Single parents, or parents who are mostly single, rock. It's not like this just dawned on me or anything, it's just that I don't have a lot of variety in my circle of immediate friends, and I don't see single parents doing "it all" every day. So, I forget to think about just how hard they're working all the time.
With M gone for the week, I have been given just an amuse bouche of what life as a single parent must be. And my bouche is not amused.
They're just relentless. Not necessarily, bad, but relentless. Kids NEVER stop. Even when you desperately need them to, just for a minute, give it UP. For one moment today, could you please please please do what is easiest for me without argument, sass, discussion or whining (and that's just from me)?
Could you just make my life easier by doing this one thing now?
It's not all the kids' fault, by any means. My kids have been pretty good. They can't help that they're age-appropriately programmed to watch TV and play and not want to do work. They are doing what we want kids to do--except when we want them to unload the dishwasher, pick up the cereal pieces, take out the dog.
Sometimes, and I was thinking about this last night as S was snoring beside me in my bed. (He's taken M's absence as some sort of Hamlet-ian opportunity to usurp the bed.) There's just nobody to talk to. Holy crap. Yesterday, I visited with a friend for a couple of hours, and afterwards was kind of blissed out, and I thought, OH YEAH. It's because I haven't talked to a grown up in FOUR DAYS. What the hell? How can anyone go that long without speaking Grownup?
Discussing Phineas and Ferb as though it is the great literature of our time? An informative lecture on Ninjago? A thorough analysis of the most recent Lego creation? A very detailed examination on how solar panels work? Why boys think their junk is so fun?
All of this, ALL of this, I have done. I haven't spoken about anything above, say the 5th grade level, in days. Not that M and I are having deep discussions about art and science and literature when he's home. But we ARE talking about grown up life. About things that are curious and interesting and (relatively) important. I can't even have a sophisticated argument without him around. It all deteriorates into "neenerneener! Are too! AM not!" and "Because I SAID SO."
Nothing. No engagement whatsoever. It's me and these little twerps, sweet as they may be.
So, last night, S is snoring and the dog is snoring, and I'm hot. I feel bitter, momentarily, about M dressed ever so hip, and cruising through one of the world's great cities, and I feel like picking a fight.
Nobody to fight with.
So, I lay there in the heat. Mad. Hot. Throwing the covers off my body and stewing in my nightshirt about how I'm in Alabama and he's in London and the kids are just kids.
The air conditioner kicked on at some point.
"Yeah. That's what I thought," I whisper yell at the ductwork. "I knew it was hot in here. Where the hell where YOU, A/C? Did you think that I wasn't going to NOTICE it was 76 degrees in here? Where youjust going to see if you could take a few degrees off? Really? I didn't think so."
If you're gonna fight with some one, you better make sure you can win.
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Things that go SMACK! in the night
Technically, it's not called babysitting when you're supervising your own kids. It just feels that way. Only you're not getting paid, and you don't get to leave. EVER.
For the first time in a long time, I'm home alone for a week with the kids. M is livin' it up UK style. He has an unbelievable week lined up for himself in London: Olympic Track & Field events, soccer events, a beer festival, Henry V at the Globe Theater, an organized archaelogical walk, and a docent-led private tour of the Tate and National Museums.
I've got swimming pools, heat, Disney Channel, and pb&j. Not that I'm jealous. I'm really not. Truly.
The more money he spends on his adventure, the more I'll be able to spend on mine. There is a karmic ledger, you know.
ANYWAY. I haven't been home alone at night for a long time. I'm spoiled that way.
Two nights ago, I had locked all the doors, shut all the lights, and was happily playing on my computer. I had the dog asleep in my lap, the kids put to bed, and all was right with the world.
Until.
There was a tiny little sound behind me. It sounded like a mash up of Vader, static, and some otherworldly sighing out of a horror movie.
It started as a tiny sound, and assumed the dog had snorfled in his sleep. Maybe it was a whimper or a snore misheard by me. Maybe it only sounded as if it was coming from behind me. But no. I'm pretty sure it was.
My fight or flight adrenaline began to flow. I turned around quickly, and there was a dark figure crouching behind my chair, just inches from me. It had a menacing face. Teeth.
I screamed. Really screamed. Lashed out with my hands and ran.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, as I crossed the threshold to the dining room, I thought, "that was a really small murderer/rapist."
I turn around again, and there is S. He's holding his mouth, because that's where I clocked him. There's no blood, no swelling. I'm shaking. I start babbling.
So sorry. I didn't know who it was. Shityouscaredme. Ohmygod. I'm shaking. So sorry. I had no idea. Are you okay? I'm sorry.
He chuckles. I mean like an evil villain chuckle. I hear E, in an overly-alarmed voice (waaaay too late after hearing me scream) "What's going on?!?"
S looks up at me, as I'm peering at his jaw. "I guess I had that coming."
Yes you did, son. Yes you did.
For the first time in a long time, I'm home alone for a week with the kids. M is livin' it up UK style. He has an unbelievable week lined up for himself in London: Olympic Track & Field events, soccer events, a beer festival, Henry V at the Globe Theater, an organized archaelogical walk, and a docent-led private tour of the Tate and National Museums.
I've got swimming pools, heat, Disney Channel, and pb&j. Not that I'm jealous. I'm really not. Truly.
The more money he spends on his adventure, the more I'll be able to spend on mine. There is a karmic ledger, you know.
ANYWAY. I haven't been home alone at night for a long time. I'm spoiled that way.
Two nights ago, I had locked all the doors, shut all the lights, and was happily playing on my computer. I had the dog asleep in my lap, the kids put to bed, and all was right with the world.
Until.
There was a tiny little sound behind me. It sounded like a mash up of Vader, static, and some otherworldly sighing out of a horror movie.
It started as a tiny sound, and assumed the dog had snorfled in his sleep. Maybe it was a whimper or a snore misheard by me. Maybe it only sounded as if it was coming from behind me. But no. I'm pretty sure it was.
My fight or flight adrenaline began to flow. I turned around quickly, and there was a dark figure crouching behind my chair, just inches from me. It had a menacing face. Teeth.
I screamed. Really screamed. Lashed out with my hands and ran.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, as I crossed the threshold to the dining room, I thought, "that was a really small murderer/rapist."
I turn around again, and there is S. He's holding his mouth, because that's where I clocked him. There's no blood, no swelling. I'm shaking. I start babbling.
So sorry. I didn't know who it was. Shityouscaredme. Ohmygod. I'm shaking. So sorry. I had no idea. Are you okay? I'm sorry.
He chuckles. I mean like an evil villain chuckle. I hear E, in an overly-alarmed voice (waaaay too late after hearing me scream) "What's going on?!?"
S looks up at me, as I'm peering at his jaw. "I guess I had that coming."
Yes you did, son. Yes you did.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Forecast: 52 & Damp
All my vacation stories are out of order, but you'll piece it together. I'm going to take you back to Yellowstone now:
Yellowstone was amazing--bear and pronghorn (which are NOT deer) and elk and actual deer and wolves--we saw WOLVES and herds of bison. We hired a private guide for our last day, and he works on the wolf restoration project in Yellowstone, so he had a radio to know exactly where the wolves were, which was fantastic, because one crossed directly in front of us:
Sadly, these are the only moose we saw: the men decided that the best way to attract moose for us to see was to put on finger antlers and make moose calls. Which, if we were to ask a biologist, is probably the WORST way to attract moose for us to see.
Yellowstone was amazing--bear and pronghorn (which are NOT deer) and elk and actual deer and wolves--we saw WOLVES and herds of bison. We hired a private guide for our last day, and he works on the wolf restoration project in Yellowstone, so he had a radio to know exactly where the wolves were, which was fantastic, because one crossed directly in front of us:
which is funny, because you can see the people in the background looking for the wolf in the other direction. This is a crappy photo, but it was through a bug-splattered windshield and holy crap, wildlife is not cooperative. At all.
Except for this bison, who graciously consented to be part of my "Animals Doing Animal Stuff" collection of photos:
This blurry bear was wandering too close for too long along the side of a busy road. The rangers call this loitering, and they discourage this behavior by using negative reinforcement: they shoot loiterers in the bum with rubber bullets. Which, since it's not my bum, is hilarious. This bear was lumbering around, very slowly munching on stuff, and the ranger took aim, and bzing! The bear took off running in the other direction. I have decided rubber bullets may be the answer to my child discipline questions.
Of course, this picture of a ground squirrel type animal is perfect. S made me take it. It's cute, but I wish my other pictures were this clear.
The next picture is simultaneously my favorite and least favorite moment from our entire trip to Yellowstone. One day, in the middle of the week, it was really quite warm, bordering on hot. The rivers and streams and lakes look so inviting after a 5 mile walk. I begged M to let us pull over and stomp in the stream some. "Up to my ankles," I said. "It's so refreshing," I said. "I'm so hot," I said.
So, indeed, we pulled over, we scrabbled down this little embankment and found ourselves all alone in this lovely bend of this beautiful stream. I rolled up my pants, took off my shoes, and waded into the refreshing coolness. The water is so very very clear, and the rocks in the creek bed were slick and smooth and beautiful. Despite my tempting description of the refreshingness, M declined to come in. E was slow getting off his shoes, but he was game for a little wade in the stream. S was gung ho, because, of course, S is gung ho about everything. Mostly. He's wading around up to his knees when M encourages him to return to shore and take off his pants so they don't get wet. (Which, as it turns out, was some fantastic advice.)
Lil' S returns to the water squealing with delight at the cool, briskly flowing water. M was so enjoying S's display of mini-adorableness that he snapped THIS photo (that, by the way, I promised S I would NEVER publish or reproduce, so let's keep this between us) as S uttered the best last words ever spoken by a person enjoying a brisk stream: "Ooooh! It feels so good on your thighs!!"
Those, were, in fact his last words before flapping his arms wildly and falling completely into the river.
As you can see from this photo, the water is flowing quite strong up against the young man's Phineas and Ferb underwear. It swiftly picked the kid up and started dragging him downstream. The aforementioned shiny, slick and smooth rocks prevented him from getting a foothold. And after a moment or two, he had drifted to where he could no longer stand anyway. M is scrambling along the embankments to try to get ahead of the drifting platypus-underwear-wearing kid. E is panicking and dropping things. I am splashing and stumbling through the water to get to him.
At some point, it became clear to me that if I was going to save my kid before he started floating down the Hayden Valley (where EVERY tourist in Yellowstone would be able to photograph our parenting failure) towards the beautiful falls we had photographed earlier in the day, I was going to have to jump in and swim.
Which is what I did.
He was actually far enough ahead of me that I had to swim for him. I grabbed him by the collar in dramatic fashion, and dragged him to a log mired on the bank.
It was quite a moment, one of those moments that as a parent seem to last forever in super slo-mo. When it is impossible to calculate the number of thoughts going through your brain:
"How will I explain this to my parents? The cops? No one will believe that we tried to rescue him. The people at dinner last night will recall the whisper fight we had about his $11 pasta that was untouched. Will a bear eat him? How long 'til he gets hypothermia? Does this water have flesh eating bacteria? M is never gonna forgive me. Will this be on CNN? Will I be the next Tan Mom neglecting my child? Will anyone care that I was trying to enrich my child's life through travel and inadvertently let him drown? Will the headline read, 'Where's Perry?' Holy crap! This water is freakin' cold! Damn, that kid makes the WORST choices. What is WRONG with him?"
As we all sat on the embankment catching our collective breath, E came along. He brought with him our shoes and socks. M still had S's dry pants. He was able to redress in a dry sweatshirt from the car, his dry pants, and his dry socks and shoes.
I had dry socks. Only dry socks. Soaked sweatshirt, t-shirt, sports bra, pants, underwear. The whole shebang. I wrung out my clothes as best as I could, and forced M to roll my shirt up in the window so it could air dry en route to Old Faithful. (He protested, saying that was entirely too country to have clothes flapping outside the car. For real? I'm soaked in 52 degree water from neglecting my child in a stream in the middle of nowhere and the shirt outside the car is what's country?)
We went to the Old Faithful lodge for a snack before continuing on. I literally left a trail of water drops on the floor as I walked around the lodge. Just another reason to be happy we went home to a hot shower in a hotel room and NOT a campground.
I clearly can't be trusted with my own kids in the wilderness.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
City Mouse, Country Mouse, Rube
So, this was the summer of travel. We dared to schlep our children across or into or through, get this: NINE states.
Not including the state of insanity.
We trekked to Yellowstone National Park, the birthplace of outdoorsy. A place, where we learned, a dude fell off his horse and lived for 57 days off thistles, keeping himself warm with fires made from his single unbroken eyeglass lens. Another dude, having fallen on the wrong side of some locals, was stripped of clothing, and told that if he could escape, he could live. The locals didn't think to look for him up under a beaver den, where his wet naked self hid until returning to safety. The heart of bison country. Of, literally, Purple Mountain's majesty.
We, as a family, are NOT outdoorsy. I have seen, on occasion, my husband RUN from mosquitoes. I have never slept in a tent that was not strung between two chairs in my grandma's family room. I think community showers breed grossness. I don't understand how a campsite--jammed motor home to motor home, with tents stuck in between--is relaxing, or beautiful, or at all a getaway. It feels much more like a pre-game parking lot tailgate for college football. On the other hand, an extended hike into the wilderness to sleep under the stars sounds lovely, but I don't think I'd be good at sharing a potty with a bear.
But the thing about Yellowstone is that EVERYONE can do it. We woke up in our fresh hotel room, ate a portable breakfast of oatmeal and yogurt, savored a decent cup of coffee and set out in our rental car each morning. We left before 6 each day, and saw all kinds of animals starting their day as well. We took our kids (who did not complain!) on trails up to 5 miles long. More than one a day, even. We brought with us lovely bagged lunches we bought at the hotel and ate at picnic tables near streams. Best of all, we came home in the evenings, showered in our own bathroom, put on clean clothes, returned to the lobby, enjoyed a cocktail or a local microbrew, and ate dinner with real plates, glasses and delicious food.
That's about how outdoorsy we are. We made it work for us, though.
One thing that NO ONE can pass off is being a tourist in the city. After a week in Chicago, it was very clear that this place once called home was now our vacation destination. Our sensible shoes, constant checking of intersection numbers and El routes, our near desperate need for deep dish pizza were clearly those of the rube.
We were almost country mice in the country, but most definitely not city mice in the city.
And then this guy gets on the El:
Can you see him? That's an Alabama hat and shirt. It's also a waist-length ponytail.
This guy and his buddies had trouble getting on the train. They were unable to determine what line they were on (red), where (south) and when (as soon as you get outta the doorway, buddy) it was going, and where, exactly they were when they got on it (Howard). They also thought they'd be able to walk into Wrigley in the third inning against the Cardinals. They also thought they'd make it back to Waukegan by 4:30 that afternoon after watching the game (no way).
Maybe they only know college football? Maybe they failed to notice it took them 2 hours to get to where they were, and it was only two hours until they were supposed to be back there?
Maybe a lot of things. I've certainly felt lost and befuddled in places I don't know. Really. I have sympathy for that.
BUT, they get on the train, loud and confused and all SOUTHERN about it. Advertising with their mouths, their poor English, their SEC-based wardrobe--posting their country mouse-ness on their bodies.
How MUCH money, exactly, does Alabama make on clothing? There must be entire city-sweatshops in China dedicated to sewing closets full of University of Alabama/Roll Tide gear. Never have I seen people so eager to broadcast an affinity for a university which they may/may not have attended. And, for all of you alumni out there, I hope this guy did not attend.
What is the deal? I get that there are not a ton of retail options down here, but seriously. It's ok to shop for clothing at someplace besides the grocery store. Houndstooth does NOT go with everything, despite what you have been told. Not every accessory needs to be Tide-related (ladies, I'm looking at those elephant earrings I see everywhere). Not everyone needs to know you're from here--especially if you're going to act rube-ishly. Do your state a favor.
At least wear an Ol' Miss shirt.
Not including the state of insanity.
We trekked to Yellowstone National Park, the birthplace of outdoorsy. A place, where we learned, a dude fell off his horse and lived for 57 days off thistles, keeping himself warm with fires made from his single unbroken eyeglass lens. Another dude, having fallen on the wrong side of some locals, was stripped of clothing, and told that if he could escape, he could live. The locals didn't think to look for him up under a beaver den, where his wet naked self hid until returning to safety. The heart of bison country. Of, literally, Purple Mountain's majesty.
We, as a family, are NOT outdoorsy. I have seen, on occasion, my husband RUN from mosquitoes. I have never slept in a tent that was not strung between two chairs in my grandma's family room. I think community showers breed grossness. I don't understand how a campsite--jammed motor home to motor home, with tents stuck in between--is relaxing, or beautiful, or at all a getaway. It feels much more like a pre-game parking lot tailgate for college football. On the other hand, an extended hike into the wilderness to sleep under the stars sounds lovely, but I don't think I'd be good at sharing a potty with a bear.
But the thing about Yellowstone is that EVERYONE can do it. We woke up in our fresh hotel room, ate a portable breakfast of oatmeal and yogurt, savored a decent cup of coffee and set out in our rental car each morning. We left before 6 each day, and saw all kinds of animals starting their day as well. We took our kids (who did not complain!) on trails up to 5 miles long. More than one a day, even. We brought with us lovely bagged lunches we bought at the hotel and ate at picnic tables near streams. Best of all, we came home in the evenings, showered in our own bathroom, put on clean clothes, returned to the lobby, enjoyed a cocktail or a local microbrew, and ate dinner with real plates, glasses and delicious food.
That's about how outdoorsy we are. We made it work for us, though.
One thing that NO ONE can pass off is being a tourist in the city. After a week in Chicago, it was very clear that this place once called home was now our vacation destination. Our sensible shoes, constant checking of intersection numbers and El routes, our near desperate need for deep dish pizza were clearly those of the rube.
We were almost country mice in the country, but most definitely not city mice in the city.
And then this guy gets on the El:
This guy and his buddies had trouble getting on the train. They were unable to determine what line they were on (red), where (south) and when (as soon as you get outta the doorway, buddy) it was going, and where, exactly they were when they got on it (Howard). They also thought they'd be able to walk into Wrigley in the third inning against the Cardinals. They also thought they'd make it back to Waukegan by 4:30 that afternoon after watching the game (no way).
Maybe they only know college football? Maybe they failed to notice it took them 2 hours to get to where they were, and it was only two hours until they were supposed to be back there?
Maybe a lot of things. I've certainly felt lost and befuddled in places I don't know. Really. I have sympathy for that.
BUT, they get on the train, loud and confused and all SOUTHERN about it. Advertising with their mouths, their poor English, their SEC-based wardrobe--posting their country mouse-ness on their bodies.
How MUCH money, exactly, does Alabama make on clothing? There must be entire city-sweatshops in China dedicated to sewing closets full of University of Alabama/Roll Tide gear. Never have I seen people so eager to broadcast an affinity for a university which they may/may not have attended. And, for all of you alumni out there, I hope this guy did not attend.
What is the deal? I get that there are not a ton of retail options down here, but seriously. It's ok to shop for clothing at someplace besides the grocery store. Houndstooth does NOT go with everything, despite what you have been told. Not every accessory needs to be Tide-related (ladies, I'm looking at those elephant earrings I see everywhere). Not everyone needs to know you're from here--especially if you're going to act rube-ishly. Do your state a favor.
At least wear an Ol' Miss shirt.
Saturday, July 21, 2012
God help me
I suppose there are many reasons I haven't posted to my blog in, like, forever. One is that Facebook is really a lot easier. Another is that in converting to hermit-ism, nothing really happens to me anymore. A third is that I'm lazy. There are probably more reasons why I haven't posted to my blog, but I refer you to reason three.
When I leave my life of hermit-ism, things happen to me. For example, we take family vacations. This summer has been the summer of roaming for us. We spent a week at the Redneck Riviera in Orange Beach, which was great. Water was beautiful, my sister and her husband came with, and we had friends to visit us, as well. We went to Yellowstone, which was everything a family road trip is supposed to be, plus an added fee for returning the rental car with a completely trashed back seat. Monday, we leave for Chicago, on a !train! and are going to get to see long lost friends and savor the nostalgia of our college years. In two weeks, M is heading off to London for the Olympics. Go Canada! At the end of September, I get to go to Puerto Rico. ALL BY MYSELF. I will hoist a drink at the Bacardi distillery for every one I know.
As great as all that is, traveling, as everyone knows and discusses extensively everywhere, is just not what it used to be. Flying, especially, isn't the glorious adventure we all hope it to be. Fortunately, the 8 hour flight to Salt Lake City followed by the 6 hour drive to Yellowstone, was relatively painless. (Unless, apparently, you were the back seat of a Hyundai Sonata with 4 miles on the odometer, in which case the trip was apparently very very painful.)
The trip home started out promising, as well. We drove the 6 hours from Wyoming to Salt Lake City the day BEFORE our flight, which was smart. We had an afternoon to check out the Mormons' Temple Square and relish the culinary happiness that is Cheesecake Factory. We did get stood up by the hotel shuttle after returning the rental car (and getting lectured on its soiled appearance), but we stayed in a supremely crappy airport hotel the night before our flight, which was FINE. We woke up the next morning, did not get stood up by the shuttle, and made it to the airport well in time for a Starbucks and a nap in the gate area.
The trouble really started in Houston.
First, you know that I'm pretty cynical and occasionally morose. So the first thing I always do upon arrival in the Gate Area is to survey my fellow passengers. These fine specimens are the people who have some, however tangential, common interest with me. We are bound together by our destination. These are also the people whose families will be mourning with mine in the event of air disaster. These are the people with whom I could spend my last waking moments. So, I like to know what I'm up against.
Invariably, (sorry Alabama friends) the Gate Area for Mobile-bound flights looks like Darwin's waiting room. Far too many men in sleeveless shirts. Far too many children in camo. It doesn't help that these flights are in the "regional flights" section of the airport, which is just marginally above a bus depot. (I'm guessing. I've never ridden the Dog anywhere.)
This time, there were abut 16 people of assorted ages, but homogeneously white and Wal-Marty in matching tee shirts, 2 guys headed down for the fishing rodeo, and the four of us.
The tee shirts touted the group's involvement in a week-long Guatemalan mission trip.
And us.
Ok. So we board the flight. The missionaries are VERY chatty among themselves. They are so very excited to get back to Grand Bay, Alabama after being in a fowr-in country for a week. I guess the endless variety of God's vast world is slightly lost upon them.
The Chicago-based flight crew welcomes us onboard, apologizes for a brief delay while we add some more fuel (Alabama sized asses?) because there is "weather" in Mobile that may require us to take alternate routes or circle. I tap M on the back of his head with my SkyMall catalog. "We're effed."
But wait. The missionary woman says, and I swear this is true, "Well, isn't this a blessing? We'll all get to visit a little."
No. No no no no no no. Not a blessing. A blessing, by definition in EVERY faith on earth, is a good thing. A delay, by definition of every human on earth, is NOT a good thing.
I hit M on the head a second time with my SkyMall.
The group starts rehashing their visit, and what an amazing journey it is and how all their family'll be waitin' on 'em at the airport. They talk and talk and talk.
I consider praying.
We finally push back from the gate. As we taxi out to the runway, the plane is making a horrible chachunking noise. Bad even for an over-taxed, under-maintained regional jet. Eventually, our Chicago based flight crew announces that there are mechanical difficulties with the plane. We will be returning to the gate and either waiting for maintenance to fix the problem or swapping planes.
M really gets walloped with the SkyMall this time.
This is the reaction of the woman next to me: "This is God answering my prayers for a safe flight home. He's saved us from an unsafe flight."
Me to M: "Couldn't he have just maintained the plane well in the first place?"
We wait. And wait. And wait. Nearly 3 hours.
Meanwhile, the shallow end of the gene pool is waiting in the bus-depot section of the airport. Flights to such metropolitan destinations as Omaha, Oklahoma City, and Little Rock are all delayed because of mechanical difficulties. Are the airlines EVEN trying anymore? I'm eating an Otis Spunkmeyer chocolate chip cookie to console myself. S is watching Lego Star Wars.
Finally. We get to reboard the questionably safe aircraft. Welcome back aboard. I instantly re-arm myself with the SkyMall.
Then, it happens. The unbearably fantastic, pathetic, unbelievable. The 18 year old young missionary sitting in the row behind me begins to cry. Audibly cry. He's afraid the plane hasn't been fixed. He's never sat next to the window before. He's had an emotional week.
The decrepit woman next to him pats him, actually pats him, and tells him not to worry. "We all know whose hands this flight is in."
M: "Yeah, the red headed pilot and my Chicago based flight crew."
He's crying?!? Best case scenario, he winds home back on his farm in beautiful Grand Bay, Alabama. Worst case scenario, he gets to be reunited with Jesus! Either way, this kid's day is ending well.
Me? Worst case scenario, I wind up back in Mobile, Alabama.
When I leave my life of hermit-ism, things happen to me. For example, we take family vacations. This summer has been the summer of roaming for us. We spent a week at the Redneck Riviera in Orange Beach, which was great. Water was beautiful, my sister and her husband came with, and we had friends to visit us, as well. We went to Yellowstone, which was everything a family road trip is supposed to be, plus an added fee for returning the rental car with a completely trashed back seat. Monday, we leave for Chicago, on a !train! and are going to get to see long lost friends and savor the nostalgia of our college years. In two weeks, M is heading off to London for the Olympics. Go Canada! At the end of September, I get to go to Puerto Rico. ALL BY MYSELF. I will hoist a drink at the Bacardi distillery for every one I know.
As great as all that is, traveling, as everyone knows and discusses extensively everywhere, is just not what it used to be. Flying, especially, isn't the glorious adventure we all hope it to be. Fortunately, the 8 hour flight to Salt Lake City followed by the 6 hour drive to Yellowstone, was relatively painless. (Unless, apparently, you were the back seat of a Hyundai Sonata with 4 miles on the odometer, in which case the trip was apparently very very painful.)
The trip home started out promising, as well. We drove the 6 hours from Wyoming to Salt Lake City the day BEFORE our flight, which was smart. We had an afternoon to check out the Mormons' Temple Square and relish the culinary happiness that is Cheesecake Factory. We did get stood up by the hotel shuttle after returning the rental car (and getting lectured on its soiled appearance), but we stayed in a supremely crappy airport hotel the night before our flight, which was FINE. We woke up the next morning, did not get stood up by the shuttle, and made it to the airport well in time for a Starbucks and a nap in the gate area.
The trouble really started in Houston.
First, you know that I'm pretty cynical and occasionally morose. So the first thing I always do upon arrival in the Gate Area is to survey my fellow passengers. These fine specimens are the people who have some, however tangential, common interest with me. We are bound together by our destination. These are also the people whose families will be mourning with mine in the event of air disaster. These are the people with whom I could spend my last waking moments. So, I like to know what I'm up against.
Invariably, (sorry Alabama friends) the Gate Area for Mobile-bound flights looks like Darwin's waiting room. Far too many men in sleeveless shirts. Far too many children in camo. It doesn't help that these flights are in the "regional flights" section of the airport, which is just marginally above a bus depot. (I'm guessing. I've never ridden the Dog anywhere.)
This time, there were abut 16 people of assorted ages, but homogeneously white and Wal-Marty in matching tee shirts, 2 guys headed down for the fishing rodeo, and the four of us.
The tee shirts touted the group's involvement in a week-long Guatemalan mission trip.
And us.
Ok. So we board the flight. The missionaries are VERY chatty among themselves. They are so very excited to get back to Grand Bay, Alabama after being in a fowr-in country for a week. I guess the endless variety of God's vast world is slightly lost upon them.
The Chicago-based flight crew welcomes us onboard, apologizes for a brief delay while we add some more fuel (Alabama sized asses?) because there is "weather" in Mobile that may require us to take alternate routes or circle. I tap M on the back of his head with my SkyMall catalog. "We're effed."
But wait. The missionary woman says, and I swear this is true, "Well, isn't this a blessing? We'll all get to visit a little."
No. No no no no no no. Not a blessing. A blessing, by definition in EVERY faith on earth, is a good thing. A delay, by definition of every human on earth, is NOT a good thing.
I hit M on the head a second time with my SkyMall.
The group starts rehashing their visit, and what an amazing journey it is and how all their family'll be waitin' on 'em at the airport. They talk and talk and talk.
I consider praying.
We finally push back from the gate. As we taxi out to the runway, the plane is making a horrible chachunking noise. Bad even for an over-taxed, under-maintained regional jet. Eventually, our Chicago based flight crew announces that there are mechanical difficulties with the plane. We will be returning to the gate and either waiting for maintenance to fix the problem or swapping planes.
M really gets walloped with the SkyMall this time.
This is the reaction of the woman next to me: "This is God answering my prayers for a safe flight home. He's saved us from an unsafe flight."
Me to M: "Couldn't he have just maintained the plane well in the first place?"
We wait. And wait. And wait. Nearly 3 hours.
Meanwhile, the shallow end of the gene pool is waiting in the bus-depot section of the airport. Flights to such metropolitan destinations as Omaha, Oklahoma City, and Little Rock are all delayed because of mechanical difficulties. Are the airlines EVEN trying anymore? I'm eating an Otis Spunkmeyer chocolate chip cookie to console myself. S is watching Lego Star Wars.
Finally. We get to reboard the questionably safe aircraft. Welcome back aboard. I instantly re-arm myself with the SkyMall.
Then, it happens. The unbearably fantastic, pathetic, unbelievable. The 18 year old young missionary sitting in the row behind me begins to cry. Audibly cry. He's afraid the plane hasn't been fixed. He's never sat next to the window before. He's had an emotional week.
The decrepit woman next to him pats him, actually pats him, and tells him not to worry. "We all know whose hands this flight is in."
M: "Yeah, the red headed pilot and my Chicago based flight crew."
He's crying?!? Best case scenario, he winds home back on his farm in beautiful Grand Bay, Alabama. Worst case scenario, he gets to be reunited with Jesus! Either way, this kid's day is ending well.
Me? Worst case scenario, I wind up back in Mobile, Alabama.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Pavlov's Cat
Sometimes we, as parents and pet owners, attempt novel ways to effect behavior change in our children/pets. Sometimes our methods for both our two- and four-legged charges are the same. Sometimes not. In the interest of my status with Social Services and PETA, I'll let you determine which of my examples are human-approved, which are PETA approved, and which are um, simply invented. Sometimes behavior modification is successful. Sometimes not. Sometimes it's both.
Unfortunately, we occasionally employ negative reinforcement. Yeah, yeah. I've heard it all before. "Johnny is perfect. We never yell or spank or shake him at all." I don't believe you. I believe occasionally, when you've put Johnny to bed for the 999th time and he keeps toddling downstairs to stall, and you're just trying to have a clandestine bottle of wine with a PG-13 rated movie, you might be pushed to the point where you use a stern voice, and say, "I am going to take you upstairs, and lean on your door so that you can't come out anymore tonight. It's BEDTIME!" Some people have been known to use choke chains or collars to modify behavior. I find that a strategically timed, unpredicted pop on the bum can be very effective.
Sometimes, we use positive reinforcement. Some call it bribery. Tomato, tomahto, I say. "If you PROMISE not to talk about boogers at Easter Dinner, I promise to buy all the on-sale Easter candy tomorrow and you can eat it all at once." You've said it. You know you have.
Sometimes, we use goldfish crackers or bits of hot dog, but we ultimately trade treats for desired behavior. Effective. On all species.
Sometimes, we inadvertently use the latter thinking we are doing the former:
The Cat story has recently come to a sad, but inevitable end. Cat's 'Owner' passed away. I'm truly sad for their family, as she seemed to be a much loved member.
In the wake of this event, Cat has figured out that the food is only being dispensed at our house these days. He's spending more time inside, and terrorizing Clooney more and more.
Clooney, who just got a haircut, and is feeling pretty good about himself, has certainly been trying to assert his primary ownership of the house.
Cat is tough. He's been walking around the house with tufts of Clooney fur stuck in his retracted claws. I feel like I have to intervene. Clooney needs to feel safe and Cat needs to know there are consequences to his actions.
I put Cat outside. Rain or shine, cold or hot, Cat's consequences are the same: out he goes. No exceptions.
Sometimes consistency can backfire. Last night, I was watching TV while determined to ignore Cat's whine to be let out. Sometimes, once my butt gets in the couch, inertia takes over, and I become stuck. Only the threat of cat 'accident' eventually gets me up, unlocks the door, opens the screen and lets Cat out to the great sandbox of the neighborhood.
But last night, I waited too long. I ignored Cat one mew too many. So he took a swipe at the dog. A BIG ol' swipe at the door. Instantly, I was up, unlocking doors and pitching out feline.
"Holy crap. Instead of teaching Cat not to fight with Clooney, I've taught him to slap Clooney around when he wants to go out."
That's bad. Then, I thought about how, like an annoying little bell, Cat sat by the door waiting for me to come. And how, when I do it promptly, he rewards me by pooping outside....
Wait a minute. Who's training whom here?
Unfortunately, we occasionally employ negative reinforcement. Yeah, yeah. I've heard it all before. "Johnny is perfect. We never yell or spank or shake him at all." I don't believe you. I believe occasionally, when you've put Johnny to bed for the 999th time and he keeps toddling downstairs to stall, and you're just trying to have a clandestine bottle of wine with a PG-13 rated movie, you might be pushed to the point where you use a stern voice, and say, "I am going to take you upstairs, and lean on your door so that you can't come out anymore tonight. It's BEDTIME!" Some people have been known to use choke chains or collars to modify behavior. I find that a strategically timed, unpredicted pop on the bum can be very effective.
Sometimes, we use positive reinforcement. Some call it bribery. Tomato, tomahto, I say. "If you PROMISE not to talk about boogers at Easter Dinner, I promise to buy all the on-sale Easter candy tomorrow and you can eat it all at once." You've said it. You know you have.
Sometimes, we use goldfish crackers or bits of hot dog, but we ultimately trade treats for desired behavior. Effective. On all species.
Sometimes, we inadvertently use the latter thinking we are doing the former:
The Cat story has recently come to a sad, but inevitable end. Cat's 'Owner' passed away. I'm truly sad for their family, as she seemed to be a much loved member.
In the wake of this event, Cat has figured out that the food is only being dispensed at our house these days. He's spending more time inside, and terrorizing Clooney more and more.
Clooney, who just got a haircut, and is feeling pretty good about himself, has certainly been trying to assert his primary ownership of the house.
Cat is tough. He's been walking around the house with tufts of Clooney fur stuck in his retracted claws. I feel like I have to intervene. Clooney needs to feel safe and Cat needs to know there are consequences to his actions.
I put Cat outside. Rain or shine, cold or hot, Cat's consequences are the same: out he goes. No exceptions.
Sometimes consistency can backfire. Last night, I was watching TV while determined to ignore Cat's whine to be let out. Sometimes, once my butt gets in the couch, inertia takes over, and I become stuck. Only the threat of cat 'accident' eventually gets me up, unlocks the door, opens the screen and lets Cat out to the great sandbox of the neighborhood.
But last night, I waited too long. I ignored Cat one mew too many. So he took a swipe at the dog. A BIG ol' swipe at the door. Instantly, I was up, unlocking doors and pitching out feline.
"Holy crap. Instead of teaching Cat not to fight with Clooney, I've taught him to slap Clooney around when he wants to go out."
That's bad. Then, I thought about how, like an annoying little bell, Cat sat by the door waiting for me to come. And how, when I do it promptly, he rewards me by pooping outside....
Wait a minute. Who's training whom here?
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Goodbye, Mr. Cinnamon Chips?
It's just that I've been so mad. It's hard to write about stuff you care passionately about (your family) when the world around you is insane. I think, perhaps, literally, insane. The crazy world invites all these diatribes and rants and soon I either become Bill Maher or Keith Olberman, and then I'm insane, and what good has that done? Nobody wants to hear my thoughts on the world in general. I am neither qualified nor insightful enough to add anything to the national dialogue on anything.
One of the things I have been trying to do to stem the crazy is to avoid the news. This is, theoretically, not difficult. I never watch daytime TV, so there's no Hoda or Kathie Lee trying to sell me oversize glasses of w(h)ine. M refuses to put any 24 hour news channels on our favorites list, so when I scroll through the options on TV, those stations don't even APPEAR. And, of course, it's my own fingers who find the URL of Facebook and CNN and all the other outlets online.
Somehow, being disconnected from the rest of the world made me feel uncomfortable. Part of this is my own delusions of self-importance. Somehow, if I read the news, I can affect its outcome. Sorry to those Beastie Boys fans out there, and sorry it took so long to you guys waiting for Gingrich to withdraw from the elections. That kind of power is scary. So, I take the burden of influencing the news seriously.
I won't even mention Pinterest.
Also, my life keeps me distracted. Should I write about my kids? Right now, they're kind of uninteresting. They don't really get into trouble, they perform well on standardized tests, and they went to California over spring break to be treated with nothing but indulgence by their grandparents. It's hard to make observations about children whose lives are equivalent to that of Wagyu Beef cows.
A lot of what they've been doing lately is readily distilled into Facebook length updates. A popular diddy:
S's teacher to me one day after school: I have to tell you what S said today.
Me: OK
S's Teacher: Here is the conversation:
Me: S, honey, you look tired.
S: Yah. Well, my parents put me to bed at the regular time, but I snuck downstairs, and watched some TV from the kitchen. I watched the end of Big Bang Theory and then I caught some Chelsea Handler. She's really funny. Really inappropriate. But, really funny.
Me: Ok, then.
Me: Parents of the year, right? (Bow, in gratitude and acceptance of the award). He sneaks downstairs a lot and we didn't bust him last night 'til we heard him laughing about Chelsea.
See, I can put that on Facebook in, like, a minute. I don't have to give y'all a lot of set-up material. That's so funny, it can stand on its own.
I really don't know what to do anymore. It only takes me about a half hour a day to post an entry. Is it worth it? Do people have the 2 minutes to read my 30 minutes of work? Will it be easier in the summer? Would I have more to say?
Also, it seems disingenuous to bitch about my life these days. While there have ALWAYS been people starving in Africa, and god knows I still managed a pity party despite that, I feel like people close to me have had problems lately. It seems absurd to complain about healthy children who get into inconsequential mayhem occasionally when I have friends dealing with, you know, problems.
Should I bother to get my blog on anymore? Should I put it to vote? Should I strive to post weekly? Monthly? Not at all? If you're out there still (I don't know why you would be, I would have given up on me a long time ago) lemme know.
One of the things I have been trying to do to stem the crazy is to avoid the news. This is, theoretically, not difficult. I never watch daytime TV, so there's no Hoda or Kathie Lee trying to sell me oversize glasses of w(h)ine. M refuses to put any 24 hour news channels on our favorites list, so when I scroll through the options on TV, those stations don't even APPEAR. And, of course, it's my own fingers who find the URL of Facebook and CNN and all the other outlets online.
Somehow, being disconnected from the rest of the world made me feel uncomfortable. Part of this is my own delusions of self-importance. Somehow, if I read the news, I can affect its outcome. Sorry to those Beastie Boys fans out there, and sorry it took so long to you guys waiting for Gingrich to withdraw from the elections. That kind of power is scary. So, I take the burden of influencing the news seriously.
I won't even mention Pinterest.
Also, my life keeps me distracted. Should I write about my kids? Right now, they're kind of uninteresting. They don't really get into trouble, they perform well on standardized tests, and they went to California over spring break to be treated with nothing but indulgence by their grandparents. It's hard to make observations about children whose lives are equivalent to that of Wagyu Beef cows.
A lot of what they've been doing lately is readily distilled into Facebook length updates. A popular diddy:
S's teacher to me one day after school: I have to tell you what S said today.
Me: OK
S's Teacher: Here is the conversation:
Me: S, honey, you look tired.
S: Yah. Well, my parents put me to bed at the regular time, but I snuck downstairs, and watched some TV from the kitchen. I watched the end of Big Bang Theory and then I caught some Chelsea Handler. She's really funny. Really inappropriate. But, really funny.
Me: Ok, then.
Me: Parents of the year, right? (Bow, in gratitude and acceptance of the award). He sneaks downstairs a lot and we didn't bust him last night 'til we heard him laughing about Chelsea.
See, I can put that on Facebook in, like, a minute. I don't have to give y'all a lot of set-up material. That's so funny, it can stand on its own.
I really don't know what to do anymore. It only takes me about a half hour a day to post an entry. Is it worth it? Do people have the 2 minutes to read my 30 minutes of work? Will it be easier in the summer? Would I have more to say?
Also, it seems disingenuous to bitch about my life these days. While there have ALWAYS been people starving in Africa, and god knows I still managed a pity party despite that, I feel like people close to me have had problems lately. It seems absurd to complain about healthy children who get into inconsequential mayhem occasionally when I have friends dealing with, you know, problems.
Should I bother to get my blog on anymore? Should I put it to vote? Should I strive to post weekly? Monthly? Not at all? If you're out there still (I don't know why you would be, I would have given up on me a long time ago) lemme know.
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