Tuesday, November 10, 2015

I'm Winning Tuesday

It’s 7:45 am and I’ve already had a better day than you.

I woke up at 6:30 (even though I am NOT a morning person) so that I could get everyone ready for school.  Apparently my children think I enjoy this process . . . that I like waking up before the sun to try to convince other little versions of myself that they should also get up before the sun.  Before I could do that, however, I had to clean the dog pee off my bedroom floor. 

Our geriatric dog, whom we adore, by the way, is 15 years old.  That’s pretty old for a dog, and I understand that perhaps all his “functions” are not what they used to be.  It seems we have regressed to the point of puppyhood.  He pees whenever and wherever he feels like it.  And he’s deaf.  So even though he knows he’s not supposed to pee in the house, he’ll go to the middle of the bedroom floor and pee.  He doesn’t even lift his leg anymore, and he starts walking away before he’s even done, so he leaves a little yellow pee trail in his wake.  He’s like, f*ck it, I’m too old for this sh*t.  Since he’s deaf, I can be running towards him, yelling his name, and clapping to try to get his attention, but he just continues peeing.  We also think he’s pretty blind, so he may think he’s outside for all we know.

OR he knows exactly where he is, he knows it’s not pee-pee time, and he hears us yelling at him, but he’s paying us back for 15 years of making him wait until daylight to go outside and pee in the rain.

After arguing with Small about which tshirt to wear underneath his sweatshirt . . . you know the one that nobody will see because it’s under your flippin’ sweatshirt so it really doesn't matter! . . . I go wake up Medium.  Medium and I are cut from the same cloth.  He is snuggled up under his comforter with his stuffed animal and he’s in a deep sleep even though his alarm is going off and has been doing so for approximately 15 minutes.  I try all the sweet wake-you-up techniques: whispering, rubbing his back a little, tickling his feet, but then I’ve gotta go because I’ve got sh*t to do so I grab both his feet and pull while he tries to grab on to the sideboard.  He’s out of bed now, so that’s one step closer to the bus. 

By the time I get downstairs, Large is telling me that the dog has puked on the carpet.  Large, who is 12 years old and is fully capable of cleaning up dog vomit, is stuffing his craw with cereal while watching the dog lick his own regurgitated stomach contents.  Mind you, it’s only about 7 am at this point, and I’m already cleaning up round two of bodily fluids that are leaving my dog from both ends.  At this point, Hubby and I are waiting until the dog goes so that we can re-carpet the entire house.  He’s left his mark, literally, everywhere, and the previous owners had twin girls . . . and white carpet.  So really it is just a matter of time.

I assume that Small has gotten something to eat for breakfast, but I can’t worry about it now because it’s 7:04 – time to head to the bus stop.  We head out the front door and I notice it’s sprinkling, so I do what any selfless mother would do:  I send them ahead while I go back inside to get myself an umbrella.  By the time I get to the bus stop, the bus is pulling up, so I didn’t even get to give them a snuggle goodbye.  No worries though – Small gets back off the bus (which the other school bus and the two car drivers behind our bus totally appreciated, I’m sure) while yelling, “can’t have food on the bus” and handing me something.  He’s a rule-follower, that one.  I grab his food and wave goodbye.  Was is a banana peel, you ask?  Perhaps some wheat toast or a small bowl of whole-grain cereal?

Milk dud.  And that’s why I’m winning Tuesday.

Wednesday, June 10, 2015

Meet Our Cow . . .

I am so excited I can barely contain myself!

We were dining at our local Chick-Fil-A the other night when the concierge asked if we would like to take a cow on vacation.

Some thoughts going through my mind:
A.  Um, yes!
B.  I can’t believe you haven’t asked me sooner.
C.  Having a cow would make my neighbors love me even MORE than they do now!

Introducing . . . Moo Gehrig!

Alas, it’s a little stuffed cow.  We will take photos of him partaking in various Boy Mommy Family activities and post them to the Chick-Fil-A facebook page.  I already have visions of him strapped in to the swagger wagon as we go on vacation or blinking away baseball dust as we sit and watch a game.  I’m going to love him and pet him and I will carry him around in my purse. 

Think Flat Stanley on speed.  Years ago when we live in Manhattan, my niece in West Virginia sent her Flat Stanley to visit us.  (For those who don't know, Flat Stanley is a story book character who gets flattened and is able to go places he wouldn’t have been able to go if he were still a boy.)

This is what we did then:
First I looked through the tour book to see
what I'd like to see during my visit to NYC.

We looked at the transit map so we could plan our day.

We began our adventure at the end of our block,
on 94th St. and 5th Avenue.

Police officers help us when we're lost or hurt,
and they protect us from harm.
New York City cops are a special breed.

Here I am outside the Guggenheim Museum.
Aunt Boy Mommy wouldn't let us go in though
because admission is $18!
That's a lot to pay for a little culture.

Here we are outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
This is a HUGE art museum that holds a lot of famous art.
Large likes to visit the Arms and Armour exhibit.

Uncle bought me a pretzel from a street vendor.

This is me outside of Grand Central Station.

Here I am outside Lord and Taylor. 
We didn't buy anything though.
Aunt Boy Mommy says we're "Target people."

This is the New York Public Library -
the entrance is flanked by two lions,
Patience and Fortitude.

Large and Medium were good at dinner,
so we each got to pick out one sugary treat from Dylan's Candy Bar.

I sat with Medium when we rode the bus.

This is me and Large outside the subway station.
We took the Uptown 6.

Here's me with my very own Metro card.

Night-night Flat Stanley. Sleep tight!

Imagine what our family cow, whom we have named Moo Gehrig, will experience.  Stay tuned!

Friday, May 29, 2015

Bleacher Police (with diagrams!)

I don’t consider myself to be a confrontational person.  I’m no shrinking violet, but I need everyone to like me and part of having people like me is . . . well  . . . not making them mad at me. 

Sometimes I just can’t keep my yapper shut though.

Our son, Large, plays on a travel baseball team that has many different age levels.  Last weekend, Large’s team (11U) and the 9U team played in the same tournament.  Once our game was over, Large’s entire team decided to root, root, root for the 9U team at their game. 

While there are no written rules regarding where one should sit when watching 9-year-olds play baseball, generally spectators sit on the “side” that their team is on.  As we were waiting for the game to start, a woman, whose TONE I did not appreciate, asked me huffily, “are you watching this game?”

The game hadn’t started yet as the field crew was watering the infield, and my interaction with this woman was new, so I was not yet irritated with her.  I was confused about what she was asking me, however, because there was no game being played.  Was she seeing Angels in the Outfield?  Was Kevin Costner talking to Shoeless Joe in a cornfield and I just couldn’t see it? 

Artist (that's me!) rendering of field.

I looked at the field and said kindly, (because at this point I was still feeling kind,)
 “there’s no game going on right now.”

Clearly irritated, she asked, “do you have kids on this team?” 

I thought she was making idle chit chat, so I said, “no, we’re the 11U team and we just came to cheer on our 9U team.”  I might have even thrown in a smile. 

“Well, we came a LONG way to not be able to sit and watch our kids play,” she snapped.  “It would be nice if there was someplace for us to sit.  Why don't you go down there,” and she pointed to some spots down the way.

Oh, it’s on now.  Don’t you get snippy with me.

I asked our boys to move down so that they weren’t taking up as much space on the bleachers.  I noticed, however, that she and her daughter-in-law (who remained silent throughout the entirety of our interaction) were the only two people in the stands.  (Probably because she was sitting on OUR side, but alas . . . )  The rest of their team’s spectators had brought their own stadium chairs and were sitting in prime real estate behind the batter’s box.  Some of them had gone to a little patio area on the first base line on the opposite side of their team’s dugout, and none of them seemed put out that we were taking up space on our own bleachers. 

She got up to get an over-priced drink at the concession stand and was clearly disappointed to find me still sitting in the stands when she returned.  She slammed her foot down as she stepped on to the metal bleachers; I’m assuming it was to announce her arrival.

Whatevs, I thought.  The game started.  So did her passive-aggressive comments to her daughter-in-law, obviously for my benefit.

1.  Alex S. had a good hit.  Ryan S, his brother, is on our team.  I mistakenly yelled, “nice hit, Ryan,” and the kids playfully reminded me that ALEX was the one who got the hit.  “She doesn’t even know their names,” she WHISPERED to her companion. 

2.  A player on her team hit a ball way out into center field and our player was unable to catch it.  “Awwww,” she chirped sarcastically, “he didn’t catch it.”

3.  A mom from our team yelled, “nice try” to one of our players, to which she commented, “not good enough!”

Finally she said to her daughter-in-law, “at least they found a place to sit to watch the game,” referring to the spectators from her team. 

I had had enough.

“Is there someone who needs to sit here?” I asked.

“Don’t talk to me. . . . it’s just that we came a LONG way to see the kids play.  You didn’t.”

I didn’t take a road trip over the Bay Bridge on the Friday afternoon of Memorial Day weekend with a little detour through Annapolis on Naval Academy graduation day just to have some busybody question my motives.

“Excuse me?”  Oh, I’m irritated now.  “You have no idea where we traveled from.”  You see that?  I was so angry I ended a sentence with a preposition. 

“Stop talking to me.” 

That was the end of our conversation. 

Karma works mysteriously, however.

One of our moms, who had no idea that any of this had transpired, asked my nemesis if she could move one of her bags (which were sprawled all over her “area” of the stands) so that she could sit down.  The old lady obliged . .. by grabbing her bag dramatically and slamming it on the seat in front of her.
Then another mom, also unaware of the conversation, commented sweetly that she was unfamiliar with this rival team and she wondered where they were from.  Somewhere far, far away, no doubt.

And then our 9U team won the game.  So there’s that. 

Sunday, April 26, 2015

Wrong Number

Yesterday morning, the phone rang.  Normally I don't answer if it’s not a number I recognize.  I figure the phone is here for my convenience, not theirs, so yes, I’m totes a screener.  It was not a number I recognized, but it looked like it might be a cell phone in our area code, so I answered.

“Hello?” I answered, all delightful and cheery, as usual.

“Yes, I’m looking for an estate sale.” 

“I think you must have the wrong number,” I replied, because, well, I was not having an estate sale.  Besides that, even if I were, no one ever buys my crap.  Other people can sell a CVS bag full of left sandals, but I still have a large-screen TV and a kelly green recliner in my basement storage room.

Indignant, the caller insisted, “but it says in the paper!”  Then I heard someone in the background mumble something about getting the numbers mixed up.  “Oh, no, you’re right.  Sorry,” she said before she hung up.

I was tempted to call her back just so I could hear someone say “you’re right” again.  I had started to doubt myself.  Had I forgotten that today was indeed the day I planned to sell all my earthly possessions even though I am very much not-dead?

I’m used to getting wrong number phone calls from people looking for a local orthopedic surgeon’s office.  Alas, I am not qualified to be an orthopedic surgeon.  Every time I look at an xray screen, be it of a twisted ankle or a wayward elbow, I half expect someone to softly whisper, “and there’s the heartbeat!” 
I just wanna confirm my appointment
with someone who has no idea what I'm talking about.

More than once I have come home to some old person growling on my answering machine about how “I don’t even know what that message is supposed to mean!”  That’s because it’s a private home machine with my precious children’s voices on the outgoing message, not an answering service patiently awaiting the call regarding your bum hip.  I have received so many of these phone calls that I’m considering asking to be put on the payroll at the surgeon’s office.  When I answer a live call, I always kindly tell them that the number they’re looking for is (insert official-sounding phone number here.)    

So if you call my home phone and I don’t answer, it’s probably because the doctor’s office is closed.  Or I’m looking for all my lefties to put on CraigsList.