Breathe Deep

So, the Howler does have a sinus infection. And an ear infection. And another ear infection. But no wheeze. But it sounds "rough" in there--I assume that that's a medical term the doc used to say, "Well, no wheeze, YET, so let's do something now, before it gets worse."

They asked if we had a compressor for the nebulizer. We said yes, then My Sweetie asked me if I knew where it was. (The doc looked at us like we were stupid at this point.)

The good news is that, yes, we do have one, and yes, I do know where it is. The better news is that, since we had to think a minute where it was, YES! We don't need it all that often!

The bad news is that I won't be sleeping much tonight. I've seen the statistics on asthma, and they worry me. I worry on every cough she has...

I should've called the doc last week (not that the Gator was right) when she told me she needed to rest--but did not use her rescue inhaler--in gym class last week. Might not've changed anything, but, well, you know.

Currently awaiting My Sweetie, bearing tubing and nebulizer cups and meds and masks.

Poor, Poor Howler Baby

The Howler is sick. Actually, truly, definitely sick.

Sniffles started about 10 days ago, and we've been doing the Aunt Millie Shuffle since. (My Sweetie's Aunt Millie would obsess about colds...said she had a cold for 7 years once. Same cold. No matter how many times it cleared up, it was exactly the same cold when she caught it again. And don't even ask about bridges or railroad crossings.)

Anyway, the sniffles developed into flat out congestion. Then, over the weekend, coughing. Today, she woke up with a sore throat. My Sweetie, God love him, grabbed a flashlight and wanted "to take a look." I told him to not bother--I'd already decided yesterday that I'd be calling the doc today, so there's no point in giving Aunt Millie Jr something more to obsess about.

She didn't go to school, and the earliest the doc can see her is 3pm. I work at 4. That means the Little Mister is going to the doc's with us.

No, not because Dad can't handle it, but because I do better at making sure my Howler is well taken care of (remember, I argued against the antibiotic, and I don't let them blow off that little wheeze when they hear it--and yes, sometimes the docs in this practice try to do that.)

I have no desire to spend any part of Christmas in the ER with an asthma attack, and I refuse to be lazy enough (I know, amazing...the Slacker Mom is all proactive and demanding when it comes to NOT having the usual asthma experiences) to end up with her actually admitted to the pediatric ward. Haven't yet, and don't plan on it EVER.

So the poor poor Howler baby is playing the Aunt Millie angle to the hilt...and whinging every chance she gets.

Please Explain

The big hoopla at the schools this Christmas season is the "play" the 4th & 5th graders are putting on across the district. It's based on the greenhouse effect, and yaps, apparently, about Santa and how all our American Consumerism is killing the elves. Letters to the editor don't get too specific, and I haven't seen the thing myself, but it there are actually parents who have pulled their children from participating in it.

Today, the Howler watched an animated video about the meaning and history of Hanukkah.

Please explain to me why it's okay to have the children brow beat their parents with music that says we're killing Santa and the elves, and why is it okay to have the children exposed to Jewish religious traditions and beliefs, but we can't have Christian prayer in public schools?

Say It Ain't So

Ah, but it IS so. I can't help it. When I finally find that one little, ridiculous thing...I have to tell people.

Kidz Bop. Know how utterly annoying it is? It's evil. And I owe my brother a severe beat down for making copies of his daughters' (Posey & Butterfly) CDs for mine. If ever there was an action that proved he hated me...

Anyway, My Sweetie is only slightly less evil, since the Howler talked him into buying the Christmas CD from the horrid Kidz Bop crew.

It's full of stupid little voices, and the overly dramatic "I can't get a real singing job, so I ended up working here" divas (yes, even that one male voice, sorry, dude, but you suck too) totally killing any Christmas joy I was experiencing.

Until...

track #14 redeems the whole damnable mess.

It's "Welcome Christmas" or, as it is better known, "That Song the Whos Sing in The Grinch."

It's Proverbial

And Hell is, indeed, freezing over.

The Toad. Oh. Emm. Gee. The Toad.

Lately, he's actually been trying to be human. He's up to something. I just know he is.

Secret Squirrel has stopped calling for him. Because he's up to something. I just know he is.

Last night, he told off the Gator. Because, you know, she's a PITA. And he's up to something.

Today, My Sweetie and I left to go do a mission from God. Getting flowers for church, re doing the bulletin boards, moving the creche figures out to the stable he built. And stuff. When we got home, there was a mystery bag of garbage by the back door.

He's up to something.

He spent the day, with no prompting, begging, or threats, cleaning his pig-hole room.

We are astounded, and quite honestly, more than a little disturbed by this.

The room is clean, AND he's doing laundry. Lots and lots and lots of laundry. Some of it even got folded and put away.

He's up to something. I just know he is.

You Dirty Rat

So tonight I went, as the fundraising co ordinator, to the meeting for 5th grade parents about their trip in the spring. It's a big deal to the kids, and a lot of money...crap loads of money. I was there because depending on a few variables like bus cost and where they were actually going to go, the families of 5th graders might need to do more than a little fundraising.

Turns out, there were funds made available that we had previously been told wouldn't be. YAY!

Several of the Moms kept looking at me like they were trying to figure out which of the 5th graders were mine... and since fundraising for just the 5th graders will be minimal, I was pretty much there as an interested observer. (Although I did get to ask the committee to please let me know their projected fundraising dates before getting them confirmed so that I could be sure that the crap I'm handling won't conflict with theirs. Nobody makes money when the fundraising is all smack up against each other)

One of 'em made the comment that the last hoagie sale would've done better if the delivery date hadn't been on a Friday...well, DUH. It's already been noted: we were pressed for time, and were limited by the availability of the school for sorting and the company's availability to deliver when it wouldn't run into school dismissal with buses and all that. Neener neener

Then, suddenly, there were questions about the much anticipated and feared renovation. Still no firm start date (nothing better than "March 2011) and so I asked about changes for morning drop off*

Yes, I ratted those useless women out. I haven't seen hide nor hair of 'em the past 2 days. Not even in the doorway. And there was the day a few weeks ago when they stood there, totally useless and unhelpful, when whatever the unloading issue was lead a mom to coast her vehicle forward with the passenger door hanging open and the child in the front seat. By the time I got the Howler unloaded and pulled past, the mom was still 1/2 way in the lane, and those two useless lumps were still just standing there.

Oh, yeah. I'm sure they'll be told by someone who it was that ratted them out. And I don't even care. I'm sure no one likes a "tattletale" but you know what? What I witnessed a few weeks ago wasn't safe, and it wasn't right.

I'm meeting with the principal tomorrow AM to ensure that those dayumed hoagies don't get delivered again on a Friday...if she asks I do know who it was, and I will tell her that, too.

Ah-May-ZING!

It's amazing what a little parent concern can do--the Howler's classroom has had leaks (that I've heard about thru that fantastic grapevine at school) for the past 3 years.

And this year, my Howler got to come home and tell me about the 2 leaks they had buckets under every time it rained so far this year.

UNTIL....the fateful day when the "waterlogged ceiling tile" crashed down during recess. On my baby's desk.

Since it was recess, the children where milling about the room, doing their children-type stuff. The Howler wasn't at her desk at the time, but she couldn't return to her desk until the water and bits of tile were cleaned up.

I emailed the principal about this--I understand that the renovation is coming, starting in March '11. And I understand that fixing this roof is something the school district has put off, and off, and off, because that renovation is coming.

But, er, ah, DUH. There's a sagging, dripping, waterlogged ceiling tile over these children's heads. And it's crashing down, by the grace of God, when it's mostly "safe" for the kids that sit directly underneath it.

The principal emailed me back--she believes it's an unusual occasion for a tile to actually break apart and FALL, waterlogged or not. And that the mess was cleaned up in an appropriate time. And that it did, indeed, fall on my Baby's desk during recess. And that the area around where all this drippage and soakage occurred is dry and not discolored or otherwise damaged... blah blah blah.

Two days ago, in Western PA, we were drowning in cold, bitter, 1st of December rain. Some places near us cancelled school due to flooding.

But not the Howler's school.

Because the flooding was OUTSIDE the building...and no drips, drops, soakage, or otherwise inappropriate water was INSIDE her classroom.

Amazing.

Homework Sucks

The Howler is required to do a Native American project to finish her social studies unit.

Yippee.

Except that she refuses to write anything longer than her name. Hell, last year, she figured out the "Mumple" is actually 1 letter shorter than her given surname, and spent fully half the year using "Mumple" on her papers. That one letter was either too expensive for her 2nd grade budget, or it just flat out took too much time. (Yes, folks, she's spend her time figuring out how to get OUT of doing something, rather than just suck it up and do it. Wonder where she gets that from?)

Anyway, we have no actual social studies information coming home, except that she's required to do this end of unit project. Please explain that to me? I know that it means that the child is to do the work (and Mom and Dad having no clue other than their own vague 3rd grade social studies memories of the Indian unit) but seriously? How could we even be sure that what she was telling us is actually what they learned?

Do these people even KNOW the Howler? Do these people realize the slacker Mom she has going against her, and her over-think the thing Father she's got? (yeah, My Sweetie spent fully 30 minutes over thinking the Longhouse plans--BUILDING PLANS for a scale model, no lie--beforer her mother stepped in and used a manilla folder to show the man the basics, and how they fit into the shoebox that will be used for the dayumed diorama.

Apparently, he was also going to begin researching how to tan deer hide for authentic Indian outfits for the plastic Dora the Explorer figurines we'd be using too. Sheesh.

Homework sucks.

Poetic Justice is Served

Ahh, yes. The Holidays are upon us.

And this year, the Gator is the one who forgot stuff--cranberry sauce for one. She also forgot, yesterday AND today, to bring her napkins with turkeys on them.

Grandma is looking better than she's looked in a while, and my aunt (Gator's sister) was fairly well behaved. We all laughed and talked, and the guys watched football. Of course.

Not a bad day at all.

And after thinking about how pissy the Gator was the first 2 years we did the cooking, she wasn't nasty after everyone left at all.

There is a slim chance, a very slim chance, I can survive this season unscathed. And unGatorized.

It's Just Starting...

The Holidays. And I'm already ready, willing, and immensely able to beat down my mother.

First, while I know she's just doing her yearly, "Holiday Control Freak Out" I'm waaaay less tolerant of it than ever before.

Second, GET YER HEARING CHECKED AND GET IT FIXED, or quit asking me questions then NOT EVEN trying to hear the answer.

She was here today. Getting on my nerves. Then she asked, "What do you work on Monday?" and yes, I already know that regardless of whether or not I write it down, say it several billions of times today, and tomorrow, she's going to call at 6:30am on Friday, pissed off that I "did NOT!" tell her the correct schedule for Friday. Then we'll repeat this fiasco on Monday, except she'll be pissy because she was expecting the Howler later, rather than earlier. But I digress.

She asked about MONDAY. I can't find either paper I wrote it down on, and it had not yet made it to the calendar. So I say, "I have to go to my car and get it, the paper I have it written on is out there."

I go out to my car to get it. Then, I come back in.

I tell her, "I work 7 to 1"

"What?!"

"SEVEN TO ONE."

"Oh! Seventy One dollars? That's not bad!" (in her defense, the Roto Rooter guy was here to clear the drain...it had backed up, yet again, this week.)

Frustrated, I just say, "Yep." loudly.

"No, seventy one is not that bad at all."

Yes, I'm yelling at this point, "I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT!"

"What are you talking about?"

"MY SCHEDULE FOR MONDAY! WHAT did you just ASK ME ABOUT!"

"Oh, yeah. What do you work Monday?"

It's not quite Thanksgiving, and I'm ready to kill her. (oh, yes, she also decided that the bread My Sweetie and I have already gotten--and she was already informed that we had--wasn't good enough for stuffing tomorrow. No. No, not at all. She had to make a SPECIAL trip to the store to get the *right stuff for stuffing*)

Kill me. Or kill her. But either way, someone's not having a happy anything this year.

Summer's Over Dammit!

Yet another rant about the attack of OPK.

Yesterday, it was just annoying...today it is outright insane.

I got home from church to find My Sweetie beginning the Christmasifying of the house. And three little girls. Luckily (for them) the girls were not fighting, as they usually are. But then, they realized I was home, and demanded lunch.

I chose the menu, and the Howler promptly took issue with it. She actually stood in the basement arguing her case--to the dead spiders. I walked away fairly early, and yet, there she stood, still arguing. (no comments from the peanut gallery, please)

After they ate, they left. Thank you God! Outside. They're out there--and I can't hear them. Fighting and trouble I can hear through closed windows. Yippee! There's silence in the neighborhood!

Turns out Damien is out there with 'em, and he's learning to avoid me. Unless he's totally certain the Howler is 100% wrong. Of course, this means that he's on my porch, wailing that she *stole* his purple rock.

My first response is "WHY do you have a ROCK?" Seriously? None of these children have ever been allowed to gather, move about, throw, or otherwise have contact with rocks. And every time they do, they get busted. As adults, we're usually glad when the kids are busted, because if they aren't, something sure as hell will be. Like a window. That doesn't belong to me, but My Sweetie ends up fixing anyway. And Damien-the-Window-Killer's mama doesn't even thank him for fixing.

I spent most of the month of July on my porch, very loudly proclaiming how Damien's Mama needs to step outside her house and actually deal with her kid...and that if her parents are watching him, they need to sober up and do the same.

Today's idiocy also involved children in the garage. Which they're not allowed to do. And the Howler's leading the "hiding" there anyway. And I now have possession of the rock in question.

Damien, still yowling, wants his rock back. And I'm not giving it to him--he's NEVER had a rock in his hand that he didn't throw--again, I'm talking about the windows. Although sometimes, he's lobbing them at people, or vehicles. Regardless, he ain't gittin' his rock back.

Turns out, Grandma Barstool is at the corner of my house, shrieking that she wants the rock and that this is a lot of "bullshit" over a rock. She's wrapped in a blanket, and I'm guessing she isn't wearing much more than her pj's under that blanket. I gave Damien the rock, and watched that he gave it to his grandmother.

Although, now that I've written this entire thing out, letting him have a small rock is better than him running around the neighborhood with the knife his dad gave him (and the so-called adults in that house never bothered to frisk him for.)

Seriously.

Like the true dolt I am, I agreed to be fundraising co ordinator for the blasted PTA this year. I'm not on the board, so what the hell, right?

RIiiiiiIIIIIGHT.

Our first fundraiser is to have 2 grades sell these hoagies. The hoagies are easy to sell and popular because they're good value for the money, and we can make $2 per.

Deadline for orders was a week ago last Tuesday. I expected a few late orders. No big deal, planned for it, gotcha covered.

On Deadline day, I took no less than 2 calls from this woman about how her order form would be late. "Tomorrow" is what she said. I was fine with that, and since she wanted to pick up her order earlier than the time stated, I agree to pull her order first and call her so she could come get it. I asked her to be sure to put a note with her order form, so I could do just exactly that for her.

No order form with a note came. No order form that had any connection to her came. Okay, fine. It's HER problem. She called me, a week later, on the absolute last day I could take add-on orders and wanted to know if she could still send it to me. And blah blah would blah blah can blah.

Fine, fine, fine. BUT if I do not have that order form TODAY, I won't be able to get your orders added on. Period. TODAY. I don't see it, I don't call you, I don't care.

I got the order form. She has everything marked "pd" but there's $36 not in the sealed envelope. Kill me, Kill me now.

I get the add ons added on, no problem. I've quadruple checked my numbers, so we're good.

Today is delivery day: she called, 10 minutes ago, to ask me what time she can pick up her hoagies. I explained, for the 15th time, the schedule we're working on. And she agreed, for the 15th time, to the plan. I full expect to arrive at the school before the van pulls up, and for her to be sitting there, trying to grab her hoagies as we pull 'em off the van.

But, all things considered, she's still better than the woman who called me and gave me hell for having a delivery date on a Friday--do I realize how inconvenient that is for HER?

I think this particular gig may be my ticket out of the PTA. Seriously.

Attack of the Drama Queen

So tonight the Howler pouted her way through Walmart. At no time (I verified with her Howlerness) did I lead her to believe we would be toy shopping for her. We would, howlerever, be birthday gift shopping for an upcoming party for a friend from school.

She decided to pout the rest of the way through the store...all the way home...and 30 minutes after arriving home.

She whinged that Santa would not bring her the kind of Zooble (do you know what they are? They're the ugly stepchild made from Littlest Pet Shop & Bakugon.) she wants. And do you know why?

"That's right. Santa hates you. Know why he hates you? Because you're my daughter and he hates me."

Yes, I told her that.

She has, in her 8 years, not quite figured out that pouting is infinitely less attractive than whinging. 'Cuz whinging gets you ignored. And being ignored is waaayyyy better than my sarcastic comments.

She also, in her 8 years, has not realized that I can, and will, out-drama her. I was trained by the best (the Gator) at above and beyond drama, and I can, and will, use my powers for evil. If using them for good gets me in Whinge- or Poutville, I will retaliate. With a vengance.

Mumple's Golden Rule for Childrearing: If I don't like it in OP, or OPK, I will not have it living in my house with me. And double for Drama Queens.

The Optimist

The Toad isn't always the sharpest crayon in the box.

Okay, mostly, he's not sharp at all. Unless he's talking to the parental units, I mean.

Yesterday, the boy genius washed his wallet--again. He washed his previous wallet so many times it became impossible to get his driver's license out of it. And that, he discovered, is a real bummer when you're at the liquor store and they refuse to accept it as valid.

So he gets himself a replacement license and a replacement wallet. A new and improved wallet, if you will. It's new, and it's improved because it hold up better when you wash it repeatedly.

His cellphone--a new one he got just a few months ago--is not, however, improved because it does not hold up so well when washed. Not even once.

Duh.

Crazy Cat People

Once upon a time, this really cool guy met this girl...she was owned by two cats, and he was owned by one big fat black one. They had many adventures together.

Then one of her cats died, and then a few years later, his big fat black cat died. Together, they decided to get two kittens. And that turned into a nightmare, because the babies they adopted from the Humane Society were sick. Very very sick. The fluffy one recovered, and the other one didn't. One kitten lived, one died.

Shortly after that, the really cool guy and his girl heard that the pet store had kittens. They went to see the babies, and...like the Crazy Cat People they were, they got two of them.

These kittens were healthy, and full of kittenish bedevilment. They got behind things, they get into things. They attack the older surviving kitten from the previous year. They torment and annoy the remaining older cat.

The really cool guy and the girl are, absolutely, Crazy Cat People.

Feeding time at their home involves tripping over kittens, a chorus of pathetic mews, and at least one smallish kitten attaching itself, like velcro, to my leg. The puncture wounds from tiny kitten claws are, since you asked, healing nicely.

Walking through the house is a gamble--even in broad daylight, with the lights on, with a clear path, there's a really good chance that by the time you reach your destination, there will be a kitten sliding off your foot. Or scrambling to not be underfoot. Or just for fun, jumping on your leg like David Letterman onto a Velcro Wall.

We are the Crazy Cat People.

And we laugh about it, a LOT.

It's a Form of Torture

The incessant talking.

She talks when I am talking. She talks when My Sweetie is talking. She talks during TV programs. She talks during commercials. She talks. And talks. And talks.

Yeah, I know. She's very much like her mother. But in my defense. I don't talk as much now. I do know how to be still. Honest. (I can, if pressed, produce signed affidavits to prove it.)

She also has to put her very own Howlerish spin on everything I tell her. It's a version of "are you lying?" I know it is. I think it's also a skips-a-generation DNA flaw...her grandmother the Gator has it too.

Oh, and guess who she spent the day with today? Yeppers. They went to the dollar store, after the ever so healthful breakfast of bacon and EZ Mac-n-Cheez. And such deals as they found--well, my girl came home with an attitude bigger than mine, and she was willing to share!

What a looooong winter we have in store for us.

Happy Howlerween, Part 1

Please ignore the Howlerween mess in the background!

Sainthood

Our Sunday School meets once a month. We have, on average, 2 children (today we had 4!) each class. The Howler desperately loves her some Bible stories, and on Friday, Missy began harrassing us to ensure she would be going to Sunday School also.

Today's lesson was about Saints of God. You know, those people, from the Bible, or the past, or even today...even people we actually know, who spread God's Word. The children discussed several well-known Saints (Francis, Patrick, etc.) and even freely acknowledged people they know personally who would be considered Saints under this definition.

When asked, the Howler named My Sweetie as a Saint of God.

Missy asked the Howler, "What about your Mom?"

The Howler shrugged her shoulders and said, "enh."

Atta Girl! (NOT)

Yesterday, the Howler spent a lot of time telling us "I'm not lying." It was over stupid things, really, like whether or not she had homework. She knows the deal with homework and why we'll be hardasses about it. Still, gotta love how stubborn she is.

Later, while doing the "not homework" and her AWANAS verses, she tells her father, "Daddy, you need to understand! I had a really bad day today!"

When asked why she had a really bad day, she declined to answer, "I don't wanna talk about it." As if! You've had a bad enough day to try to brow beat me into submission, well, then, you're gonna talk about it!

First, we were told it was because she missed recess. For no good reason at all!

Then, we were told it was because, while minding her own business, she spit in the grass and someone ran and told the teacher. For no good reason at all! My Sweetie asks me to email her teacher RIGHT NOW to get a real answer. (Of course, we were told, by the Howler, "I'm not lying.")

Finally, we were told the truth. My daughter spit at one of her classmates. And, terrible mother that I am, I wanted to laugh. My Sweetie, God love him, stayed calm and managed to reprimand her without snapping out.

He then decided to inform me that this spitting thing is pretty nasty (because I didn't know?) and that it has nothing to do with her being a girl, it just pretty nasty.

I don't think he realizes that I can tell the difference--mostly because while dealing with the issue, he never made reference to "my daughter," "lady," or "little girl." And the volume level and tone of his voice. And his body language. Apparently, he has been listening to me, and the message I've been sending is getting through--at least to him. With the Howler? It remains to be seen.

OPK Ranting

I hate 99% of the kids in my neighborhood.

The mob mentality isn't attractive, and the OPK are chock full of it. And it's worse when the Urchins have an Import with them, because that girl is a big bag of bitch. Dolly & Waif are annoying as it is, and with the Import around, they are insufferable, and I want nothing more than to take a stick to their asses.

Apparenlty, last night, while playing tag, Damien, Bonk, Waif, Dolly, & the Import decided to say that the Howler punched Dolly in the back and Waif in the head. Bullshit! Those girls get threatened with a Howler punch and they bawl like they're been hit by a truck, yet the Howler was the only one crying.

My Sweetie sent them all home. Then, they came back, and were playing in my yard, without the Howler. He said, "I don't know if you're stupid, or just rude, but you're NOT playing in my yard. GET OUT!"

I wish I'd been here, because he was a lot nicer than I would have been.

Whew!

I am NOT on the PTA board this year! For real, and for certain! Can you hear the Hallelujah Chorus? I can!

I turned in my filing cabinet key last night at Open House. It felt great...and strange. I'm not part of the "group" and it feels weird. (I'm not complaining, I'm just sayin')

In reality, I've agreed to do other stuff, and I'm still doing the newsletter--which I'm blowing off as I type--so I'm still plenty involved, just not as up-to-my-neck obligated as I once was.

Open House went well. The Howler is doing fine, and is growing up. Homework isn't the fight it was last year, and she likes her teacher well enough. Spelling, however, is going to be her downfall, I'm afraid. She doesn't enjoy it, and the longer, harder, bigger words trip her up, especially those vowel sounds.

We did have an incident early this week with her forgetting her homework, but she was duly chastised by all and sundry (ironically enough, even the Toad) and she missed recess because of it. Hopefully, she will have realized that she doesn't want to do that again!

She's learning many things, especially at recess. Miss Mary Mack and Down in the Meadow are very important these days.

She's doing well learning those Bible verses for AWANAS and is working hard in gymnastics.

Could it be that My Sweetie & I are doing OK as parents, or is it that as High Maintenance as she has been, she's mellowing in her old age?

Eenie Meenie Freak-a-Reenie

This happened a few weeks ago, but it still seems rather full of strangeness, so I'm sharing here in an effort to get it out of my head.

As we all know, my neighborhood is polluted: polluted with OPK; polluted with more than my fair share of whackjob neighbors.

Case in point: It was Saturday, late afternoon. OPK were, of course, filling my front yard with their usual annshinnegans, and my Trailblazer was sitting in the front yard, having recently been emptied of my new furniture (purchased in an abandoned parking lot.)

A woman with a large bowl of tomatoes appears between the Slum House and the tumbling down garage. She asks if any of us would like some tomatoes. In all honesty, accepting any kind of food from a person I've never slapped eyes on before in my life, who appears from that particular direction ranks as high on my Bucket List as licking the purple acid.

Anyway, being up to our own eyeballs in our own tomatoes, we decline.

She suddenly points a finger at me, begins coming at me, wading through the OPK, yelling, "YOU! ARE YOU THE WOMAN WHO JUST WALKED INTO MY HOUSE THE OTHER DAY?!"

Er, uh, NO. (But thanks for asking)

"Are you sure? Some woman just walked into my house and woke me AND my kids up, saying that my daughter was playing in the road. Are you SURE it wasn't you?"

Uh, Yup. I'm sure it wasn't me. I don't know where you live. I don't know who you are, and I don't know what your kids look like. I also don't just walk into other people's houses.

She continued telling her story--not that I was listening, as I was busy unrolling my eyeballs from the back of my head. She eventually wandered back the way she came.

When telling this story recently, I was told that I was "Goon Bait." Personally, I'll stick with the Weirdness Goddessness.

Posey

My niece is 5 years old. She started Kindergarten this week. She's adorable as all get out, and this morning when I called to talk to her Dad, my brother, she just wouldn't get off the phone. Too funny!

Part of my conversation with her involved her telling me that her dad couldn't come to the phone because she was on the corded phone, and the cord wouldn't reach to him. (And you're going to get the same visual as I got.)

"See?" she said. "It's only this long and it needs to be that long."

First Day of School Pics

Before:
Unauthorized Self-Portrait, After

I love that we've moved beyond her nostril period! This is hilarious!

Been Thinkin'

My Sweetie & the Howler spent 3 days last week at my in-laws. Of course, they had to go to the County Fair while there--actually, going to the Fair was the main purpose of the visit, if you ask the Howler.

They left on Wednesday. It was peaceful & quiet here. The Toad pretty much ignored me, and I enjoyed that. The neighborhood terrors were all kept at bay, and I very much enjoyed that. I even managed to spend some QT with my mom--who fed me a tasty good dinner, too. I got the bed and it's covers all to myself (unless you count the bickering cats) and it's all good, actually.

They came home on Friday, and it occured to me while I was at work, that while I missed the Howler, I missed My Sweetie more. Waaaayyyyy more. Of course, the Howler has gone on week-long visits to the in-laws before, so I am used to her not necessarily being here. But this was different: comparing the two missing-you feelings, I was more lonely, and looked forward to seeing my husband than I did my daughter.

Is that weird? (I know it's not wrong, but is it weird, that I feel that way, and I admit it?)

What makes me think to post this is that today, on Facebook, there's a "LIKE" thing going on where "My Kids Are My World! Click Like & Post This If You're Not a Completely Sucky Parent" thing going 'round. Because the 25,000 over "LIKE" things about how great, fantastic, wonderful, second-coming my kids are. Son or daughter, I don't find either of them to be the end-all-be-all of my existance. (Truth be told, the Toad needs to move out. Soon, as in yesterday soon.)

Sure, today I am very worried about how school is going for the Howler--in part, a totally unknown entity in the teacher and add that 3rd grade is a tough year anyway...yeah, I worry.

It just struck me on Friday that so very much more of our culture is directed at our love for our children, rather than at the primary relationship with my husband (finally caught that little brain fart, sorry!). Even people who have known me for a very long time still seem put off or uncomfortable with the fact that I don't feel the need to be strapped to my children, EVER. And that find children, mostly, annoying. I like 'em best when they're like zoo animals--pretty to look at, but not close enough to do any damage.

My Sweetie, though, is pretty to look at (okay, handsome, if that makes you feel better) and I don't mind being close to him. Is that weird or what?

Back To School

It's the most wonderful time of the year....BUT this year, we've got added stress.

The teacher the Howler was supposed to have got a job in a different district, and so what we were counting on and looking forward to is no longer an option. Having had the experiences I've had as a parent (never mind the crappy stuff from when I went there) I'm always nervous about it. But with the news that Mr. Jones has left the building, I'm back to my pre-Kindergarten stress about what can happen to my baby. It's not attractive, and I'm keeping a brave adult face on it, but I'm stressing about it. (It totally doesn't help that he was an excellent teacher in a building full of good teachers; and that his teaching style would have been wonderful for my headstrong Howler)

Anyway, that means that PTA is starting up again too. While I have managed to avoid being on the board again, I'm still going to be neck-deep in it. And that means stress--deadlines, and responsibilities, blah blah blah.

The fun part of it all is taking the Howler shopping. She doesn't need much by way of clothing, but a few new outfits won't hurt, and of course, there's always the accessories of being a girl.

Have you seen what's going on out there? The 80's are back. Fingerless gloves, neon colors, you name it. I spent at least 10 minutes in that store hyperventilating. And then I dropped money on a few things that were age-appropriate. Including said fingerless gloves.

My baby girl has, I must admit, similar taste in her accessories. She wanted the belt with the roses & skulls. She wanted the neon gloves. She is attracted to hats.

She also has her father's influence going on. She likes the knee-hi moccasin like boots (I LOVE those boots, baby) and peace signs and tye-dye. Gotta love this chicklet.

I did buy her the boots, too, although at first she didn't even want to try them on. Once they were on, though, it was hard to pry them off her. Once home, she kept putting them on again, just to see how they looked. Silly girly!

I'll have to post pics, especially of the gloves (gloves, which, I never owned. Neon clothing, yes. Marginally big hair, yes. Boots, not moccasins, yes. Belts and hats, you betcha. But fingerless gloves? Nope. She couldn't wait to call my mother and tell her aaaalllllll about it.)

Opposites

Yesterday, My Sweetie cleaned the house--the mopping, the dusting, the wiping up. When he does this sort of thing, he rightly expects the house, in spite of it's slackers & slobs, to stay nice at least 8 hours (he's an adorable thing: he used to expect it to stay nice for a day or two. it's only taken 8 years of marriage & Howler to whittle him down to 8 hours.)

Anyway, I was at work, and met them at the pool around 4pm. By 5pm, we were home, and there were toys strung across the playroom, and potato chip crumbs in the living room. God bless the Howler! She's truly a committed professional when it comes to disregarding the ideals of the grown up people around her!

My Sweetie stomps out to the front porch, where I am sitting, reading a book and oblivious to the carnage being wreaked inside.

He tells me that she's washing things--I ask what she's washing. He tells me "fu-ifiknow." I laugh. My Sweetie is not amused, and is actually a little offended that I would laugh.

Turns out that there's a dead spider in the McDonald's playhouse, and I'm giggling because the Howler is also very skeeved by the spider--she won't even acknowledge that it's a DEAD spider.

And we're walking...and we're walking...

My Sweetie & I realize, once we're in the kitchen, that there's something missing from the counter. What is it? What is it? Oh, yeah, it's the roll of paper towels. Wait, no, there's the cardboard tube still there...

He calls the Howler out to the kitchen and asks her just why she would need 1/2 a roll of paper towels--a large wad of paper towels--to clean up the sloppin' mess she made on the countertop when she was washing her stuff.

"Oh, no, Daddy, it wasn't a laaaaarge wad, it was a small wad. HONEST!"

And, yet, he still got huffy with me because I laughed.

Presque Isle, Erie, PA

This is the Howler--she's beautiful!This is the Howler daring Mother Nature to "Do yer worst"This is Mother Nature doing her worst--knocking my beautiful girl ass-over-tincups. HAH! The Howler loves going down to a beach on Lake Erie after a fun day at Waldameer...and she's absolutely wonderfulgorgeousfabulous there. (June 2010)

Blast from the Past

Ages ago, before the Toad became the Toad, he was the lead member of The Long Haul Gang. The Long Hauls were a trio (think 3 Amigos, with all 3 of them being about as cool as Martin Short) of pre-teens. They would gather, most often, at our house. And we tolerated them.

The Toad has kept in sporadic touch with the other members, although the group itself has been disbanded in favor of things like KKKKKlarsys (the 2nd K is silent) and zombie wars, and the avoidance of Jerkwood.

Anyway, yesterday, one of the Original Long Hauls was here, and the Toad very graciously allowed him to crumble the Sour Cream & Onion Pringles into crumbs. Said guy has not had the money for a haircut in at least 4 years.

The Howler was not happy. Those Pringles were her sole reason for living, and now, not only were they slightly more than half missing, they were in crumbles. Bitterness, thy name is Howler.

She has been referring to said Long Haul guy as "That Hippy Dude." So, Mr A.L., you now have an official "Howler & Toad" designation: That Hippy Dude. Congratulations, and welcome to the family!

Absence Makes...

The Howler left to visit her far-away family this morning. She'll be gone all this week. She'll be busy, though, and everyone there is looking forward to seeing her. And everyone here (well, her parents) is looking forward to a relatively OPK-free week.

God help me, I am The Grown Up.

My phone rings, and it is another parent in the 'hood. She's calling because Bonk has just informed her that the other boys are peeing outside. Damien has peed on his shirt (deliberately) and thrown the now-wet shirt at him. The other boys (Dude Jr & Cutie) are trying to pee on the railroad tracks.

Nevermind that there are people living in, you know, the houses on the other side of the tracks. Nevermind that technically, where they are standing is visible from the street. Nevermind that it's just plain not a good idea to drop trou in a populated neighborhood.

While discussing the appropriate course of action, I am informed that Missy is now dropping trou also.

Missy & Dude go into hiding. Damien is crying as he runs across the yards. Dude Sr is not answering his phone and is apparently not home. Cutie happily informs me that it was "just pee" and that Damien dared them all to do it.

Nevermind the hell there was to pay when dares were exchanged last summer.

Did I mention how the Howler isn't even home? How is this MY thing? Why am I involved?

Because I'm a sucker. And evil, apeshit, OPK hater, but a sucker none-the-less.

Pray for me.

In Technical Terms

Missy & the Howler have been doing a good job of trying to drive me crazy this summer.

They take turns contradicting each and every thing the other says. They bicker. They argue. They whine. They cry. They have even resorted to the time-testing method of parental head exploding of arguing about whether or not they argued about any particular thing last summer.

Nothing slows them down--oh, no, these two have the staying power of Dick Clark. If all else fails, they'll choose sides against each other, enlisting Damien's help.

After whining and arguing all weekend, this is the week Missy & her brothers are spending with their dad--so the whining and arguing can continue.

God help me.

By Monday, we've progressed to going to Damien's house (yes, inside) and the Howler stepping on Damien's face. She "had to" step on his face because they were upstairs, and he decided that they weren't leaving, and used his face to block the stairs (no lie.) When he & Missy came to tattle to me, he didn't have a mark on him, nor did he look like he had been crying.

But I still had to tell the Howler, "It's not nice to step on someone's face."

Never mind that the Howler is not to be in Damien's house. Never mind that he's a little asshole (even at 6 years old) and has already spent the better part of the week pulling shitty stunts on the Howler. Never mind that 2/3 of this fiasco is not mine, and I am still not happy that I am the adult in the neighborhood. (Hey, CandySandyMandyBandy or whatever the hell your name is--start watching your own kid, or tell your parents to stay sober long enough to watch him while you're at work)

My last nerve is long gone shortly after this.

By 8pm, I am ready to explode. Literally.

At 8pm, the Howler stomps in the door, with Missy & Blondie ringing the doorbell after her.

My Sweetie, God love him, tries to sort it out--by yelling at the Howler, even though Missy is now standing in my open door, arguing with the Howler.

I believe the technical term for what happened immediately is called, "Apeshit"

I went Apeshit. First, I took the thing they were arguing about. I threw it away. Then I stomped outside, in the rain, caught a raindrop, and yelled, "hey Missy, I got your raindrop. nyah nyah. Hey Howler. I have your raindrop, and I'm giving it to Missy. nyah nyah."

As Kevin is reaching for the blow gun so he can shoot me in the butt with a tranquilizer dart, I tell him, "I've ABSOLUTELY had it with this bullshit from ALL OF THEM!"

It's not a pretty picture, but I can't believe that anyone else wouldn't have also gone Apeshit when they realized that the arguement that rolled in their front door was over a BENT PAPERCLIP.

They've been relatively whine-and-arguement free since (although, in their defense, I've thrown away all bent paperclips, scraps of paper, fragments of popsicle sticks, and loose threads.)

My Cell Has a Camera, and I Intend to Use It

Maybe I'm over reacting, but at this point, I've come to the conclusion that the digital age really isn't helping people be more aware of their own creepiness.

Our castle here in Mumpledom is a duplex--that means, for those too self-involved to notice, that it is 2 houses smack up against each other. We share a wall, and about 3 foot of my basement is actually under the other house. There is at least one way into the other side of this duplex (short of creating a new one through the shared wall) that remains locked, unless the drain backs up. The other side is currently vacant, awaiting new tenants.

Anyway, as I've previously reported, my yards (front & back) are generally filled with children--those who live here, nearby, and those who are bussed in.

My Sweetie & I are putting in a garden out front (was a garden years ago; was useless area of lawn; is now a garden again.) My Sweetie is actually out in the yard with the sundry children and I am on the front porch ignoring most of the commotion.

The Howler comes up to me and says, "Mommy, LOOK!" and point to the young couple walking down the alley/driveway. One is pushing a stroller, and the other is trying to contain a very excited by all the children running around golden lab. They smile, obviously seeing My Sweetie and I. She pulls out a cellphone, holds it up, and takes a picture.

Holy Hell, Batman! I don't know these people! And they're taking pictures of my house! I ask them what they're doing. (and no, I'm not very friendly about it) She says, "is this the house that's for rent" I tell her (still with the not friendly) to call the number listed on the sign. "oh, I'm going to" she says. "we just wanted to take a picture of it"

Still with the children running to and fro, and still with the not friendly, I basically tell them that it's rude to take a picture of someone's house without asking. She counters with, "oh, I didn't know it wasn't vacant." I tell her, "It is vacant, but that's not the point. It's rude to take a picture of someone's house without permission."

Now we're talking vacant--vacant stares of total incomprehension. I go further--"Would you like it if someone you didn't know walked up to your house and started taking pictures without talking to you first?" She said, "No."

She put her camera away, and they left.

I can't imagine approaching a house and just taking a picture--especially if I see children I don't know in the yard (you may find yourself arrested and explaining how you're not a child molester); I can't imagine approaching what is obviously someone's home, with them milling about in front of it, and just whipping out a camera and snapping a pic. I'd ask first--especially if there a children all over the place, much like a prison riot or lion breakout at the zoo.

Just because your cellphone has a camera does not mean that it's okay for you to take pictures of whatever-the-hell-you-please. It's called common courtesy, and it doesn't hurt when you do it. (and yes, with a yard full of children, any stranger is a possible danger)

And I Quote...

Gotta love the things that come out of children's mouths (okay, not the arguements that involve 4 children, ages 6-9, all saying variations of "I did not call you a faggot" at the same time, and each saying it about a bajillionty times which comes out sounding like "faggot faggot faggot faggot" in surround sound at volume level 11--Sorry, I realize now that you didn't ask)

Anyway, totally out of context, Missy, of the Wolf Clan, tells us that, "when I was little, I didn't believe in midgets."

The Howler wishes to know when we're having another yard sale. I told her "when I get the urge to gouge my own eyes out, we'll have another one."

Me, explaining why Missy will never meet Jerkwood, "Because he eats children's souls." Which My Sweetie elaborates on with, "and that makes him a Soul Troll."

Insummerty

Summer makes me crazy in our neighborhood.

This year, Damien (one of the Damiens moved over the winter) has moved from the Barstools' home to the house immediately near my front yard.

The kids, generally, play various kinds of ball games across 3 front yards. A certain number of balls into the street is expected, and with few exceptions, the children understand that they are not to enter the street to get them. (It's a section of Rt 219 in PA, and at our house, the cars fly up a hill immediately before entering our residential 'hood.)

One of the smallest children, Cutie of the Wolf Clan, has yet to figure out that all the rules that apply to the taller, older children also apply to him. He is, apparently, under the impression that he is 6 ft tall and baseball bat proof. Today, he tried to retrieve a swiftly disappearing into the intersection ball from the road.

The loveliest part of this summer is that Damien's mother and her boyfriend allow Damien and sundry children to turn on the water to Damien's sprinkler water fountain. The fountain sits in my yard (their yard consists of a strip of green weediness about 3 ft wide.) Not really a problem, except that I end up being the supervision for the next generation at the fountain, AND my front yard where the fountain sits is now, literally, a mud hole. As in, HOLES dug into the lawn.

I don't think I'm so wrong in thinking that I should not have to babysit a child whose proper adult supervision is sitting inside, with the AC on, doing God-knows-what-and-I-don't-want-to-imagine (although, I do imagine that they are practicing at making more Damiens. Ewwwww.)

Damien Mama needs to bring her perky 34Bs & tight 22 year old heiney out into the sunshine and supervise her own child--and sundry others she allows to have access to gallons of water. I'm not getting paid for this gig, and I'm very soon (as in already today) not going to do it any longer.

Krazy Kat

Yesterday and today I have been doing my ritualistic trashcanning the papers. (this means that we have Mumple-high stacks of papers threatening to drown us in our own packrattedness.) I started with the kitchen & the computer desk. Ahhh, clear space--the bonus of all the paper is that you don't have to dust--clear the paper and the dust goes away with it!

This morning I tackled the Toad's "in" box, and our mail cubby. Joy! I threw away the Toad's weight in paper in two days!

As an added bonus, I got a krazed furball leaping about the room, scattering papers hither-and-yon. And when I tried to shoo her away, she tried to bite me. Win-win in her book, I guess. everything on the table flying about the kitchen, and a blood letting.

Pig doesn't replace her, but she does get more like Large Marge every day!

Ask Me For My Opinion

Won't always get you the answer you want, but it will get you something to chew on.

The other day, I was asked by another parent about 1st grade teachers. Her concern was that her daughter got a teacher who is "a yeller." Some children are unphased by "a yeller" but others don't handle it well. Her daughter was hoping to have another of the 1st grade teachers; Mom hadn't requested a specific teacher, and now she & her daughter were a bit worried about what 1st grade would be like.

I could sympathize: I stressed the entire year before the Howler started school because of problems the Toad & I had with the school. Sure, the principal, guidance counsellor, and all but 3 of the teachers were different, and, of course, 13 years had passed, but still, I stressed. I stressed, on general principle for 2 years, then stressed before this past year because 2nd grade was when things got f'ugly. (Quite honestly, there were issues when I went to this school, too. And yes, some of those came into my head also.)

So far, I stressed over nothing--while the majority of the staff had changed, but so had I. I knew the issues were mine, and this time 'round, I had my Sweetie to talk me down from the bell tower when I got particularly stressed. All my stress over nothing--no major problems, and since I had changed (and learned from my experience, believe it or not) the few things that did come up didn't turn into anything major.

Anyway, I was asked if I requested teachers, and whether I did or not, what would I do in this situation?

First, of the 19 classroom teachers in the Howler's school, I find I am only skeptical of one. A pretty good thing, considering how skeptical I am of most people in general. Second, I have come to believe that the only circumstances when a parent should specifically request a teacher is when their child(ren) have specific needs that will not be met unless the child(ren) has that specific teacher. (i.e. a learning disability that a specific teacher has better skills at addressing. Otherwise, requesting that a child not have a specific teacher due to personal relationships/prior recent negative parent-teacher interaction is acceptable.)

This year, I did the "due to personal relationship" thing. I did not request the Howler's 3rd grade teacher, although, luckily, she will have the teacher I believe will be the best one for her.

The honest answer to the "after the fact" question is harder to come to. Classes are assigned based on several factors, not the least of which is current year's teacher recommendation. Of the factors involved, there is class size to consider (not every child can be in the *best* teacher's class!) and other parents' requests. (in our state, parental requests are to be given as much, if not more weight than current teacher's recommendation.)

"After the fact" becomes harder to deal with. What if a parent discovers, after their child has been placed in a particular teacher's room, that this teacher may be "a yeller," and the child does not handle "yelling" well? Changing a child's classroom teacher at any point is a logistic nightmare, especially if the classes are already heading into crowded.

Several points to consider: if the child is expecting Mom and/or Dad to get them the teacher he or she wants, is it a good idea, regardless of other concerns, to do it? Will it set the parents up with the principal & staff as a problem parent with a problem child? Will the child, if the change gets made (regardless of reasons why) think that, in the future, Mom and/or Dad will swoop in and get the child what he/she wants, simply because he/she wants it?

I firmly believe that children should be expected to learn to cope with situations and people in authority that they do not necessarily like. While I believe that parents belong in the school, involved in their child's education, I do not believe that the parent should usurp or undermine the principal's or teacher's authority. (I'll add that if it's an extreme case of teacher-to-student bullying, everything the parents can do to protect the child should be done, up to and including kicking ass and taking names, removing the child from that classroom, going to the district admin, etc.)

My answer to the original question? First step: talk to the daughter about how all the teachers are good teachers. Second step: remind daughter that she'll still see the teacher she wanted to have during flexible groups. Third step: email the principal with my concerns, under the heading "just sose ya nose."

The Mom was hesitant to email the principal--principals love them some documentation. I told her that first, our principal may keep a copy of the email, but Mom could do the same--and if she sent it with the "reply requested" bit, she'd know for sure that the principal opened it, and probably read it. Saving copies of her original email, and the reply requested one could be in her favor also. Our principal is also smart enough to know that if you're requesting a reply response, you aren't going to let her off the hook, either.

Letting the principal know her concerns now could save her time and stress later, also. In choosing her wording carefully, she can avoid becoming labelled as a problem parent, have her concerns clearly noted and stated, and should her concerns become a problem, she would have the documentation to not hear "I had no idea!" later on. (Principals, even good ones, sometimes rely on that old standby, also. With nothing in writing, it's always a big surprise!) Flat out requesting that her daughter's teacher be changed now could cause hard feelings, and potentially cut her off from future concerns being addressed in a timely fashion.

I also reminded Mom that her work with the PTA these past two years have given the principal an opportunity to know her as a mom. Our principal isn't going to blow off a parent who has, through her work on two different, time-consuming committees, proven that it's not just about her own kids. It has also given Mom a kind of name recognition because the principal isn't only hearing from her when she's complaining.

This Mom is right, though. There is a kind of politics that gets played out. And it's why I'm up to my ass in the PTA--at our school, if you're not a member of the PTA, you aren't supposed to even come in to help with the PTA sponsored parties, blah blah blah. Nobody really checks on that, except when it comes to chaperoning the field trips, but showing up to meetings, speaking up, and helping out with events makes a difference. The principal and the teachers get to see & know you, as a person and as a parent. If your school doesn't have that rule, great for you--help out, be in touch with the teacher, find ways to get to know them--even the ones your child doesn't have yet!) Teachers & principals talk to each other, and if your name & face have positive thoughts attached to it, your child benefits because if there is an issue you find needing addressed, and if you can be part of the solution, changes get made! (Remember: I started out mouthing off about stupidity, and ended up on the board)

This year, my gig with the teacher was as easy as offering (and then following through) with Clorox wipes and hand sanitizer during flu season--and those I got at the dollar store. Cost me about $4 to have a positive, problem solving rep with the teacher. That just added to the "how lucky we are to have Mrs Mumple at our school" comments the principal was deranged enough to be sharing with the Howler's 1st grade teacher last year.

In a nutshell: if the teacher & principal only hear from you when there's a problem, even if you have a solution to it, they aren't going to listen nearly as well as if they hear from you on the good things, too.

And what I desperately want to say to about 80% of the parents at our school: We're all busy and have a lot going on. If every one of us could manage to find a few hours a month (in 30 days people! Less time than most of us spend putting on makeup, fixing our hair, playing golf, talking with our friends...in every 30 days!) to help with an event, sell some crap so we can have programs come into our school, come to a meeting and tell us what's going on with your child's class, or whether or not something the PTA has done/is doing is working, then educational, fun things can happen at our school. Whether you're happy or unhappy with something, tell the PTA board, not your neighbor (or, at least, tell the board and your neighbor, but tell the board!) so that next year (or maybe even next month) changes can happen. Take it from the mouthy witch in the cheap seats speaking up can make things move in a better, brighter direction.

Gluttony

I am a glutton for punishment. Remember how I keep saying that I don't like kids? Remember how I say that my own children get on my nerves?

So what do I do to combat the infinitely stretching OPK hours of summer?

I invite them to my house! Yes! Insanity at its finest!

I invited my niece, Posy to come for the afternoon. Posy and her younger sister, Butterfly, loooooooove them some Aunt Mumple's house. Why? Because I am FUN. (It's one of life's many contradictions--I don't like OPK, yet OPK love my house, and me, by proxy, because it's FUN to be here. Go figure.)

(Butterfly doesn't always warm up to me, or my Sweetie, although she knows my house is chock full o'little girl toys. She usually has nothing to do with me, just plays quietly in the corner.)

Anyway, we invited Posy to spend the afternoon. Butterfly decided she wanted to come too--and since she is potty trained, ol' Auntie Mumple's got no reason to say "no." (What's a little insanity in the family?)

They're here. Posy is, at 5, a tattle tale. I presume that this has as much to do with being 5, as it does with being a girl. Butterfly is perfectly content to make her own fun.

Lunch was interesting: Posy & Butterfly are just a bit choosy. Of course, we know why, but that's not the point. When asking them what they'll eat while at my house, I was informed that they both just loooooooooove Uncle Jimmy's Pizza. (no, it's not called Uncle Jimmy's pizza. It's Uncle Jimmy that owns and operated the pizza place) Uncle Jimmy's pizza is so good because he puts, and I quote, "6 pounds of cheese on EVERY ONE!"

My brother duly corrected this, it's 6 kinds of cheese, but somehow, I like Posy's version better.

Apples and Trees

They say that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. You be the judge:

Friday night, the Howler & I were taking her friend home after spending a few hours at the cheezy first bash of summer carnival at the city park. The girls had fun, but were VERY extremely ridiculously exhausted.

As we headed out of town we approached the intersection before the interstate ramps. There's a Sheetz on one side, and a Pilot gas station & fast food restaurant on the other. Half of the food place's sign was burned out, and the Howler announced, "Well, I guess there's a new restaurant in town and it's called 'ARRRR'"

She is her mother's daughter, n'est pas?.

So, Who's She Like?

We've been hearing this question about the Howler since she was born.

Unfortunately for her, she's very much like a lot of people: her mother, for one. Won't go into details, but the worst is the stubborn attitude. And it's not just from her mother, although too many people 'round here didn't know her father *back in the day* so they don't see it. (Oh, yes, but I can, and do. He ain't no easy-to-deal-with-once-he's-got-some-crazy-idear-inteh-his-noggin guy, either--but few believe me.)

The Howler has my hair. And I apologize for it every blessed day--she's got at least 2 cowlicks and her hair refuses to be tamed. That makes her look like me.

But, certain expressions are my sister all over again. And I can't blame my sister, because she doesn't live near enough for the Howler to have picked 'em up honestly. It's got to be genetics.

Same goes for her striking resemblance to one of Kevin's sisters. She is a Mini-Me for her aunt. One time, Aunt J showed pics of herself and the Howler to some newer acquaintances. They were surprised that she had never mentioned her daughter before. My mother-in-law also got out Aunt J's kindergarten portrait, and we all smiled as the Howler paraded around showing every one this bee-ooo-tee-full pitcher of herself...until she showed it to me, and caught sight of it from upside down. Then, even the Howler realized that the picture wasn't her.

Why am I tell you all this? Because last night an almost creepy resemblance thing showed up about 11pm. The Howler was sleep walking. You may thing this is no big deal, but it was scary, because she was talking, as coherent as she normally is, and walking around. I had to lead her back up stairs and get her into bed. I had to keep talking to her to keep her awake enough to not topple back down the stairs.

My Sweetie, after she was safely in bed, asked me what was wrong. He couldn't believe it--he didn't believe that she was sleep walking.

My sister sleep walks and talks. And when she does, it's really creepy sometimes, too.

"Not Helping"

My neighborhood seems to be an extension of the Weirdness Magnetism I exhibit. And, of course, the nuttier the thing, the more likely it is to be at my house (or on my phone.)

Case in point: Bonk's Mom, likes animals, and was the proud and happy owner of a rat, a dog, and a mole.

Domestic pet rats have a limited shelf-life, and of course, this rat is coming up quickly on his expiration date. She calls me and tell me that the rat is sick, and do I know anything about rats? I tell her, honestly, my sum-total experience with pet rats is that they make college girls scream when used in speech class as a visual aid. (There's a direct correlation between poundage of face makeup and shriekiness.) "Not helping," she says.

She finds a vet in the area who treats pet rats. The rat's expiration date is up. While the rat is dying, the mole moves in. Tit-for-rat, I'd say, but she doesn't think I'm funny.

Now she's on the phone, calling to ask me what I know about moles. I tell her they get married to Thumbelina. "Again with the Not Helping," she says.

She calls back to tell me it's an Eastern mole, as if this helps ME. She knows it's an Eastern mole because it's noticeably lacking a hat-and-shitkickers in its tiny little luggage. But what do they eat? (obviously not BBQ, since it's an Eastern one) How does she catch it? (lasso? corral? nope.) I think she should just charge it rent, but she says that this, too, is "not helpful." What does she expect from me--there are way fewer references to Eastern than to Western in our culture, and this is my fault?

And the Saga of the Rat continues. The rat needs to be buried. Luckily she doesn't ask for my help. She calls me, after the supposed burial, to tell me that rat is currently presiding over the popsicles in her freezer, triple wrapped. I crack a rib laughing, and resolve to make excuses if she ever invites me for lunch.

While she's discussing her freezer-burnt rat, Bonk begins sneaking up behind her, whispering, "it's the mole and he's gonna get you!" Again with the cracked rib. Tit-for-rat, like I told ya.

She spends the night with a bowl of live mealy worms as bait for the uninvited mole and a dead rat in her freezer. I won't go for dinner, either.

And I thought MY family was weird.

It's for You

The wind is blowing...no, it's REALLY blowing. Enough that it's wicked cold and not fun to be out in it. My mom's power is out, but ours isn't. Which is nice, because she is sitting in the gathering dark, and we're able to post about how she's sitting in the dark.

Anyway, the Howler has discovered that one of her classmates lives one street over from my mother. Oh, and directly behind our favorite of favorite places to order greasy, bad-for-us, food.

What do those things have to do with each other?

Well, I'll tell you.

The Howler decided that she needed to call her friend to make sure they were okay if their power was out. (It is.)

I listen to the Howler on the phone, chuckling...then breaking a rib trying not to laugh. It hurt! The Howler's end of the conversation went something like this:

Hi. Is your power out? Is everyone OK though? My grammy's power is out too. She lives near you. But are you guys all OK? So what are you doing if your power is out? But that's OK? Oh, this is the Howler. Well, if you guys are OK, OK.

Yes, it's adorable. And yes, it's very sweet that she was worried about her friend. But it's hilarious that she calls, and with no preamble, jumps into a discussion about the power being out. Everyone, of course, should recognize her voice, and know immediately who she is.

She's fan-flippin'-tastic, she is.

Newsflash!

The Toad FINALLY cleaned his room. This is great, because, since opening the window, the stench of Ass Caverns has been crawling down the hall.

This is great, because he actually did IT, not just said he did...or just did a quick pretend cleaning.

This is great, because we now know how long it has been since he did last clean (and My Sweetie did most of that) because he explained the detrius strata he discovered as loaded up garbage bags (about a dozen of them, I think--oh, now he's blathering while reading over my shoulder that "there was significantly LESS than a dozen." oops. Sorry. He, and the garbage bags, go 11. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.) Go to work already, and stop reading over my shoulder. I hate that.

Anyway, the bestest part of the whole thing was, at 11:15pm last night, in the drizzling rain, he left the building...then came back, with a previously disposed of garbage bag. Of course, it was the bag on the bottom of the can...the first one he gave the ol' heave-ho to.

He cleared the crap and clutter off the card table that has been illegally ensconced in his room...and that bag now contained his uncashed paycheck.

Classic. Mumple Classic. (Seriously, My Sweetie, God love him, spent two hours one Christmas night cracking his ribs on a dumpster...to try to find a light switch cover that we believed had been swept up in the piles of wrapping paper and tossed. And he's done searches through bags for discarded birthday and Christmas money, too.)

He kept reminding the Toad, "At least you didn't have to crack a few ribs." And, as an after thought, at least it was a bag of PAPER, even if it was a large bag of paper, because every grown up has had to dig through bags of garbage that were very much NOT paper.

I'm headed up there now to crack open windows and fight back the stench with Febreeze.

Wish me luck.

Calling In Dead

The Toad's little friend, Jerkwood, has left the building. Apparently, Jerkwood (the nasty little troll) managed to piss off every friend he had. They all decided to have nothing to do with him, and stuck to it. Good for them! The Toad finally admitted that we were right all along (ahhhh, I guess we're hitting the part where we got A LOT smarter over the past few years.)

The Toad and his friends have been celebrating--not in an excessive, obnoxious way, but it's celebrating just the same. A collect sigh of relief, if you will.

The Toad also, several months ago, agreed to join a vocal group his former voice teacher was part of. Every night they meet for practice, she unfailingly calls to find out if he's going to be there (he's managed to attend about 50/50.)

Tonight, he announced, in front of the magpie like Howler, "if she calls, tell her I'm dead." When pressed for answers, he said, "I made plans with my friends and then I remembered...so I'm not going. If she calls, tell her I'm dead."

As grown ups, we did not agree to say this. The Howler, as the Howler, said nothing for a change.

Shortly after supper, the phone rang, and neither My Sweetie nor I answered it immediately. Upon climbing the basement steps (smoke break, if you must know) we hear the Howler on the phone.

"He said that if you called, we're supposed to tell you he's dead."

"Well, that's what he said, anyway."

"He's doing stuff, with people, at places." (another Toadism)

My Sweetie and I are now almost in pain from not laughing out loud. No, it's not very mature of us, and it certainly encourages the Howler at her most annoying...and most funny.

"No, I don't think he's coming to practice."

"Okay. Bye then."

My Sweetie tells me that I should call her back and explain. I maintain that, at 21 years old, I am not responsible for his idiocy any longer, I did not sign him up for that gig, he knew she would call, and he knew where he should be tonight.

I did not call her back, but I did call the Toad. He, of course, didn't answer. But when he did call back, I informed him of the most amusing turn of events, and encouraged him to be more responsible, mature, and careful about what he said within earshot of his magpie Howler sister.

Mostly, I just laughed.

Gym Classes in Elementary School

I think the Howler's Gym Teacher makes this stuff up.

The Howler tells me about a game they played today in gym class called "Pirate Ship." Basically, the children need to know the bow, stern, starboard, port, barnacle, and starfish. (barnacles are flat up against the wall; starfish take 5 people with their legs straight out)

It sounds like the teacher spends a lot of time making up games that will cause these children to run from one end of the gym to the other, stand against the wall, and sometimes lay down on the floor in a team effort.

If I remember correctly, when the Toad was this age, his gym teacher spent a lot of time making up games that would do essentially the same thing, even if I don't remember the details from 13 years ago.

Of course, I wish I had a room big enough (and clear of furniture enough) for that.

Stupidity Insurance

I have to admit that today has caused me to reconsider. I don't know, now, if that woman is insured against her own stupidity, or if it's Gross Self-Centeredness.

This morning, we arrive to drop off in plenty of time. The aides are standing out where they are supposed to be.

This same woman is immediately in front of me at drop off. She does not pull her vehicle forward to where the aides are standing, so it's just her small fry unloading. No one else can--he's waaayyy to special to be allowed to be one of many children entering the building. Oh, and apparently, she needs to do a full head lice check on him before he's to exit her vehicle (did I mention that she got a new car? Yeppers. It's bigger than the last one--and so, of course, she sucks up way more space than she did before.)

He finally exits the vehicle. She pulls forward, to the spot she should have been in, you know, so that others could have unloaded their children at the same time, and rolls down the passenger window so she and one of the aides can chat.

I've pulled as forward as I can, and the Howler disembarks. They're still chatting, with the aide glancing at the pile-up of waiting vehicles behind this Blonde fiasco looking to happen.

I pulled out around this dynamic duo of ditz and, like Elvis, I left the building.

Dinnertime Conversation Starters

The Toad came home from McWork tonight, grabbed a plate and began to eat dinner. He reached into his pocket (God alone knows why) and says,

"Why is there a french fry in my pocket?"

I should have named him Napolean.

BAD KITTY!

Having kittens. They're like kids--you never know what you're gonna get, personality-wise.

Well, Violet, is of course, VERY active, and very kittenish. Lately, even with stitches in her belly, she has been leaping and jumping and being generally crazy. Lovely.

Last week, I came home to find the upper kitchen cupboard open, and a chewed open baggie of treats on the floor of the living room. We've already experienced her obsession with the treats--bringing in a grocery bag with the foil pouch inside, and foolishly leaving it unattended is enough to cause her to go apeshit crazy in a plastic grocery bag. And tear, claw, and bite her way into the foil package.

Nothing is safe, anywhere--even top of the fridge is not Violet proof. She gets there, and rips down half of the stuff on the sides while she's at it.

Anyway, I wasn't going to totally blame her right away. I picked up everything and closed the cupboard. Then, while at the computer desk, I hear a noise--a sneaky, kittenish sort of noise. She's on the counter, popping the cupboard door. By the time I get there, she's gotten it open, and is inside, trying to get into the Chips Ahoy! cookies.

BAD KITTY!

Thursday, she was in that cupboard no less than 3 times in 2 hours. We came home after being gone for an hour, and discovered a kitchen that looked like starving raccoons had been at it--and no treats. Worried that she ate the plastic baggie, we begin searching. The Toad shows up to tell us HE had already cleaned it up once--and with the smartest idea he's hall all century, he put the baggie of treats in the truly kitten proof bread box.

That makes two places we know to be Violet proof: inside the bread box, and inside the oven.

In Addition

These are the babies we adopted last October. Chloe is the smaller one, on the left. Violet (aka Pig) on the right.

Both came to us with issues: both were very sick, even though the Humane Society chapter we adopted them from said they were healthy, and vet "checked." As near as we can figure, they paid a vet to look at them and say, "Yep. They're kittens."

Turns out, they were a two to three weeks younger than the 6 weeks the H. S. guesstimated. Chloe had jaundice so badly our vet (who was not the "vet checked" one) was surprised when she was still alive 2 weeks later. Violet, with her fuzzy, longer fur, had other issues that were remedied when My Sweetie played Momma Cat and helped keep her clean on a daily basis (it's not that gross, he slapped on rubber gloves and dunked her backside in warmish water 2x a day.)

Chloe, after almost 2 months of mediciation, perked up, then perked back down. She was anemic, too. She's still dreadfullly small, and thin, and not nearly as active as a kitten should be. Hell, we had a 14 year old cat that was more active than this. Chloe's big thing is that she would poop in the box, but not pee.

Recently, we got a medium sized dog kennel for Chloe to "live" in. Her box, food, water, and bed fit inside it. She's actually happier in there, and is now out and about again. With her box being basically 3 feet from her, she's stopped using the carpet as a potty, and comes out and wants to be around us. She's still not very social (and doesn't like being handled and petted too much) but she does come out to the kitchen to eat and follows us around some. She's all eyes and fairly pathetic to look at.

My Sweetie thinks it's bizarre that we have a kitten/cat in a crate. Chloe likes it, because when Violet is being Pig, we can shut the door and Pig can't pounce and bounce and abuse Chloe. I took this picture of them when Violet was being sweet, and had finished cleaning Chloe's ears. They snuggle up and are sisters, for sure.

When Chloe spent an afternoon at the vet's for an Xray and bloodwork (to maybe see if the problems were congenital without costing thousands of dollars in surgery) Violet was beside herself and missing Chloe. When Violet went to be spayed, and spent the night, Chloe was mewing and lonely, and actually wanted us to cuddle her and love her some.

Violet is definitely a live wire. She's gotten herself stuck behind the filing cabinet. It's a tight squeeze, and she didn't want to come out. She's tipped over shelves in our bedroom; she irritates the snot out of Scout, our remaining adult cat. She eats everything you put in front of her (and sometimes what you put in front of Chloe, too) and basically attacks me every chance she gets. She's even knocked pictures off the walls. God help us!

Violet's latest adventures involve the kitchen. I opened the 'fridge door and she got herself on top of it. Try shutting the door knowing that you're going to knock a kitten for a loop! With the nice weather, she discovered screens. You know what that means? Yes, she's hanging in the kitchen window.

She loves runnning water and has terrified the Howler by attacking through the shower curtain. (Otherwise, the Howler and Pig get along just fine.)

My Sweetie is in love with this demonic kitten. She's all fuzz and fluff, and has the bottle-brush tail to prove it. He's reponded to my calling Violet "Pig" by giving Chloe her own nickname: Slowy. I tell him it's cruel, and he tells me "Pig" is rude.

Through it all, the adult cat, Scout, has adopted her own defenses: she glares at us like she's a vulture (picture Snoopy doing his vulture imitation) and by a deep down growl.

Today the growl is pretty much non-stop, and Scout has, just moments ago, bounded across the house to bounce on the peacefully, sweetly sleeping Violet.

Oh, and as a final note: NEVER EVER EVER name an animal "Violet." What the animal hears is "violent" and then she proceeds to try to kill you.

Holy Crapola!

As always, I am utterly amazed at the self-centered, totally clueless behavior of some people...yes, at the Howler's school.

Yet again today, I watched this lanky bleach blonde slop her sleeping toddler over her shoulder and march across the afterschool crazy parking lot.

There are cars pulling in, and cars pulling out. She looks neither left nor right, and marches resolutely across the asphalt to the doors. A few mornings ago, she got out of her car and began rummaging under the drivers seat for something, looking around at the cars barely missing taking off her car door--and her ass--while her urchins unloaded.

It's like she has a death wish--or, an insurance policy that covers gross stupidity.

Famous Last Words...

In Memorium

And overdue.

Last fall, September, to be exact, our big fat cat died. Zeek, aka Large Marge, had been Under-the-Weather and Feeling-Her-Age-and Weight most of the summer, and finally, her fat ol' body just couldn't do more.

She stopped eating. She wasn't drinking. She wasn't playing, or moving, or fighting, or ANYTHING.

It was sad. She was very sick, and there was no hope. She shrunk from approximately 25-27lbs to 11lbs in a matter of days.

The things we miss:

Being met at the door when you came home. Meowing a "bless you" when you sneezed. Stepping around her dead-groundhog-by-the-roadside body when she was found a particularly nice napping place. Pacing between us and the in-trouble Howler, because she was going to make sure Her Girl was okay. Hearing her purr, rooms and sometimes rooms and a staircase away. Begging from the supper table (or worse, strolling across the table during supper--BAD KITTY!) Cat feathers all over the carpet...Daily.

The Howler, even as a pinchy-touchy-grabby toddler held a special place in that Cat's heart: Zeek never, ever deliberately scratched or bit Our Girl, unless she absolutely had no choice--and could effect her escape no other way. Zeek also missed Our Girl when she wasn't at home.

Zeek will also be sadly missed by:

• various pizza delivery persons, who always said, "Tha's the bigges' cat ah've ever seen in mah whooooole life."
• the neighbor's Jack Russell terrier, Bo, whom she would torture by sitting just out of his reach, and not moving until/unless he lost interest in barking at her.
• neighborhood children who would, upon meeting Zeek and our other black cat, Scout, would see one, then the other, and think that Zeek had magic powers for changing her size and fur length.

A Rose By Any Other Name

The other day, the Howler's take-home papers included a green page of practice printing. Her printing is improving.

She was told to put her name on it, apparently, first and last, and she printed her abbreviated first name, followed by "Mumple"

She said "Mumple" is much easier to spell. That one letter difference between that and her legal last name must be a killer.

Maybe You Had To Be There

Second graders now journal. At least, the Howler's class does.

It's fantastic--and I'm serious. It's always a pick-me-up on a bad day to dig out what she's written in her journal.

The journal pages have prompts on them, and believe me when I say my girl is NOT into thinking over-much on what she's going to write. She spent the month of November writing about the picture at the bottom of the page.

The ones that prompt about her parents are the best. If it asks what "my parents don't like me to do" she'll list the neighborhood children she's not to play with. If it asks what she would do if she were her parents, she says, "go ise scatting"

The best ever, though, came in December's--which came home today. It prompted, "Before I go to bed I" and she finished the sentence with "mucky fart"

The creative spelling is adorable, but seeing her father's quirky slang is about the best thing I've ever encountered. It even beats the time she kept asking "Where's Daddy?" and after the zillionth time she asked, I told her "he exploded." So she ran to the basement door and yelled down to him, "Daddy, you ploded?" (it was hilarlious how she said it, added to the fact that he had absolutely no clue what she was saying or why she was saying it.)

Maybe you had to actually be here to appreciate it.

Finally!

The Howler is 7 3/4 years old. And this year, she finally decided to not be totally freaked out by Santa.

Her first Christmas (at 9 months) she was freaked out by even an overstuffed chair in the shape of Santa. We have pictures of her sliding off it, with a look of abject terror on her face.

When she was 2, Santa was not not not allowed in our house. Gifts or no gifts, he wasn't coming in. She didn't sleep the week before Christmas, knowing that we were lying when we promised that he wouldn't come in. Gifts were put on the porch about 1am, and dragged inside while the Howler stood on the steps watching. She wouldn't even come all the way downstairs until she witnesses for her own self that Ol' St Nick hadn't been in the house.

When she was 4, I took her to WalMart for pictures. The photographer made her cry when she said, "Now we'll take your picture with HoHo, okay?" Poor photographer girl was totally thrown when the Howler went into shrieking hysterics--I kept saying, "it's just a picture! it's just a picture" and you can see in those portraits that the Howler wasn't entirely sure we weren't going to have Santa pop out of the canvas to get her.

She's less afraid of vampires and goblins and ghoulies at Halloween. And the Easter Bunny was never a problem. Apparently, my Howler keyed in on the fact that normal people do not like OPK so overly much, and anyone bearing gifts with no strings attached is up to no good.

She also believed that I, her mother, was in on the conspiracy.

At 5, she watched her brother pull on a Santa suit over his street clothes. During every step of the process, she asked, "Is dat weally you in dere?" Backing up one foot at a time, until she was attached to me like ugly on an ape while asking. By the time he got to the beard, she was wide-eyed with terror, clinging to me for dear life.

The girl's got issues.

I have one picture of her with Santa--from 2008, with Blondie in it too. Blondie's grandma thought I was insane when I handed her money (she said she wanted to take them to the Mall to see Santa) and insisted that if the Howler got anywhere near Santa to get a picture. And that I didn't care who else was in the picture with them. Period.

We tried to take her to see Santa in a low-pressure sort of way. But even walking in the nearest mall door to his setup put her into Clingon Mode. Once, just once, I got her to walk past the guy and wave. And I paid for that for a week of endless questioning, stressing over whether or not that was too close for comfort.

This year (or last year, such as the case may be) her father took her to the mall for some Christmas shopping. He got her near Santa--near enough to get a picture of her with him. Just the two of them.

She decides, just at the time when our Santa days are numbered, to be okay with the guy. Go figure.