I'm Talking and I Can't Shut Up

Yesterday the younglings that work here were congregating outside my office at lunch. There was a tragic story on the internet news about a mother who went to pick up her 5 month old baby at daycare, only the baby hadn't been dropped off in the morning. She had forgotten to drop the baby off, and the poor child had been in her van all day.

I was sick to my stomach, literally.

Naturally, my biggest fear in life is to lose my child.

One of the younglings proceeded to drone on and on and on with story after story regarding the tragic deaths of babies. Stories she'd heard or stories she'd read or stories she'd made up in her head for all I know because some of them were quite unusual.

And I was getting angrier by the second.

Finally I gathered up my purse and walked out of my office.

And I said, "I am leaving for 30 minutes. When I get back I certainly hope you are no longer talking about this subject because I am sick to my stomach. I realize you are not yet a mother, but please have some respect for those of us who are, and for the mothers who have been unfortunate enough to have lost a child."

I guess "Could you just shut the fuck up?" might have been just as effective.

Family Feud

MFH and I are celebrating our 15th anniversary next week. In Vegas. It's supposed to be like 108 degrees. I wonder how that feels? WHO CARES!

This is a big damn deal. I don't relish leaving The Boy for a few hours let alone days. 4 days to be exact. I'm sure I'll be fine once I get a few of those Raspberry Gimlets in my system.

The Boy's grandparents live about 35 miles apart. We left him with the in-laws in January when we attended the Ice Fishing Derby in North Dakota (Yeah, it was as much fun as it sounds. Actually, I had a blast. The ladies invited me to lunch and the Vet's Club after for drinks. Those gals know how to PARTY!!!). Anyway, we decided this time that he'll stay with my mom. She is in seventh heaven about it. She and The Boy share a special bond that is really lovely to witness.

My MIL's response? "Well, we're just happy to spend as much time with him as we do."

Okay, I love my in-laws. Really. They are awesome people. I would never deliberately hurt them in any way. But fair is fair. My mother quite possibly would have disowned me if I hadn't offered The Boy to her this time.

We suggested that maybe they could get together for lunch or an outing. I hope they don't get into a tug of war with my child. As much as I hate leaving him, I hate the thought of not being able to leave him as well!

Dear Sir

Most of your employees cannot afford the mortgage payment on a $250,000.00 starter home here in our fine community. In light of that, you might want to keep the fact that you just purchased an unfinished penthouse suite in a gated community for $945,000.00 on the Q T.

Respectfully yours,
Bookkeeper Chick

There Otta Be a Law

We have a local speedway near our house where they run stock car races on Friday nights in the summer. We are not huge race fans, but decided to take The Boy last Friday just for something to do.

This sport is a big damn deal locally. The stands were packed full of cigarette smoking, Bud Light drinking fans. These people don't buy just one or two beers at a time. Oh no, they buy a whole 18 pack and apparently drink them fast enough that they don't need to worry about the rest getting warm.

We experienced culture shock while sitting in that crowd. There were heavy young girls showing way too much skin. One guy had on pants that I'm sure stand in the corner on their own when he takes them off at night. A lot of the people there quite obviously don't believe in any sort of dental maintenance. And, if it came down to buying personal hygiene products or paying admission to the races? The races would win, hands down.

But, the icing on the cake? MFH went to get The Boy a hot dog. He gets back after an eternity and says, "Stiletto, while I was gone I saw three different guys in wife beaters with their Marlboros stuck inside to their chests."

I was laughing so hard that I forgot to ask if they were sporting mullets.

Would You Like a Little Cheese With That Whine?

You'd think that a day off would bring me back with a whole new attitude, wouldn't you? Especially when that day off consisted of playing, shopping, playing?

Oh, hell no.

By noon today I had to listen to two whining customers. I hate the service related side of this business. Whine, whine, whine.

This is not a tragedy, people. A tragedy is men stuck in a mine or an earthquake in Indonesia. Stop acting like it's the end of the freakin' world.

And then? When we do respond to your emergency, and quickly I might add, please do not call me and whine about the cost of the repair. Just pay the damn bill.

This is why you have money and I don't. I pay my bills.

Office Space

"I wouldn't exactly say I've been missing work....."

Today I am having me some space away from the office. The Boy and I are playing hookey. Yeah, I'm setting a bad example, but so what. We could both use a fun mental health day.

See you tomorrow!

Who Knew?

that a Raspberry Gimlet in a lovely little martini glass rimmed with sugar is about 75% alcohol?

Oy.

Motherhood

We have been friends with K and K a long time. We used to ride together a lot, until they moved to Arizona, then Oregon, then on to Washington. While there, they had a son. D will be 4 in October. They moved back to Montana a few years ago to own and operate a bar. They live about an hour away from us in a one horse town, so we don't see them often. An hour isn't that far away, even if it's on bad roads, but we don't make a habit of taking our son to the bar so it just wasn't very convenient to visit them. We were shocked to learn of their pending divorce. We were even more shocked to learn that mom has nothing to do with her son. In short, she fell victim to the bar scene and all that it implies, and gives that top priority.

Last week MFH was driving past The Boy's preschool and slowed down when he saw an acquaintance of ours, D, picking up his son. They visited for just a minute. MFH learned that D is going through hard times. His wife has been disappearing for weeks at a time after falling in with the wrong crowd. D will be raising his son alone. B will be 4 years old, and has reverted back to drinking a baby bottle.

Now, I'm not judging these women. I don't know their circumstances.

I just find it ironic that the role that so many have such a hard time achieving, is the same role that others can walk away from so easily.

Father's Day Weekend

MFH doesn't do anything in a small way. He gets a whole birthday month, not just one day, so why wouldn't he get the whole weekend for Father's Day?

Saturday morning MFH and The Boy were out bright and early to go drown a worm. The Boy caught a nice Rainbow Trout (1.3 pounds) on his first cast, and the only catch of the day. MFH thinks The Boy had a few more bites, but at 4 his mind wanders a bit and he may not have noticed that tugging at his line. Anyway, for all you catch and release fans, his mouth was injured and they brought him on home for pictures. We ate him last night because we are not wasteful with God's creatures, and it was yummy.

On Saturday afternoon we went to that new movie about the animated cars. Delightful. That is all I can say. If you haven't seen it, go. In true Pixar fashion, there is some great adult humor and good one liners throughout the movie.

MFH's parents came for barbeque yesterday. It was a beautiful blue sky day with warm temperatures, cold drinks, and great food. I couldn't love my father-in-law more, and it was wonderful to spend the day with grandfather, father, and son.

(((I miss you, dad.)))

For Father's Day, The Boy got daddy new boat seats. The Boy had a fabulous day playing in the big boxes. Yes, I know. The kid has six million toys, and he plays in boxes. What can I say. Our mistake is in having never simply wrapped up an empty box for him. I can't wait for Christmas.

Return to Sender

I recently got a letter from the company that does our payroll. This is how it begins:

Dear Old Payroll Person,
This letter is just following up on pervious correspondents.

Okay, I really wanted "pervious" to be a word, because it's just fun to say. I realize "correspondents" is a real word, although it is not the right word to be used in this sentence.

I used to be a teacher. Used to be? I guess I still am a teacher. I'm just not employed in that role now. This letter just made me want to break out the red pen. Only, we don't have any red pens in this office. My boss hates red pens, because I guess he was a really bad student and saw entirely too much red ink on his papers when he was in school.

I am also a stickler for spelling. I realize not everyone is a natural speller, and that is why I'm so thankful for the spell check tool. (Heh, I said TOOL.)

I am in a quandary as to what I should do next. Do I correct the letter and send it back, or do I just ignore it?

Double The Fun

It's no secret that we waited a long time to become parents.

We had a failed domestic adoption about 9 years ago. It's funny, because we still think and talk about her - we were trying to figure out just the other night how old she is now. Neither of us can remember, and that is something that should be etched into our memories. It was painful. She was in our home for a week. The birthmom changed her mind because she got arrested and thrown in jail while running a red light on the way to the airport to flee the state - and we were advised, probably wisely, not to bail her out. She took the baby back in her anger, and fled the state anyway, leaving the baby with her grandmother. That would have been fine had grandma been a good parent, but we knew the family, and she was not a fit parent.

This is a good segue into the next phase. We became certified to foster parent several years later, thinking we could foster adopt. There was an article in our newspaper last Sunday regarding the number of grandparents in our state that raise their grandchildren. They don't ask for state assistance most of the time, even though they would qualify, and it is estimated that saves the state $116,000.00 per day. PER DAY. All to keep the kids out of foster care. We put what they said was too many restrictions on what we would accept into our home. They knew we wanted a permanent placement anywhere from newborn to three years old. We never got a call, and if it's because the grandparents are raising the kids, that is okay.

On to intercountry adoption. Frankly, after a failed domestic adoption we were scared shitless to go that route again, and by then I felt too old to market myself to a teenaged mother.

Most adoptions are driven by the female in the relationship. MFH was a willing participant in our case. He was the rock. I say that because the adoption process got to be an emotional nightmare for me. We hit a lot of snags along the way, and it took longer than the norm at the time. Now I know there is no such thing as the norm, but back then all I knew was that I had waited all my life to mother this boy, and he was thousands of miles away from me, growing without us.

Then I got to hold him. I still remembered the pain, but it wasn't nearly as sharp, and over time it has faded much like the pain of labor, I suppose.

I knew that in all probability, we would adopt only once. But I still think about it. I'm sure The Boy would benefit from having a sibling, and I am haunted with the reality that he will one day bury one of us by himself. Oh, hopefully he'll be grown with a family, but there is no guarantee of that. MFH does not really want to go through the process again. I don't blame him, and we are so lucky to have what we have. I know that. The Boy is a blessing. Many women out there cannot afford fertility treatments or adoption. I am thankful for what I have.

But damn it would be fun to adopt another boy and name him Angus.

Molly Manhands........Update

Molly first interviewed here somewhere around May 17 as near as I can recall. Remember Molly? The BIG pretty girl with voluptuous lips, huge hands, and no butt? We had her back for a second interview on June 2, where she won the approval of everyone involved in the hiring process. (She was interviewed the second time offsite, so I was not able to discreetly look for an Adam's apple.)

As is the way here at Company That Sells Expensive Backyard Accessories, we waited until June 9 to offer her the job.

She declined.

We can only speculate as to the reason why she decided not to work here, but do you think it could have anything at all to do with the fact that it took us three weeks to make a decision???

It was a retail sales position for crying out loud, not heading up the Secret Service.

Get A Room

Dear Mr. Attorney and Ms. Rich Widow,

Please don't think I'm ungrateful that you came into our fine establishment to write your big check, when you could have gone elsewhere. We are happy to have your business and your dead husband's money.

However, I had to venture downstairs three times while you were here only to see you behaving like a couple of teenagers on your first date at a drive in movie.

There are many fine places around our fair city that would be suitable for your noontime tryst. Become familiar with one of them.

Respectfully,
The Head Bitch

Grammy

No, not the award. My mom. The Boy's Grammy.

I've already posted about losing my dad on May 12 in 2001. In 2002, my baby brother passed away and I'll write about that on another day.

At that same time in 2002, we were in the process of adopting The Boy from Guatemala.

There were some days, actually a lot of them, that I think the idea of bringing that baby home was the only thing that kept my mom on this planet. She dealt with her loss remarkably well, without therapy which I did suggest, without medication which I also suggested, but the spark was gone from her eyes.

It returned on March 6, 2003 in Guatemala City.

Grammy is visiting right now. She comes about every 6 weeks, weather permitting, so she can spoil The Boy. She keeps him out of preschool and all to herself for a few days, and then she goes home to catch up on her sleep and let the aches heal. Grammy is 76 years old, but has more energy than me when she is around Him.

Last night The Boy was ready for bed and Grammy was down taking a shower. He was waiting and watching for her from the top of the stairs. I told MFH "There are no words to describe how much he loves his Grammy."

"Oh," he said, "I think she feels the same way about him."

You Know You're a Redneck When......

MFH digs old vehicles. With the exception of my Yukon, the newest thing we own is his 1982 Chevy truck. He's a wrench by trade, with the reputation of McGuyver, so I've never worried about getting where we're going.

We have a motorhome. It's a 1979 Field and Stream. It's pretty small inside, but suits our little family well for now. We don't take it on long excursions, mostly weekends at the lake. I spent a lot of time in a previous life in tents, and this is like a frickin' 5 star hotel compared to that.

The other night I was downstairs doing laundry when The Boy came down and asked if we could go on a walk. "Well actually, I will ride my bike and you walk, mom." I happily complied because it was the only night this week that a thunderstorm didn't come rolling in just as I was leaving work.

I go outside and MFH and The Boy are sitting in lawn chairs on the side of the motorhome enjoying beverages and snacks. After we returned home from our walk/ride, The Boy got me a chair and I joined them.

Yep. All we need is one of those new fangled copper fire pits and we'd never have to leave the driveway.

Snobby, Judgemental, or Just a Bitch?

I have never considered myself a snobby person. Bitchy, sure, but not snobby. Judgemental occasionally, but snobby?

Case in point: Dora's Pirate Adventure was this week on Tuesday night. It turned out to be a musical of sorts for kids, and I must say it was delightful. MFH attended as well and the delightful part for him was that the audience was littered with other fathers full of pity for each other. Anyhow, the next morning at preschool we were discussing the production and it was mentioned that most of the kids were there. One mom says, "We weren't there. I didn't think I'd be able to stand it." I turned to her and said, "It was really quite enjoyable." What I was thinking was, "Oh, pardon me. It would not occur to me to not attend things of interest to my child simply because I might not be able to stand it."

Case in point: The tickets to Dora were $24.50 each. We have a lot of underprivileged families living in the area, and I think all of them were at Dora. I'm glad the people found a way to take their kids to the show. But, one little boy was wearing sweat pants that came way above his ankles and shoes that were sloppy too big for him. Maybe my priorities are all wrong, or maybe I put too much stock in self image, but all I could think was, "You'll pay $25 each to see Dora with 4 kids, you bought them all the $12 Dora light up sticks and $2.50 sodas, but you can't come up with $3 to buy your son pants that fit?" Even if the tickets were donated to them, which I hope some were, the souvenirs were not. Just so you know, I feel terrible about this one. What is important is that the kids are loved and have opportunities at wonderful memories of their lives. I know this. But it still makes me sad to see little ragamuffin children. I feel so shallow.

Case in point: The family next to us had a kid that spent the entire 1.5 hours working off his ADD medication in the aisle. Seriously, he was moving, dancing, shaking the entire time. MFH and I would exchange looks of "if that was my kid I'd duct tape him to the floor" while his parents just smiled, watching him. One time the mom caught me glance at MFH and glared at me as if to say "What the fuck is your problem?" Me- "Oh just that your kid is making me crazy. How can you stand him?"

While you are contemplating whether or not I am a snob, does anyone know of a charity to which I can donate The Boy's outgrown clothes? I want an organization that will give them to needy families, not put them out for sale.

Fifteen

is the number of years that I've been at my job, today.

The only person who's been there longer than me is the owner, who took me to a fantastic lunch today. It was very nice. Not as nice as a bonus perhaps, but nice all the same.

On the first Wednesday of each month, we have a store meeting at which we celebrate anniversaries and birthdays. We have cake or muffins or some such treat. Today they made a little big deal out it, and I appreciated the gesture. We had a tray of goodies and mostly just got to visit with each other.

One of my favorite co-workers ever, M, was there. She has moved on to bigger pastures, but is still in the same industry and works with us sometimes. She wanted to talk about her favorite memories of working with me. M brought up the work related trip that she and I took to New Orleans. We drank our way up and down Bourbon Street with some associates from Canada. We wandered into an adult book store and were entralled at the magazines - whole magazines! - geared towards specific body parts on people of specific races. Of course we had no idea what most of the *ahem* adult accessories were for, but Miss Canada did and she was happy to enlighten us. It was also the first time we saw men in drag. Or visited a gay bar. Worldly gals, we were.

Then there was the Memorial Day party at M's house. She threw fine parties. We were drinking these blended drinks and I ended up passed out in her bathroom with the door locked. I don't know how MFH got me out of there, but I was missing most of my acrylic nail tips. I was literally hungover for days. Ah, good times.

The morning wouldn't be complete without mention of the Motley Crue concert in October, attended by some of my co-workers and The Boy's daycare provider, when I flashed Tommy Lee with his video camera. Of course it was projected up on the huge screen behind the band. I got a backstage pass out of that deal, so hey. It was worth it.

Most of the people I work with now only know me as a mom. I don't party like it's 1991, and rarely am even able to attend company functions. Hell, I was out of high school before many of them were even born.

That'll make you feel old.

That, and being called my son's grandma at KM@rt by some old bat.

If only looks could kill.

Frugal

My parents were raised during The Depression. They both came from families with too many mouths to feed and, often, not enough. Not enough food, not enough medicine, not enough money. In the pictures I have from when my parents were growing up, you can see the times were hard. The women, my grandmothers, are rarely smiling. Perhaps they didn't have much to smile about.

Even though my parents were eventually successful and had enough money, they never forgot these hard times. There was not much waste at our house. My mom could feed a family of six on a shoestring budget, and I don't remember ever having leftovers to toss out. I am serious when I say that if we didn't eat our supper, we had it for lunch the next day. I know this probably had more to do with discipline than with waste, but still. We rarely ate in a restaurant. Not so long ago I remember mom washing baggies so they could be used again, and I'm sure they were the generic cheaper brand in the first place. You know those plastic margarine containers? We had cupboards full of them. Don't misunderstand me - we had all of what we needed, and a lot of what we wanted - but there was no waste. And there was no buying on credit. If we couldn't pay for it, we didn't have it.

I am frugal, but I come by it honestly. It still bothers me to see waste. I don't leave my car running. I can't let the water run when I brush my teeth. I don't wash baggies but I do use the same one for my bagel all week, and I do wash the plastic silverware that I take in my lunch. I don't wash clothes if I don't have a full load. When we eat at a restaurant, I ALWAYS bring home the leftovers. Most of the time they go to the dog, but I refuse to throw it out. I have a freezer full of partial bags of hamburger and hotdog buns. It makes me insane to find beverage containers that are left half full.

We have new neighbors across the street. She is 24, he is 25. Last night he set the water sprinkler in his yard. This morning it was still going. In the same spot.

I'm just sick.

We Survived!

and I wasn't doing tap hits on the box of wine until late Sunday afternoon.

In fact, The Boy was an angel.....until dad came home. Go figure. MFH wanted to leave again but oh no you don't! You just sit your ass down and enjoy your son that you haven't seen in three days!

The Boy and I had so much fun over the weekend that he fell asleep last night at 7:00 and woke up this morning at 6:30. Of course, with all that staring-instead-of-sleeping that was going on probably all night, he had to poop out at some point. We are transitioning out of naps, too, so he didn't get to rejuvinate himself during the day.

I took the boy to the park yesterday. It isn't far and we always walk with the wagon. Well, I walk and he rides. I filled one of those go cups with ice and white wine for the trek. The Boy's wagon is a deluxe version with cup holders. I foresee the day when he's hauling me around in it. Naturally I didn't tell him the cup had wine in it because that just isn't the sort of thing the 4 year old needs to know. But about halfway to the park he says, "Mom, the wine is spilling on me!" I said, "What?" and he repeated it. I said, "Oh I'm sorry! Wait, what makes you think that's wine!!!!"

How terrible am I? The Boy just assumes I have wine in my cup.

I wonder if that's what he thinks I take to work every morning?

Salute!

to all single mothers.....

MFH left last night to go on his Annual Crappie Fishing Trip with his father. (That would be like 'crop' not 'crap' because crap just wouldn't be right, now would it? Who would want to go fishing for crap???) I'm so glad he does things like this with his dad, because what great memories, right? Plus, he realizes just how important it is to foster this relationship between father and son, and he'll continue the tradition with his own son one day.

Single motherhood is hard, even for just a few days. This morning was a zoo! The boy has to have a bath every morning because little sweaty boy scent can be compared to that of a wet dog. Add sunscreen and sandbox to the mix, and then his hair? Well, that beautiful head of hair just isn't the same after a day of sweating and a night of tossing and turning. Usually MFH does the bathing while I am getting lunches and making beds, but this morning I had to juggle it all. We managed, but we were about one half hour behind schedule when we finally got out of the house. Whew!

On top of that, I'm tired. It's a real treat for The Boy to sleep with me when MFH is gone. A treat for him, not necessarily for me. I didn't sleep well at all. He is a restless little guy. And he stares at me. It's creepy, really. I'll pretend to sleep so he'll go to sleep and when I peek? He's staring at me. Scary shit.

He's a pretty easy kid, he's just busy. I really hope not to be too cranky by the time MFH gets home Sunday night. I mean, it would be bad to lock myself up in the bathroom with a box of wine, wouldn't it? Wouldn't it?

This is totally unrelated to motherhood, but I got the pathology report back on the mole that was removed. It is classified as Dysplastic Nevi. Who comes up with all this fancy schmancy terminology? Anyway, it is of moderate irregularites but benign. I will go back every six months for check ups. Good news, that.

And remember Molly Manhands? She is coming in for a second interview. Yeah, we're speedy that way. I will be checking for an Adam's Apple.