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.

Thanksgiving

It turns out, after all, that Bubby is indeed thankful for Tootsie. So sweet! He also knows what octagons are, and when asked if he realized how smart he is, he replied, "I'm the man!"

Tootsie is thankful for dogs. She loves ours, even though he won't sleep in Tootsie's bed and follows Daddy around everywhere. He also ate a wishbone, whole, so we'll see what happens with that. We may have to get a new dog. Yes, that sounds cold and callous, but it is what it is. Survival of the fittest.

This week, my students wanted to do some fun Thanksgiving activities, but I reminded them there is no fun in my class, so instead we read a story by Langston Hughes titled "Thank You, M'am." It's one of my favorites--a boy tries to steal a woman's purse, but instead, she kicks his butt, puts him in a half nelson, and drags him to her apartment where she makes him clean up and eat a decent meal; she then teaches him a lesson about asking, not stealing. Then, we wrote turkey-themed sentences and diagrammed them on the board. It was a kickin time, to be sure. All work and no play makes one very good at grammar. That's not true; we did have tons of fun trying to reflect the sunlight off a textbook into my eyes. Then, the kids were pretty impressed that I didn't flip out on them. Who cares? It's sunlight. Mind you, this is the cool class; they understand my sarcasm, and I understand theirs, so no one was upset when I explained that the ensuing blindness would result in their all receiving F's on their report cards because I would not be able to see the actual averages, and the letter F is the only one on the computer keyboard that can be felt, due to its bumpy marker thing.

Anyway, tomorrow we will cook a chicken, not a turkey, because we're nonconformists. Enjoy your foul day.

Funny and Accurate

I came across this, and it's so true. Being employed, I just can't figure out how not to throw money in the hole.

In The Know: Should The Government Stop Dumping Money Into A Giant Hole?

Why Must They Annihilate My Youth?

Another song has been desiccated by musicians exploiting the ballads of our youth in an effort to turn a quick profit in the children's music industry. How many of us defined our high school years with skin-tight jeans, bandanas, and Guns 'N Roses? Well, Welcome to the Jungle...................................................................Gym. Yup, I heard it on satellite today. And you know what? When you're high, you never want to come down, to the ground. Welcome to the jungle gym. We got fun and games. We can play anything you want. We won't call you names. WTF? And that fabulous Axl Rose scream? Well, it's been replaced with Tarzanesque warbling. If you're brave enough, check it out here. Spoiler alert: it will completely obliterate anything that was rough, dangerous, and thrilling about high school and youth. Yes, I know it's a parody, but it's all squeaky clean, politically correct, happy, happy, no one can do wrong, let's all play together, artificial, feel-good euphoria. What has this world come to? Is Nine Inch Nails next? How about Eminem?

Children, Voting, and a Little Rant

I missed Bubby and Tootsie's first visit to the polls on Tuesday. They went with Daddy and voted. Apparently, when they emerged from the booth, three-year-old Bubby raised his arms in victory and exclaimed, "I voted!" Everyone in the polling place stopped and applauded him. Awesome.

Voting with Mom was not as thrilling. We drove like maniacs to reach our polling place on time (I had to stay after school to hear auditions), making it with just seven minutes to spare. We ran (envision the cartoon mother trailing her little ones who are flapping up and down behind her). We approached the doors, and as I whizzed past, I asked the man standing there if we still had time. He said yes, and then he told me for whom I should vote. I almost skidded to a stop. Had I not, that very afternoon, discussed with my students that political supporters must maintain a certain distance from the polls, and no t-shirts, buttons, posters, pamphlets, etc., are to be present within so many feet of the polling area? What was he doing there? And I so desperately wanted to give him a piece of my mind, but I was sure that piece was at least thirty-five seconds long, and time was ticking away.

I flew into the school's multipurpose room, sped to the table, signed the form, and whisked the kids into the booth--all the way hearing the warning to keep the kids to my left, all the while asking myself what the hell difference it makes what side they stand on. (FYI: the vote button is on the right--I guess they were assuming my kids were like all those other ill-behaved, snotty brats who don't listen to their mothers, which is simply not true. My children listen in public.) I let the kids alternate pushing the buttons for me. They were pretty happy that they got to vote a second time, but there was no applause this time. We walked out of the polling place at 7:59:58, and everyone there was tired, irritated, and ready to go home. I'm not sure whether my own children even remember it or if it has been burned into their memories as this wild blur of motion while they were grasping my hands desperately hoping that I wouldn't leave them behind.

Regardless, the night made history, and even though I had serious issues with both of the major candidates, I am supporting our new President. Daddy recorded Obama's speech, and Tootsie and Bubby got to watch it--a pretty momentous thing. I've spent the past three weeks asking my students to watch for the lack of patriotism in the election, to see how many times candidates bashed the current President (the English teacher is always looking at language). Like it or lump it, he has been our President for the past eight years, and he is due some respect. We may not agree with some of "his" decisions, but he's the President, the leader of the land of the free and the home of the brave. Or should that be the land of the free and the home of the spoiled and disrespectful? How much patriotism have we lost? Where is that American pride? It's so unpatriotic for the country to repeatedly badmouth our leader. How weak that makes us look. Maybe we have truly been that weak. Maybe all of those military personnel who offer Bush the utmost respect are the only patriotic people around. Good for them. Perhaps, now, with a fantastic new "change," we'll all follow suit.

Little People Musings

It's official. Bubby has announced that party poopers are disgusting.

He also informed me that he would be very sad and would cry if he dropped Batman and Robin in the potty--because then he'd have to poop on them.

Noctober is a new month because Bubby does not like November. He could not tell me why, but he insists that he HATES November. I personally have never held such enmity for a month. I'm not that fond of March, but I don't want to banish it and turn it into Mapril.

Tootsie plans to vote for McCain because she thinks Obama will allow kids to stay home from school, and apparently education is important to Tootsie. That makes me happy. That education is important. I'm not too happy about her being grossly misinformed, but at least she is considering an issue and has concluded that kids belong in school, especially whichever kid told her Obama would let kids stay home.

Christmas is awesome because, according to Tootsie, all of the presents from Santa are free. I guess that's what happens when you are able to enslave large numbers of elves.

That's all I have for today. By the way, we had nine trick-or-treaters, and one informed me that kids from the front of the neighborhood don't come "all the way back here." We're one-quarter mile from their houses. If they're that lazy, then they don't deserve the candy. I gave the girl who informed me two extra scoops from my bowl. There's nothing sadder than lazy kids on Halloween.