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.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Thursday, November 25, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
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.)
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.)
Friday, November 19, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)