THE KENMORE CALENDAR

There was a time when my refrigerator was covered with colorful alphabet letters and pre-school drawings. From there we went to school lunch menus and grade school papers.

Now my refrigerator is covered with schedules.

Six schedules.

I have two children.

You do the math, because I can't.

Until Saturday evening, my refrigerator held SEVEN schedules for my TWO children but we got through the girls basketball tournament so I got to throw that bracket away.

Now we are down to six. We're making headway.

In the upper left corner of my fridge is a Bible verse. It says "My God, my God, why has thou forsaken me?"

Oh!! You know I'm kidding.

It says "Lord you have assigned me my portion and my cup; you have made my lot secure" (Psalm 16:5) It's a fitting verse, I think, for this busy time of life -for any time of life.

But moving on from there, let's talk about my six schedules, shall we.

We have the carpool schedule for girls basketball. The carpool schedule that seems a little useless since practice times keeping changing and games keep popping up where there were none before. I spent two hours making that schedule...

Not that I'm bitter or anything.

Then we have the actual GAME schedule for the girls basketball team. This schedule includes the JV/Varsity games and the Freshman games, which really doesn't mean anything since our daughter has to be at both.

Moving on from there, we have the concession schedule for the GIRLS basketball games, which are supported by the Girls Athletic Boosters. If your girl plays ball, you work the concession stand for some of her games. Fair enough.

And over here we have the concession schedule for the VARSITY BOYS basketball games. As I've mentioned before I was not smart enough to raise a slacker; so as a class officer Kayla and her fellow officers have to stock and staff the concession stand to earn money for their class. Translation: Kayla's mom and her fellow officers' moms have to stock and staff the concession stand to earn money for their class. But don't worry, these kids WILL WORK at that concession stand.

Oh Boy will they work. (insert whip cracking sound here.)

Let's see. Oh. Then next we have the schedule for Kayla's pitching instruction, because we have become THAT family. That family that sends their young athlete to a private coach in hopes that she will become the next Jennie Finch. Truth be told, Kayla's father set this up and it IS only every other week, but it still makes us one of THOSE families - one of those families I said we'd never become (hanging head in shame). But I do believe calling it "Pitching Instruction" sounds a lot more reasonable than "Private Pitching Coach." Don't you?

And finally, we have the Varsity Boys Wrestling schedule.

I don't even know how to describe the torture of sitting through a wrestling meet. Watching your own son wrestle is very exciting, but it's a quick few minutes and then you have to wait and wait and wait some more, until he gets to wrestle again. So you spend hours sitting on the bleachers, practically drooling on your own shirt out of boredom, until your son wrestles. Then you get to stand up and cheer and hoop and holler. You get to work the kinks out of your bones and feel your heart rate rise. And then it's over real fast and you return to your coma until they call your son's weight class again. It is a true physical and emotional roller coaster.

Fun times.

And now I just got a phone call reminding me of the post prom committee meeting on Wednesday night at 6:30. Because I was naive and dumb enough to say "Sure! I'll be on that committee." So I have added that little reminder to the fridge.

DO NOT EVEN GET ME STARTED ON THE POST PROM PARTY. I am in tremendous inner turmoil over my involvement in this - so much so I have not even been able to blog about it.

I know. How crazy is that?

Let's just say I am struggling with what I perceive as COMPLETE OVER INDULGENCE OF OUR CHILDREN.

And I need to stop right there because my eye is starting to twitch.

PRIORITIES

Senator Richard Durbin
State Capital Building
Springfield, Illinois


Dear Senator Durbin,

Please excuse what may or may not have been my husband's fullest potential in that meeting you attended at his office yesterday. You know that meeting that was about...um...well...I don't really know what it was about, but I bet it was real interesting.

Anyway, while he had been working very hard preparing for said meeting, he faced some major distractions.

See, his wife (that would be me) kept calling him about some pressing family matters - urgent matters that concerned the education and welfare of our precious daughter.

I was making price signs for our concession stand, and I needed his advice a couple of times. While we (other officer mom and I) were able to come up with a sign that is just darling (HEY! Why not come to one of the games and see it?) we did not know how to actually SEND it to my husband who had offered to print it on his giant poster sized printer. Think Lucy and Ethel at the computer.

So on the second phone call (or was it the third?) my husband made some comment about how he was simultaneously working on two projects that fell on opposite ends of the spectrum of importance - his upcoming meeting with you, Senator; and pricing m&m's and hot dogs with me. I'm sure he meant no disrespect when he implied that his meeting with you was trivial compared to our concession stand sign, but we all have our priorities.


WE HAVE HOT DOGS TO SELL, SENATOR!

And in these tough economic times it is the duty of the class of 2012 to offer a low cost but nutritious dinner at basketball games - hot dog, chips, candy bar and water. Anything to stimulate the economy while helping the average Joe.

Plus if we sell lots of stuff, we totally don't have to hold another major fund raiser this year.

While I'm sure my husband did a bang-up job at his meeting with you; I hope this letter explains why he might have seemed a little preoccupied. He truly had some heavy matters weighing on his mind. Further, I know that he is especially grateful to me, his wife, for allowing him to be involved in this major concession stand project. I do believe it is important for children to see their parents tackle life's major problems together. Don't you?

I think that falls within the category of FAMILY VALUES.

Thank you for your time, Senator. Please stop by one of our boys' basketball games and enjoy some of our delicious treats from the concession stand (although, I'm afraid we won't be able to give you a discount) The stand is easy to find. Just look for the brilliant signage.

Yours truly,
HW

I AM A MOTHER

Hey readers! Head on over to Antique Mommy and read her post about motherhood. I love Antique Mommy. LOVE. HER. And if I don't win that book, I'm totally buying it for myself.

Merry Christmas to me.

By the way, read ALL of Antique Mommy. She's lovely. And her little boy Sean? SWEET. HEART. I seriously want a five year old boy around here again.

After leaving my comment, I decided to hop back over here to my very own blog and expand on it.

Motherhood takes a toll on our bodies, regardless of how we become mothers. Nobody told me how motherhood would be an all encompassing physical attack, not just from the pains of childbirth but for every second that we are blessed to be called Mom. We feel motherhood in every inch of our bodies.

Let's start at the top, shall we.

The Brain. Motherhood makes your brain bend. Whether it's geometry, biology, or trying to figure out WHY? Why, did he think he could climb on the roof of the grade school? Why? Why did he think it was a good idea to set his army men on fire? Why? Why are there SEVEN bath towels on the floor of their bathroom. Why? Why won't my child's fever go down? And sometimes motherhood can make our brain explode. With anger, that is. Most of the time it's more like an IMPLOSION where we keep all the damage inside our head. Sometimes, though (and I hope I'm not the only one) it's a true explosion that sends splinters and shrapnel across the room - "WHAT WERE YOU THINKING!?!"

The Eyes. For some reason, my eyes water a lot since I became a mother. Happy things, sad things, it doesn't matter. My eyes tend to water a lot for the past 17 years. Sometimes they twitch too, now that I'm a mother.

The Mouth. I admit it, since becoming a mother, certain words slip out that never would have slipped out before. Maybe once, my kids have heard me use a curse word, but I try to be very hypocritical and only utter those words out of their hearing.But motherhood makes us utter things we would not speak if our hearts weren't living outside our bodies. "You went poopie? Big boy-eee" "No, we cannot get a pet lizard. Or a hedgehog." "Don't pick your nose." "Be nice to your brother, you may need a kidney someday." "Seriously, kids. You're fighting over cereal?" "If you don't get BACK IN THAT BED..." "Of course Santa is real." "Never enter mommy and daddy's bedroom without knocking..." "Yes, you can wear cowboy boots with your shorts." "Pink mittens in May? Sure." "Running out of Mt. Dew is not an emergency. Don't call us again unless you're bleeding."

The Shoulders. Motherhood makes our shoulders strong but that strength does not come without pain. Whether we are toting a toddler while carrying a giant diaper bag, or feeling the weight of a teenage daughter's heartbreak, somehow our shoulders can manage it all.

The Spine. Sometimes it disappears while we raise our children. Does he really NEED that Cubs sweatshirt? No, but your spine has disappeared and you buy it. Does she really NEED to go to the movie again? No, but your spine has disappeared and you drive her. Did you think they'd outgrown hugging you? Yes, and your spine disappears when they do. Motherhood turns us into noodles.

And yet, the spine can reappear as needed. NO, she won't be going to that other school's homecoming dance. NO, he won't drive three hours on a Saturday night to watch a fight. YES, I will confront the adult who bullied my child. YES, I will fight the battle of modesty. YES, I will fight the battle of working to potential. NO. YES. Hopefully the spine makes its presence known when needed.

The Arms. Motherhood makes our arms ache. From the joy of holding our infants to the ache of emptiness when they no longer snuggle in them, our arms ache. My arms ache a lot these days.

The Hands. Motherhood makes our hands magic. Our hands touch burning foreheads, place band aids just right, hold down a screaming toddler during shots, frost cupcakes, catch bugs, swat bottoms, wipe noses, color maps, glue collages, place birthday candles, pat backs, tie shoes, struggle with tights, clap, clap, clap. And daily fold themselves together in prayer.

The Stomach. Motherhood makes our stomach weak. And strong. We can catch vomit in our hands and our stomach remains as steal. We can watch our child break a bone, and our stomach revolts. We can watch our child go to her first high school dance and our stomach does flip flops. My stomach does a lot of flip flops these days.

The Legs. Motherhood turns us into runners. Or not. We take baby steps when we're teaching our child to walk. We learn to run when they do. We can move at the speed of light to keep them out of the road or away from the stove. Our legs our horsies, jungle gyms, and arm rests for wobbly toddlers. They know every inch of the hallways of our child's school. They have climbed the bleachers a million times. They could outrun a freight train to save our child.

Our knees. Motherhood weakens our knees. Our knees go weak with worry when our child is sick, weak with relief when they are well again, weak with pride when they've succeeded. And weak with joy simply from seeing them smile and hearing them laugh. My kids' laughter still makes me weak in the knees and I'm sure it always will.

Our feet. Motherhood earns each of us a daily foot massage. Our feet walk the floor at night when our infant is ill - sometimes all night for several nights. They have held the weight of our children as they stand on our shoes to dance. They've paced the halls of hospitals and quickly walked out of church to quiet an angry toddler. They've made a path to the front door as we watch to see if he'll make curfew, and tiptoed around the Christmas tree to play Santa. They've stepped heavy on the gas pedal when our child is sick at school. They've gone without that perfect sandal when our child "needed" light up shoes (see THE SPINE).

And now, though it's closer to the top, the most burdened body part of mothers - THE HEART.

Motherhood makes our heart burst. Over and over again, our heart bursts. It bursts at the first sight of our child. It bursts at all of our child's firsts - first smile, first tooth, first step, first day of school, first date, first prom. It bursts with disappointment, sadness and even anger.

Motherhood makes our heart divide. Somehow our heart is able to divide itself and yet remain whole with each child that God places in our arms. Somehow our heart can be in two (or more) childrens' beds at night, two lunchboxes at grade school, two lockers at high school, two cars on the weekend, two sets of bleachers.

Motherhood is indeed a full body workout and, most of the time, it is my favorite form of exercise.

EVIDENTLY I HAVE NO CLASS - PART II

What? Two posts in one day? Well, yes because, apparently the day could get worse.

After being told by my door painter that I could be keeping my door a little cleaner...ahem...I skedaddled on out of there to run some errands. Some vital errands.

I had to run to the post office and buy a roll of stamps so that we cold mail out the concession duty schedule to the freshman class. Surprisingly that stop went off without a hitch and I managed to leave our tiny little post office without humiliating myself. The victory would be short lived.

Next was a stop at Staples where I was to have 85 copies made of said schedule, along with a couple of other vital papers for the class of 2012 - four pages in all.

Did I mention it was really windy today? REALLY windy.

So windy, in fact, that when I opened my van door, and stepped out with the vital Freshman documents in my hand, the wind grabbed them and sent them flying like so many white kites into the neighboring empty lot.

CRAP! CRAP! CRAP!

I had a fraction of a second to decide if I wanted to chase the documents down, pretending that I was the only person on earth and that nobody would be watching, or if I wanted to call the other mom who had those documents on her computer and run to her house to print more.

CRAP! CRAP! CRAP!

Deciding I did not want to swallow my pride (or take the time) to drive to "other mom's" house to get those papers re-printed, I decided on the easy way out.

I chased the papers down.

All four of them.

In fourteen different directions.

Blowing away from me at 12-15 miles per hour across that empty field.

Because that wasn't swallowing my pride at all. Oh no, that was the dignified choice. And I am nothing if not dignified.

And wouldn't you know? Just when I got close enough to one of those papers to pick it up, the wind would snatch it away again, sending me stomping after it for a few more feet until it would tease me again, daring me to reach down to pick it up and then - WHOOSH - off it would go again.

PEACE BE STILL. PEACE BE STILL. PEACE BE STILL.
LORD PLEASE CALM THIS WIND. LORD PLEASE CALM THIS WIND. PEACE BE STILL.
I'M SORRY FOR SAYING CRAP. THREE TIMES. NO SIX TIMES. I'M REALLY SORRY. PLEASE MAKE THIS WIND STOP.

After gathering three papers I stood in that field looking all around for the fourth like one would look for his lost pet. Because by golly I was not going to sacrifice my dignity (and what had been a pretty decent hair day up to that point) for three of the four papers and then give up. Oh, and speaking of pets. I did see a wild cat charge by me. I totally would have brought him home had my mind not been on other matters, mainly because I know how much my husband loves cats....

Finally I spotted the lone paper wedged against something on the ground so I trudged over to pick it up, wondering why on earth I thought it was so important for my daughter to be well-rounded.

See, I wouldn't have been doing this if she wasn't a class officer. But NOOOOOO-uh. I had to raise an ambitious, diligent young woman who wants to participate in things that will look impressive on a college application.

I am totally going to teach her to be a slacker next year. Seriously, leadership is over rated, don't you think? But I bet she would have been proud of her over achieving mother today.

So then.

I walk into Staples with my crumpled papers, march up to the copy center and say:

One tequila - straight up.

Oh, you know I'm kidding; it's just been a while since I typed tequila.

I actually lay the papers on the counter and smooth them out like a fourth grader who had rescued his homework from the dog. And that's when I noticed...um...something...on the edge of one of the papers. I'm not sure what it was and I won't even allow myself to speculate. There was also a suspicious smudge on another paper - obviously something picked up from that blasted field. These papers did not look pretty. At all.

*Note to self - donate hand sanitizer to Freshman class - 85 bottles.*

But that wasn't the end of my really good fortune.

Seems the copier at Staples was down and the repairman may or may not make it today so I had two options:

Let them go ahead and charge my credit card and stand at the "do it yourself" machine and run the copies myself.

Leave the papers with them, NOT let them charge my credit card, and return tomorrow to pick up the copies - letting the nice young folks at Staples do it.

Um....normally I may not have minded standing at the copier at Staples and running 85 copies, times four, but today?

Today, after running through the field chasing papers, gathering said papers, smoothing them along my leg as I entered the store, noticing something...um...questionable on half of said papers, knowing for certain that my hair looked ridiculous, and then being told that the copier was down? And all that after being told by a construction worker in my very own home that I need to clean my door better?

After all that and having to ask myself YET AGAIN why I can't manage to keep my dignity in tact when I leave the house; did it really seem reasonable that I would want to stand at Staples and make copies?

I think not.

To top it all off, once the freshman class finds out about my incompetence, I'm likely to be fired. My title of "Class Officer Mom" might be revoked.

Yeah, right. I could be so lucky.

EVIDENTLY I HAVE NO CLASS

I was recently telling some friends about the time the Salvation Army refused some of my furniture.

I know.

My furniture was not good enough for the thrift store.

I have never been so indignant in all my life.

I had this sofa to get rid of and, to be honest, the only reason we were getting rid of it was that I was bored with it. It had a small tear in the upholstery but it was by no means a piece of poo. I also had some bar stools to get rid of. Rather than try to sell them through an ad in the paper or by word of mouth, we decided to donate them.

So I called the Salvation Army and arranged a pickup time.

The big truck backed into our driveway and I opened the garage door and showed them the furniture I was wanting them to have, fully expecting them to heave it all into their big truck, hand me a receipt and drive away. But NOOOOO.

Um...we can't take those.

Wait, what?

See that tear there in the sofa? We can't take furniture in that kind of shape. Also, these bar stools? They have some scratches on them here, here and here. We can't take furniture with that kind of damage.

Wait, what?

Sorry, we can't take it.

But...I....um....er....uh...wait, what? My furniture isn't good enough for the Salvation Army? No offense to your organization but.... wait, what?

Apparently, I am also quite eloquent when I'm being insulted.

So, they didn't take my furniture.

THE SALVATION ARMY REFUSED TO TAKE MY FURNITURE.

If that's not a blow to one's sense of style and decor, I don't know what is.

Fast forward several years to, well, today.

I have a couple of workers here fixing up our door situation.

The man who is going to paint our front door was looking at the inside of the door to decide how to paint it to match the new surrounding trim he is installing.

He pointed to the border around the oval window in our door, rubbed his finger on it and said:

Ma'am, this doesn't have to be painted. You can just wipe it off.

Wait, what?

OHHHHH! I can clean that? Well, that IS a good idea.

Now I think his partner was a little embarrassed that the guy just told me to clean my door better, but I was laughing and, to tell you the truth, I don't think either one of them gets my sense of humor.

Imagine that.

I have never claimed to be the best of housekeepers. In fact, oddly enough, I was a better housekeeper when the kids were little. Now? With the schedules of two busy teenagers, something's gotta give.

And it's been the housework.

But, come on. How many of you think to clean the trim around the window in your front door on a weekly basis?

But to be told by a construction worker that my cleaning standards may not be up to par?

That is as bad as say...I don't know....having your furniture rejected by the Salvation Army. But wait, that happened too.

So I give up. I'm off to shoot me a squirrel for dinner and then I have to whip up some flour sack dresses for me and the younguns. We gotta look spiffy this weekend 'cause two of our cousins are getting married - to each other.

LORD OF THE FRUIT FLIES

We have a problem.

We have a swarm of fruit flies in our kitchen. We cannot get rid of them. We have no produce out on our counter. We have no food out on our counter. We just have fruit flies swarming around our counter -specifically the sink area. I've cleaned the sink and garbage disposal - thoroughly and multiple times. Paul has set out a cup of vinegar and a cup of water/liquid dish soap per Google's instructions. And still, the fruit flies cometh.

God? Is that you? Are we being plagued?

And darn if I don't want to grab a jar of ether and start suffocating the little devils.

Remember? High school biology? When we got to sedate the fruit flies - the Drosophila - in a test tube and then tap, tap, tap, them out onto the lab table to sort them while looking through a magnifying glass? Remember?

And if you didn't work quickly enough with your sorting, they'd start to wake up and then you'd have to wave the ether-soaked cotton ball over their tiny little bodies to knock them out again so you could finish your experiment?

Except, inevitably, some of them would reach way down inside themselves and gather the strength to get up and fly far....far far away? And then you'd be mad because your ever-so-important experimental statistics would be messed up because you let one with white wings or red eyes get away?

Remember?

Remember how back in the eighties, fruit flies were merely a means to an end? A project to complete to get an A in high school biology?

Plus, they were like the funnest unit EVER....

And now? They are still a means to an end. They are the means by which I am going to end up a raving lunatic.

I am off to Menard's today to look for a big ole' can of "Fruit Fly Be Gone."

Any other suggestions?

WORDS THAT MELT MY HEART

Last night, as Blake and I were discussing his desire to serve in the military, the conversation naturally took many different turns.

At one point - I don't even know when it happened, or how - my son said

"You have to admit, Mom, that there are a few things where I'm smarter than you and dad.."

"Um...first, Blake, I don't have to admit any such thing. Second, I think what you mean to say is that your opinions on many things differ from ours..."

"Yeah, okay, but I will say this. I am SO GLAD I don't have ignorant parents. If I had ignorant parents, I don't know how I'd make it through this life."

Aw, gee. Thanks, son.

I think.

BROTHERLY LOVE

Last week, we got home to hear a message on our answering machine in which the voice simply said "CLINT!!!" And then the sound of a phone being hung up.

That is how my brother lets me know he's trying to reach me. While I desperately wanted to call HIS answering machine and say "WHAAAAAT?" and hang up, I didn't because it was late and I was tired. And, why make my brother think I'm too eager to speak to him?

Instead I sent him the following e-mail this morning. He should receive it at work any minute now. Which means I have about 2 hours before my house is surrounded by federal agents for some reason or another. At least that's the kind of thing he likes to threaten since he works for an agency under the Department of Homeland Security. I tell him that he overestimates his own importance and that I have plenty of dirt on him. Blah, blah, blah.

So after seeing the note I sent him, you all will instantly understand why I'm his absolute favorite person in the world.



Dear Clint,

I received a very succinct (apparently encoded) message on my answering machine the other day. I believe it was the evening we had been at the U of I watching the U.S. Gymnastics team perform. Jealous?

Anyway, since the message just said “CLINT!!!!" I immediately picked up the phone and called my good friend Clint Eastwood. While he was happy to hear from me, he assured me he had not called. He did however suggest we do lunch soon. I said “Great, I’ll have my people call your people.” And he said “Go ahead. Make my day.”
I must remember to pencil that in.

Since it was not THAT Clint who had called, I assumed it was you. After listening to your encoded message many times I decided it could mean a few different things:

You were trapped under something heavy and needed my help. And, well, since that was five days ago, I guess you’re out of luck.

You won the lottery and wanted to send me half.

You suddenly remembered you owed me $400.00 and wanted to tell me the check is in the mail.

You wanted to know my favorite flower so you could send me a “BEST SISTER IN THE WORLD” bouquet.

You wanted to apologize for that time you buried my Barbie doll in the backyard next to the cat’s grave.

You wanted me to shovel your driveway since you’ve been hit with a blizzard. Again, you’re out of luck, because you are the one with the fancy new snow blower, while we just have three shovels.

You are coming home for Thanksgiving and want to stay in our guestroom. Please please please let it be number 7. Note: Due to the failing economy we’ve had to raise our rates; I'll send you a new brochure.

I didn’t pick up the phone and call you back because I was tired and my husband has taken away our long distance on the land line and I didn’t know where my cell phone was and I couldn’t see taxing myself to go find it simply to ask you “WHAT DO YOU WANT?”

So, what do you want?


I love you man.

Heidi

I HAVE RESPONSIBLE

*Updated below*


When Blake was in first grade, Paul and I were going over some things with him that he needed to take to school. I can't remember exactly what it was but I think there was something he needed to give to the teacher.

Evidently our reminders insulted him because he stopped our stream of parental advice by putting his hands up, palms facing outwards and said:

MOM. DAD. I HAVE RESPONSIBLE.

In a tone that let us know he thought he'd never get us raised.

We weren't really surprised by this because he was always one of those kids whose vocabulary was bigger than he was. And nine times out of ten, he used the words in the correct context, if not in the correct tense.

Last night, Blake approached me with a request. A few months ago, he had pre-purchased a video game at our mall and the game was going to be available at midnight. The store was going to be open and he wanted to know if he could go out at midnight and pick up his game. The mall is extremely close to our house; you don't even have to get on a highway to get there from here.

Remembering his assurance, at the age of six, that he did indeed have responsible, I immediately said "Sure. And why not stop at the pub and have a beer with the guys while you're out."

Oh stop. I'm kidding.

I actually said, "Well, I think that would be okay, since you're seventeen and you wouldn't be breaking city curfew. However, if your dad gets home and disagrees, then you'll have to wait until tomorrow. Also, you have to get up without prompting in the morning."

And he accepted that.

Then I asked him about the game and he said it is an alien war game - outer space aliens, not immigrant aliens. And, apparently, it's all about fighting off these alien invaders.

Well, why didn't you say so? Of course, I want you to have that game because I am all about educational activities. And I think it's hugely important for our kids to know as much as possible about our fight for independence from space aliens. History is important, you know.

So then.

As we all went to bed, he assured us that he'd be very quiet as he left and returned on his midnight run for his new toy.

I woke up at 1:30 and checked out the window and saw that his car was home and thought "Ah. He did it. He left and came home safely and quietly. What a big boy."

Turns out my little fella couldn't stay awake and he never made it out the door.

So this morning before school, he handed me his pre-paid receipt and asked me if I would go pick up his game. Because I am the best mom EV. VER. I told him I would take care of that and that I'm sure he wouldn't mind running to the store for me this afternoon to buy water so that he could do all the lifting and carrying. Knowing he had no wiggle room, he agreed.

However, he couldn't help himself from reminding me just how important this trip to the mall was to get his game. He couldn't help asking me a couple of times if I was sure I had the receipt. He even suggested he might call me through the day to see if I had picked it up "...not to remind you, mom, but to feel the excitement of knowing it's at home waiting for me."

Yeah, yeah.

And darn, if I didn't think to put my hands up and say "Blake. Son. I have responsible."

I am usually much more quick witted than that but I had not had coffee yet.

But I assume I will have a happy kid on my hands this evening.

Well, once he finds the game.

Because, since I'm the best mom EV. VER, I'm going to hide it from him and make him go on a scavenger hunt for it.

Maybe I don't have responsible.

Update:
This was the best part of my day. My normally well spoken son was completley flustered and without words when he walked in and found a note on the dining room table:

Blake, can you find your game. Clue: a peaceful religious sect.

I was at the comptuer when he walked in and I said "Hi Blake how was your day?" And I heard complete silence for a moment and then he mumbled "Is this a joke?" So I knew he had read my note.

Seriously, mom, what is this garbage? Where's my game? You HID my game? MOM! I cannot handle this today. Where's my game?

Think, Blake. What is a peaceful religious sect?

Mormons, Jewish, Jehovah's Witness....I don't know, where's my game?

Um...Blake, I know you've heard of the Quakers.

You DID NOT hide my game in a box of oatmeal.....(opens pantry door)

Ah, but what's your favorite flavor of oatmeal?

I don't know!!!!! Mom, I can't handle this.

Oh, your game is fine, just hunt for it...(desperately wishing I had made lots of clues to send him all over the house. This was much more fun than I imagined. I never knew torturing one's child could bring such satisfaction.)

Thankfully the twinkle in his eye and his obvious attempts not to laugh made me know he was having fun, which really didn't matter because I was literally doubled over in laughter. To see this big ole tough wrestler nearly fall apart over not being able to find his new toy was, for some reason, absolutely hilarius to me. I was just waiting for him to stomp his size 14 foot on the floor and say "I'm telling DAAAD-uh."

As he dug his game out of the box of instant strawberry oatmeal he said "Thanks mom, and I have to admit, that was pretty cute... but don't do that to me again."

I am going straight to hell for my fine parenting techniques.

THE DUST UP

For the last few days my sinuses have been on fire. It feels like I've inhaled a pool full of chlorinated water - and not the baby pool, but the big pool.
I can't stop sneezing.
My eyes feel like they have razor blades embedded under the lids.
My nose goes from completely stopped up to running so badly I carry paper towels in my pockets. Yes paper towels, because tissues just aren't substantial enough. Pretty picture, huh?
And evidently I swallowed a feather sometime Saturday night because I can't get rid of that tickle in my throat.

Because I've been suffering the worst head cold ever (because MY colds are always worse than anybody else's) I haven't told you about my new dust mop. So I'm going to do that today. And if you're lucky, tomorrow I'll tell you about my new dish towels.

So.

I've been wanting a new dust mop for quite some time. I like my plain old dust mop, but it's broken. Every time I shake the dust off of it, the head falls off and then I have to reassemble it while I mumble and grumble. But I want a new one just like it - a plain old dust mop. The kind my mom and grandma used.

The kind Aunt Bea used.

I do not like a Swiffer, because I don't like to add a fresh cloth each time I want to clean my floor and then remove the dirty cloth when I'm done. I don't want to change a dust mop diaper when my floor needs to be cleaned.

I found a new fangled dust mop a few months ago but nothing clung to it. It simply moved everything around and let all the dust bunnies fall to the floor. That, I believe, is called a broom; it should not be marketed as a dust mop.

Last week, I went to Menard's determined to find a plain old dust mop.

And it was in the mop aisle at Menard's that my early onset Alzheimer's reared it's ugly head.

First of all, there were no plain old dust mops, so I picked one up that had a large rectangular head on it, which I decided would be nice for the staircase. It looked like it would pick up lots of dust. Funny thing, the handle was quite short - like about 3 feet long.

Hmmm.

I took it off the rack and held it by the very tippy top of the handle and "dusted" the floor at Menard's, experimenting with the short handle.

Why would it have such a short handle?

Is it better for my posture?

Is it ergonomically correct?

It didn't have "CHILD'S DUST MOP" on the label.

I decided I could try it, despite it's very strange handle. After all, who am I to doubt the scientific advances of dust moppery?

It was while I was putting the dust mop in my cart that I actually read the label and saw "handle expands to 62 inches."

OOOOHHHHHH! Now I get it.

So then.

I came home, more eager than ever to search for dust bunnies. I expanded the handle and started to swish swish swish my new toy across the dining room floor.

Only to have the handle collapse back to its original child size length.

And because evidently I don't learn very quickly, I repeated this exercise about four times, getting the same results each time.

Swish swish swish, collapse.
Swish swish swish, collapse.

Finally, I went to the garbage can and dug out the label and actually read the directions.

That's right. I had to read directions on how to operate a dust mop. My self esteem was taking a real beating that day.

Turns out I was operating it correctly, which relieved me greatly. It is nice to know my college education was not a complete waste. It appears, though, that my expandable dust mop handle is just a little loose and cannot withstand the swishing pressure of dusting my hardwood floor.

Because I didn't buy a service warranty on my dust mop and didn't want to call a repair man, I did something that will make my husband extremely proud. I taped the handle in place with black electrical tape.

Now I not only have my new dust mop; but it looks really classy too.

GROWING PAINS

The other morning, while I was giving my kitchen a (semi) thorough cleaning, I decided to go ahead and make the meatloaf I had planned for dinner.

That's right, by 11:00 am I had my meatloaf mixed up and sitting in the fridge all ready to bake.

June Cleaver couldn't do better.

Anyway, the phone rang while I was finishing up and the caller I.D. said "U.S. GOVERNMENT."

Well, Great! You rip one tag off of one throw pillow...

Turns out I need not have worried. It was simply an Army recruiter looking for my son.

Hello, this is Sergeant Bates (or was it Gates?) May I speak to Blake?

And in an instant I went from June Cleaver to Mad Mother Bear.

Blake is at SCHOOOOOOL. *snarl*

Oh, has he gone off to college?

No, he's a junior in high school. And you can't have him.

Not really on that last part, but I was thinking it.

Blake has been talking to a couple of recruiters. He's spent some time with a Marine recruiter and yesterday visited with a Naval recruiter. Of course, the Army got wind of his military interest and decided to get in on the action.

Regardless of the fear that grips my heart when he talks about a life in the armed forces, I can't disparage that choice.

See, the pebble of military service has left a huge ripple in the pond of Blake's life.

My great grandfather fought in World War I and World War II. He spent the last thirty years of his life in a veteran's hospital suffering from battle fatigue. His body came out of both wars unharmed, but his spirit was scarred forever. Perhaps that is a worse fate than a bullet wound.

His son-in-law, my maternal grandfather, also fought in World War II in the Navy Sea Bees, leaving my grandmother at home to worry over her father and her husband as they fought on different fronts.

My paternal grandfather landed on the beaches of Normandy and fought behind German lines.

My brother spent 22 years in the army.

My dad served in the army.

My surrogate dad, Uncle Ivan, served in the Army.

My cousin retired as a captain from the Navy.

My father-in-law, Paul's step dad, was a medic in Korea and Vietnam. He has seen first hand the atrocities man can inflict on one another.

When Paul was four, his dad died of cancer after serving nearly 20 years in the Air Force.

Blake's "godfather" was a marine.

His wrestling coach, the father of his best friend, recently retired from the Navy.

Make no mistake, Blake adores his dad. It still makes me weak in the knees to see the bond Paul has with our son. But besides Paul, all the men Blake admires the most have a military past. These are honorable men. These are selfless men.

And because of that, to disparage a military choice would be like cutting them off at the knees in Blake's eyes. Because of the long history of military service in my family, to disparage it would be like hating the very essence of myself.

As an American, I think military service is among the most honorable of careers. It is a selfless career. It is a difficult career. And, unfortunately, in our society, it is a career that is easily mocked and vilified, making it a courageous choice in more than one way.

As a mother, the whole story changes. As a mother, I want to bar the door. I want to throw myself at his feet and plead with him to walk a different path. I want to beg him to choose something else - ANYTHING ELSE - that would not put his precious life at risk.

But I can't do that.

I am coming to realize more and more that he has a heart for service - military service. He has a heart for this challenge. And who am I to quash that spirit, that eagerness?

Who am I to live in fear and teach him, at this late date in parenting, to live in fear?

He has one and three-quarters years of high school left. He has time to make a decision. We have time to have some serious conversations and ask some serious questions.

And I have time to pray. A LOT.

GIRLS NIGHT

Every now and then, Kayla and I have girls night.

Surprisingly, our Girls Night almost always takes place at the mall.

I know. Who'd have thought?

Tonight she is getting her hair cut so I suggested we eat at her favorite Chinese place in the tiny little food court after her hair appointment. She was all over that idea like what on rice.

Get it? Chines food...white on rice...?

Anyway.

I really look forward to our girls nights. Girls night always includes:

-Giggling

-food

-the latest news from her busy teenage life

-accessory shopping

-my staring at her precious smile and wondering how we got to this point so quickly.

-her telling me that NO that top is not too young for me or NO those jeans don't make my butt look like a barn, when I try on clothes.

How sweet is that?

I think tonight she will come home with a new pair of fall shoes. I had no idea how dire her wardrobe was until the other morning, when the temperature was about 38 degrees, and I saw her walk to Blake's car in her winter coat and flip flops.

Flip Flops. On a morning when they had to scrape windows.

The poor girl is so low on proper clothing that her wretched mother had not bought her any shoes to cover her precious feet in the harsh Mid Western Winters.

And if you believe that, you might also believe that I haven't eaten any of the Halloween candy I bought last week for our tiny trick or treaters.

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

The bad news is she is still wearing flip flops to school. The good news is, she can suffer frost bite on her toes while wearing at least 12 different Old Navy colors.

And, really, isn't that what it's all about, the color of your flip flops? Not like say, oh, the need to actually put on socks when we have to run the furnace in the morning.

Of course, how she is going to wear those flip flops when her toes have to be amputated due to frost bite is beyond me, but I won't give her nightmares by delving into that.

So.

I've gently mentioned over the last few weeks that it is time to put the flip flops into hibernation and choose a different shoe that covers her toes. Truth be told, she's 14. She knows when she's cold and when she needs to bundle up, but still the offer is there to pick up some new shoes that cover her whole foot, or at least the front half of her foot and can be worn with socks. Some that don't look like they've been through six months of snow, ice, salt and sub-zero wind chills.

Kind of like the skin on my face, but that's a different post.

AT LEAST SARAH PALIN DOESN'T RUN FROM A FIGHT

Sarah Palin has had some interviews which were, in her own words "Less than successful." She was stymied by some of the questions. She was caught off guard. She was simply unprepared. Whether the interviews with Charlie Gibson and Katie Couric were designed to make her look foolish or not, she did not perform well with them.

Politics not withstanding, I think the Gibson interview was out of line simply because of Charlie Gibson's demeanor. The way he sat nearly knee-to-knee with her, peering down at her over his bi-focals was, to me, an obvious attempt to make her feel and seem inferior. He reminded me of the very pompous guidance counselor we suffered in high school. That being said, she didn't have the knowledge necessary to answer the questions well, regardless of the rude way in which she was treated.

Governor Palin also floundered with Katie Couric and has admitted that interview didn't go well.

But here's the thing.

Every difficult question asked received some kind of answer. She struggled; she hemmed and hawed; she zigged and zagged, but she tried to put an answer out there.

She stood and fought til the end.

Unlike Senator Biden who evidently has decided that when he receives a question he doesn't like he gets to attack the interviewer by asking "Is that a real question?" "I don't know who's writing your questions for you." "Is this a joke?" and then decline to answer the question all together.

Come on Senator Biden, give us an answer. If you're uncomfortable with the question, at least put up a fight. Don't bury the question in insults against your interviewer. And then don't send a scathing note to the network saying they will no longer have the privilege of your company or that of anybody in your camp. Don't take your ball and go home, when the game on the playground doesn't go your way. After all shouldn't the rules be the same for both teams?

Help us set an example for our young people, Senator Biden. Help us teach them that when you are sent to do a difficult job, like represent your campaign in a television interview, that you do your best to represent said campaign and muddle through even when it's hard. Help us teach them that, whether you can believe it or not, not everybody in this world is going to fall at your feet in admiration and, when we run across those who do not want to coddle us, we must still be respectful and eloquent in getting our message out.

Because isn't that what campaigning is all about - answering the tough questions? And really, if you are firm in your belief of all that your campaign is representing, why was it a tough question? Why not simply say, "Really, Americans need to understand that Senator Obama's finance/tax package is not a Socialist ideal because...." and then explain it to us. Some of us may actually want to hear another explanation on this. Some of us really want to look at these issues in an objective manner; and every chance to hear from both sides on such issues is beneficial to us.

Again, political affiliation aside, I worry about what an Obama administration means to our freedom to question our leaders, if this and other incidents (attacking Joe the Plumber?) are any indication of what happens if one were to ask the wrong thing. How will we be able to depend on our press to keep us informed of our leaders, to help with the checks and balances of our governmental branches, if journalists are frozen out for bringing up a touchy subject?

Senator Biden, you have many years of experience in government. You probably are more qualified than Sarah Palin to take on the job of the presidency should your running mate be elected. But you, sir, seem to run from a fight. At least Governor Palin stayed the course. At least she was able to come out of her fight, battle scarred though she was, and say she hung in there until the end. She didn't attack her interviewers simply because she was caught unprepared.

You, on the other hand, were intimidated by the tough question and so decided to attack the messenger. You decided you were above the kind of journalistic hardball you expect your opponent to play.

You may be better qualified, but this is one case, Senator Biden, in which you were bested by a girl.

HOME IMPROVEMENTS....

So we're about to make some very exciting changes to our house. We've tried for months to find somebody to help us make this change and finally we found somebody that would actually show up and meet with us about this project.

We're getting a new backdoor.

I know. How exciting is that?

Our old back door was leaking and it caused the sub flooring in the kitchen to get wet and there is actually a hole in the sub flooring beneath our kitchen linoleum. Thankfully it's right up against the wall so it's a no-traffic area. Because that would be really bad to have a guest fall through our kitchen floor. Unless it was one of my in-laws.

Oh stop, I'm kidding.

So we found this really nice young man who has a new baby and was recently laid off from his job with a home remodeling company. Not only is he going to install our new door, but he's going to rip up part of the kitchen floor and replace the sub flooring. Then another nice young man is going to come in and replace our whole kitchen floor. We're going with hardwood.

Please don't tell me hardwood is a mistake. Somebody else has already told me that and I really don't want to hear it. We have hardwood in the dining room and I like the idea that the rooms will flow together nicely if we put the same floor in the kitchen.

It's funny how a small job turns into a bigger job or rather several more small jobs. Once I learned how willing and friendly our door guy is and how capable he seemed, I decided to push my luck and ask him if he would be able and willing to replace the interior trim around the same kitchen door he is replacing. And he said sure. Then I decided to ask him if he could replace the interior trim around our front door and he said sure. Then I asked him if he happened to paint, because we've been wanting to paint our red front door and sidelights white and he said that he doesn't paint but that he knows a guy who would do a great job.

Then he left a door catalog for me. A door catalog is not quite as exciting as say...oh...a Talbot's catalog but it's still shopping. Anyway, I knew I wanted something quite simple - one with a window halfway up instead of the full view kind we have now. I picked out three for him to price for us. Then he said I could get any of those doors with a built-in blind.

And I saw sunbeams descend from heaven and blue birds hovering around him and placing a wreath of wild flowers around his head. I think I heard "Bippity Boppity Boo" somewhere in the background.

A built in blind!!!

Oh my heavens. I want it.

Our kitchen door is in the middle of a three sided bay window on the east side of our house. We get lots of sunshine from that bay window most mornings. And I don't like it. I'm very sensitive to light and I don't like all that sunny cheer first thing in the morning.

Perhaps I am a vampire?

So then I asked him to price out all those doors with and without the built in blinds.

Then.

I called Paul to tell him everything I had learned and everything I had asked door guy to fix. I'm sure I could hear him roll his eyes, and I have a feeling he's moving all of our money to a secret account right now. And because I can never leave well enough alone, I said "I've been thinking..." which never bodes well for him. "I've been thinking. While we are having the hardwood put down in the kitchen, might we go ahead and put hardwood in the half bath? After all, it's right off the little hall that's also hardwood and it's so tiny it surely wouldn't be that much more. Perhaps they can use scraps. That would really make things flow nicely, if we went ahead and laid hardwood in there too. You know, continuity in floor coverings."

Because floor continuity is a hot issue right now.

And he said we could see how much it all cost and decide on that when floor guy arrives. But he wasn't totally opposed to the idea.

So.

I've been planning to paint that half bath and redecorate. How simple it would be if I didn't have to protect the vinyl flooring while I'm painting. I already have the fabric for the curtain so it's a project that's been planned for quite a while. Really, it is.

It's so simple. You have a guy come and give you an estimate for a new back door and by the time he leaves you have a new bathroom.

See? How lucky is my husband to have such a logical wife?

UN. BE. LIEVABLE...

After a long dry spell, something has happened that is so utterly ridiculous and outrageous that I cannot keep quiet about it.

Unfortunately I can't get the link to work so just use Google and you can read more about Chick Edwards.

Mr. Edwards is a residential developer in Kennewick, Washington who also happens to be the only member of his neighborhood's homeowners association. Seems ole' Chick, when he sells his properties, makes the homeowners sign covenants stating they will landscape within a certain amount of time. That's pretty standard.

We've signed that kind of covenant, but on the first one we never planted one tiny little sapling in five years and nobody came after us.

That's because we hadn't bought our property from Chick, who had threatened to sue a property owner for not landscaping in the prescribed time. What was this "clown" doing that prevented him from landscaping his lot?

Um....FIGHTING A WAR IN KUWAIT!! After he moved in, his reserve unit was called up and he had to leave. His pregnant wife and young son moved to another state to be with family. The nerve of these people!

Well, that's not good enough for Mr. Edwards. He doesn't give a (beep) where the guy is, he darn well better put in some grass and plant some marigolds. And he's really mad that this "clown" gets to be off doing whatever he wants and the lawn isn't being landscaped.

SOMEBODY PLANT SOME BUSHES!!!

Because, evidently, this young soldier and his pregnant wife, are just so selfish worrying about his personal safety, the birth of a baby and raising their young son that they can't be bothered with urgent matters like laying sod and planting some marigolds.

Thankfully some very kind co-workers, friends and community volunteers stepped in and picked up the slack. They landscaped the lawn for this young couple who seem to have their priorities all wrong. The volunteers followed the soldier's request and put a big flag pole in the yard - a flag pole big enough that Chick Edwards can see it from his house. Something tells me that Chick won't like that flagpole. Something tells me we all know where Chick can put that flag pole.

I have used a search engine and found Mr. Edwards' address. THAAAAAT'S RIIIIGHT! I'm writing him a letter to say "Shame on you..." and other profound things. There are a few things I'd like to ask him.

Um...Mr. Edwards? Chick? Where's the anger coming from, buddy? Don't you think you might be going a little over the top with the landscape thing? Is there something else that's got you riled up and you are taking it out on this young man and his pregnant wife who are just trying to raise their family while at the same time making an extreme sacrifice for our country? Really, we want to know. Because reasonable people like me really can't understand your completely ridiculous reaction over a lack of rosebushes in a yard that is no longer yours. Where does this insecurity come from? Is it your name? Are you insecure because you are named after a small fuzzy barnyard baby that shows up in Easter baskets? Are you unhappy because your name is a slang term for girl?

Whatever it is that is driving you over the edge with this landscape thing, you might want to resolve it because I think you are running yourself out of business. Seriously, who do you think wants to do business with a man who is so narrow minded that he cannot find his way to cut some slack to a young man who has been deployed to serve in Kuwait? And didn't your attorney tell you that you are not allowed to bring a law suit against a person serving in a combat zone? Perhaps you'd like to hop on over to Kuwait and speak to this nice young man in person? I think there are some of us who would be willing to buy your ticket - one way of course.

And this Homeowners Association? You're the only member. Does that mean you're the president? How exciting it must have been when you were elected by you.

Oh, and Mr. Edwards? I think you made a serious mistake in calling this service man a clown. A clown? Really, he's a clown that is off doing whatever he wants? If you don't have a platoon of veterans swarming down on your property right now it is only because they have better judgment and restraint than you do.

You, sir, are the clown. And I think you've just stuck one of your big ole' floppy clown feet in your mouth.

Perhaps it's time you remove it and apologize.

LITTLE DID I KNOW

During my kids' elementary years, I was very involved at the school. I worked with the kids on math tubs. I helped in the classroom during state testing. I provided food for teacher's luncheons. I helped with the book fair and the art fair. I worked in the reading lab. I helped with every class party. I took the dog in to visit their classes every year until, thankfully, the principal put a ban on pet visits. I went on every field trip.



Well, that's not exactly true. There is one field trip for each child that I refused to go on. That was the algae field trip, where the note said something like "the parents will help the children collect samples from various bodies of water in the area; we will also visit the water sanitation district."



Which meant the parents would be wading into local streams and creeks to collect pond scum. Also, we would be fortunate enough to visit the place where all the poo goes.



Um...babies? Kids? Mommy will do a lot for you, but Mommy has no intention of doing the pond scum field trip. Take it up with your therapist.



Anyway, back to my resume. I spent two years on our Community Club board, which is probably like most PTA boards. I really liked that job but there were major personality clashes and I finally let myself be driven off. It was either that or let myself turn into a seventh grader, and I thought that wasn't a good idea.



But, I did all of these things for two reasons:



1) As a stay at home mom, I wanted to be involved and use my time to get to know the teachers and classmates of my children.



2)I couldn't say NO.



When junior high rolled around, I was needed less. I also suspect I was wanted less - at least by my children. I chipped in here and there but mostly spent my time chauffeuring the kids around in the evenings and sitting on the bleachers cheering for various middle school sports teams. This decline in my volunteer status led me to believe that by the time my children entered high school, I could sit on my duff all day and eat gourmet chocolates and read People magazine.



Ohmygosh!! Hold on a second--------



















Whew! I'm back. I had fallen out of my chair for a minute laughing at my own naivete'. Sorry about that.



Now, where were we?



Oh, yeah! The carefree days of high school.



WHAT WAS I THINKING?



See, I have this daughter who LOVES school. She wants to be involved in lots and lots of stuff, which we have encouraged, because we want her to be well rounded and have an impressive college application. In fact,when we ask her if she really needs to do yet another activity she parrots us and says "it will look good on a college application..." I do believe she has made it her goal to take part in every activity the school offers between now and her graduation day, which is fine. It's just taken me by surprise a little bit, after the little respite we had in junior high. First there were all the homecoming activities and the accompanying nervous breakdown for her mother. And soon we will have the responsibility of working the concession stand (and scheduling other workers) at all the JV and Varsity boys' basketball games, (followed, most likely, by another nervous breakdown for her mother.) Yeah, the freshmen get to do that to earn money for their class. That will lead us to her own basketball season which will soon meld into her softball season. Not to mention student council activities and scholastic bowl competitions and any dances and parties that can be squeezed into the schedule. Thank goodness she and her fellow officers are all very diligent students. Thank goodness the other moms are hard workers and good organizers. Oh, and we mustn't forget mall time on the weekends, and I think Friday Night ice skating started last week at the local civic center. Of course, we are only busier with her than with her brother because she can't drive and, since we live 8 miles from the school, we can't very well expect her to walk to school activities, can we?



Even though her father and I walked everywhere in blinding rain, stinging sleet, and scorching sun...10 miles or more... when we were her age. And we liked it.



And then there's my son, who doesn't so much love school as TOLERATES it. But he's getting more involved too. In fact, I have to bake cookies for him for one of his club's projects on Friday. In all my born days I never thought I'd still be baking cookies for school when my child was a junior. But here I am planning a big batch of cookies so the FFA club (Future Farmers of America) can serve lunch to the farmers waiting in line to deliver their crop to the grain elevator. Because that's the way things are done in rural towns of the Midwest. That's the way we do things around these here parts.



Why is my son in FFA when he has no intention of taking up farming? Why is he in FFA when he barely knows how to order a steak, let alone whether it came from a cow or a pig?



Um...I don't know; but I suspect it has something to do with the class Agricultural Science which fulfills his science requirement; allowing him to avoid chemistry like the plague.



Plus most of his friends are in it.



But really, when you live in America's heartland, amid the farms that feed the world, it doesn't hurt to know about something that is so important in this part of the country. After all, we ARE the SOYBEAN CAPITAL OF THE WORLD.



No brag. Just fact.



So my calendar is becoming full again after a couple years of near empty pages. I'm busier than I thought I'd be in this stage of life. The days go fast; and the nights even faster. And the years? Well, they have gone by at lightning speed.



And I'm loving every minute of it.

BUT FIRST - SOME RED HOT ANGER

So, homecoming is over.

The football game has been won. The dance has been danced. The parade has been paraded.

And I'll get to all that soon, but right now I'm so mad I think I might have a stroke.


It all started when the float skirt didn't arrive.

Well, it actually did arrive.

When I got home from the parade.

The sneaky little float people, however, seemed to have removed the return address from the UPS shipping label; probably hoping that I would open the box and therefore be unable to return to sender. But we (my husband and I) went online to the UPS website and found the tracking number of this package and determined that yes indeed it was the float skirt which we no longer needed.

We also found out that the package was originally sent at approximately 7:09 P.M. - or about 3 hours AFTER my final phone call to the company. About three hours AFTER the man said it was on its way and that he would have to get back to me with a tracking number.

LIAR LIAR PANTS ON FIRE!!!

Now I know this is probably circumstantial evidence, but it looks as though they not only lied about the package being sent when it actually wasn't; but they also went to the trouble of slicing off the return address so I would open the box or at least have trouble sending it back.

I wrote REFUSED in big black letters on the package, and Paul took it to work on Monday hoping to send it with the UPS man when he made his daily stop at Paul's office. We assumed last night that the package was on its way back to the den of thieves from which it came.

WRONG.

Imagine my surprise...actually my red hot anger...when my doorbell rang today and I saw the UPS truck parked in front of our house. Imagine my surprise...actually my red hot anger...when I opened the door and found the package sitting there again. This package that will not die. This package for which our credit card is going to be billed eighty dollars if I cannot get it back to the big fat liars.

By now I am doing Lamaze breathing to keep from breaking a blood vessel in my brain. I called our local UPS office who were helpful enough to give me an 800 number to call so I could ask how to return a package. I still am not sure why the local UPS people couldn't answer my question but I will ponder that when I'm finished with my stroke.

Of course the 800 number is managed by a robot, who gave me four options; none of which was "how to return a package."

I kept pushing zero-zero, like the local UPS lady said to do. But I just kept getting the same robot who kept giving me the same options. I tried lying to the robot and choosing one of the options, hoping to get an actual person. But the lies only led me to more robots.

So here I sit with a package of silver fringed float skirting and a twitching eye.

Here is my plan of attack.

Tomorrow I am going to call the local UPS office and plead with them to help me. I am going to ask them a simple question: "Could you please tell me how to return this package? The 800 number is not helpful. PLEASE, IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS GOOD AND HOLY, HELP ME!!" I will drive to the office if necessary.

And if that doesn't work, I'm going to go to the post office and ask them about sending a package COD.

And if THAT doesn't work, I'm going to make a road trip to CRS ENTERPRISES float supply company somewhere in Minnesota and politely shove it up...onto their counter and demand a refund.

MORE WAL-MART ANTICS

Now I have to add grave personal injury to my list of reasons not to go to Wal-Mart; although, I am evidently so filled with self loathing that I cannot go a week without visiting that place.

See, I was trying to buy shortening so I could hush the naysaying of my son and bake an apple pie, with homemade crust.

I knew I wanted to buy the shortening that comes in little pre-measured "sticks" like butter. I did not, however, know that I'd have to choose between butter flavored shortening or plain ole shortening.

But really is there any question? I mean doesn't butter make everything better? The only thing that adds more to the flavor of any food than butter is chocolate chips. But I don't want to add chocolate chips to my pie crust.

Or do I?

Anyway, I decided to buy both kinds of shortening so I could decide later which one to use. I will make my decision after e-mailing my favorite aunt for baking advice. But I should probably go with the plain stuff - like Grandma Hale used. But having both kinds on hand will be nice; I surely will be making many many more pies after this, so I'll need all kinds of shortening in my pantry.

Really, I will.

Having decided to get both kinds of shortening, I reached above my head and took a pack from the shelf.

And stood helplessly as a tower of shortening came tumbling down on my face.

Thank goodness they don't sell it in cans anymore.

I did not even bother to look around to see if anybody was watching because I just assumed that they were. I've learned to lower my own standards of dignity when I shop at Wal-Mart.

See? Baking from scratch is dangerous work.

HOPE SINKS

Updated at 4:36 p.m. CST:
Float mom on brink of insanity. Float supply guy's life in danger after promising to call her back in 45 minutes -AGAIN - says something about "it's gonna be there tomorrow." Float mom yells "LIAR LIAR PANTS ON FIRE" after hanging up.
Float company's name to be published tomorrow so that author's ones of readers can boycott.

It all started on the morning of September 13 - a Saturday.

I sat at our computer scouring different websites for parade float supplies. We - meaning the freshman class - needed a float skirt. We needed a silver fringed float skirt.

After browsing through a few different sites I came upon one that was easy to navigate, had reasonable prices and decent shipping times.

Or so I thought.

Let the record show that on September 13 of this year, one Heidi W, mother of a member of the class of 2012, did purchase not one, not two, but THREE silver 30-inch Silver Metallic Vinyl Fringe parade float skirts.

Let the record further show that said mom paid extra for 3-day expedited shipping.

Let the record show that the above mentioned transaction was posted to said mom's bank account on September 15.

Let the record show that the order didn't. Show, that is.

It hasn't shown up, people!

Tomorrow at 5:30 we are to meet at a class member's farm to finish assembling the float and store it in his dad's machine shed overnight so it will be ready for the 3:00 parade the next day.

And I have no float skirt.

The man at the parade float supply shop was so very NOT helpful when I called today; I think he was speaking to me around a big old cigar hanging out of his mouth. He said he'd check into it and call me back. I am not holding my breath.

He has until noon, and then I'm calling my mom so she can go all crazy fierce Grandma on him.

Or not.

But I am seriously going to have to channel my mother and once again become her when I call this man. He is going to be oh so sorry that he didn't ship my order and that he was rude to me on the phone.

I also am waiting on a reply to my e-mail to this oh-so-helpful company. My e-mail that is fairly polite but also sends a vibe of panic. SOMEBODY HELP ME!!!

I need my 30-inch Metallic Silver Float skirt - Quantity 3.

Here's the thing. This was really the only major thing I was in charge of for the float and I really feel bad that it's getting screwed up.

And another thing. I am going to have to stand in front of four young ladies - ages 14 and 15 and give an accounting of my actions.

I'm going to have to hang my head and stare at my shoes while I poke the floor with my toes and tell them why I not only picked the most bonehead company every conceived, but I also chose to pay EXTRA for three-day shipping...ELEVEN DAYS AGO!! I'm going to have to go to Kangaroo Court!!

It's a good thing I already offered to donate half the cost of this order.

Still, I think Mrs. W is in big trouble.

Please don't ask why Mrs. W was doing all this in the first place, when somebody like, say, oh I don't know a class sponsor might do it. We moms are doing all this because there is no guidance or help from the school or class sponsor. We are new to this so we're all flailing just a bit. Next year will be better, I know. But for now I am so frustrated I could scream.

And to top it all off, I have to make an apple pie today.

Be on the lookout for a float supply guy with a ten-inch pie pan protruding from his...well...from somewhere.

IT'S A MIRACLE...

This week is going to be full of miracles, I can just tell.

Today, the start of homecoming week at the kids' high school, is Rock the Eighties Day, where the kids can dress in eighties fashion. Kayla, of course has embraced this challenge full on. Blake, of course, is ignoring Rock the Eighties Day, though I insisted he could simply grab a shirt out of his dad's closet and go for it, since his dad really does still have clothes from our high school days. And if I'm not very watchful, he will even try to wear them.

Anyway, I have tried very hard to help Kayla with her eighties fashion day, because in high school, I was the height of fashion flare.

Well, that's not exactly true. I wasn't the most fun dresser in high school. I leaned more to the preppy side of things, wearing mostly oxfords and jeans.

But I always cuffed my jeans I had some pretty awesome earrings. Oh, and my Nikes were always very white.

Kayla finally decided to wear two polos, and after I told her we would turn our collars up, she said "Oh, I can pop my collar?"

Huh?

Then she put her hair in a really high pony tail - on the side - and asked me to cuff her jeans really skinny. And I said "Oh, you want me to peg them." Because I'm all about throwing around my very extensive fashion lingo.

Anything to teach the children history.

Turns out it's really hard to peg boot cut jeans that are really long, on a girl with ticklish feet.

But we got the job done and Kayla said "Oh, they're like skinny jeans....for poor people."

And then I was witness to a miracle.

Kayla was on the phone - again - with one of her friends getting every detail of this day down when I heard her say "You need to listen to your mom 'cause she, like, lived in the eighties."

YOU NEED TO LISTEN TO YOUR MOM?

*Cue hallelujah chorus now*

These girls may not listen to us about boyfriends, homework, swimsuits, college, or cell phone minutes but by golly, they know to pipe down and listen close when it comes to Eighties Fashion.
*********************************************************

In other Miraculous forecasts:

I'm going to make an apple pie.

No, really I am.

Oh stop! I am.

Somebody gave us a boatload of apples and I've decided to make a pie (or two), because I've never made a pie.

*hanging head in shame*

But I'm making one this week because Blake has challenged me.

And I never run away from a challenge.

Well, that's not exactly true. I try to avoid challenges like the plague. But this time, I'm going to shut that young whipper snapper up and make a pie, doggone it. I've already looked up my great grandmother's recipe.

And therein lies the problem, because nobody, NOBODY made pies like Grandma Hale. She worked until she was eighty years old, making pies at a little restaurant in her hometown, and people loved her pies. LOVED. THEM. I will not be telling the older members of my family that it's Grandma Hale's recipe because they will laugh me out of the kitchen. Not that they could do any better because none of us seem able to recreate her pies or sugar cookies.

Her pie crust recipe actually calls for lard. Lard, I tell you! Somehow I think "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter - Light" won't do the trick, when the recipe says LARD, so I have to go out and buy some shortnin'. And, JUST IN CASE, I'm going to buy some prepared pie crusts.

Because I'm all about being prepared.

And so what if I don't actually MAKE the crust? Blake will never know because he doesn't read this blog, and I'm sure none of you are going to tell him.

Are you?

Anyway, the week is starting off on a miraculous foot.

Teenage girls listening to their mothers? Miracle

Heidi making a pie? Miracle

And some people say there is no God....