Mom to the Screaming Masses

Mission Monday

Today is going to be a good day.  I just know it. 

I'm thinking positively, here. 

I do have a Mission for you, and it's a good one, I think.  Most of us are writers, yes?  Or we want to be, anyway.  This mission will help you refine your skills.  Creative writing can be difficult, and we all can use some practice. 

During your rounds today, please fixate on one interesting person.  Find someone in your travels that you do not know.  The guy at the bus stop with the cup of coffee, the woman pushing the stroller, the old man in the dentist office.  I want to read a short story about that person.  Put yourself in their shoes, and make up a story about them.  It can be a thriller, a romance, or a sad tale.  Peel away the layers of the person - with as little or as much detail as you'd like - and let me see a bit of why the person is (or is not) who they appear to be. 

Post it on your own blog, or leave it here in my comments. I'll post mine later in the week.   If you post it in your blog, invite others to play along!  Let's see if we can spread Mission Monday further than just my own site.

Workin' together

I stood at the sink, not so patiently rinsing out tie dye.  I had been asked to create shirts for one soccer team, and then also the shirts for Gabe's team.  The grand total was about 36 shirts, and the rinse out procedure takes for-ever, and my back was cramping up.  The Hubster came into the kitchen, and stood by the bar, watching me rinse out.  I looked up at him and smiled.  He had been working up in the attic, placing insulation in the ceiling of the screen room. 

I'll say one thing for the man; he certainly knows how to stay busy.  He is physically incapable of just sitting on his bottom and doing nothing.  He finds more projects than anyone I've ever seen, and never relaxes.  He's had a week off from work, and the list of accomplishments has grown exponentially.  When his vacation began, he told me that he'd like to insulate the screened porch, as it was too hot out there this summer.  The day before he'd made a trip to the hardware store and purchased ten packages of insulation.  THAT was a funny sight to see.  He'd loaded the insulation into his Jeep, with the roof off, and he'd driven down the road with huge columns waving out the top.  He'd carried them all up the stairs and into the attic access, where he'd discovered that the hole he'd planned to pass the bulk insulation through into the attic of the screened porch was way too small.  So he'd gotten the power saw and cut a hole into the wall into the attic.  He'd spent the past three hours slicing the rolls open and laying out the sections of insulation. 

"Hi.  You know, this batch of shirts didn't come out right.  It's because they are 50/50, and not 100% cotton.  The green didn't come up, and they are turning out teal.  I'm going to have to buy a new set of shirts, and redye them for Gabe's team.  I can't believe this, it's so aggravating and a waste of my time, and, what?  What's wrong with you?"  I asked.  He made a grumpy face at me. "The attic space is so small, I'm feeling claustrophobic."  He was wearing a face mask, a hat, long sleeves and jeans, and the sweat was pouring off of him.  He was covered in insulation fibers and wood shavings, and his hair stuck up in all directions from under his hat.  "You know,"  he continued.  "You COULD be out there helping me.  I'm doing all this work by myself."

Why I have nothing to post today

When you wake up and see this:

Then you know it's time to do this at the warehouse store:

Sorry for the poor quality of the picture; it was all we could do to keep control of the FOUR shopping carts.  Bonus time is very good, indeed.  It's my very favorite time of the year.  After the shopping, I had much needed repair work done on my van.  Now I'm broke, but my fridge is much more attractive tonight.

Red faced

How many of us, by a show of hands, were ever embarrassed by our mom at one point in our lives?

Come on, now, not all of you have your hands up.  Think back, way back for most of us, and remember.  Wasn't there ever a time that you were embarrassed by the actions or words of your female parent?

This is about me and my kid, not about my parents.  I know that the vast majority of both my family and The Hubster's read this little blog, and I have no desire to wreck any further family chaos.

Man, do I feel o-l-d

Before I talk about how OLD I am, I just want to thank you all for your nice comments on my friendship post.  I'm NOT a very good one, but you all made me feel a bit better.

Today I took my daughter Allegra to buy a pair of shoes.  She didn't NEED a pair of shoes, but I had promised her a treat if she did well in school and practiced her clarinet without fail.  She had done those things and I kept good on my bargain.  We packed up and headed to Target.  I didn't have any other kids with me, as the Hubster was off work, and so we made it a girls day.  First stop was lunch, and we grabbed Taco Bell.  Despite my avoidance of red sauce/onions/hot sauce, I still ended up with indigestion.  Reason #1 I am old - I can no longer eat Taco Bell.

We looked around at the clothes, and I picked up a $4 pair of black pants and a $2 turtleneck for Emma, and then we moved to the shoes.  Allegra was IN HEAVEN.  She's such a girl.  She tried on all of the heels, the wedges, and the t straps, while I hid over in the toddler section and tried to pretend that was the department we needed to be in.  "Look, Princess shoes!  Don't you want light up sneakers?" She tried on a pair of shoes with 4 inch heels, and tottered over to the mirror.  She had on a short skirt and a t shirt, and it just wasn't a look I was comfortable with.  She's got some damned long legs, and I had a small freak out.  "Take off those shoes, you are 11,"  I repeated, over and over.  My plea wasn't affecting her in the slightest, as she preened and fussed in front of the mirror.  "Come on, you are eleven,"  I said again.  Two older women walked by, and one of them patted my shoulder and nodded in sympathy.  "Welcome to the club,"  she said, as her friend added, "We've all been there."  The first one chimed in, "Isn't it amazing, they want to grow up so fast...."  When did she go from Stride Rite shoes to heels and cheetah print flats - the shoes we settled on?  Reason #2 - the old women and I have more in common than I thought.

My own version of the 9/11 tragedy

September 11, 2001

(I am almost a day late and a dollar short.  Story of my life, but after mulling it over for quite a while, I thought this was a good thing to do.  I didn't sign on to do the 2,996 memorials, but I really felt like I wanted to do this one.  It was a good reminder for me to pull myself out of my funk.)

The Hubster's family lost a good man during the Sept 11 terrorist attacks. The Hubster has a cousin, whose wife is named Charlene, and she had ten children.  Eight boys, a girl, and another boy.  The third born of her boys was Timothy.  When the first tower was hit, he called his mother.  He really had no idea what happened, but he knew that his mother would worry.  After all, he'd been in first attack on the WTC, back in 1993. He'd called her then, too. On September 11, he phoned his mother and said that everything was ok, for her not to worry.  He was in the second tower, and it was the other building that had been hit and the all clear had been called.   He wanted to reassure her.  He finished his phone call with his mother, and it was just a few minutes later that the second tower was hit. 

Timothy G. Byrne, 36, Manhattan, N.Y., USA
investment banker, Sandler O'Neill & Partners
Confirmed dead, World Trade Center, at/in building

Topic Tuesday: Friendship

So, let's establish one fact.  I'm not a very nice person.

I can accept that.  I have, for years, tried to be all things to all people.  I've tried to be a great friend, by always being there for everyone at all times.  I've tried to help people to the best of my ability, where ever and whenever it comes up.  I've given rides, given gifts, solicited advice, held parties, agreed with people when asked, and tried, in general, too hard to be a people pleaser.

Lately, I've come to the conclusion that I'm screwed.  I can't make people happy, no matter how hard I try. Someone is always getting their feelings hurt.  And so, about six months ago,

I just gave up.

Mission Monday

Let me make one thing clear regarding my previous post before we get into our Mission.

I can tell you honestly that the woman who made the snarky comment is NOT someone that I know well - she's another mother from the team, with whom I've had passing contact with during last season.  She's always been really nice to me, which is why I was taken aback by her very vociferous comments regarding my "charge" for the shirts.  Let's also figure out, exactly, how much this task will cost, since I've received private email and had a comment from a local person, someone who reads my blog, and yet the comment at the game was NOT made by her.  Clear as mud, I know.

The dyes for the shirts will cost me $9.  The soda ash is about $4, the synthrapol is around $5.  So, including shipping, around $25.  I have to purchase baggies to soak them in, and then, if you were generous, you could chip in for my increase in water and energy to wash and dry the shirts three or more times, and all the water to rinse them out - under a running faucet for about an hour.  The process of making 12 shirts will take me about 6 hours of my time.  I did do it for a team one year for free - I won't do that again.  Doing it for free COSTS me money.  I did also purchase larger size shirts for the coaches and plan to do those at no charge to anyone save myself, just to thank them.  I'm hardly getting wealthy on this project.  And, the remark that "we're friends"?  Well, can I just go into Wal Mart and say, "I'm friends with so and so", and they will give me a free shirt?  I hardly think so.  On a bright note, one parent came forward and paid for the ENTIRE team.  That way, no one else has to pay.  That was really special, and I am really impressed with the committment that this parent showed to the team, as well as confidence in my skills.  That earns my everlasting respect and gratitude. 

96 hotdogs later......

Man, today was a long day.

It was the first day of soccer.  Since I believe in getting ALL the snacks out of the way at once, for all the teams, I volunteered to do the drinks, fruit and snacks today for all the teams.  Yes, I'm crazy that way, but then I know it's all done and I don't have that last minute freak out of "Is it our day for fruit?  What about drinks?"

Last season, my very best girlfriend ever, who moved away this year (boo-hoo!), made hot dogs as the after game snack.  What a great idea, I said to myself.  That is *awesome*.  I hate buying cookies or chips to give out as a snack after a hard soccer match, and I'm pretty much limited in stuff like granola bars and trail mix due to allergies.  Not that hotdogs are any great shakes in the nutrition department, but they all eat them anyway.  When I saw what a success the hotdogs were, I decided to copy it.  And so, last night found me at 8:30, after soccer and scouts, trolling the grocery and counting the team members, dividing the number of buns in a pack by the number of hotdogs in a pack - why don't they ever match up? - and pulling overly tired children away from the chocolate bars and the free samples of cheese that have been sitting out for 12 hours.

Sometimes, I wanna hit him with a 2x4

SMACK right between the eyes.

You know, The Hubster is a great guy.  Really, really, a great guy.  He works hard to support us, is pretty handy with outdoor stuff like home repairs, is neat and tidy.  He plays well with the kids and is the "fun" parent.  I'm the "work" parent.  I'm the one who does the grunt work; makes sure everyone has their homework done, everyone is fed and bathed and nails are clipped. I don't gripe about him much because, truthfully, there really isnt that much to complain about.

It's a good arrangement for us.  I have a tendency to obsess over the way that things are done, and if I don't have my hand on every activity, I freak out just a bit.  Yes, I'm an anal control freak.