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First day of school. Daughter-Only and I head out the door early--determined to get off on the right foot. Apparently, we're not the only ones. Traffic around the school is backed up through all the surrounding intersections--cars stopped at weird angles, people sitting through two or three lights halfway through the intersection, and so on.
Suddenly, I see our chronic lateness last year in a whole new light. I had thought I was disorganized and a failure as a parent for being unable to motivate my children to get out the door on time most days.
I see now I was merely playing an important role in reducing the morning traffic congestion around the school.
You're welcome.
My current state of mind, revealed in text messages:Little Sister: We have a bunch of lemons. Do you want them for lemonade?MM: Sure--are these literal lemons or metaphorical lemons?LS: I will just give you the literal ones and spare you my metaphorical ones. :)MM: That sounds good. Despite what you may have heard, the metaphorical ones are often too sour to make a potable lemonade.LS: Definitely! and bitter too.
So Ex Sister-in-Law and I and her two daughters, Third Niece and Fourth Niece*, along with Daughter-Only, were school shopping over the weekend. This shopping involved driving in Rochester, which compared with my teeny tiny town is the Big City. At one point, I lost patience with the guy in front of me and said just above a whisper, "All right, fuckwipe, make a decision or get the hell out of the way."ES-I-L chuckled and said, "Wow, I've never heard you cuss behind the wheel before."I explained that now that my job involves driving so much I really have a lot less patience for other people on the road. Daughter-Only piped up somewhat in my defense, "Well at least you're not as bad as So-and-So [a family friend known to be a little, shall we say, testy, especially behind the wheel]. She screams at everyone.""Well, that's because So-And-So is a B-I-T-C-H," I pointed out, oh-so-cleverly spelling the word even though my nieces are 9 and 12 and well beyond the age when I can get away with that.Without missing a beat, Third Niece chimes in, "Are you just F-U-C-K-I-N figuring that out?"*Formerly Youngest Niece and Next-To-Youngest Niece, whose Blog Names have been changed by the arrival of Fifth Niece, brand new daughter of Baby Brother and Sister-in-Law-To-Be. Similarly, Only-Nephew has become First Nephew with the arrival of Second Nephew (formerly Fetus-On-The-Fridge).
So we've moved again about which I'm not at all happy. I've been acting like a complete ass instead of acting grateful to have a roof over my head. In my defense, it's not that easy to muster gratitude for a roof when it's not only got moss growing on it but grass and a few stalks of goldenrod sprouting up there as well. Looking on the bright side in this case probably means being grateful that the goldenrod didn't have fertile enough ground to actually bloom. In addition to the flora sprouting from the roof, the house was full of the previous tenant's belongings. Not just a few things left behind in a last minute move, but rooms full of furniture, clothing, bedding, eyeglasses, half-finished bottles of water, and so much more--all tidily arranged and remarkably clean considering the house had been left empty for nearly a year.*This meant essentially moving two households of stuff over the course of six days. Our new landlord told us we were welcome to keep any of the left-behind stuff that we wanted and have a yard sale with the rest. Hubby was delighted to find a variety of new (still in the package) and like-new power tools on the cluttered back porch. On one of our many trips between houses, he said to me, "There was a belt sander that I don't think has ever been used."From the backseat, Daughter-Only piped up, "Why would you want to sand your belt?"*Long and complicated story, but we've been assured she's not dead and also not coming back for any of her stuff.
Big changes are afoot here at Masked Mom Headquarters. (For starters, we've apparently begun using the word "afoot" with a relatively straight face.) Long-time readers and long-suffering real world friends and family members all know that change is not my favorite thing, but the thing about change is that it comes whether you like it or not.
The flower shop where I've been working (or engaged in occasional work-like activity broken up by long periods of reading, writing, gossiping, and yelling at the boss) for ten years closed permanently as of May 30. I was fortunate enough to find a new job before the shop closed--so there was no gap in employment but instead an overlap during which I worked 50-70 hours a week at both places all while still ferrying around four children and trying to occasionally remember I have a husband.
The new place is a halfway house where I have already been promoted to the position of "transportation coordinator" which is a fancy way of saying I'm in charge of getting seventeen assorted recovering addicts to their various appointments (and back again) in a timely fashion. Plus filing monthly reports on mileage, gas and other expenses and keeping up maintenance for the house's four vehicles.
It's more money than I was making before--and way more challenging and entertaining. So I'm learning at this late date that maybe embracing change is the best plan--especially when it's inevitable.
And I would embrace it--I really would--but I'm too tired to lift my arms.
There was a period of time when the kids were younger when Hubby and I got in the habit of calling each other "diphthong" as a teasing insult. I don't even vaguely remember how it got started, but I know that at one point, Hubby called Youngest Sister that and she quickly came back with "Umlaut!" To which he responded, "Schwa!"
You not only had to be there for that one, you also had to be a little bit of a geek.
Flash forward to this afternoon. Phone call from Son-One, "Mom, what's a diphthong? I just called Girlfriend-One a diphthong and she didn't know what it means and I just realized I don't really know how to explain it."
Ah, Son-One perhaps you should worry a little less about the defintion of diphthong and a little more about what other quirky time-bombs are left behind from your childhood...
Despite being present and very, very alert during her birth, I have occasionally wondered if Daughter-Only was perhaps switched at birth or dropped here from an alien ship because she is so very different in so many ways from her dear old mom. She's very social for one thing, supremely confident--occasionally annoyingly so, she will say anything to anyone (or so it seems). She has, for instance, proposed to several total strangers with a relatively straight face. She has walked down Main Street in town asking random people if they've ever been to Chuck E. Cheese or if they know the Mexican Hat Dance. She's just an all-around out-there kind of kid--unlike her mother, who while decidedly weird, has always kind of hidden her weird little light under a bushel. Anyway, last night, she says to me, "Mom! How come T-9* has 'Shakespearean' but it doesn't have 'dandruff?'"Try--just try--to imagine a texting world in which it would be necessary to use either the word Shakespearean or the word dandruff. And then, take that one step further into a universe in which the same person might need to text both words in the same one-hour period. She's mine. She's definitely mine.*T-9 is the texting "dictionary" in some cell phones.
In no particular order, some things Masked Mom has learned in recent weeks:1. While I was born right-handed, I did go through a phase as a kid where I tried to retrain myself so I could work equally well (or at least acceptably) with my left hand. This was wildly unsuccessful and motivated almost entirely by the fact that I loved the word "ambidextrous." Recently I noticed that without even being aware of it, I had been texting left-handed. Not only can I text left-handed, I can text signficantly faster and more accurately with my left-hand than with my right: I'm ambiTEXTrous!2. My 14-year-old daughter has a firm grasp of supply and demand and may be some kind of budding economic whiz kid. When she found out that tickets to the high school's production of Little Shop of Horrors cost $6, she said, "I thought, 'That's ridiculous for a high school play.' But then I realized that Hot Senior Boy is wearing tight leather pants in the play--now that's worth $6!"3. There's nothing quite like waking up with a migraine to make you appreciate waking up the next day without one.
"Where's my bailout?" said Cranky Boss Lady to the (long-suffering and insanely underpaid) Masked Mom for the millionth time.For the millionth time, I say, with exaggerated (and not entirely heartfelt) patience, "The theory* is that the bailouts given to the banks and other financial institutions will benefit the economy as a whole in the end--so we're all being bailed out, sort of." Cranky Boss Lady says, with a whine for crap's sake, "It's not fair."I lose it. "How old are you? Didn't you just turn 58?! Can you really be walking around expecting the world to be fair?!"Seriously--you know what's not fair? Being trapped in a truly dead-end job with a FIFTY-EIGHT-YEAR-OLD boss who is still wounded by the unfairness of life and being trapped in that job at a time when the economy is so crappy that I feel lucky every day to have even that job. *Note that I am not defending the theory. Neither am I pretending to fully understand the forces at work in high finance or in the federal government.
Rough coupla days around these parts. When it comes to the most disturbing thing I've heard in the last four days, it's a toss-up. The candidates:
My mechanic saying, "It is the fuel pump. Once you figure in all the parts and labor it's going to be just a hair over $400."
The girl at the car rental agency saying, "We're going to go ahead and upgrade you to the Malibu because the Cobalt has a funky smell in it and we can't figure out where it's coming from."
Last night, Son-Three yells from the kitchen: "Just what I want to see when I'm trying to decide what to have for a snack: a fetus!" Technically it's not a fetus, but an ultrasound picture held on the refrigerator by a magnet. And it's not a picture of just any fetus, but a fetus with my youngest sister's nose or a fetus who looks just like my brother-in-law, depending on which side of the family you ask. It is, in short, a baby whose expected arrival in late summer is eagerly awaited not only by Youngest Sister and her husband but by the many people who love them. Even Son-Three, who is sometimes relentlessly, dangerously adolescent, is excited. Son-Three happens, by sheer coincidence, to share a real-life name with Youngest Sister's Husband*. This afternoon, he says to me, "Mom, if it's a boy do you think they'll name it after me?"*Lou B. of the Masked Mom Comment Hall of Fame****There is no Masked Mom Comment Hall of Fame, but if there were you can bet your butt he'd be in it.
Taylor Swift's song "Love Story" is insidious. And not in a good way.
It not only gets in your head, it stays there. It is bouncy, repetitive and sickly sweet. I spent a recent night waking up repeatedly to the sound of those lyrics and that boppy tune chasing themselves around in my brain. It made falling back asleep difficult. I would finally drift off only to be woken up again a short time later. And again and again. All this despite the fact that I haven't actually heard more than the opening few seconds of the song in days. When I hear it begin on the radio (I can name that tune in two synthesized notes), I change the channel not only quickly but vehemently. A song that relentless has got to have some connection to al Qaeda, right?
Years ago, I read a riddle on the last page of Reader's Digest. It went something like, "There were seven frogs on a log. Five of them decided to jump off. How many frogs were left on the log?"
Two, right?
Son-Three, who was seven or eight at the time, piped up, "Seven!" without even a second's hesitation, which was of course the right answer because, as the punchline helpfully pointed out, "Deciding and doing are two different things."
I've been thinking a lot about those frogs lately. The fact that Son-Three got it--at seven or eight and so quickly!--while I failed to get it at all at thirty-something was probably an indication of more than just my slow-wittedness. The fact is deciding and I have a decidedly dysfunctional relationship.
On the one hand, I will spend absurd amounts of time agonizing over seemingly trivial decisions--seriously, I've spent more than an hour picking out a birthday card on more than one occasion. Hubby has practically had to physically drag me out of the pen aisle at Wal-Mart when the choices--blue, black, ballpoint, gel, clicker or cap--have overwhelmed me. On the other hand, I will often make much more serious decisions--say getting married or naming one of my children after a high-end sports car--with much less agony and forethought.
Further complicating matters, the degree of agony involved in making a decision is no indicator whatsoever of the likelihood that I will actually follow-through with said decision. In other words, as fraught as my relationship with deciding may be, my relationship with doing is much more so. Deciding and I should maybe someday be in couples counseling. Doing and me? Well, it's straight to the Jerry Springer Show for us.
For instance, I have decided a number of times (a very high number) to go back to school. I have decided to look up information. I have decided on courses of study. I have decided to fill out the applications and financial aid forms. Of all the times I have made these decisions--sometimes it seems I've made them on a daily basis--I have made it three-quarters of the way through the applicaton process exactly one time before being distracted by the facts of my life and by the very convincing whining of my little chickenshit brain.
This is one frog who's very tired of sitting on the log. Tired of deciding over and over again to jump off. This frog has gotten tough with herself, putting her foot down--this time I'm serious!--and she's tired of that too.
This time, she's not deciding a single damn thing. She's doing.
...that's how I was greeted this morning by Baby Brother's Girlfriend's Four-Year-Old Daughter, her voice full of excitement--the kind of excitement you might expect if she'd won the lottery and the oversized check was being delivered by Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny. Hard to maintain a whiny attitude in the face of all that enthusiasm.
For this, the premiere episode of The Wednesday Whine, I'll begin with the thing that annoyed me the absolute most this past week and then continue in no particular order:A. Due to prior commitments to beings I brought into the world who think this fact somehow entitles them to huge chunks of my time and energy and commitments to other people I did not bring into the world but who nonetheless seemingly ceaselessly clamor for my (limited) time and energy, I was unable to begin The Wednesday Whine on an actual Wednesday but had to wait instead for Friday night after a stressful volleyball game and, therefore, am too exhausted to self-edit thereby producing this amazingly long, essentially senseless, if not actually run-on, sentence.B. Church sign I saw last Saturday night: "NEVER BE AFRAID TO TRUST AN UNKNOWN FUTURE TO A KNOWN COD." Yes, it said "COD," just like that. I drove by, did a double-take and actually backed up to double check. Heck of a "typo," but that wasn't really what annoyed me. What annoyed me was they left it up like that all week. Who knows? Maybe it was a recruitment strategy: lure people into calling to report the "mistake" and then invite them to Sunday service. C. When I mentioned the church sign to Cranky Boss Lady she said, "A known cod? Would that be Van De Kamp's or Gorton's?" That annoyed me, because it was fast and funny and Cranky Boss Lady's not supposed to be either of those things.D. In other more typical Cranky Boss Lady news: After making the harrowing drive in to work during a winter storm, she said, "I couldn't help noticing that everyone off the side of the road was driving an SUV" in a tone suggesting there was some kind of karmic justice being wreaked out there on the road--arrogant, overconfident, four-wheel drive driving drivers, blah, blah blah getting what they deserve by winding up stuck in a snow drift. Great theory. Would've meant a heck of a lot more were Cranky Boss Lady not the proud owner & driver of a four-wheel drive vehicle who only last month found herself off the side of a snow-covered road, stuck in a ditch, needing towed out by a tractor. As she rambled on about irresponsible SUV drivers, not for one second did her own overconfident navigation of her own SUV cross her judgmental little mind. Errrrrgggg.*No promises.
On every birthday up to a certain age, someone invariably would ask me, "You're 4 (or 7 or 10) do you feel any different?"
And, of course, I didn't feel any different than I'd felt the night before when I was still 3 or 6 or 9 because the essence of being 4 or 7 or 10 can't be compressed into a single day or a single moment.
I was thinking about that today, as our 44th president was inaugurated: We have a new president, do I feel any different?
Well...the truth is that a new president will affect the day-to-day facts of our lives very little in the immediate future.
But...the other truth is that I do feel different and I think that feeling is called hope and I think and believe that the man who was sworn in today along with the team he has assembled around himself, can live up to that hope.
PS--Obama's speech was moving and perfectly delivered and I think that's great because I think a good 65% or so of the presidency is about public relations (at home and abroad), but still the best words I heard all day were on the AP radio feed: "A helicopter carried former President Bush away from Washington toward Andrews Air Force base..."
--Flannel sheets are the double-edged sword of linens. Good: they are amazingly warm and fuzzy and comfortable. Bad: they are amazingly warm and fuzzy and comfortable so you never want to get out of bed, which severely compromises your ability to function in your normal life. But it's okay because flannel sheets are way better than functioning normally.--I have grown increasingly perturbed in recent weeks by the fact that windshield wash comes in gallon jugs while the reservoir in my car apparently holds three quarts. I started thinking about it and I've never driven (or filled) a vehicle that did hold the whole gallon. At this point I have six quarts of windshield wash in my garage in six separate containers because I always forget about the leftovers. Shouldn't someone in the wash industry get with someone in the auto industry and hammer out a plan to address this disparity? Maybe we could use a couple million out of the bail-out money to finance that little project, it would make about as much sense as some of the other stuff that's come out of it.
I was in Kmart early in December and saw what appeared to be a grandmother with her granddaughter. The granddaughter's (apparent)dad had gone in the opposite direction and the granddaughter, who looked to be about three, was squirming in the cart, and saying, to the grandmother, "I don't want you. I don't love you." in a whiny three-year-old voice.
The grandmother said, "Well, good, because the less people who like me this time of year means the less presents I have to buy."
Warms the heart, doesn't it?
One of the things that happens when you post every day for a month is that when it's over, you feel kind of funny not posting for the first few days.Then you get over it.
So I made it.
Just barely and with more than a few questionable posts, but still, I made it.
I had a post planned about what I've learned from yet another month of daily posting but a heaping helping of driving two boys back to college with side orders of freezing rain and holiday traffic have dashed those fantastic plans.Maybe next time.
