thoughts

It all started with a vibrating cell phone Friday morning at 7am. I open the phone and see that E has kindly sent me a text message telling me in advance that the contractor intends to tear out the exterior wall of our house between the kids' bedrooms -- at 7:45 am. Yes. That's correct. Forty-five minutes to get showered/dressed, get breakfast made, and get the hell out of dodge.

Which I didn't. Get out, I mean; at least not fast enough. While I was getting breakfast together, I heard the first crack, then a buzz saw, followed promptly by The MAN having a breakdown like none other (his biggest concern during all this construction business is that the builder will tear his room down while he's in it. In fact, he's had two nightmares about just such an occurrence, so the sound of a wall coming down beside you probably isn't a good thing.). The bathroom has to be knocked out because it's to become a hallway into the new addition, but it was supposed to be one of the last things they completed. Instead, I will have a gaping hole from my house proper into the new construction with a mere sheet of plastic between me and them.

Not bad, you're thinking. Think again. Think no less than five workers -- all men, all hairy, all crack-y. All looking at you like you grew a third eye. Think $400 in Pottery Barn bathroom fixtures ripped from the wall and thrown into a sawdust coated corner scratching said fixtures all to hell because I'm sure it wouldn't occur to them that someone would be stupid enough to pay $400 for toilet paper holders and towel bars. Think tiny chihuahuas named Butch running through your clean house at 8:30 am with his mangy owner clicking his tongue and asking frisky Butch to return to the out of doors. Think continuous banging, hammering, slamming, swearing (me, not them), and sawing from 7am until 3pm everyday. Think two children who couldn't sleep if I had them on an Ambien drip around the clock because 1) they are so hyped up, they can't sleep even when it's quiet and 2) the boy is afraid crackstruction workers will be beating down his wall dragging him from his bed and forcing him to eat spinach while they watch.

Think I'm losing my mind? I think so. Four weeks and counting.

axis

Today as I was blow-drying my hair, I saw the ticker blipping across the screen announcing that there had been a shooting at a local high school. No information was given, at that time, except that shots were fired, someone was in custody, and kids were being sent home.

This is the second public shooting in our city this summer. The first took place during a Unitarian Universalist Sunday service. And ended in lives lost.

As today's events unfurled, there was one student facing a life of misery and likely imprisonment and another who was left to by buried by a heartbroken and stunned family. And both have been done a disservice. Somewhere.

I get the idea that focusing on all this doesn't do anyone much good. That you just can't live life if you think too much on this sort of occurrence.

But someone had better damn well get to thinking and doing something.

Shopping malls, preschools, middle schools, high schools, churches. It's not just big cities and criminals. It's where we send our babies and trust that they'll be safe. It only takes ONE person. One child. One teenager. One adult. One person who goes too far. It's not about bullying. Bullying is older than the ages, and yeah, it sucks. But has anyone stopped to think that our kids aren't fighting with words and fists anymore?

Maybe I carry an extra touch of anxiety about these matters (as I carry an extra touch of anxiety about most matters), but when I was in the classroom, there wasn't one single time that I didn't reprimand a student too harshly or see another student ostracized by classmates and NOT wander what may happen. Would it be likely to happen? I would like to say probably not, but that's not proving to be the case anymore.

I kind of equate all this violence and it's ability to touch me or someone I love to pregnancy. I never in a million years would've thought I would experience the pregnancy I did with The MAN. Never. I was always worried "something" would happen, but not prepared at all for when it actually did. The same holds true when I talk to E about having a third. I worry that we may not come out as virtually unscathed. He feels we will. But I know, I know first-hand, that those things don't happen to other people. They happen to me. They can happen to you.

Until we start recognizing that our kids are lost, that they are missing a critical component, that mindless violence doesn't happen at those schools, to those people...this isn't going to end.

And I'm expected to strap a backpack on my soon-to-be-five-year-old, pat his head, and send him on his way into this mad, mad world? Ha.

dirty little secrets

There are two kinds of people in this world: those who are orderly and those who are not. This is your genetic right, I'm thinking. You can, of course, change that assignment by either deciding you no longer give a rat's behind about the grime under the toilet ring or by throwing yourself into a mad, sweating frenzy hopelessly trying to tame your pigsty before company arrives and realizes just what kind of mayhem you really live in. There are, contrary to this, people who are perfectly content being one way (tidy) or the other (not so tidy). My best friend falls into the not so tidy category and hastily knocks magazines, week-old coffee cups, student essays, and old shoes into the floor so I can take a seat beside her when we ride together (and, conversely, asks permission before opening her bottled water in my car).

I, on the other hand, get a very sick rise out of cleaning. It's true. I love having a task that is as manageable as cleaning, getting to it, and seeing it complete (granted it never lasts longer than an afternoon around here - the tidiness, that is - but I'm right back at it the next day). I simply cannot function if everything is not in it's proper place. Back when I was teaching, my coworkers found great pleasure in tweaking my senses by moving my desk or dumping the contents of my trashcan on the floor beside it "to see what I'd do" (which, by the way, was usually clean it right up while they laughed uproariously). I honestly never worry about someone "dropping in" and catching the house a wreck; that wouldn't happen (Catching me a wreck? Well, now, that's an entirely different story). There are no fur clouds floating under the furniture, no finger smudges on the stainless steel fridge, and coffee rings in the sink. Really, you are likely rolling your eyes right now, but you shouldn't because my need to clean is truly a compulsion. Truly. And I do have to keep it in check or else my children would go hungry. My point is that from the outside looking in, I am a 100% Type A, OCD, "get that lady a stick vacuum" kind of girl.

From the inside, though. Bwhahahaha. Oh the inside, is another story altogether. And it is in the spirit of full-disclosure and comraderie that I bring you (with no lies and no shame) my Dirty Little Secrets:

*Disclaimer: Please don't feel compelled to relay to me how disgusting these acts are; I know. Really. I do. I know I'm a walking bacterial breeding ground inside and out. Just so we're clear.

• I sit my bare cheeks on public toilets (assuming the seat appears clean, I'm good to go); I never have been a squatter and never will be. I'm not the slightest bit concerned about the hosts of incurable diseases and ailments my mother frantically warns me about.


• I stick my contact lens in my mouth to refresh it (I am aware of the nasty infection I could cause in doing so. No, my eye doctor hasn't a clue.)


• I reuse my bath towel until it is so saturated with moisture, it simply can't absorb any more. I'm clean when I'm drying off, right? Right?!


• I drink out of the tea jug. And sometimes with lipstick on. But not the milk; that would just be unsanitary (Don't worry, Lyndsey. Should you ever come to visit, I'll make a fresh gallon.).


• I don't floss. Sorry. I don't.


• I have been known, on occasion, to bite a toenail or two - my own and not often. Still. Frankly, you should be rather impressed that I'm bendy enough to reach my toenail to my face in the first place.


• I was once eating a chicken biscuit when I found a hair in it. I was seven months pregnant, on my way to work, and starving. I pulled it out and finished the stinking biscuit. Yes, yes, I did. And it still makes me wince.

I think that should suffice for now. I do have more. But I would also like it very much if you would return. Without the HAZMAT team.

So, go on. Tell me all about it. You know you've got some gremlins in your closet. What do you hide?

bread crumbs

First, yes. It's one of those posts.

Ahem.

Let us move along; shall we?

So have you had the dream where you realize much too late that you've completely forgotten to attend a class, and it's too late -- you're entire future is in limbo because this is the only class required to graduate and not only did you not attend, you simply forgot all about it? Until the last day.

Now that we're all on the same page. Let's take this scenario, throw in a flair for the dramatic, a splash of bizarre, and a little bit of premonition.

Not only do I find myself trapped in this repetitive dream, but my "school" is actually Lennox Square Mall in Atlanta, GA -- no where near where I live, and I've only visited there a couple of times. My eighth grade boyfriend is there and we are caught up in the ongoing saga of "do you love me or not." Add to this, the characters of Jason and Elizabeth from General Hospital (which I haven't watched in ages) and you have the whole gang.

The plot thickens when I realize that I have completely forgotten to attend my science course taught by one of my college English professors (again, many years since I've seen this lady). So in a frenzy, I start wandering the various enclaves of Lennox Square searching for my locker to see if I can find the textbook and quickly cram for the test that will hopefully save the entire semester that I've forgotten. Naturally, though it is a mall, it has no stores -- only classrooms, a food court, and A Waterpark!

It is, unfortunately, in this waterpark that I find myself sailing down a slide with Dr. Bailey from Gray's Anatomy. We are fabulous friends enjoying a jaunt through the park (fully clothed, nonetheless), when I have the second realization that I have once again forgotten about The Class!

Off I go, trailing through the mall, forcing my way through the crowds who are mysteriously carrying shopping bags, searching for my beloved eighth grade boyfriend, and still looking for the elusive locker -- all the while forgetting about The Class.

Today? In reality?

• Two bedrooms with ants crawling EVERYWHERE as a result of the construction, no doubt.
• One child who refuses to nap, but wholeheartedly screams in protest.
• One child who has a new discrimination against fish sticks, leaving only muffins and chicken nuggets on his ever-dwindling Menu of Acceptable Items.
• Two dogs who have tracked mud all over the driveway and garage.
• One yard that looks like the stage for a monster truck rally.
• One house that is rendered assunder.
• One blogger grasping at sanity while bearing her gleaming teeth and practically humming with nerves.

Foreshadowing some?

it's the little things

Way back when I took my first teetering steps into the blogosphere, I did so primarily because my husband's mother was one inch from driving me over the edge. His mother's 'issues' aren't a secret to anyone in real life; I'm pretty sure everyone who knows her knows to hide. By late last year, I had arrived at a point where talking about it with E wasn't doing it for me and short of "talking to a professional," I thought airing it all out on the internets would soothe my rattled soul.

As life would have it, just when I was ready to start draping the dirty laundry across the fiber optics, my own mother hopped aboard the crazy train reprising the role of conductor. Between the two of them -- I found that I really didn't want to talk about any of it. At all. The past several months have been pretty life-altering as a result. There's been a shift in my life from being "someone's daughter" to being my own person. Obvious to the rest of the world, it was a long time coming. My mother and E's mother are who they are. There is no changing them or willing them to be different people from who they are. All I can do is make a conscious choice to not let my life, my happiness, my way of being be controlled by someone else and her actions.

All that self-actualization aside, with no further ado, I bring you ... SHIT My Mother-In-Law Does to Kill My Soul.

1. Every single time she sees someone (anyone at all, even if she just saw that person a week ago) she exclaims, "Have you lost weight?!" Every.single.time.
2. Her greatest ambition in life it to be OLD and DECREPIT. She loves talking about her ailments: her pre-diabetes, her high cholesterol, her high blood pressure, her diverticulitis all while adamantly refusing to eat anything that doesn't contain high fructose corn syrup as a main ingrediant and refusing to exerise because she's "too old" (at 60).
3. She feeds the kids Slim Fast as A Treat!
4. She thinks the lack of television viewing for the children is A Very Bad Thing and that giving them cola as a dietary staple is A Very Good Thing.
5. She asks me every time I see her when I'm getting pregnant again (didn't she learn anything during my last two?!) because I'll be thirty soon and then I "can't have anymore." Apparently, the old girl parts screech to a halt at the ripe old age of 30. Who knew?
6. She manages to work into every conversation how overweight my seven-year-old neice is (who is NOT overweight, by the way) in comparison to her "enviably" bone-thin (read: emaciated) cousin. Anyone else smell some trouble-a-brewing?
7. When she learns that we're actually handling this parenting thing okay, she comes all undone and starts slinging her "that will change" at every turn. For example:

Her: Do the kids fight all the time?

Me: Not really.

Her: That'll change.

Let's do another just for fun!

Her: Is the baby sleeping through the night?

Me: Yes.

Her: That'll change.

I have oodles more where that came from, but apparently this wasn't a very prudent idea. Now I know why I choose to not think about such things. I think I've effectively wrecked my own damn day just conjuring up all these incidents. Anyway. Who can you count on to consistently Kill Your Soul?

Please don't say me. Seriously.

watch dog

Explain to me, if you will, the benefit of offering food, shelter, and sometimes kindness to TWO ninety plus pound dogs who are complete failures at what dogs do best? Now, the old one -- he's off the hook. He can barely manage to hoist his mighty weight upon his creaking, old bones to move himself from underneath the vehicle before it runs him over. He'll be 12 this year which is death on a cracker in dog years, and he's entitled to lie about all day sunning and sleeping. Because he's old.

Now the other one, if you'll recall Runaway Dog, is worthless. Beans believes her name is either "Back!" or "Skank!" depending upon the day of the week and her/my mood. This imbecile (the dog, not my offspring) plants her natty ass beneath my bedroom window each and every night while barking her senseless head off at God knows what. ALL.NIGHT.LONG. It's usually a couple of short barks, followed up with a l o n g howl, and followed by a couple more short barks. Rinse. Repeat. In front of MY window. If it's that damn interesting and arousing, get up off your lazy haunches and GO GET IT, FOOL!

This alone is reason enough to drive her down a lonely country road at night (except we live on said lonely country road, and I've no doubt she'd ramble on home), but we figure she can't live forever. Unless of course, she's the Antichrist sent to roam the Earth until the end of time, which is completely plausible.

Anyway, yesterday while the two ferrets were napping and I was doing absolutely nothing, I hear someone pounding away on the door. We've had all this construction, hammering, and man-things happening anyway, I kind of thought it was related to that. And so I ignored it, as I often do. The door pounding continued for FIVE minutes. I realize that 1) this person is NOT leaving and 2) if I don't open the door, the children will wake, which is very, very Not Good. So I tear the door open, throw my tact out the window, and spit out, "What?! What do you want?!"
After craning my head back so that eyes could travel approximately ten hundred feet above me, I saw what looked to be Sasquatch on my back porch. Now, probably the facts that this dude was enormous, a stranger, and chose to come to the secluded entry in back of our house as opposed to the front door, I should've ran. Fast.

Was he coming to rape and pillage my person? Of course not. He was simply eyeing our dirt. For real. He looked seductively toward the mountain of fill dirt that used to be my beautiful green lawn and said (I swear), "I've been eyeing that dirt of yours for a long time now. What do you think you're going to do with it all? You think I might be able to have it?"

Weird some? Hell, yes. Dude, take the dirt -- and the imbecile dog who was lying on her pathetically lazy ass watching SILENTLY while you walked around the back of our house to bring your scare on.

Why did I ever wish this beast of burden back into my fold? WHY?

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And on an aside (though similarly related animal weirdness), have you seen that commercial for Aussie hair products. The giant purple 'roo is getting a vigorous massage when she shoots hair product out of some orifice (I've watched with marked interest each time it airs, but I've yet to decide if this is butt or pouch). Now, I'm pretty sure it's her butt, but maybe her pouch. Regardless, are you kidding me advertising executives? Why would I want to apply kangaroo orifice shooting product to my hair?