Happy Howlerween, Part 1

Please ignore the Howlerween mess in the background!

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.

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.

Because She Hates Us

A few weekends ago, the Howler and Missy discovered an evil so perverse, I have to blog about it: a 550 piece Christmas puzzle.

It was a gift from my sister, several years ago. We had managed, until recently, to NOT have it opened. With good reason. Do you know how evil a 550 piece puzzle is? And do you know the chances of keeping all 550 pieces of that puzzle findable in Mumpleland are slim and none?

Well, Missy & the Howler found it. They opened it. On the kitchen table, 45 minutes before suppertime.

Kill me. Kill me now.

They kept asking, "where did this puzzle come from?" and while my answer, "from Hell" probably wasn't appropriate for real-life, it is, somehow, very appropriate in Mumpleland.

The rest of the puzzle based conversation went like this:

M&H: Who gave you this puzzle?

me: My sister.

M&H: Why did she give it to you?

me: Because she hates me.

On Day #1 of Puzzle Hell, the Toad disagreed that my sister hates me.

Then he tried to help put it together.

He announced, "She does hate us."

It took 3 days, two adults, one Toad, and two little sqwacking beasts to put the thing together. And it will NEVER EVER need to be put together again.

I Am NOT His Secretary

As we all know, the Gator is obsessed with the Toad. And she holds the belief that I do not love him. Please remember that the Toad will be 21 next month. Old enough to vote, buy cigarettes, be drafted, drive a vehicle, and drink himself into a stupor.

He is NOT, however, rich enough or important enough to have a secretary. Or an aide, or an assisant.

And, even if he were, he could not afford ME to be his secretary. I do not make appointments, take messages, keep track of him...and the Gator is now, officially, 28 days before the Toad is legally legal, being put on notice:

If you want to know his schedule, call HIM.

If you want to know where he is, where he plans to be, what he was doing, or whether he plans to show up for any given event or activity, call HIM.

Leave me the F* out the loop and talk to HIM directly. I am not his secretary.

I'm Late, I'm Late!

For a very important date! Or so says the White Rabbit.

This morning, in an effort to have a happy Howler, and a warm vehicle to take her to school in, we were late. As in, TARDY, marked on her permanent record. Nevermind that we work very very hard to NOT have that TARDY marked there; sometimes, it just happens anyway.

So, there we are, going quickly, but not rushing, to get her to school as soon as possible. (Yes, the car was warmed up for her.)

I pull in the parking lot. Now, I'm sure you're familiar with the idiocy that is morning drop off at the Howler's school. It's better than it was, but, of course, there are always those people who just don't get it.

Stupidity drives me crazy. Batshit crazy. And this morning, I finally proved it. Self-centered stupid puts me right up over the top of the crazy scale.

We're late, and there are at least 7 other cars there, dropping off, who are also obviously late.

As I'm pulling in, I see a chubby blue coat bobbing along the wall of the school. He's to the sidewalk at the side of the building, headed towards the doors by the time I get my late self into the line to drop off my late student.

The parent in the 2 door black vehicle at the front of the line is jerking her way forward. I say jerking, because, duh, if you continually hit your brakes, even while moving forward at a snail's pace, the car will jerk. I assume that this vehicle belongs with the Blue Bobber.

And, this little family of dolts is the only one in the parking lot.

This genius finally pulls forward (oh, I get that she wanted to be sure Precious gets into the building, but, why didn't she pull into the no-less-than 10 parking places RIGHT THERE by the building, to await the terminally slow child's progress.

Finally, the Blue Bobber is close enough for Mama Blue to move on with her life.

The next vehicle in line is a large, white SUV. Boxy and huge, it could almost qualify as a small third world country. It's huge enough, that even with my glasses on, I can't tell there are children inside it. It's been sitting, with it's brake lights on, awaiting Mama Blue's forward momentum, AT THE END OF THE SIDEWALK that leads directly to the door.

As Mama Blue heads out into the cold cruel world, the 3rd world country SUV's brake lights go off, and the car jerks into PARK. The children who have been snuggled inside it THEN begin to disembark. And I can see Mom unbuckle her seat belt to help the small citizens open doors.

I'm the 8th car, at the BACK of the Parade of Stupidity.

At this rate, it will be Christmas before the Howler enters the building.

I pulled out around the Parade of Stupid, pulled in front of the 3rd world country and let the Howler out.

What I am utterly disgusted with is that these parents have no concept of the dozen other children sitting behind them in line, waiting to unload and get into school. Yes, our children are already TARDY, but this seems above-and-beyond Stupid. Why didn't the Mom in the white SUV unload her children as the Blue Bobber made his way into the school?

I spend at least the last full minute of contact with the Howler during drop-off time telling her to hurry, so we don't hold up the line. And I simply cannot believe that the people in the office, if that door is now locked, would allow children to pile up, in the snow and cold, without hitting the button to release the door, allowing them entrance into the building.

(I'm not even going to ponder WHY the Blue Bobber was tromping his way THROUGH the snow at the back side of the building: if his dolt mother had dropped him off where she was supposed to, he wouldn't have had any opportunity to get lost--it's a straight shot up the sidewalk to those doors! And, while it sounds insensitive, I have to say that if the Blue Bobber is working below level and can't be trusted to make that straight shot up the sidewalk, what in the name of God was this woman doing dropping him off along the backside of the building, into the snow?)

The kids get this procedure pretty well. I have yet, during drop off, to see a child sudden careen off into the parking lot or the field, or even the playground. It's the parents who do not get it--or, as I believe, refuse to get it.

It's not brain surgery: pull into parking lot. loop basketball court/parking lot and get in line. When it's your turn to have your child(ren) disembark, pull as far forward as the parking spots along that sidewalk. have children disembark. by following these simple instructions, 2-3 vehicles may unload their precious cargo at a time. move forward with your life. (if you are late, continue with this procedure. your children will be allowed in the building, even if they have to hit the button for admittance.)

A Holiday Story

That doesn't feature the Howler. Bear with me.

Last week our school had their annual PTA sponsored Holiday Shoppe. Pardon my sarcasm when I say that it's always sooo very much fun to do math in your head in front of school children.

Anyway, I was there for the Howler's class, then elected to stay for the remainder of the afternoon.

I was asked to help this young man (a first grader, I believe.) He had his envelope, duly filled out with names of who he was shopping for.

He says, "I need to find something for my Nana. I like these picture frames."

I respond, "Well, there's none out that say 'Grandma.' Let me look and see if we have any more."

"I need one for my Nana."

"I'm sorry, sweetie, there aren't any left that say 'Grandma.'"

"I already got something for my Grandma. I need one for my NANA."

"We don't have anything that says 'Nana.' There may be some other things that say 'Grandma' over this way."

Holding up his list, he says, "No. I ALREADY bought for my GRANDMA. See? She's up here," points to Grandma's name, "I need something for MY NANA." Points to 'Nana' at at the bottom of his list.

Well, I guess he finally explained it so the simple woman who was not really helping could understand. And try holding that laughter in until the class leaves. Yeppers, just try it.

Nobody Warned Us

Is this a conspiracy? You betcha, and the Mumples are here to de-bunk it. Right now.

Nobody told me that 7 year old girls go into laughing and giggling fits over farts and burps. Boys, I already knew, did this. Why didn't anybody warn me that GIRLS do this also?

Fiends.

The Mumple Mitten

I worked today. 5:45am comes awful early, and even when the day goes quickly, it's still very tiring to deal with Black Friday shoppers, regardless of which side of the retail hell you're on.

But when I got home from work today (still mostly functional) I was still dressed as the Great Pumpkin--L&G opened at 7:30am. That's how deranged Black Friday is.

Anyway, the Toad was flopped on the couch. The Howler was all Christmas Conipption. My Sweetie had begun the Christmasifying of the Mumple Mansion.

Add in Missy, who said, "Can I come to your house and play?"

Then came Blondie, who rang the doorbell and said, "Can I come in and play?"

Urchin came in, and whispered, "Can I come in and play, too?"

Of course, we already have three cats--one black grumpy cat; one sleepy kitten; and one hell-bent-for-leather kitten leaping about the room. And the Great Pumpkin. And the Christmasfying Sweetie.

The doorbell rang, and My Sweetie and I had visions of someone tickling Toad's nose. He'd sneeze and all the little woodland creatures, er, ah, little girls and kittens would be flung out onto the neighborhood lawns, instead of being snuggly warm inside the Mumple Mitten.

The 5th Horseman

And he rode a horse named Mumple.

There's so much to complain and whinge about, each deserves it's own post. And each shall have it's own post...someday. I will begin at the end and tell you that head lice is rampant in the school.

And, dealing with it aggressively means we're doing upwards of 6 loads of laundry a night, since Monday night.

Monday night was 2 freaking hours picking through the Howler's head. While she bitched, and I bitched back.

It also meant that Tuesday we all spent scratching more than is normal--whether we needed to or not.

So far, in the last 40 days, we've had death, famine, and pestilence. I can only assume that war will show up on Friday.

Oh, yes, and you'll wait patiently for those other posts--probably to be named after those horsemen.

Fear

Growing up, I was afraid of the dark. My sister, brother, and cousins made fun of me. There was nothing that was more terrifying to me than the deep darkness that was bedtime at my house.

By the time I went to college, I could sleep elsewhere without a light, but at home, that abiding terror still reigned. I was in my 20's before I could sleep without a nightlight.

But this isn't about the nightlight. Or about the dark. In an entry for Scribbit's Write Away Contest, I'm going to tell you about true terror--undefinable, all-encompassing, terror.

I have no other way to describe it. After the upheaval of the news of what was coming; after preparing, and managing to wrap my head around the inevitable--even after having similar experience and surviving it relatively sane--it's final arrival left me breathless with awe. Dumbstruck. Terrified beyond help.

The pain and stress leading up to the moment was, mostly, normal, given the situation. Even the firm knowledge that modern technology was able to give us as to it's form seemed to help keep the fear at bay.

Ah, the fear. It was merely nervous energy, I thought. Not quite so frightening as it turned out to be for me. And no one uttered a word about it.

It's said that "knowing is half the battle" and "the more you know, the better you can deal." Those are lies. There was no amount of information that could have made it better. There was no way to prepare myself.

Even now, I have found no one who has experienced such a thing. The awe, yes; the terror, no. At least, at this point, years later, I have no choice but to believe that it's not simply the impropriety of acknowledging the terror--that terror does not exist for others.

It is unique to me. This is not a comforting thought.

The pain increased in intensity and frequency. Stubborn to the end, I almost didn't make it. Start to finish, it lasted slightly more than four hours. At the end of that time, they handed me this thing--this terrifying baby girl.

I looked at her...she looked at me. In that moment I was struck with the most primal terror I have ever experienced. She scared me--hell, seven years later, she still does. It's not a fear for her, I've tried to justify it as that, and believe me, that doesn't even come close. There's nothing "wrong" with her--she was, and is, fine, really. I have moments of fearing for her, and it's not the same.

This fear was of her--she was like some deep-into-the-universe unknowable to me. She still is.

Grrrr Argh

This whole PTA thing isn't making me happy.

What now? Well, I typed in 4 freaking pages of meeting minutes and then promptly started typing in something else...and saved the something else. Dammit!

I had to retype the 4 freaking pages.

I may be suffering from PTA induced dementia.

Here We Go Again

Tonight was the first PTA meeting of the year (it's okay to groan, I did!)

We were all nervous as all get out. Except The Dad, who decided to tell me he had a video he was showing, with 6 seconds, just for me. Ha Ha. I'm sure I blushed. There was no video, btw.

For the record: I hate reading the minutes. I honestly think I shouldn't have to do that job. I should be able to pawn it off on someone else, I mean, I'm not invisible anymore, so I should be allowed to compensate for that, right? Especially if I think I sound like a dork.

I don't think they're gonna let me off the hook, though.

I did get a volunteer to do the bulletin board. Hallelujah!

We're gearing up, and it's apparently been noticed that we're trying--or at least the hope is that we will. It's disturbing, to me, really, to be part of this group. The other women use makeup and look pretty good. I sit there, looking like a blump on a log. I'm not gonna compare myself, beauty wise to the guys, but in all honesty, there's only one less-better looking person than I am on the board. Even The Dad is better looking than I am. And he has better jewelry than I wear (I wear none.) Is that shallow and vain of me? It probably is, and I feel bad about it. Not bad enough to put on makeup, but I do feel bad about it.

In the 2.5 years I've been going to these meetings, this is the largest meeting we've ever had. I mean it. Even last April, when we were voting, there weren't this many people. And, they mostly all paid their membership! We even, as of right now, have increased the number of teachers who joined. And showed up.

Scary, scary, PTA stuff and doin's.

The Obligatory Back to School Post

The Howler announced back in August that she needed two more weeks of summer. THEN, she'd go back to school.

School started on September 1, and, naturally, the Howler made her appearance.

The night before the first day of school (Monday, August 31, for those who haven't done the math) she was fiddle-farting her way through the bedtime routine.

I finally announced, in a fit of exasperation, that if she did not do as she was told, and get ready for bed, I would beat her. And then I would beat her in the morning, and she could attend her first day of 2nd grade AFTER a good long beating.

She non-chalantly asking me, "Yeah, you and what army?"

She's a very very brave girl.

Mouths of Babes

Yesterday, my Sweetie went to the doc's to have a thing removed. (No, not my shoe.)

It's called an epidermal inclusion, and it's basically a fatty cyst that's gross.

The doc was nice, and my Sweetie now has 4 stitches in his chest. (and for the record, the Howler's tongue was grosser than this thing, but not by much)

When we got to my mother's house to pick up the Howler, she bounded down the stairs (the Howler, not my mother) and said, "Daddy! Did they put you to sleep?"

My (step) Dad offered to let my Sweetie rest down on the farm, next to a two dogs and three cats.

The Howler Sez...

The other day, I needed to talk with the Howler about something important.

Me: Howler, I have to talk with you about something.

Howler: Lay it on me, babe.

Lost & Found

One of the cordless handsets for my phone has been missing for two days.

Have I told you about the Howler's funny little habit of calling people who are programmed into the phone book?

Well, we're looking for the handset. We hit the "locate handset" button four times (it bleeps and tweets for about 4 minutes, unless you find it and hit the connect button) and stuff the one we can find under a pillow. We get nothin'. Can't find it.

We're actually each taking a floor (yes, Toad is helping, believe-it-or-not) and the Howler is sitting in the recliner, watching the show.

After the 4th time we hit the "locate" button, she says, "I have an idea!" and runs upstairs.

Here she comes, telling us, "I think the battery is dead." Yes, ma'am, the battery is dead.

Later this evening (as in right this minute) My Sweetie is talking to his mom, and she apparently has been getting PLENTY of calls from her precious granddaughter...even at 10pm when the Howler is supposed to be asleep--and her parents think she's asleep.

I had left the phone in her room, so she quietly got up and called her Grandma.

I thank God every day for the "call anywhere in the continental US for one low monthly rate" plan that Verizon has.

There Are Worse Things

Tonight was the "fun" night to end a week of Vacation Bible School.

The Howler loves VBS. She likes the kids. She likes the singing. She likes learning the verses. She likes the games. She likes the themes. She loves her some VBS.

This one was particularly spectacular for her, as her age group was made up of about a dozen other girls from her school.

We were there, on time, for the program. It was cute, but, as mostly these kinds of things are, it was also an exercise in tedium. Thank God it only lasted about 20 minutes.

Our story tonight, though, features the getting ready to go part of the "fun."

The Howler decided she MUST wear jeans. She needs pockets. She must have pockets. Luckily, most of her jeans are actually denim capris (gotta love the waist to leg ratio she's got) and she needed a belt. Now, she has belts, but they don't go 'round her. I don't know why. I buy them only after putting it on her, and yet, by the time she wears it, it doesn't fit. (I'm tempted to just go to the Goodwill and buy some old ties. Seriously.) I loan her my tie belt (it's an actual belt, made to look like a tie) and as I get the belt on her, I notice a puffy pocket. I check the pocket.

Apparently, she believed she'd have an intense need for dental floss during the program.

I just don't get how her mind works sometimes.

Just a Thought

While walking through the mall with the Howler tonight, she pointed to a window display of clothing and said, "Hey, Mommy, do you think you'd look pretty in that if, you know, you were skinnier and ..... uh...."

"Younger?"

"Yeah. That."

I laughed the rest of the way through the mall.

More OPK Ranting

So, last weekend, we finally had it out over the OPK.

The Howler, yet again, invited upteen children to eat at Mumple's Restaurant. (Never mind that there's no such place.) And, of course, Dolly, yet again, decided that since she couldn't choose what I'd be serving, she wasn't going to eat. She promptly disappeared, until serving time.

During the course of the previous two days, Dolly and Waif were a-coming and a-going through my doors much like the fabled Grand Central Station. I was livid, to put it mildly. When I turn around in my kitchen, I expect to NOT see their weasely little faces in my house. Especially when I never got even the slightest chance to utter "come in" in any language.

So, anyway, I'm not happy with what's going on (and coming in) my house; but the Howler, being the Howler, invited them to lunch anyway. I made it clear that I would decide what was for lunch, and, as I said, Dolly announced that she wouldn't be eating at my house. (Can I get an AMEN! to that?)

So, Waif, Blondie, and the Howler come in for lunch. Dolly, just walks in as they're finishing eating. She doesn't say anything--no, she just stands there, already INSIDE my house, waiting for me rush around and act like the thing I've most been living for is to hand feed her with a golden spoon.

Well, anyone with half a brain knows that isn't going to happen. I ask her if there's something she wants. She shakes her head "no," so I tell her to get out. She goes outside on the porch, but continues to stare at me. So I ask her again. She shakes her head "no" again. I walk into my house.

Next thing I know, my phone is ringing, and it's her stepmother. She's calling to find out why Dolly is at their house, crying and saying she got in trouble.

Needless to say, I'm fed up, I'm cranky as all get out, and I'm about done with walking on eggshells because of two children who aren't even mine. I let it all out. I tell her that since May, I have had to be on constant vigilance because her children are in my house, rooting through my cupboards and 'fridge, helping themselves to whatever strikes their fancy. I've caught them going through MY STUFF--in my bedroom AND my basement, dragging out to play with whatever strikes their fancy. And, that, on at least two occasions, Dolly has turned her pert little chipmunk nose up at what I'm serving for lunch...to show up and ask for some anyway. My house is NOT a restaurant or a free-for-all for these children. They're about a hair away from being told to never come back.

(for the record, I refuse to lock my doors when my daughter is outside playing--something that the Urchins' parents don't seem to have qualms about, btw)

The Urchins come up and apologize. I accept their apology, but, in all honesty, I'm not overly hopeful that any real change will be made.

And I was right--to a point. The Urchins decided over this past weekend, to prove just what assholes 7 and 9 year old girls can be. They invite Missy over for lunch (which didn't happen, of course--if their parents don't feed them, what makes anyone over the age of 3 think anyone else will get fed either?) and pointedly rubbed the Howler's face in it.

Then, later, they invited Missy over for an ice cream, and pointedly rubbed the Howler's face in that. Oh, wait--it gets better, and proves just what an evil and horrible person I have turned into: The little snots came up to my house and got fudgsicles.

When I found them with fudgsicles, I took the sweet treats right out of their hands. The looks on their faces was priceless--it ranged from mad (Waif) to hurt (Dolly). The shock on the Howler's and Missy's faces was pretty, too.

I told the Urchins that there's NO WAY they're going to be such ignorant rude little snots to the Howler then come up to my house for treats.

They admitted what they did. I told the Howler, with the Urchins standing there, that these WERE NOT her friends. Friends don't treat you that way, and that she is NEVER EVER EVER to give them so much as a stale goldfish cracker again. EVER.

They wandered home, and when My Sweetie asked me what just happened, I think he was one part happy I did it, and one part mortified and worried that lightning would be striking me dead any second.

Missy was staying for dinner, and going to spend the night. She insisted that she was going to go to the Urchins for dinner, though, because they had invited her. I was still raging (not entirely quietly, though) and asked her how her lunch was. She said they had invited her, but she didn't have any lunch. I asked her if she thought she'd get supper from them then? She didn't have an answer, but was still insisting that she was going to their house for supper. I told her that she could see if she could spend the night with them, then.

She stayed for supper, and the night.

Today, though, we are Urchinless, but instead of being a waitress, I am a butler. The Howler has a CD player on the front porch and all I ask is that they shut the wooden door when they're listening to music. The Howler rang the door bell and pounded on the door, yelling "OPEN THIS STUPID DOOR!" when the screen door was locked (she and I had just gotten home.) So, I opened the stupid door, and she shut the wooden one in my face.

Before two minutes was up, she was ringing the doorbell and pounding on the door again. Why? I don't know. All I know is that I spent 15 minutes opening and shutting the door, on demand.

I lost it. I yelled. I screamed. At my child and at other people's kids.

Am I having a bad day? Not entirely. I just know that at the time, I was able to walk back to what I was doing, only to be noisily summoned again. For no real reason.

The Howler is going to find herself grounded to her room for the next restofthesummer if this crap keeps up.