him surreptitiously flip me off as he leaves. That's okay. That's just teenage language for respect. So I let it go, and turn to hand the bean bags to a group of 4 and 5 year olds standing neaby.
"Thanks!" squeals a little girl, and the sweet group of delighted children trots over to play. Rare, it must be, to have the big kids pushed aside for once.
They separate into two groups, divide the bags, take aim... and throw them at each other.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Things I Will Do After the Rapture
After the rapture, these are my plans, in no particular order:
Say, "Wow, was I ever wrong."
Go-kart the Greeneway.
Host a sock hop at the Sno-Cap Drive-in. Win ALL the dance prizes.
Show "The Life of Brian" at the Big Mo.
Steal a tank from Fort Gordon and use it to drive over abandoned cars at Wal-Mart.
Move into Port Royal's penthouse. Skip the elevators and rappel down the side of the building each morning.
Help myself to whatever I darn well please at Takosushi, Bistro 491, Manuel's, and Cheers! Wine & Beverage. Leave a generous tip anyway.
Play the Augusta National - with a pitching machine. Cool off in Ike's Pond after a hard day on the course. Make myself a bouquet of azaleas.
Drive my tank over the guardhouse in Westlake. Avail myself of the neighborhood's amenities.
Windsor Jewelers - you are mine!
Lace Regency Mall with C4 and blow that mutha up.
Play with all the goodies at Learning Express Toys.
Raid the studios of Philip Morseberger, Tom Nakashima, Leonard Zimmerman, Kathy Girdler-Englar, Troy Campbell, Raul Pacheco, and Shishir Chokshi. I'm leaving out some folks, but - trust me - I'll be in ur studio, stealin ur artworks.
Submit ALL the entries to The Metro Spirit's Whine Line.
Gavel myself down at the Augusta Commission meetings.
Please feel free to submit your own ideas.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile
Say, "Wow, was I ever wrong."
Go-kart the Greeneway.
Host a sock hop at the Sno-Cap Drive-in. Win ALL the dance prizes.
Show "The Life of Brian" at the Big Mo.
Steal a tank from Fort Gordon and use it to drive over abandoned cars at Wal-Mart.
Move into Port Royal's penthouse. Skip the elevators and rappel down the side of the building each morning.
Help myself to whatever I darn well please at Takosushi, Bistro 491, Manuel's, and Cheers! Wine & Beverage. Leave a generous tip anyway.
Play the Augusta National - with a pitching machine. Cool off in Ike's Pond after a hard day on the course. Make myself a bouquet of azaleas.
Drive my tank over the guardhouse in Westlake. Avail myself of the neighborhood's amenities.
Windsor Jewelers - you are mine!
Lace Regency Mall with C4 and blow that mutha up.
Play with all the goodies at Learning Express Toys.
Raid the studios of Philip Morseberger, Tom Nakashima, Leonard Zimmerman, Kathy Girdler-Englar, Troy Campbell, Raul Pacheco, and Shishir Chokshi. I'm leaving out some folks, but - trust me - I'll be in ur studio, stealin ur artworks.
Submit ALL the entries to The Metro Spirit's Whine Line.
Gavel myself down at the Augusta Commission meetings.
Please feel free to submit your own ideas.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Identity
We were at Mistletoe State Park, soaking up too much sun and freezing our behinds off in the water. The park had a Spring Fling event going on that day.
As we were leaving, they began to clean up the games they'd put out for the kids. A park ranger gathered up croquet and ladder-ball items.
A boy about 8 years old trotted over and confidently began to help, neatly stacking items to carry back to the storage room.
"Hey, kid, that's okay. You don't have to help," the ranger said.
The boy didn't pause.
"I'm a Cub Scout," he said. "This is what I do."
Somewhere, William Boyce is dancing for joy.
As we were leaving, they began to clean up the games they'd put out for the kids. A park ranger gathered up croquet and ladder-ball items.
A boy about 8 years old trotted over and confidently began to help, neatly stacking items to carry back to the storage room.
"Hey, kid, that's okay. You don't have to help," the ranger said.
The boy didn't pause.
"I'm a Cub Scout," he said. "This is what I do."
Somewhere, William Boyce is dancing for joy.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Such a card...
Emmie and I are playing Uno. We love card games.
"... AHA! Color-changer to green," I say, slapping down a wild card. "And uno!"
She narrows her eyes, contemplates her hand of cards.
"Hey, Emmie, guess what color I have?" I tease, waving my one remaining card.
She frowns: "I dunno, what?"
(Sigh) Purple, Emmie. It's purple.
"... AHA! Color-changer to green," I say, slapping down a wild card. "And uno!"
She narrows her eyes, contemplates her hand of cards.
"Hey, Emmie, guess what color I have?" I tease, waving my one remaining card.
She frowns: "I dunno, what?"
(Sigh) Purple, Emmie. It's purple.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Not one for SEAL Team 6
Emmie's brushing her teeth - at least, that's what she wants me to think. But I didn't hear her turn on the water, and the electric toothbrush wouldn't be so loud if it was in her mouth.
Twenty seconds later, she comes bopping into my bedroom.
"I brushed my teeth," she sings, airily.
"Really? Let me see your tongue," I say.
She hides her face on the mattress: "Mmkyyyy," she moans. "Mm diddn brmsh tnngue. Mm brmsh muh ttteef."
"You know what I think? I think you just turned on the toothbrush and waved it around," I say.
"Nuh-uh!" She raises her face, indignance etched upon it. "I turned it on an' brushed my hand!"
(Facepalm)
Twenty seconds later, she comes bopping into my bedroom.
"I brushed my teeth," she sings, airily.
"Really? Let me see your tongue," I say.
She hides her face on the mattress: "Mmkyyyy," she moans. "Mm diddn brmsh tnngue. Mm brmsh muh ttteef."
"You know what I think? I think you just turned on the toothbrush and waved it around," I say.
"Nuh-uh!" She raises her face, indignance etched upon it. "I turned it on an' brushed my hand!"
(Facepalm)
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Like politics and sausage-making
Employee: "I'm looking through all these intellectual property documents, and I came across something called an anal sample swab... I shuddered."
Me: "Maybe they mean a 'meticulous' sample swab...?"
Employee: "Somehow I doubt it, considering the accompanying illustration."
Me: "Maybe they mean a 'meticulous' sample swab...?"
Employee: "Somehow I doubt it, considering the accompanying illustration."
Saturday, May 07, 2011
Flower power!
So, if you're anything like me, guys, holidays just sneak-attack you every time. Here I am, minding my own business, working my schedule day after day, trying to get take each day as it comes (I never got the hang of Tuesdays), and - WHAM! Birthday. BAM! Christmas. Pow! It's Mother's Day.
No, really. It's Mother's Day. Like, in two days. What. Are. You. Going. To. Do?!
You're going to send your mom Mother's Day Flowers, that's what. Because you, slacker, no longer have time to run around town picking out personal stuff. And if you wait any longer, you're going to be giving her a rock from your yard.
And because I'm so nice, I'm going to help you with some Mothers Day Flower Delivery Discounts! So go check out FlowerDeliveryDeals.com. They offer things like 1800flowers coupons and 1800Flowers.com coupon codes, and the site lets you comparison shop floral arrangements from multiple online flower shops - because mom wants you to save your money, honey!
She also does not want a rock.
No, really. It's Mother's Day. Like, in two days. What. Are. You. Going. To. Do?!
You're going to send your mom Mother's Day Flowers, that's what. Because you, slacker, no longer have time to run around town picking out personal stuff. And if you wait any longer, you're going to be giving her a rock from your yard.
And because I'm so nice, I'm going to help you with some Mothers Day Flower Delivery Discounts! So go check out FlowerDeliveryDeals.com. They offer things like 1800flowers coupons and 1800Flowers.com coupon codes, and the site lets you comparison shop floral arrangements from multiple online flower shops - because mom wants you to save your money, honey!
She also does not want a rock.
Friday, May 06, 2011
Girls who wear glasses...
Recently, I went to get my eyes examined. I had some medical issues in October, and my vision seems to have been impacted. So I wanted to make sure that I'd covered all my bases. My prescription eyeglasses didn't change much, and I was SUPER impressed with MCGHealth Eye Care Center. I've seen several good eye docs, but when you want the best, I say you go to the folks who teach the other docs how to be docs - right?
One thing did change: the cost of prescription eyeglasses. Yowza! I really, really liked some of the frames in the eye store (not affiliated with the exam clinic; they don't carry frames). But they started at more than $100 for the frames, lenses not included. I was disappointed to walked away.
So I went back to Zenni Optical. I've used them before. The cost? $19. With frames.
Once I added high-index lenses to keep the glasses from weighing on my nose and giving me headaches, the cost jumped to $39. But I could get three pairs for the cost of the frames only at my local store.
One thing did change: the cost of prescription eyeglasses. Yowza! I really, really liked some of the frames in the eye store (not affiliated with the exam clinic; they don't carry frames). But they started at more than $100 for the frames, lenses not included. I was disappointed to walked away.
So I went back to Zenni Optical. I've used them before. The cost? $19. With frames.
Once I added high-index lenses to keep the glasses from weighing on my nose and giving me headaches, the cost jumped to $39. But I could get three pairs for the cost of the frames only at my local store.
Full moon at the lake
Emmie and I spent a day at Mistletoe State Park with a friend and her two children. The moms swam a little, but we spent most of the day chatting and laughing.
We were braving the water again before we left when I saw something. Her bathing suit - which she had joked about being the oldest she owns - had turned sheer in the back.
Hey, I'm no stranger to showing my behind to complete strangers. And I doubt anyone else noticed. But I had to tell her, because it was sheer all the way down the back, from neck to... well, you know.
She beat a hasty retreat back to the beach chairs and her cover-up.
"It's not as bad as it could be," I assured her. "There's a seam that covers up most of what you'd want to hide."
But smart friends are not easily fooled.
"Are you kidding me?" she laughed. "That's like saying there's a tightrope across the grand canyon."
Look on the bright side: It's an excuse to go shopping! ...for bathing suits. Ugh.
We were braving the water again before we left when I saw something. Her bathing suit - which she had joked about being the oldest she owns - had turned sheer in the back.
Hey, I'm no stranger to showing my behind to complete strangers. And I doubt anyone else noticed. But I had to tell her, because it was sheer all the way down the back, from neck to... well, you know.
She beat a hasty retreat back to the beach chairs and her cover-up.
"It's not as bad as it could be," I assured her. "There's a seam that covers up most of what you'd want to hide."
But smart friends are not easily fooled.
"Are you kidding me?" she laughed. "That's like saying there's a tightrope across the grand canyon."
Look on the bright side: It's an excuse to go shopping! ...for bathing suits. Ugh.
Wednesday, May 04, 2011
Fish or cut bait
Scott: "I'm going to the country."
Me: "Whatcha gonna do?"
Scott: "Fish."
Me: "Okay. Have fun not catching anything."
Scott, chuckling: "Thanks. That's pretty much how it goes."
Me: "Whatcha gonna do?"
Scott: "Fish."
Me: "Okay. Have fun not catching anything."
Scott, chuckling: "Thanks. That's pretty much how it goes."
Monday, May 02, 2011
Tears and blood are unavoidable, but I have to try
Emmie and I are at a birthday party for the lovely and talented Mary Anne when I see several children piling onto a Radio Flyer tricycle.
"Mm-mm, that is not going to end well," I mutter to a friend and go over to put a stop to it.
"Guys, this is going to spectacularly wrong in a very amount of short time," I caution. They look at each other and reluctantly dismount. Emmie is less compliant.
"Doodle," I say. "Come on."
"Okaaaaay," she sighs, and the remaining child pedals on without her.
"Babe, what's going to happen?"
"Ummm... I'm goeend fall off and hurt myself?"
"Right. And then there will be tears and blood. What's our motto? No tears no blood," I say, and Mary Anne's husband chuckles from within the plume of smoke that engulfs the grill.
"Actually, I just made that up," I confess. "But I like it."
"Emmie!" I call. "That's gonna be our motto. No tears no blood."
"Okay," she calls as she wanders off to injure herself in some other way, likely wondering what a 'motto' is.
"What's our motto?"
"No tears no blood!" she calls.
"What?"
She stops, grins, and yells like a drill seargent: "NO TEARS NO BLOOD!"
"Awesome!"
I adopted that motto for the weekend, trotting it out whenever tears or blood seemed pending.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Emmie tripping in her new flip-flops, going down hard in the grass in front of the house. A keening in her throat.
"What's the motto?"
She drew a breath and composed herself: "No tears no blood."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Emmie careening out-of-control on her scooter, frightened and out of my reach, down the path at the Columbia County Amphitheatre.
"MOOOOM!" she shrieked, back foot off kilter so the brake wouldn't engage, wobbling dangerously.
"Motto, Em!" I called, tensing for the pending scene of destruction.
"NO TEARS NO BLOOD!" she shrieked, just this side of hysterical - then she got her scooter under control on her own. I bent over to calm my shaking legs while my father-in-law patted my shoulder. No tears no blood, indeed.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
And when shortly after arriving at her grandparents house she changed her mind and decided she'd rather not stay, I pulled it out again.
"No what, Em?"
She smiled, "No tears no blood. But I don' fink I hafta worry wif Nona an' Opa."
Gosh... Put it all in perspective, and they shape right up!
"Mm-mm, that is not going to end well," I mutter to a friend and go over to put a stop to it.
"Guys, this is going to spectacularly wrong in a very amount of short time," I caution. They look at each other and reluctantly dismount. Emmie is less compliant.
"Doodle," I say. "Come on."
"Okaaaaay," she sighs, and the remaining child pedals on without her.
"Babe, what's going to happen?"
"Ummm... I'm goeend fall off and hurt myself?"
"Right. And then there will be tears and blood. What's our motto? No tears no blood," I say, and Mary Anne's husband chuckles from within the plume of smoke that engulfs the grill.
"Actually, I just made that up," I confess. "But I like it."
"Emmie!" I call. "That's gonna be our motto. No tears no blood."
"Okay," she calls as she wanders off to injure herself in some other way, likely wondering what a 'motto' is.
"What's our motto?"
"No tears no blood!" she calls.
"What?"
She stops, grins, and yells like a drill seargent: "NO TEARS NO BLOOD!"
"Awesome!"
I adopted that motto for the weekend, trotting it out whenever tears or blood seemed pending.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Emmie tripping in her new flip-flops, going down hard in the grass in front of the house. A keening in her throat.
"What's the motto?"
She drew a breath and composed herself: "No tears no blood."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Emmie careening out-of-control on her scooter, frightened and out of my reach, down the path at the Columbia County Amphitheatre.
"MOOOOM!" she shrieked, back foot off kilter so the brake wouldn't engage, wobbling dangerously.
"Motto, Em!" I called, tensing for the pending scene of destruction.
"NO TEARS NO BLOOD!" she shrieked, just this side of hysterical - then she got her scooter under control on her own. I bent over to calm my shaking legs while my father-in-law patted my shoulder. No tears no blood, indeed.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
And when shortly after arriving at her grandparents house she changed her mind and decided she'd rather not stay, I pulled it out again.
"No what, Em?"
She smiled, "No tears no blood. But I don' fink I hafta worry wif Nona an' Opa."
Gosh... Put it all in perspective, and they shape right up!
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
And that's how it's done
Emmie had a boatload of sugar at her cousin Sheridan's birthday. She was one bite short of vibrating.
At home, I try desperately to calm her down, but she wants to play.
"Emerson, take some deep breaths, please. It's time to chill out."
"ButbutbutbutMama! Less play! Less play Picnic!"
"No. It's time for bed, now, darling."
""Less play Shadow Puppets!"
"NO. Lay down and hush."
"Less play I Spy!"
"Okay." I click the lamp. "I spy something dark."
Hee.
At home, I try desperately to calm her down, but she wants to play.
"Emerson, take some deep breaths, please. It's time to chill out."
"ButbutbutbutMama! Less play! Less play Picnic!"
"No. It's time for bed, now, darling."
""Less play Shadow Puppets!"
"NO. Lay down and hush."
"Less play I Spy!"
"Okay." I click the lamp. "I spy something dark."
Hee.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Thanks for the warning
Emmie and I are playing Picnic in the car. We're bringing apples, bundt cake, "Cococola," dark chocolate, eggs, fiddleheads, gum, horseradish, ice, jelly beans, knuckle sandwiches, lemonade, mashed potatoes, noodles, octopus sushi, popcorn, and quail.
It's my turn for 'r.'
"... and I'm bringing..." I pause to think.
Emmie interrupts: "You should bring roller skates for 'r,' Mom, 'cause I'm bringing snakes for 's,' an' you might wanna leave dis picnic."
It's my turn for 'r.'
"... and I'm bringing..." I pause to think.
Emmie interrupts: "You should bring roller skates for 'r,' Mom, 'cause I'm bringing snakes for 's,' an' you might wanna leave dis picnic."
Friday, April 22, 2011
Maybe I'll take her jellyfishing
Emmie will have a week off from camp during the week of July 4, and we're trying to decide what to do. We discuss camping, swimming, sights to see, visiting friends and family, and our perpetual favorite activities in Atlanta.
"Well, it sounds like our choices are the city, the mountains, or the beach," I say. "Which do you prefer?"
"Ummm... da beach," she says. "Because I lite to kill jellyfish."
...what?
"You just get dem out of underwater, and chop dem in half."
When did you do that?
"Oh, I do dat never. I just don't want dem to sting me."
And commence discussion on the value of all living things in three... two... one.
"Well, it sounds like our choices are the city, the mountains, or the beach," I say. "Which do you prefer?"
"Ummm... da beach," she says. "Because I lite to kill jellyfish."
...what?
"You just get dem out of underwater, and chop dem in half."
When did you do that?
"Oh, I do dat never. I just don't want dem to sting me."
And commence discussion on the value of all living things in three... two... one.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Maybe I'm anxious about ninjas...
Email to A.C.: "You know, I was thinking that it might not be anxiety I feel. I think it's my mad ninja skillz. Leaves me with heightened sensitivity to threats."
Email to me: "Why are you up so late emailing me? Anxiety, not ninja skills."
Email to A.C.: "Excuse me, but I am busy defending my home against attack."
Email to me: "Why are you up so late emailing me? Anxiety, not ninja skills."
Email to A.C.: "Excuse me, but I am busy defending my home against attack."
Monday, April 18, 2011
Excelling at our jobs
My friend, A.W., and I were talking about an all-day Excel class she took at work. It sounded like torture.
"It was, Stacey. It was," she said. We agree about the necessity of the software and the usefulness of it. But there are few professional tasks that I despise more than devising an Excel formula.
"That's about as exciting as actuarial science," I said. "I'd rather study taxidermy. At least then I'd know what to do with the body when an actuarial scientist dies of boredom."
"It was, Stacey. It was," she said. We agree about the necessity of the software and the usefulness of it. But there are few professional tasks that I despise more than devising an Excel formula.
"That's about as exciting as actuarial science," I said. "I'd rather study taxidermy. At least then I'd know what to do with the body when an actuarial scientist dies of boredom."
Monday, April 11, 2011
Formula for fun
In the perpetual game show "Why Can't Anything Go Right?" that is my life, my dad and I had to drive 30 minutes to retrieve my bank card from my sister, who had accidentally absconded with it. Say that five times fast: accidentally absconded. It's really hard.
Anyway, Emerson wanted to go with us. She loves to ride in her "Dadada's" (grandfather's) enormous Ford F-150, and she likes to chatter. She kept us entertained all the way there by drawing cartoons of each of us in humorous states of fear. "Dadada Steps on a Snake and Runs Away" was my particular favorite.
When that grew old, she tickled my neck. Y'all! I hate being tickled! I'd rather you punch me in the neck than tickle me. I can't explain it, except that I have to really struggle to contain violent anger whenever anyone tickles me. I've gotten better at controlling it these last few years because Emerson does it all the time.
"Emmie!" I cried, exasperated at having to repreatedly use my ninja-like swiftness to catch her fingers before she could wriggle them into my neck. "Cut it out, lady!"
"Why?" she giggled.
"Because I hate being tickled!"
You'd have thought I'd chucked cold water on her.
"But... but why don'tchoo lite it, mama?"
"I don't know. I've always hated it."
"Wull, I lub it!" she laughed.
"I know you do, Doodle. That's why I tickle you all the time," I said, and wriggled my fingers in her armpit. She shrieked and giggled, and I cut it out so my dad didn't smack me. No one likes high-pitched squealing while they're driving in Atlanta traffic.
"But, Mama, you should like tickles," Emmie said, eyebrows creased.
"Why?"
"Because! Iss fun!" she said.
"Not for me," I said.
"But tickles are good," she insisted. "Good tickles mean good times."
Well, now we know that she's apparently aiming for a career in advertising copy writing.
Anyway, Emerson wanted to go with us. She loves to ride in her "Dadada's" (grandfather's) enormous Ford F-150, and she likes to chatter. She kept us entertained all the way there by drawing cartoons of each of us in humorous states of fear. "Dadada Steps on a Snake and Runs Away" was my particular favorite.
When that grew old, she tickled my neck. Y'all! I hate being tickled! I'd rather you punch me in the neck than tickle me. I can't explain it, except that I have to really struggle to contain violent anger whenever anyone tickles me. I've gotten better at controlling it these last few years because Emerson does it all the time.
"Emmie!" I cried, exasperated at having to repreatedly use my ninja-like swiftness to catch her fingers before she could wriggle them into my neck. "Cut it out, lady!"
"Why?" she giggled.
"Because I hate being tickled!"
You'd have thought I'd chucked cold water on her.
"But... but why don'tchoo lite it, mama?"
"I don't know. I've always hated it."
"Wull, I lub it!" she laughed.
"I know you do, Doodle. That's why I tickle you all the time," I said, and wriggled my fingers in her armpit. She shrieked and giggled, and I cut it out so my dad didn't smack me. No one likes high-pitched squealing while they're driving in Atlanta traffic.
"But, Mama, you should like tickles," Emmie said, eyebrows creased.
"Why?"
"Because! Iss fun!" she said.
"Not for me," I said.
"But tickles are good," she insisted. "Good tickles mean good times."
Well, now we know that she's apparently aiming for a career in advertising copy writing.
Friday, April 08, 2011
Bag it
Dear Atlantic Station H&M Male Sales Clerk -
"Hi. Do you have this bag in black?" I asked. You hardly glanced up at me.
"Nooooo," you mused, eyebrow raised, while adjusting your horrid neck scarf. "It doesn't come in black. Why would you ask that?"
"...beeeeecause I prefer black?"
"Wellllll... I suppose they could make it in black, but personally I feel it's more authentic in brown. It's the color Hermes used when designing their Birkin, which is, of course, the inspiration for the bag you are now holding. They also did it in red, but... hmmm... noooo, we don't have it in red, either."
Riiiiight. Look, sir, do you see me trailing two sugar-coated, wind-blown schoolchildren in various stages of meltdown? Did you notice me wearing the same jeans-and-sweater combination that has carried me through the last 6 winters-and-schizophrenic-Southern-springs of motherhood? Have you - like me - already grown tired of me snapping my fingers and whistling to get the attention of the children, who have no desire to be in your store and are T-minus-30-seconds from tolerating my attempt at retail therapy no longer?
Now that you've noticed the telling characteristics of the customer standing before you, let's be clear about a couple of things. The only reason I am even in here is because I did not bring a purse that was large enough to sneak convenience store snacks and drinks into the ridiculously-overpriced movie theater that is right behind this store. Coincidentally, I also need a new laptop bag, because the handles are falling off of the one I bought at Target just over a year ago (Thanks, Target. That was $50 wasted).
Despite your elite position as one of 87,000 H&M employees, and regardless of your hard-fought victory to enroll as a "fashion" student at one of the FORTY-FIVE campuses of the Art Institute of WhereverTheyCanGetaLease, I did not ask for a history of the cheap knock-off you are passing off as couture. I asked you one question. It was about color. It requires only this: "No, it only comes in brown."
"Hi. Do you have this bag in black?" I asked. You hardly glanced up at me.
"Nooooo," you mused, eyebrow raised, while adjusting your horrid neck scarf. "It doesn't come in black. Why would you ask that?"
"...beeeeecause I prefer black?"
"Wellllll... I suppose they could make it in black, but personally I feel it's more authentic in brown. It's the color Hermes used when designing their Birkin, which is, of course, the inspiration for the bag you are now holding. They also did it in red, but... hmmm... noooo, we don't have it in red, either."
Riiiiight. Look, sir, do you see me trailing two sugar-coated, wind-blown schoolchildren in various stages of meltdown? Did you notice me wearing the same jeans-and-sweater combination that has carried me through the last 6 winters-and-schizophrenic-Southern-springs of motherhood? Have you - like me - already grown tired of me snapping my fingers and whistling to get the attention of the children, who have no desire to be in your store and are T-minus-30-seconds from tolerating my attempt at retail therapy no longer?
Now that you've noticed the telling characteristics of the customer standing before you, let's be clear about a couple of things. The only reason I am even in here is because I did not bring a purse that was large enough to sneak convenience store snacks and drinks into the ridiculously-overpriced movie theater that is right behind this store. Coincidentally, I also need a new laptop bag, because the handles are falling off of the one I bought at Target just over a year ago (Thanks, Target. That was $50 wasted).
Despite your elite position as one of 87,000 H&M employees, and regardless of your hard-fought victory to enroll as a "fashion" student at one of the FORTY-FIVE campuses of the Art Institute of WhereverTheyCanGetaLease, I did not ask for a history of the cheap knock-off you are passing off as couture. I asked you one question. It was about color. It requires only this: "No, it only comes in brown."
Thank you. I will take it.
Wednesday, April 06, 2011
Drawing questionable conclusions
I tend to shy away from religious discussions. I was raised Presbyterian, which is a quiet, non-charismatic faith sometimes joked about as "The Frozen Chosen." Displays of fervor make me feel uncomfortable.
But this is an overwhelmingly Baptist area, so I have grown accustomed to such displays - although only slightly more adept at dealing with them without clutching my chest and swooning.
I wasn't prepared for how this would impact Emerson. Scott's family is mostly Baptist, and they're very strong in their faith. I suppose they discuss it with her a great deal, because she's always very interested and vocal about Jesus when she returns from spending time with them. This is not a bad thing; but without regular tutelage, some things get twisted in a 6-year-old's mind.
The other night we were reading a book called, "What Should I Be?" In it, a little princess goes from adviser to adviser, asking the best way to be when she grows up. Her mother, the queen, wants her to be kind. The admiral tells her to be a strong swimmer. The prime minister says she should be clever. The maid says the choice is up to her. The princess just wants to be tall. Her little brother thinks she already is. It makes the point that the best qualities are a matter of perspective.
"I fink we should choose good choices, so we can be whatever we want to be," Emmie said, when we were discussing the book's message.
"I think that's lovely," I said.
"But I already know the best way to be," she said, with frightening intensity.
"Oh? How?" I asked.
"Dead," she said, with utter sincerity.
Whaaaaaaaaaat?
"And why is that?" I asked, cautiously.
"Because! Den you get to be wif God up der in heaven!"
I made a note to spend more time on faith. Methinks something got lost in translation.
But this is an overwhelmingly Baptist area, so I have grown accustomed to such displays - although only slightly more adept at dealing with them without clutching my chest and swooning.
I wasn't prepared for how this would impact Emerson. Scott's family is mostly Baptist, and they're very strong in their faith. I suppose they discuss it with her a great deal, because she's always very interested and vocal about Jesus when she returns from spending time with them. This is not a bad thing; but without regular tutelage, some things get twisted in a 6-year-old's mind.
The other night we were reading a book called, "What Should I Be?" In it, a little princess goes from adviser to adviser, asking the best way to be when she grows up. Her mother, the queen, wants her to be kind. The admiral tells her to be a strong swimmer. The prime minister says she should be clever. The maid says the choice is up to her. The princess just wants to be tall. Her little brother thinks she already is. It makes the point that the best qualities are a matter of perspective.
"I fink we should choose good choices, so we can be whatever we want to be," Emmie said, when we were discussing the book's message.
"I think that's lovely," I said.
"But I already know the best way to be," she said, with frightening intensity.
"Oh? How?" I asked.
"Dead," she said, with utter sincerity.
Whaaaaaaaaaat?
"And why is that?" I asked, cautiously.
"Because! Den you get to be wif God up der in heaven!"
I made a note to spend more time on faith. Methinks something got lost in translation.
Monday, April 04, 2011
Definitely her own person
It's 9 p.m., and Emmie is just crawling into bed. We're an hour late tonight, because she had crazy tons of homework owing to the fact that she forgot to bring home her homework folder the day before. But usually we read for a half-hour, so it's not as though she's way off her schedule. You wouldn't know it from her behavior. She's tired and grumpy.
"Mama!" she whines. "Why we hafta sleep so short?"
"Hey, who are you calling short?" I tease, and she heaves a massive sigh that says that I am Getting On Her Nerves. Hooookay, then. Joke time is over.
"Okay, Attitude. I don't understand what you're asking."
"Wull, we go sleep for a short time, and when we wake up, iss still night time."
"It's 6:15 in the morning, Em," I correct her.
"But I don' get enough sleepies," she flops her arms and legs on the bed, whining.
"Well, we have to get up at that time. If you need more sleep, we'll have to go to bed earlier," I explain. No way, I think, will she ever agree to that.
"Less do dat," she declares.
"You... want to go to sleep... earlier?"
"Yes."
"Okay. Tomorrow we'll go to sleep one hour earlier."
"Fanks, Mom."
You're welcome...?
"Mama!" she whines. "Why we hafta sleep so short?"
"Hey, who are you calling short?" I tease, and she heaves a massive sigh that says that I am Getting On Her Nerves. Hooookay, then. Joke time is over.
"Okay, Attitude. I don't understand what you're asking."
"Wull, we go sleep for a short time, and when we wake up, iss still night time."
"It's 6:15 in the morning, Em," I correct her.
"But I don' get enough sleepies," she flops her arms and legs on the bed, whining.
"Well, we have to get up at that time. If you need more sleep, we'll have to go to bed earlier," I explain. No way, I think, will she ever agree to that.
"Less do dat," she declares.
"You... want to go to sleep... earlier?"
"Yes."
"Okay. Tomorrow we'll go to sleep one hour earlier."
"Fanks, Mom."
You're welcome...?
Friday, April 01, 2011
In defense of loafers (No Foolin'!) - A love letter to Amy and Alice
 | ||
| EXHIBIT A: My beloved, comfy loafers - which I have in both brown and black. |
 | |||
| EXHIBIT B: An entry on The Sartorialist. |
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Conversations about inappropriate things
My friend and I are discussing some emotional stuff, and she offers some words of wisdom.
M.S. (concluding a beautiful and insightful thought): "... sometimes it is the dream that we hold onto when the reality is steadily kicking the shit out of us."
Me: "Wait, are you quoting lyrics from 'Rent?'"
M.S.: "Um, no, but I can - LOL! I played Mimi in college."
Me: "Oh, no, that last line isn't a song lyric. Although, I'd love to see someone rhyme 'steadily kicking the shit out of us.'"
M.S.: "We can do a new musical!"
Me: "That would work perfectly in the zombie musical I'm writing in my head, with such hit songs as 'I am Zombie, Hear Me Roar,' and lyrics like, 'Steadily kicking the shit out of us, older zombies they got more pus.' Le Chat Noir would stage it."
M.S.: "Yeah, but the choreography would be a little stiff."
M.S. (concluding a beautiful and insightful thought): "... sometimes it is the dream that we hold onto when the reality is steadily kicking the shit out of us."
Me: "Wait, are you quoting lyrics from 'Rent?'"
M.S.: "Um, no, but I can - LOL! I played Mimi in college."
Me: "Oh, no, that last line isn't a song lyric. Although, I'd love to see someone rhyme 'steadily kicking the shit out of us.'"
M.S.: "We can do a new musical!"
Me: "That would work perfectly in the zombie musical I'm writing in my head, with such hit songs as 'I am Zombie, Hear Me Roar,' and lyrics like, 'Steadily kicking the shit out of us, older zombies they got more pus.' Le Chat Noir would stage it."
M.S.: "Yeah, but the choreography would be a little stiff."
Monday, March 28, 2011
Learn from my fail, episode four million
When waking up in the night to go potty, try to remember that you laid your clothes out before bed. That is not a headless intruder by your armoire. You do not need to wake your child and neighbors with retarded screaming.
Just in case that ever happens to YOU. Not that it did to ME... heh heh.
Just in case that ever happens to YOU. Not that it did to ME... heh heh.
