Being "Neighborly"

I received a letter in the mail on Friday, April 4, 2014, and felt compelled to respond to it. Unfortunately, the neighbor who sent it chose not to share their name, so I now find it necessary to share my response publicly in the hopes that they will read it. I am going to share their letter line by line, along with my responses to it. (The original letter text is bold, my responses are in italics)

To the anonymous neighbor who mailed a letter to my home in regards to my children:

Dear Mr. and Mrs. ________________

For the sake of my privacy, I have removed our last name. Your use of it, however, does leave me to wonder: have we met? The answer to that is of course, no, we have not met formally. How can I be sure of that? I’ve lived here ten months, and in that time, I have met ONE neighbor who came over to introduce themselves simply for the sake of being neighborly. Since she lives several houses away on a different section of my street, I can safely assume the letter did not originate there. I am sure you used the investigative power of the internet on some site like mcad.org to determine our names. Well played, neighbor. Well played.

When did kids playing and screaming at the top of their lungs become acceptable?

To my knowledge, playing has always been acceptable and encouraged in children. I’m not sure how you expect me to address “top of their lungs”, as this statement is subjective. Do kids scream? Absolutely, they can and do, often. Is it occasionally unnecessarily loud? You bet.

That kind of screaming should only be acceptable if someone is in pain.

Again, this is both subjective and vague. Do kids sometimes take screaming to the extreme? Of course they do.

I’m sure you send them outside so you don’t have to hear it; however, none of your neighbors want to hear it either.

Thank you for your passive/aggressive commentary on my parenting. Obviously you know so much about me thanks to your ability to google my last name. Also, who named you spokesperson for my neighbors? Is there some neighborhood screaming patrol group? Remind me not to join.

Playful yelling is one thing, but come on, ear piercing screams like someone is ripping their arms out of their sockets is a bit much.

Again, this is a subjective statement, but I will give it a whirl. First, how do you know that no one IS trying to rip someone else’s arm out of their socket? Second, who put you in charge of defining “playful yelling”?

All of your neighbors would truly appreciate you having them tone it down a bit, so we can all be outside and continue to enjoy our homes.

You don’t speak for “all of my neighbors” as I discovered when I approached other neighbors last night to try to determine who sent this letter. My children screaming should not prevent you from spending time outside, just like the incessant barking of neighborhood dogs does not prevent me from spending time outside. It’s part of living in a neighborhood. If you want silence, move to the country.

I have children as well, but do not allow them to disrupt the entire street.

Thank you, once again, for your scathing assessment of my parenting. I get it. I’m a bad mom, my kids are maniacs, and you are fed up. I am glad God blessed you with perfect children. Apparently, he had a sense of humor when he blessed me with mine.

Thank you!

I’m sure this is not a sincere statement, but I do want to thank you in return. Thanks to this letter, which alternately hurt, angered and saddened me, I did meet some wonderful neighbors last night who restored my faith in humanity, and made me feel happy that I chose this neighborhood in which to raise my wild, out-of-control children. Perhaps we can arrange a play date so the perfection of your children can rub off on mine. You know where I live, after all.

I leave you (the writer of this letter) and anyone else reading my responses with this: We are all working hard, and trying to live the best lives that we can. Am I perfect parent? Absolutely not, but I am parenting to the best of my ability, and love my children more than you can measure. Instead of sending anonymous letters designed to hurt people and tear them down, why are we (as a society) not looking for ways to make new connections with the people in our neighborhood? It is so easy to judge someone you do not know, and your opinion of that person will almost always be proven invalid once you get to know them. I encourage everyone to take a moment to get to know your neighbors. You never know when you may need their help and support.

Furniture

So, the time has come for little O to become big O, and get a "big boy" bed. Last weekend, we went as a family to the furniture store and picked out a new bed. The bed was scheduled to be delivered between 11-3 on Thursday. I HATE four hour windows...I really do. I have things to do, and a four hour window in the middle of my day is a true annoyance. However, in the interest of receiving the bed in a timely manner, I agreed to their demands.

Thursday morning arrived. I showered early, got the really big kids off to school, and at 9:21 am, loaded O, complete with new crocs, into the van for a road trip to the grocery store. I walked in the store, plopped two bunches of grapes in my cart, and then my cell phone rang. Normally I would ignore it, but I didn't recognize the number, so I decided to answer. Who was it, you ask? The furniture delivery people, of course. They were going to be at my house in 30 minutes. Looking at the time, they should arrive by 10:02 am, 58 minutes early. I groaned, then agreed to the time.

The next 17 minutes looked like scenes from one of those mad dash grocery shows. I ran through the store, throwing random items in my cart, and made it to the cashier. She rang us up, and sent us on our way. $80 later, we were out the door, and did not have all that we needed, of course! I raced home (not speeding) and made it there at 9:59am, three minutes before their estimated arrival.

I quickly unloaded the cold groceries, grabbed the car keys to move the spare car out of their way, then plopped down to wait. And wait. And wait. After about twenty minutes, I was pretty irritated. Forty-five minutes in REALLY had me steaming, and by the one hour, fifteen minute mark, I was spitting nails.

93 minutes AFTER their proposed arrival time, my furniture arrived. I took the high road, and decided not to scream at the delivery people. They were in and out in under fifteen minutes, thankfully. Not ten minutes later, I received an automated call from the furniture store, wanting me to rate my experience. I hung up on the recording. Trust me, random furniture store people, you did NOT want me to rate this experience! The icing on the cake? They are coming back in a month to deliver the rest of the back-ordered furniture-can't wait!

WHAT is an accessory?

Today's rant is all about the word "accessory". Allow me to share the back story.

A few weeks ago, my cell phone started randomly turning off. It finally aggravated me to the point where I walked into my local cell phone store to complain. Surprise: my not so high quality cell phone was actually still under warranty, so they could order me a new one. I waited a few days, and sure enough, a new (read: refurbished) phone arrived. When I opened the package, I was surprised to see that the phone did not arrive with a new battery, OR a new back plate. I used my old battery and back plate, moved the SIM card, and life continued.

Last Monday, my phone randomly turned off again. Using my awesome powers of deductive reasoning, I decided the battery MUST be at fault, and went back to the store to discuss this. My genius customer service representative disagreed with my battery diagnosis, and advised me to call customer service myself to get a new phone. He mentioned that they don't have those batteries in stock at the store anyway. Nice.

So, I called customer service, yelled at the talking automated system, and was finally transferred to a phone rep. (As a side note-they could make an entire TV show re-enacting all of the crazy things that are yelled at a talking automated system) Gabrielle was happy to help, and sympathetic to my phone issue. She also agreed that it was a battery problem, since that was the common denominator betwixt the two phones. (whether betwixt is a word or not is a non-issue; don't bother Googling it because I like it, and will not edit it out!) She kindly offered to transfer me to the accessory department to order a new battery.

WHAT?!?!? A new battery is an ACCESSORY? AND I have to pay for it, because it falls under an "accessory warranty" of 90 days as opposed to the phone warranty of one year? Let's pause to define accessory. Accessory (noun) "a supplementary component that improves capability, being additional, being connected as an incident or subordinate" Last time I checked, a battery does not IMPROVE capability, it PROVIDES capability. It's NOT incidental-it's necessary for the phone to function!

However, my years in customer service have taught me never to abuse the poor, innocent phone rep, so I allowed Gabrielle to transfer me to the parts department. My sarcasm was lost on the gentleman who answered, as he did not "get" my snide accessory comments. The ultimate kicker? They don't have my battery in stock either, so happy hunting! Now for my unpaid advertising-I ordered my battery from elitextreme.com. Their prices were much more reasonable than my local third party battery vendor. (I saved $13, even with shipping)

The ultimate irony? My phone has not randomly turned off ONE time since I ordered the new battery!

35 cents

A few weeks ago I received a check from my new insurance company for thirty-five cents. I'm still rolling my eyes as I type this. THIRTY-FIVE CENTS? Seriously? Does anyone in their bureaucracy realize that they spent forty-two cents to mail me a check for thirty-five cents? If you take the time to factor in the salary of the bean counter (no offense to my accountant sister) that found the thirty-five cents, it is even MORE money-all spent so I could waste even MORE money in gas to MAKE the deposit than the check is actually worth!

The icing on the cake? Two weeks later, this ridiculous check is still sitting on the kitchen counter. I check the mail that day, and what do I find? Another envelope from the insurance company. Inside? A check for $105.42. Sigh.

Soccer ain't for sissies!

So my oldest is going be the next Beckham. Ok, not so much. He is, however, playing on a recreational soccer league where we live. RECREATIONAL. Webster's Dictionary defines recreational as "A characteristic of recreation". Recreation is defined as "a means of refreshment or diversion". Diversion, people. Diversion. Read: FUN! As in, not serious, NOT professional, NOT the be all, end all of anyone's world....at least it shouldn't be. Can someone PLEASE tell that to the parents?

My favorite quote from last week's game was "Someone needs to pull that kid out of the game. He stinks!". Luckily for this gentleman, my child was not on the field. The mother bear in me reared her ugly head anyway, and I had to bite my tongue HARD not to say anything to him. Can you IMAGINE how a child would feel hearing something like that? Can you imagine yours truly going to jail over a brawl on the sidelines? Well, actually, I can imagine that, and the thought of getting a few smacks in is kinda appealing!

So a word to all you sports fanatic, living through your children parents out there: It's RECREATIONAL! It's meant to be fun! It's supposed to teach kids about working as a team, and as a side benefit, some basic soccer skills. Take a clue from the referees....they're not even keeping score!!

If You Are Of The Male Persuasion, Please Do NOT Read!

OK ladies....

I wanted to share my adventure at the sanitary napkin aisle this week. I went to the store with the sole intention of purchasing a small package of pads. How hard could this be? I certainly didn't intend to purchase a year's supply-I just wanted a small pack of 20 or less.

I locate the "feminine" aisle, and peruse my options. Holy moly! I am bombarded by HALF an aisle of products, packaged in all sorts of "girly" colors, and all claiming to be THE product for my needs!

There's a pack for "light" flow, "regular" flow, "heavy" flow, or you can even get a combo pack with all three! There are regular length, long length, EXTRA long, thick, thin, regular and WINGS??

Pads are meant to FLY? Wings, by the way, were invented by a VERY sadistic woman. They inevitably do NOT stick to the bottom of the pantie, as they are allegedly intended, but instead find ways to attach themselves to VERY sensitive skin and/or hair!

I'm not exaggerating-it took me TEN minutes to find a basic pack of regular length, non-wing, regular flow pads that were not too thick and not too thin, and not in a 5,000 pad economy pack! I deserve a medal!

In honor of my New Year's resolution...a classic blog revisited!

Treadmill 101

OK, so like every other lame, overweight under-achiever out there, I purchased a treadmill in a futile attempt to shed pounds in 2006. I tried out several models in the store, strolling at a leisurely pace of about 1.5 miles an hour. I settled on a mid-priced model, with a few built-in programs and speakers for my iPod. After a week of mindless over-indulgence in food as preparation for the arrival of the afore-mentioned torture device, my treadmill was delivered.

On day 3 post-arrival, I finally guilted my jiggly belly into getting on the treadmill. After 15 minutes of dressing and prep time, I was ready. I turned the treadmill on, and hopped aboard to survey my options. Let's see....cardio, manual....ahhhhh....FATBURN! Obviously this is the option for me!

I select the "burn off your ass fat" button, and press start. The machine predictably begins at about 1.2 miles an hour. After all, we ARE dealing with a fat person, and we don't move all that quickly. After a pleasurable two minute stroll, the machine pops up to 1.8 miles and hour. While this is still not a challenge, I'm starting to think that I might be sweating soon. Again, ::beeeep::, the machine kicks up to 2.4 miles an hour. Two minutes later...::beeeep::, we are up to 2.8. Now, 2.8 miles an hour is about the fastest I have ever walked....EVER. So, I am now officially "working out". I'm feeling pretty good, and then as the timer reaches the next two minute interval....

BEEEP! We are now up to 3.4 miles an hour. Now we are hauling some a**. In fact, my a** is jiggling in ways it rarely does. I have managed to keep up, but am saying a silent prayer of thanks that I had the forethought to attach the emergency shut-off clip to my shirt. I'm literally thinking "this is only for TWO minutes, then it should slow back down a little."

BEEEEEEEP....NO such luck! We are now at a chest rattling 4.5 miles an hour. I am JOGGING to keep up. Women with breasts as large as mine SHOULD NOT JOG!!!! I felt as if I could give myself a concussion at any moment with a blow to the chin. My heart was also trying desperately to escape from my chest at this point. However, positive self-talk won out. I can do this, I thought! Anyone can jog for two minutes! And so I jogged....

BEEEEP...YOU guessed it! We are now at 5.2 miles an hour! What kind of MORON designed a fat-burning program like THIS? I am now hauling ass at 5.2 miles an hour, cussing, and desperately trying to press the arrow down key to lower the speed. Apparently the over-exhertion had exhausted my brain cells, as all I REALLY needed to do was give that good old emergency shut-off cord a good yank.

Thankfully, I lived to tell this tale. A word to the IMBECILE who designed the "FATBURN" program on Spirit treadmills.....FAT people cannot run! If they COULD, they would probably not be FAT! FAT impedes the ability to move that quickly!!!!!!!

As a last note, if the word "fat" offended anyone, "Lord, I apologize...and please be with the starving pygmies....Amen."

The anti-blog

I made several smart remarks in this blog, and it disappeared when I tried to post it. What a waste.

Let's try to re-create:

OK, I gained 5lbs over Christmas, and the fat is eating my brain cells, therefore I have nothing to blog about. A real tragedy for my three faithful followers, I'm sure. Let's keep in mind that there is no crying in baseball..er....blogging, so suck it up and move on.

My New Year's resolutions:

1. Lose weight, and potentially regenerate lost brain cells as a side benefit

2. Bite my tongue more and roll my eyes less. This is a little like patting your head while rubbing your tummy-it's very difficult to do simultaneously, so don't push it!

3. Scrapbook more in the vain attempt to keep tot #3 from hating me...that particular tot is almost two and has no scrapbook!

4. Blog more-I know my reading public wants all they can get!

5. Get organized. To that effect, I shredded two bag's worth of paper today. The bad news-there are at least three more bags left to shred!

And that's it. For the second time in 30 minutes, I will attempt to save/post this flipping blog. It had better work this time, or else. Or else what, I don't know. I will probably run in circles screaming and pulling my hair out. Hey, maybe I'll even pull out a gray hair or two!

Christmas 1995

Thirteen years ago, almost to the day, I caught on fire. The following blog entry fills in the details.

December 1995 was not a banner month for me. I had already gone skiing (for the first time ever) that month in New Mexico, and things had not gone well. After an unfortunate mishap with a lift on the bunny slope, I was in an air cast and on crutches.

Despite my injuries, I rallied to attend the annual M family extravaganza in you know where, TX. My task: peel and cube potatoes for mashed potatoes. I hobbled around the kitchen collecting my acoutrement (read: crap I needed) to begin the potato peeling fiasco. I asked for a knife, and my mom said "Just grab one out of the knife block by the stove". I reached for the knife...

I'm going to stop here for a little back story. My mom had ALWAYS had an electric stove. This was her first year in a new house with a gas stove, and there was definitely a learning curve involved.

Also, just to give you a visual, I was wearing baggy pants and a VERY baggy sweater. The sweater was a gift to Winifred (I'm not afraid to use your real name, punk!) that he never received since he DUMPED me three days before Christmas. But I digress...

So, I reached across the gas stove for the knife, and heard a small "poof" sound. At about the same instant, I realized that I was on fire. Flames spanned from my wrist to my shoulder, and were burning about six inches out from my sleeve. I was frozen in awe and horror. I flapped my arm, and the massively huge sweater folded over on itself and snuffed out the flames. In the midst of this, my mother dredged up her "Stop, Drop and Roll" training from her elementary school years, and started screaming "Get down! Get down!" as she attempted to wrestle me (and my crutches) to the floor. I fought furiously, yelling back "I'm out! I'm out!" as I desperately tried to remain upright.

My efforts were fruitless. A mother's will is stronger than any child's, even an adult child, and I was going to get down whether I liked it or not. I was successfully knocked to the floor, crutches flying as my already injured ankle was twisted again. I was laughing and crying at the same time.

To answer the obvious question: how the heck did you catch on fire...I offer this explanation. My mom thought she needed to turn the burner on to "warm it up". I'm still unclear as to how you "warm up" an open flame, but there must be logic in that somewhere, right? Since she had the burner on low, I was unable to see the blue flame in the dim light of the kitchen, and did not notice as my sleeve brushed against it.

Also, my sweater was not damaged in the above incident. I thought this was a Christmas miracle, until my friend C pointed out that since I used liquid fabric softener to wash the sweater, the residue from that is probably what caught on fire so easily. Lessons learned!

Things you never thought you'd say

Today, my post is dedicated to all the moms out there. Here are the top ten things that I never thought I would say:

1. "Is there blood? If not, then you're fine!"

2. "Can you close the bathroom door so your brother doesn't end up in the toilet again?"

3. "Just spit it in my hand if you don't like the way it tastes."

4. "How many times do I have to tell you to stop picking your nose in public?"

5. "The dog licked that! Please don't keep eating it!"

6. "You cannot tell your brother to 'Bite my butt!'. I don't care WHAT movie you heard it in!"

7. "Can you at least say 'excuse me' when you toot?"

8. "You actually need to use soap when you wash you hair."

9. "When was the last time you cleaned your ears?"

10. "PLEASE don't touch your butt when there's poop on it!"

Ah...memories

Picture it...Anywhere, TX...September of 1990 something.

M had been unceremoniously booted from our high school band due to an unfortunate smoke bomb incident in the stands during a football game. D had also lost band privileges during the aforementioned incident. Consequently, D & M were going to the game via M's rocking cool Nissan Pulsar, with yours truly riding shotgun.

M,D, and I enjoyed a perfectly fun game, hanging with all of our high school peeps and discussing inane things as only teenagers can do. After the game, M sweetly gave me a piggyback ride to the car. I laughed so hard I almost peed down his back! We made it to the car, and set off for home.

As we were driving along the highway, we caught up with the big yellow dog (read: bus) that was carrying the high school band. D thought it would be an excellent idea to poke half of his body out of the sunroof and yell at his buddies on the bus. The police officer behind us did not think this was such an excellent idea!

Lights flashed. M uttered the immortal words "Oh ####, a cop". He pulled over, and the officer came to his window and proceeded to question us (using very foul language) as to what in the name of all that is holy we were thinking. Then he came around to my side of the car, opened the door, and said "Get out". 'Holy ####, I'm going to jail' I thought as I got out of the car. He walked me to the cop car, opened the back door, and said "Get in!". I got in, and started hyperventilating.

He came around the car, got in, and threw his flashlight through the bars of the police car. The bars stopped it from going all the way through, but he achieved his purpose-I peed a little on his fancy vinyl back seat. He said "What the #### were you thinking?" I said "Officer, I have no idea what you are talking about!" He said "You know #### well what I'm talking about! You were hanging out of the sunroof!" "Um, that wasn't me." I whispered. "Then WHO was it?" he yelled back. And just like that, I rolled over on my buddy D. "The guy in the back seat, Officer." "Hold on!" he snarled as he hopped out of the car.

He approached M's car, and ordered him out as I watched, eyes WIDE with horror. He instructed D to get out of the back seat, then proceeded to grab him and throw him against the car, frisking him in ways D could only wish a woman would have touched him. Then he grabbed him by the arm, dragged him to the police car, and threw him in. He then rounded the car, and let me out, ordering me to go sit with M. I ran like a scared rabbit, afraid for D's life, but happy to have escaped the mad man's evil clutches.

He screamed at D for a good fifteen minutes, ran our licenses and determined we were not criminals,ordered D & M not to be caught dead in the same car again, and sent us on our way.

I still pee a little when I see a police car.

OK....seriously?

Sit back, fasten your seatbelts, and prepare for a classic rant.

my subject: Four way stops
my issue: Stupid people



For the LOVE of ALL that is holy, folks, LEARN how a four way stop works. If two people arrive at the intersections at the same time....YIELD TO THE RIGHT! Do not stomp the gas to see if you can beat the other person, and then glare and honk furiously at them if they beat you off the mark. If they were to your right, THEY had the right of way!

**A special note to all of the directionally challenged: Use your thumb and forefinger to make an "L". The one that actually looks like an "L" (as opposed to a backwards "L") is your left.**

And while we're on the subject of stop signs, the general idea of one is that you actually STOP. Blowing through a stop sign because the intersection is clear is not a bright idea, and in a perfect world, will also get you a ticket! Is your destination really so important that you need to run a stop sign? I think not.

That is all.

I'm drowning!

We are murdering trees at an alarming rate, and today I feel like an entire forest has died in my office. There are papers of some kind on EVERY horizontal surface. I dread moving one piece of paper for fear of shifting a dozen others, and causing a catastrophic paper mountain collapse!

Here are a few examples of the types of paper I am being suffocated by:

Receipts~I have receipts for EVERYTHING....just in arm's reach I see one for Sonic, and another for the grocery store. K's dream is that I would reconcile each of these receipts to my credit card statement. The intent is there-thus the plethora of receipts. I just never actually get around to the reconciliation part. The problem with this non-system is that big ticket item receipts sometimes get lost in the shuffle.

Schoolwork/artwork~ I am overrun with children's work from school. Between J & G, I have a stack two inches thick, and it's only November! I truly do throw a lot of it away, but there are still so many things I just can't part with! Can you imagine how bad it's going to get when O starts contributing?

Notes~ I write notes to myself everywhere. I scribble down random phone numbers, write down websites I want to visit, leave reminders for things that need to get done...you get the picture. I write on any available piece of paper, which means I can't throw anything away until I have looked at everything!

Bills~I am actually pretty good at organizing these, but there are a stack of unpaid bills tucked under the computer monitor. I clear them out once a week. (OK, once every two months...but I pay them once a week!)

I'm not sure what the solution is. Oprah told me it was The Container Store. She may be right, but I think there are deeper issues here...

You're SMOTHERING them!!

I can hardly believe that I made it an entire week into this blog without discussing the most AGGRAVATING part of my day as a SAHM-the child drop-off zone at our local elementary school.

Let me start by stating what might not be obvious to all of you~we have NO bus service in our neighborhood. Why, you ask? Because we can SEE the elementary school from our house, and walk there in less than 10 minutes. This is a brave new world to city folk like us, but we are slowly adjusting.

I will also add that we attempted the whole "walking to school as a family" thing, and that lasted about two days. Imagine if you will cramming a wiggly toddler into a stroller, and simultaneously trying to convince a preschooler that he CAN walk all the way to the school, and no, I am not going to carry him. The background noise to this is a gradeschooler screaming "Hurry UP! We are going to be LATE for school!" I think the reason that we use the drop-off should be clear.

So, fast forward to this morning (ok, this happens EVERY morning). We are in line with the 50 bazillion other moms and dads, dropping their precious bundles off at school. I'm the third vehicle back. The first vehicle is a minivan. The van door opens, and out pops a little tot, probably a kindergartner. (It's two months into school at this point:remember this!) The precocious tot toddles towards the school in a zig zag pattern, staring off into space. The van door closes, and I put my vehicle in drive, preparing to get the heck out of Dodge. The lead minivan rolls forward, then abruptly stops. I slam on my brakes, wondering what the HECK....but I unfortunately already know. They want to WATCH their little twit walk ALL the way into the building!

Seriously? We are TWO months into school! If this kid has not figured out how to get into the building at this point, there is a REAL problem! Besides, how is watching them going to get them in the building? Is this mom practicing telekinesis? If making sure your child gets in the building is this much of a priority to you, park, get your lazy, sweatpants-clad, croc-wearing booty OUT of car, and walk your child into the school!!!

Queen of my Double-Wide Trailer

I would like to start today's blog with the following disclaimer:

I am a country music fan. I listen to it at least 60% of the time. I love almost ALL country songs, and I embrace the genre as part of my Texas heritage.

And with that, here is a list of phrases that you would only hear in a country song:

* el camino
* sloe gin fizz
* gunpowder and lead
* belly full of beer and a possum in a sack
* I'd like to check you for ticks
* water tower
* We'll put a boot in your a$$
* mama's in the graveyard, papa's in the pen
* pardon me, you left your tears on the jukebox
* Longneck bottle, let go of my hand
* I've even seen dancing girls and hookers
* Thank God for good directions and turnip greens
* I shouldn't be wearing white and you can't afford no ring
* Shake the sugar tree
* There wasn't no hanky-panky, not a woman in sight
* And I'll keep on tap - for all your friends, their favorite kinds of beer
* And I know all the words to every ol' Bocephus song
* I was drunk the day my mom got out of prison

I'm sure all of you country music fans out there could come up with hundreds of others. As for the rest of you, the jury's still out as to whether you are normal! I mean, really, read those lyrics again! How could you NOT listen to this music?

Pavo vs. Guajalote

I thought I would take this opportunity to talk about something that I am obsessed with: Google. No, this is not a brazenly obvious plug for Google, who is inextricably linked to this blog. I'm simply waxing poetic about my latest and greatest love, the Google search engine.

G came home with a picture of a turkey yesterday. He colored it in his preschool Spanish class. Underneath the brown & orange turkey was the phrase "El pavo". I actually noticed this in the preschool hall, and said to myself (out loud, of course) "I thought 'guajalote' was the Spanish word for turkey...hmmmm".

I filed this away for future Google reference, and went about my day. Later, I was on the phone with C, when I suddenly remembered the turkey dilemma. Surprisingly, C had an opinion on the matter. (She doesn't speak Spanish) She said that it was definitely guajalote, because they were having some kind of Guajalote Festival in her small town. We turned to Google for the definitive answer.

In a few seconds, I was on the search engine, typing in "turkey in Spanish". 'El Pavo' popped up immediately. Hummpphh, I thought, we were wrong! I am NEVER wrong! I dug deeper, and discovered a website written all in Spanish. I'm a bit rusty, but my impression is that the website was discussing the origin of the word 'guajalote'. I new I had hit pay dirt, but since the "pay dirt" was in Spanish, I couldn't be sure.

Then, slowly and magically, my eyes scrolled up. I noticed a small link that said "translate". I clicked it faster than any of you can say guajalote, and there was my proof in English! Guajalote is indeed the Mexican word for turkey! El Pavo is the Spanish word for turkey as well, so I suppose it ended in a draw. Nevertheless, I feel vindicated.

Fundraiser Schmundraiser!

I swear, every day someone has their hand out asking me for money! Do you want to buy an ad in the PTA directory telling your kid how awesome he is? Give me five dollars. This "Ugly Mug" fundraiser is the PTA's ONLY fundraiser for items to improve the school...like a cover for the playground so your kid doesn't get skin cancer and die. It's only twelve dollars per bag of coffee. Don't you want to help the kids? (I don't even DRINK coffee!)

And then, the creme de la creme arrives: a fundraiser from G's PRESCHOOL! Um...hello?? Can you not at least have the decency to wait until he's actually in school, and not attending a program that I pay for? I can't stand scented candles (unless they're Yankee Candles!), don't like bath salts, and certainly don't need tubs full of cookie dough, pizzas, or corndogs! And then you have the audacity to suggest that I hawk these items to my friends and family?

My friends all have kids in the same school and are not interested in buying the same items from me that they are already trying to sell! My family is scattered all over the state, and surely would not care to contract salmonella from improperly thawed and re-frozen cookie dough!

Here's my take on it: Send me a form at the beginning of the year, and let me make a one time cash donation to the school. I'd be willing to donate upwards of $100 if it meant that I did NOT have to look at a fundraiser form during the school year!

Public school children are being brainwashed!

I just finished a seven course breakfast for my seven year old. There was a souffle, a southwestern omelet, a stack of buttermilk pancakes, crispy bacon, toast with butter AND jelly, a small quiche, and an english muffin, toasted to perfection. Why, you ask? The ITBS, of course! (OK, it was really a scrambled egg, two strips of bacon, and toast with strawberry preserves...topped off by a granola bar and some orange peach mango juice)

**As a side note, I am an acronym afficionado. You will see them used well and often in my blog**

ITBS= Iowa Test of Basic Skills. This is one of those "you're kid's not smart if he can't pass this"-"let's pigeon-hole all of the kiddos by inane test scores"-"maybe we should start teaching to the test"-"our class's scores potentially determine our raises" type of test. Why the seven course breakfast buffet? Well, Mommy, the teacher says we all need to get a good, hot breakfast on the morning of the test. Apparently on an average day of learning, a poptart and a juicebox will do. However, on ITBS day, (emphasis on the BS) the kids need a hot meal to magically make them smarter so that they will do well on the test.

In effect, all this brainwashing does is stress out a seven year old. Last night he looked at me with big, worried eyes and and said " What if I don't do good on the test, Mommy?". I almost gave him a hand gesture that spoke volumes about my feelings on the test, but I refrained. Instead, I dredged up what I hope was a good response: "J, this test is just to figure out what you know and what you don't know. If you don't do as well on part of it, then your teacher will work with you to learn more." I'm sure this is a blatant misprepresentation of what will really occur, but it was the best I could come up with under pressure.

Anyone who says raising kids is easy should be soundly smacked.

Bloggo Numero Uno

Hola carinos mios, y bienvenidos a mi blog!

Hey Y'all! Welcome to my blog!

There is no point to this blog...just random brain downloads from a SAHM. (stay at home mom...for the acronym challenged) So let's start with my day.

My day started at 2:33 am. O, my precocious youngest child, decided that this was the perfect time to run through his list of vocabulary words at the top of his lungs. Puppy Gingy started the list, followed quickly by Mommy, Daddy, and fruit bar. I shushed him via the two-way baby monitor to no avail. He kept up these antics for about an hour, then finally succumbed to slumber!

My day continued on pretty predictably, until about 11:42 am. I was cleaning the kitchen and simultaneously carrying a conversation with my contractor, and went to set a bag on the counter. I missed, and the bag hit the floor. No big deal, you think. Not so fast, my loves. The bag held a pint of black paint. I emphasize the past tense of the word "held", because, as soon as the can made contact with the floor, the paint went EVERYWHERE. My contractor had the NERVE to then ask if I had a mop, because the paint was going to stain the grout. DUH, dingaling! Anyway, my Hints from Heloise tip for the day is that Goo Gone does a pretty good job of getting paint off grout, and it smells good to boot!