Sister Patsy Gets It Together, and Bails

Guess I’d better explain myself. I had a slow but spectacular collapse over the Christmas holiday and spent the next month and a half deteriorating in a recliner I now call Saint Jesus (hay-SOOS) Malverde, who is the patron saint of Mexican drug traffickers. Mind you, all my drugs were ethically prescribed by an orthopedic surgeon and a pain center that had all the hopeful ambiance of a methadone clinic. So that was a good time. A month ago I had spinal surgery with titanium implants and am now looking forward to a lifetime of enhanced airport security screenings, but Phartacus and Slappy are putting up with all my high-maintenanceness because they know I’ve got metal rods that may spring out like Wolverine if they piss me off. This kind of cred makes me almost as cool as my good friend who had cancer as a child and gets around on what the boys reverentially refer to as her “robot” leg. If you’re a small boy, forget plastic and silicone: upgraded metal body parts are the road to awesome.

Anyway, my not writing has more to do with the copious amounts of pain and medicine that flooded my system for the past two months than my riveting social calendar while hanging out on Saint JM. I’d taken enough prescription pain killers to set up house in the Bahamas with my lawyer and film crew, and while anyone who’s seen recent celebrity capers would no doubt vouch for the exciting thoughts that emanate from the chemically dependent, I hadn’t been able to form coherent sentences in quite some time. The good news is that I’m recovering and off the pills. The bad news is I have constant loud ringing in my ears as an apparently peculiar side effect of something or other I was on. I guess it’s better than hearing voices.

So now I’m getting back into the glamorous routine of getting children ready for school, driving them to and from school, volunteer teaching at an early-morning arts workshop at school, dropping off baked goods at school, making sure schoolwork is completed… wait, I’m sure there’s something else. Oh yes, laundry.

On the way home from school yesterday morning, I decided to investigate a local Flab Fighters meeting. I had tried it several years ago, when Phartacus was a toddler and Slappy just a squirmy carseat baby, and discovered a room full of doting retirees ready to play peek-a-boo and paddy cake. They also helped with the kids. Anyway, nice as they were, I didn’t feel connected to the conundrums of how to bake Horace’s favorite buttermilk biscuits at 5pm or how to fit dieting in with their health issues, so I stopped going.

But after a couple of months of recliner living and shoveling in candy as a pain coping mechanism, I thought checking it out wouldn’t be a completely crazy idea. I know you won’t be shocked to read that the local FF meeting is held in a church. Last time, the meeting room at Holier Than Thou was just a basement hall, but since then they’ve put in a sort of mini pulpit at one end. A little raised platform with a podium and quilted banners with squares of crosses, doves, and words like “Jesus”, “Peace”, and “Pray”. After receiving my name tag and sitting in one of the folding chairs facing the pulpit, I wondered if maybe The Lord was taking a personal interest in our muffin tops. Should I confess that I’d eaten cherry pie and Reddi Wip for breakfast? Oh wait, wrong church. 

Just as I started to worry that we might be called forward to witness about last night’s dessert transgressions, the meeting was called to order, and so began 45 minutes of more clapping than a preschool graduation. I clapped for Reba (I’m not making that name up), who reached her 10% goal, and Wenndy (that's right, two "N"s) who lost five pounds. I clapped for Dorothy’s husband Frank (really), who came to the meeting under duress. I clapped for several Carols (yes) who had started walking together and who were excited to spread the word about a recipe for microwaved cake in a mug. The Carol sitting next to me was also very excited about some FF lemon snack bars she’d just purchased after weigh-in, and got into an actual wrestling match with the Carol next to her, trying to cram a bite in her mouth despite the woman’s struggles. The meeting concluded with a discussion about Reba's adorable hat and boots. The Carols were excited about them.

By the time it was over my hands and brain were both numb and I had lemon crumbs embedded in my fleece. Not to mention all that talk about food had made me hungry. I escaped without joining, came home, and sprayed Reddi Wip directly into my mouth. Now what.

Wee Willie Weenie and The Good Time Patio Band

It’s Carnival time in The South, that celebrated high season of costume balls, Mardi Gras, revelry and feasting that occurs between Epiphany and Lent. What, that’s not going on at your house right now? Pity, because I can assure you it’s a grand and glorious time over here. My feathered mask and velvet gown are draped coquettishly across my bedroom chaise, awaiting the whisper of my silk stockings as I slide them on before tonight’s diversion.

First, however, there’s business to be done, in the form of taking down the Christmas décor. Since the master of the house is away on a hunting campaign, the houseboys are engaged in polishing the silver and the downstairs maid seems to have absconded, I wrap myself in a peignoir and slip out to the porch to unwind the fading garlands from the columns.

Before I’m even outside I can clearly hear the sound of drums thumping steadily to music. Perhaps our neighbors, Creepetta and The Hamburglar, have started their fête early? A Saturday afternoon patio party to kick off the season? Perhaps that wretched absconded maid misplaced their houseboy’s hand-delivered invitation?

Alas, no, it soon becomes clear there is no patio party burbling merrily amongst the neighbors’ leaf bags, brambles, yard art, and nonfunctional vehicles. It seems their son, Wee Willie Weenie, is merely practicing his drumming somewhere within. He’s a dear lad, really, along in his high school years by now and still delicate as a downy thistle. He spends his brief outdoor excursions shrieking in terror at bumblebees and dragonflies, whimpering softly while raking leaves and creeping timidly to the mailbox, eyes bulging at the prospect of the narrow street ahead, stretching endlessly, tantalizingly in either direction into a world of possibilities far beyond the hairs of Creepetta’s disturbingly prominent mustache and The Hamburglar’s allergy-riddled rides on the lawnmower, huddled beneath wide-brimmed hat and surgical mask…

But I digress. Surely all this vigorous drumming will put vitality in the boy’s constitution, strengthen his Gumby arms and stiffen his knobby spine. In fact, I think it’s working already –- the drumming seems louder every minute. It’s certainly stiffening my spine, so imagine the benefits he’s receiving. Bravo! Wee Willie Weenie, and bravo! Creepetta and Hamburglar, for such insightful use of the discretionary income you gained from your latest litigious pursuits against your employers.

Laissez les bon temps roulez. 

It's Over

Nothing quite says the holidays are over like driving through a gray, rainy New Year’s Day to the In-Law’s house for black eyed peas and a discussion of living wills.

Sleepovers for Grown Ups

It’s New Year’s Eve, and The Mister, Phartacus, Slappy and I are going over to the friends’ house soon. The Epiphany friends from earlier this month, who will be leaving at some point. They are kind, mellow, thoughtful, funny people, and they have a spacious house and suggested we might like to spend the night. This sounds like excellent idea, and we’re going to decline it. We’re going to decline it because, since moving to Splendaville, we’ve had two New Year’s Eve sleepovers with Grown Ups, and both have been disastrous.

The first Grown Up New Year’s sleepover invite was issued by a family we’d gotten to know through the Mother’s Milk club I’d joined. The Wookies liked to think of themselves as the center of the social circle, and invited a couple of families over to bask in their largesse. Unfortunately, tensions that day were running even higher than usual, as the day prior their youngest, delicate, allergy-riddled child had fallen off the bed and broken her arm. Innately sensing danger, The Mister and I tried to back out, but they weren’t having it. So we went over to their house and the ill-fated boozing commenced. Mr. Wookie had never seemed to approve of me for daring to suggest that weekend after weekend of boys’ days out hunting deserved some comparable girls’ time. He also made it clear he disapproved of how I parented my child and that I didn’t unquestioningly take his advice on which route I should use to drive home. So evidently he decided a fun revenge would be to have a few drinks, come up and tell drunken me some outrageous lie about his wife, and watch me stagger over and repeat it. I can’t even remember the rumor he started, I just remember him pouncing on me the minute I asked Mrs. Wookie what on earth Mr. Wookie was on about. A bit later in the evening, Mr. Wookie decided The Mister was flirting with Mrs. Wookie.

Now, I don’t want to be uncharitable… Oh, hell, too late, right? Why beat around the bush. OK, not to put too fine a point on it, but there were several hundred pounds, several chin hairs, and two tiny piggy eyes on Mrs. Wookie. No chance of flirting, I feel pretty confident about that. So that made for another couple of drama-filled hours –- interspersed with mandatory hourly shots –- after we put the kids to bed. Thankfully, midnight intervened and the husband of the other fortunate couple distracted us by stripping naked and leaping onto Mr. Wookie’s ATV for a joyride around the property. I got some neat photos, then The Mister and I slunk upstairs to our assigned bunkbeds and got the hell out of Dodge as soon as dawn broke.

Grown Up New Year’s Sleepover disaster #2 occurred at our house a few years later. The Belushis were a family in our circle who also had two little boys and were eager to do something for New Year’s, so we invited them over, and somehow, the missus of Neighbor In Swim Trunks From Two Sizes Ago, (see also this) since NISTFTSA is a chef and was working that night. (I think he now chefs for the Splendaville prison, having been unable to play nice in any of the restaurants.)  Anyway, NISTFTSA’s missus is a big pothead, which turns out to have been a dream come true for Mrs. Belushi. The Mister and I had gotten a new mattress for Christmas, and had lazily thoughtfully put the old one down in the Toys R Us crack den playroom for Phartacus and Slappy to jump on for a few days. A couple of drinks later for me, and God knows what else for Missus NISTFTSA and Mrs. Belushi, those two were lying on the mattress watching the room spin and groaning like sated zombies.

Eventually Missus NISTFTSA stumbled home through the backyard and Mrs. Belushi pulled herself off the mattress, just in time for Phartacus, by now on an evening playdate and sugar-induced high of his own, (Not a pot-induced one, I would like to clarify. That was snuck outside while I was busy watching children.) to leap off the sofa, miss the mattress, and crack a molar. After we got the kid front settled down and bedded, I cracked a molar of my own on a popcorn kernel. At which point, apparently, the Belushis thought it would be the right time to suggest a few lines of cocaine. The Mister and I politely declined and slunk off to our new mattress, eyeballs bulging like the squares we really are. The next morning, as I watched my bedroom ceiling spin, felt my tooth throb, and groaned in zombie-like fashion myself, Mrs. Belushi bounced into the bedroom and sprang onto my new mattress, laughing and apparently none the worse for wear, to wonder what on earth was the matter with me. I had been out-partied for sure.

So even though the Epiphany friends, who are falling asleep on the sofa by 9pm most evenings, are not a thing like the sleepover friends of yore, The Mister and I agree we’ve had abysmal luck on the Grown Up Sleepover front, and I like them too much to find out if this year the guest of shame will be me. So the plan is to be home well before midnight, watching the ball drop if we can manage it, trying not to crack any molars or do anything disastrous. Happy New Year, and please wish me luck.

Merry Christmas Phartacus

I had small plans for this Christmas Eve. Just me, The Mister, Phartacus, and Slappy making cookies for Santa, reindeer food, decorating a gingerbread house, listening to Bing and Ella, etc. You know the drill. Honey-baked ham for dinner, check Santa’s progress on NORAD’s Santa tracker, tuck into bed and wait for Santa’s bounty. Well, Santa’s got a bit of a conundrum now, and you’ll realize I’ve named my offspring well.

 Merry Christmas, Phartacus. Love, Slappy

Free Souse With Purchase

For months I have tried to remember to take a camera with me to the Porkly Workly, but alas, I’m lucky to remember the grocery list and, on a very good day, the environmentally-responsible market bags. I have been determined to document on this blog a disturbing product called souse, which hangs innocuously amongst the Oscar Mayer bologna and mesquite-smoked turkey as though it were some sort of normal, reasonable food item you might slip into your kid’s sandwich. At first unpleasant glance, you see pinkish-white ridged chunks floating in a viscous base sprinkled with green and red flakes. Peruse the ingredient list and -- dear God -- you’ll discover that souse is a pork product you’d have thought vanished from human consumption a hundred years ago, if not right after the first time someone tried it. The main ingredients in souse are (cue theme from Psycho): pig snouts, pig hearts, pickles, and gelatin. Heave. Here kids, have some jellied pig snout with pickles!

Though the Splendaville Porkly Workly has evidently been doing a brisk enough trade in souse to have offered it for as long as I’ve lived here, apparently even regional delicacies have a limited appeal. The souse was on sale for 99 cents, and I decided this blog was worth the expense, so I put it in my cart, along with some pot pies and cheap wine, and went to check out with a basket full of good times.  The checkout girl scanned my Porkly Workly card, rang up my items, and informed me that my exclusive membership had saved me 99 cents. In other words, free souse with purchase.

Epiphany Comes Early

It’s been a long week. The Mister was out of town on a hunting trip for the first couple of days, and between part-time work, the early morning class I volunteer teach at school and all the rushing around that the holiday season brings, by Thursday I couldn’t believe the week wasn’t over. I staggered blearily through this morning, in a foul mood over a thousand trifles.  By mid-afternoon I’d regrouped and found some Christmas spirit and was decking the halls with boughs of holly, berry sprigs, red bows. As the sun set, our wee dwelling was festive with bright swags and warm candlelight, and the smell of Friday night homemade pizza filled the air with a savory garlic aroma. Our dear friends, fellow West Coast weirdos and school carpool lifesavers, had picked up Phartacus and taken him to the school basketball game with their kids. They dropped him off and stayed for an impromptu cocktail and nosh. The candles flickered and Ella crooned in the background as my friend suddenly said, in a low voice, that her husband had been promoted and they will be moving to Chicago.

It took a few moments for it to set in, and I tried to make sensible conversation while my throat closed and my eyes stung. They stayed for a couple of hours, during which time I made several trips to the bathroom to take deep breaths and drip Visine into my eyes, willing them to stay clear. It’s a secret, you see, that their kids don’t know yet because it won’t be made official until after the holidays. Which means I can’t let Phartacus and Slappy know that their best friends will be leaving soon. I dread their tears more than mine.

My heart is breaking.

Typing that secret, sitting next to Phartacus, I knew I couldn’t hold it in any longer, and went to the bathroom and lay down on the tiles, sobbing quietly so no one would hear. I tell Phartacus I’m catching his cold, because I can’t tell him yet, and I don’t want to ruin his Christmas. Because it will. I know Phartacus. Slappy too.  And that makes it just that much worse.

I’m three-fourths devastated to be losing the best friends we have here -- both for me and for the boys –- and one fourth jealous to be left behind in Splendaville while our deserving friends move onward and upward. They’ve earned it; they’ve been here five years and worked their asses off. It’s a dream job. It was only a matter of time.

We’ve been here 8 years. I thought it would be only two. No dream job beckons. I hate being left behind, happy as I will make myself be for them.

I feel lost. I can’t imagine school and weekends without these friends. I want to curl up in my bed and cry til spring.

Thankfully, Thankful Thanksgiving is Coming to a Close

Is anyone else’s Facebook page filled with their friends’ daily posts about what they’re thankful for? Apparently it’s become an annual “Thanksgiving Challenge” that lasts the entire month of November. And at this stage in the game, even the most determinedly Blessed are straining to rise to the challenge. This morning a local acquaintance, a relentlessly cheerful Southern gal who has the most amazing ability to talk for minute after minute without coming up for air, posted that she was “thankful for the fact that both boys have their drawers full of socks and underwear.” Glory Be and Praise Jesus! Last week she was grateful for her dog groomer working in an “emergency groom” for Muffin, and before that she has been grateful for laundry detergent and rotisserie chicken.

Felonious Punk

What’s more fun than a Monday morning? Why, a Monday morning standing in a courtroom before a judge, dontcha know. I started off this holiday week with a trip to the Splendaville Courthouse, clutching a small pink piece of paper which I hoped would reinstate me as a law-abiding citizen.

A couple of weeks ago, I was actually not speeding, and therefore quite surprised to be pulled over by a Splendaville deputy. Officer Krupke had noticed my vehicle inspection sticker was expired (boy was it), and handed me a court summons so I could explain myself to the judge. I agreed wholeheartedly, delighted that he hadn’t noticed the (unopened) bottle of alcohol on the floor of the front passenger seat, which I was on my way to give to my friend in thanks for feeding us dinner. Meanwhile Phartacus and Slappy were full of eager questions in the backseat, asking if I was a bad person and if I was going to jail.

The next morning was cold and rainy as I hustled over to the garage which does our vehicle inspections.  I couldn’t believe I had managed to drive around for so long without noticing the expired date on the windshield. I blame The Mister entirely; how could he miss what was right before my eyes for months?  Apparently I had projected last year’s inspection onto this year, and between the license plate renewal and the oil changes and the tire pressure whatnot, I thought I was all over the vehicle maintenance thing like a duck on a junebug. Anyway, my karmic penance was to discover that the inspection place’s waiting area was an open air shed with a leaky roof. I had not noticed this feature during my annual summertime inspections, but I was pretty aware of it now. $16 and 10 blue fingers later, I had my proof of vehicular responsibility.

So this morning I turn up at the courthouse, wondering if Splendaville is progressive enough to have naked scanners that will record a souvenir of this fine moment and if it will notice the rubber band pant-waistband-extender contraption I have rigged up under my shirt. Thankfully it’s still backwards around here and there is only a walk-through metal detector and some grandfatherly deputies standing around. (I did have to take my cell phone back to the car for some reason. In case I felt like recording the fun?) The deputies have me write my name and the name of the officer who had nabbed me, and the guys all agree that this is “Officer Krupke’s Day”. I go down the hall and there it is, a real live courtroom with wood paneling and the state seal and the whole enchilada. I sit down on an empty bench and wait.  I don’t get a good look at any of my fellow scofflaws, as we are all hanging our heads in shame, but I do notice that the other perps all have companions. Not sure if they’re co-conspirators or just moral support, but The Mister -- who I’m still blaming for this whole scenario on account of he has a Y chromosome and should notice these things -– had to take Slappy to preschool for me.

After a while, the judge comes in and a deputy says “All Rise” just like they do on TV. (Sweet!) We sit down, and the judge says we’ll start with the rows on his left and make a line up the aisle. This is not like they do on TV as far as I recall, but I can’t say I’m disappointed to forego a solo gig up front in this instance. So my inspection slip and I are third in line. First up are two shifty little potheads whose neighbor narc’d them out to Krupke. There’s some back and forth while Otis and Cletus admit that they did have marijuana but something something (couldn’t hear that bit, dammit) and decide whether they want their drivers licenses revoked entirely for six months, or get a provisional license so they can drive to work but be on probation for a year and take classes and do community service. Without hesitation they opt for six months cold turkey, and they’re sent to get some paperwork that will allow them to drive home. And presumably, stay there and get stoned for six months.

The next guy ran a stop sign, and he wants to point out that he thought it was a yield scenario and couldn’t see the stop sign due to some other signs. Then he wants to know if he can go to traffic school but the judge says “nope”, just like that, because he went to traffic school LAST year and doesn’t he know that it’s supposed to improve his driving skills? So he gets a fine and a couple of points off his record… or on his record. Pretty sure it's whichever one you don’t want.

So now it’s my turn, and I’ve been running over what I might say in my head, reminding myself that less is more. I step forward, the deputy takes my pink inspection receipt and hands it to the judge, who states that I got the car inspected the very next day (I was hoping he’d notice that part) and that he’s sure I was polite and cooperative with Officer Krupke, so I’m dismissed. Dismissed! I didn’t even get to approach the bench or object to anything. And you don’t think I object to that, do you? Hell no. I couldn’t wait to be clear of that room full of yardbirds. So long, suckers!

Shirley Show-Off and Miss Popularity Runner Up

Yesterday I stopped into the Porkly Workly for a couple of necessities on my way home from a little sacrilegious Sunday shopping. I ran into another former member of Mother's Milk who, unlike Braggy Bridget of the U10 Hand-Picked Undefeated Soccer Team, would probably have hidden behind an aisle like I wanted to, had we not had an abrupt head-on encounter. I would have avoided her because I find her somewhat odd and off-putting; she might have liked to avoid me for the very same reason, for all I know. But I suspect that a part of her behavior towards me is due to feeling self-conscious or -- gulp -- intimidated. I squirm a little every time I think about this. She joined Mother's Milk at a time when I was behaving in a way I never had before and never will again. My first year in Splendaville had been extremely lonely and difficult, and when I finally broke down and joined Mother's Milk, it had felt like a lifeline. I was desperate for friendship and something to do with little Phartacus, and I threw myself into the whole rigmarole with gusto. I quickly made friends with a woman who, by her own admission, loved high school for the social aspect. (Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!)  She was fun and irreverent, loved being popular and being in on all the gossip, and I eagerly followed her lead. At 16 I had been smart enough and confident enough to avoid this sort of scene, but as a full-grown woman and desperate mother all I could see was someone to laugh with and confide in.

You can never know how other people see you, for which I am endlessly grateful. I would NEVER want my super power to be mind reading. What I suspect is bad enough!  But I'm fairly sure anyone who met me at that stage thought I was one of those popular girls they remembered from high school. Ugh.

Anyway, I think that partially explains the look on this woman's face whenever she is around me: slightly widened eyes and a perpetual half-smirk. I try to be charitable and chalk it up to nerves, but as she chattered away I had to wonder if some of the smirking wasn't just the thrill of recounting what a prodigy she had birthed. I tried to look sympathetic amongst the Jell-O pudding cartons as she detailed the difficulties of having a daughter so brilliant that she had been called into a teacher conference and told her little Einsteina would have to slow down in math because soon there would be no one at the school qualified to teach her. That little third-grade Einsteina had tested at a high school reading level and even the gifted program couldn't address her needs. Poor Shirley Show-Off indignantly related the story of being told that she was doing Einsteina a disservice by not letting her have summers off school, when all they were doing was one hour of work a day... some math, reading, a couple of simple science experiments, a little Old Norse Icelandic literature, ancient Greek...

I get that moms are proud and want to share their children's accomplishments. I try to confine my brags to grandparents, and spare friends and acquaintances all the eye-glazing details unless they specifically ask. (Is your child a genius? Why, YES, since you ask...) Yet as Shirley Show-Off went on, it became harder to keep my mouth shut, until I eventually interjected that Phartacus was cruising through the dreaded third grade with ease. Why did I feel the need to say this? I know my children's strengths and talents (and also that things can change in the blink of an eye. What you brag about today may vanish tomorrow.) -- why did I need Shirley Show-Off to know it too?  I think of myself as someone who dislikes competitiveness in friendship, and I have distanced myself from women whose conversation reminds me of an endless holiday letter. So why did I have to chime in?

Is it because I don't like competitiveness, or because I fear I don't measure up?