Happy 100th Post: Devo, Diego, and Global Warming

Here we are, having a normal lunch, and as I scanned the table, it just now dawned on me that I set a buffet at least twice daily. Today's lunch consisted of a fluffernutter sandwich, chicken nuggets, tacos, and mashed potatoes. No wonder I hate preparing meals so much.

Anyway, that startling revelation aside, Tootsie and Bubby have been providing rather intriguing lunchtime conversation. The background noise is Yo Gabba Gabba, which is, in-and-of-itself, an LSD trip for kids, embedded with wonderful lessons about not throwing things at our friends--it's educational! Anyway, the band playing today resembled Devo, and I truly wondered if the boys indeed did put in a guest appearance on what may be the most disturbing children's show ever. I explained to Tootsie that Devo was a band I listened to when I was a teenager. My darling, sweet, seven-year-old daughter looked at me and said, "Well, it can't be Devo because they must be dead by now." Thanks for the vote of confidence, Toots. I explained that it wasn't that long ago that I was a teenager, so Tootsie changed her tune: "Well, then they must be in their nineties." Sigh of exasperation.

After the musical number, Yo Gabba Gabba turned its focus to playing with scissors. Tootsie suggested that the inappropriate use of scissors may result in the loss of an eyeball. Bubby announced that one may cut off fingers if using scissors carelessly. Then, serious as can be, Bubby looked at me and said, "If you cut off your fingers, you can't hold hands. That would be sad." How touching. Bubby thinks about holding hands.

Oh, thank goodness, Diego is on next. Yo, rescue pack!

So, let me talk about Diego and Dora for a while. What is wrong with these children's parents? How can they allow these kids to wander the countryside aimlessly (well, not quite aimlessly--they do have a talking map)? We know what they were doing--Dora's mother had twins! Even more upsetting is that there is no adult out there who can save the Moon? We need a little boy with a transforming backpack to save Luna? The fate of the world is in Diego's hands. Do you realize what would happen without the Moon? Not only would the baby sea turtles not find the ocean, but our tides would become seriously out of whack, and somebody would probably then blame Diego for global warming.

Don't even get me started on that media panic free-for-all. Too late. Do I believe the Earth is getting hotter? Yes--I guess, but not too much. Do I subscribe to this theory of apocalyptic global warming? No. One of my students asked me about it, and I told him I am not worried. The Earth has a history of acting this way: getting hot, getting cold, forming ice, melting the ice, species dying out, and on-and-on. He said I had become his mortal enemy. I told him I was ok with that because I like warm weather. Please. How much panic do we need in our lives? We are panicked about terrorism, panicked about the housing market, panicked about the economy, panicked about lay-offs, panicked about cancer, panicked about lead paint, panicked about e-coli, panicked about mad cows, panicked about contaminated water supplies, panicked about MRSA, panicked about ice chunks flying off a truck in front of us, panicked about crime, panicked about what the neighbors might be doing in the privacy of their own house. Do we really need to panic about a cycle of nature that we cannot stop? I am not.

Let me just say that as a child, I chewed on lead chunks that we used to make sinkers for our fishing poles. They were a nice texture, and I could work my teeth into them. Maybe I'd have a little higher of an I.Q. had I not done that, but I don't really care. I also played with mercury that rolled out of a broken thermometer. No bad effects. I drank from the creek--the one that brimmed with orange algae. No bad effects. I dug in the garden. Ate grass. Chewed on tree bark. Made pine sap chewing gum. Climbed trees. Ate vegetables from the garden without washing them. Left the doors unlocked. Cut myself many a time with sharp, rusty objects. Got stung by bees. Ate peanut butter. There's so much more. What's my point? Our media has successfully created a panicked society of sissies. I am not really worried about any of that stuff. Give me lead and dirty water any time. I can tough it out.

It's a Wiinderful Life

OMG, I LOVE the Wii! There are few better things in the world. I can bowl with Bubby and Tootsie, play them in tennis, drive the Thunderhead raceway, and so much more! It's fabulous. Tennis may be my favorite. I even made par in golf. Forget that stupid Hot Wheels game. You have to EARN cars and new racecourses. That stinks! Then, you get blown up by some steam shooting out of the furnace. Like that happens in real life.

The one downside is that I took the fitness test, and my Mii is 51 years old. That's depressing. I think I need to give her wrinkles now. Darn.

The other fantastic Christmas gift was the ice cream maker, so it's good that I love the Wii and can play pretend tennis to try to burn off some of that ice cream, but it's oh so heavenly! Whipping cream, sugar, and the Wii. It's all I ever needed.

The Drug Store Jedi

Ok, so we went out to brave the hordes and visit the drug store because I need my meds. Wish they were something more exciting and mood altering, but I guess I'll settle for my inhaler and allergy pills. I should have picked up a pocket protector while I was at it. Too late now; nerd-dome will have to wait for another day.

So, the trip: parking sucked. I'm guessing these people can't color inside the lines either, but it didn't stop me. I have a Hummer, and I will park it wherever I please. Giggle.

Inside the store, however, people were very nice, and as Bubby ran through the aisles swinging rolls of wrapping paper as though they were light sabers, many shoppers merely chuckled, even the ones he hit. As my face grew redder than Rudolph's nose and my voice grew deep and Darth Vader-ish, I muttered under my breath, "Oh, just give me a reason." To my surprise, the man next to me simply smiled and replied, "I feel your pain." I thought that was nice, because you never know who's on your side while you're in the trenches. Only when someone speaks up do you know who's fighting the good fight with you. Tootsie, in her disgust, said, "Mom, you know he's hitting people with the wrapping paper." Well, yes, I was quite aware, but it's Christmas Eve, and people don't seem to mind. They are filled with the spirit and will gladly take an unprovoked, yet seasonally appropriate, wrapping paper beating from a wild three-year-old boy. I bet it looked funny as hell on the security tape. Caught for eternity, my Jedi son.

I must cease my musings for now. The carpets will not vacuum themselves, no matter how much I beg them. We are paving a path for Santa, literally--well, almost literally--we're not really paving; it's more like clearing, so I guess it's not literally at all. Ok, we're paving a path for Santa figuratively. Does that make you feel better?

Christmas Eve

Happy Christmas Eve! Bubby and Tootsie are mildly excited. Bubby did raise his voice to tell Tootsie that Santa is coming tomorrow night, but after he was reminded it's tonight, he lost some steam. Then, we tracked Santa in 3-D, which was fun for only five minutes before Bubby became upset that Santa was moving. Tootsie rolled her eyes and left the room.

Hopefully, we can get the house clean enough that Santa doesn't look around, say, "Holy cow!" and walk out. We don't really intend to hold Santa captive, but if he comes in and becomes lost in the mess, it will be a bad scene all around.

Santa completed most of his wrapping last night, but saved the obligatory, curse-inspiring assembly for tonight. Santa must put together a Jeep and a Batman Big Wheel. Santa is hoping the new Batman costume happily replaces the old, which is becoming crusty and torn with wear. I counted, and the thing went on and off seven times yesterday.

I really want to go out to get Daddy a Christmas present, but Tootsie is giving me a hard time. I suggested a nice box of cigars, but she insists that will kill him. Then, I suggested a stereo, but she says that is too expensive. Her solution: make him a snowflake. Snowflake it is.

Can't wait for tomorrow morning!

December 23 Is Festivus!

Put up an aluminum pole and go air those grievances!

Little Pieces of the Past and the Cost of Death

I was looking for my Christmas holly bracelet, and in the process, I decided to dig through my box of old jewelry boxes. It was a wonderful trip down memory lane: rings and bracelets I bought from Silver Works in high school (silver is significantly cheaper than gold), my high school ring and the receipt, pictures of friends from high school--pictures I kept; friends I didn't. I was obsessed with time, apparently, because I found at least ten watches. And hundreds of buttons. Who knows why. Then, I found a card my husband gave me shortly after we began dating. In it, I had placed pictures of us from our younger years. The words in the card still ring true, which made me smile. The pictures are nice--pleasant to remember being so skinny and wrinkle-less, but I am ever-so-thankful that I no longer have chin pimples.

Then, my thought process shifted to mortality, and I thought that box would be a good place to leave my death wishes. Sorry--morbid. I want to be cremated as cheaply as can possibly be done. Actually, I'd prefer to be placed in a garbage bag and buried in the backyard, but that's not allowable under my neighborhood's deed restrictions (remember the goat?), so we have to follow someone else's rules. Do you know how much money is wasted on funerals? In 2003, it was 20 billion dollars. Wow. That's a lot of money to slow the process of decomposition. I want a box and a fire. No formaldehyde for me, please. Really, just because the ancient Egyptians felt the need to preserve the dead and then Jesus' women friends decided to anoint his body, I'm being conned into believing that my eternity will hinge upon the successful recomposition of my body. Give me a break. Please, if that were the case, there are gazillions of humans who are shit out of luck. I'll join their band, and we'll form our own exclusive, disembodied afterlife club. And, according to the Catholic Church, I am now allowed to be cremated, but my ashes have to be buried in one place. I am sorry, but if my God could create the earth, the solar system, hermaphrodites, and MRSA, then he/she can put me back together if need be. If we really needed this body in the afterlife, then we'd take it with us when we go, and all those coffins would be empty.

Instead of the 10K funeral, the money can be used on a family trip to the Badlands to sprinkle my ashes there--preferably facing east so that I don't get tangled in anyone's hair or inhaled because that would really interfere with my plan. Either that or Devil's Cauldron in Yellowstone. My pain in the ass requirement is that everyone drive there and stay in campers. It has to be done a certain way. 

And, I want a wake before they sprinkle me--with my aluminum can of ashes in the center of the table, just like cranberries. Yes, I want the standard issue aluminum can, not some dumb expensive urn. If people want it fancier, then they can have the little kids color it. I recently read a poem about a woman's wake, and the strong man had to make ice cream (can't remember the title to save my life). At my wake, I want ice cream--preferably homemade with chocolate chips (but they have to be Hershey's bars put through a cheese grater). And, everyone in attendance has to watch The Music Man. Oh, how I love that musical, and I don't care who doesn't. And please, please have a real barbershop quartet present to sing "Good Night, Ladies."

When it's all said and done, I want all of my watches, rings, necklaces, buttons, letters, cards, pictures, and notes to be sealed in a cardboard box that will then be given to whichever relative is willing to sort my laundry and shred my old bills.

And thus begins my legacy in perpetuity. 

All of that from some wrinkles and chin pimples. But I still have miles to go before I sleep, and I'm sure funerals will cost even more then.

Visiting Santa

So, Bubby has been asking to see Santa for a couple weeks now, and I figured we needed to do it before it was too late. In some insane lapse of judgement, I decided Sunday afternoon would be a good time to schlep us all to the mall to see the Big Man.

Bubby fell asleep in the car, but woke promptly as soon as I proclaimed, "We're here!" He then practically jumped out of the car and into my unexpecting arms. He skipped to the entrance, wishing all the girls he saw a "Happy Christmas!" 

Then, we hit the line, which extended halfway to the nation's capital, but Bubby was willing to wait, for he was to see Santa in the end! He stood with a fierce determination in his eye, becoming irritated with anyone who spoke to him, dismissing every person as if he or she would break Bubby's extreme concentration. He was preparing mentally for the Big Moment. 

After a brief eternity (an hour, actually), we reached the head of the line. There was the Big Man himself, in all his glory, surrounded by a life-sized toy train and boxes and boxes of fantastically wrapped gifts. Bubby ran with a huge smile on his face and leapt onto Santa's lap. Oh, how he had pined for this moment! Santa finally asked Bubby what he wanted: a race car with a rocket in the engine!!! Bubby's excitement was incredible. And then...

Santa handed Bubby a coloring book and told him he was a very nice boy. Everything in the world had just crumbled. All of those glorious, tinseled, sparkling Christmas visions blurred together in one repulsive mundane, disappointing-adult moment. Bubby's face drained, his brow furrowed, his lips pursed, and he stomped right out of that flimsy protective fence. I have never seen such a look of disgust on a three-year-old's face. Bubby was so angry and let down. He looked up at me in his furious state and declared, "I asked him for a race car, and he gave me a stupid book. I didn't want a book."

How was I to know Bubby was demanding instant gratification from Santa? It was classic.

Merry Christmas! I've written you out of the will.

Yes, that's what the card said. Remember my comments about the old woman's farewell tour from the summer? Well, she really is as awful as I made it sound. I personally could care less about her money, but my father has taken such good care of her and her finances (because she knew nothing about how to do it), and she repaid him by sending a Christmas card to inform him she has changed the will. Of course, there was a post script: sorry to tell you this now. 

She is giving everything to my uncle who has gambled away everything he saved over the course of his lifetime--I guess so he can gamble this away, too, and then guilt my father into caring for him, as well. Yes, my uncle moved back into the house to care for the old woman, but only after she paid off his house for him. 

I am left speechless. Well, almost. If that were true, I wouldn't be typing this. I am just overwhelmed by this announcement. As a matter of fact, I am going to look up how to change my son's middle name. It had been her maiden name. I don't think I want any connection there.

Well, Merry Christmas to all! I hope none of you have been written out of the will this holiday season.

Things Little People Say

The other day as I was taking my allergy meds, Bubby asked why I take medicine. I explained the allergy thing to him. He cocked his head, looked at me, and said, "So, you have Ally Jesus?" Yes, I guess I do have Ally Jesus. He is also shocked that my bra stays in place and remains thoroughly perplexed as to why girls need them and boys do not. Today, he called one of my eighth grade students his "new brown friend," and yes, you guessed it, the new friend is not fair skinned.

I'm not so sure about that boy of mine.

Bugged Out

So, I am no fan of insects or arachnids. I peacefully coexist with them as long as they stay away from me. Yesterday was a classic classroom bug-out moment. First period, mug of coffee: There we were, slowly waking up, happily discussing To Kill a Mockingbird, which is only the best book ever. Suddenly, one of my students informed me that there was a rather large bug crawling up my coffee mug. I started turning my mug around so that I could spot the invader, but as I turned the container, the insect crawled the opposite direction so that I couldn't catch a glimpse. It was playing games with me. How cute. Not. Well, I eventually found the thing, a leggy, antennaed killer crawling along.

So what did I do? I picked up the mug by the top and slowly walked to the door, but the awful thing started after my fingers and was about to touch me. That set me in motion, and ever so swiftly, I dropped the mug just inside the door while squealing in a crazy, high-pitched voice that I can't do bugs, I can't do bugs, I CAN'T DO BUGS!!!!!!!!!!!! Then I had to do the get-it-away-from-me bug dance. No way to avoid it--must be instinct. 

I returned to my desk an calmly thanked my pupil for alerting me to the beast. We continued our discussion, but the thing started flying around the room. By then, I was practically in cardiac arrest, panting with anxiety, and ready to faint. I had to have one of the boys kill it, but at least I made everyone take note of the incident in the books...because, if you know the novel, this is completely the wrong response. Atticus will explain it to us later in the redbug incident. I felt so guilty, but it's survival of the fittest in my room. I almost bit the dust as the result of a bug, but my students would have been just fine.