What Must The Neighbors Think?

Evan in the bathroom: Uh oh! Oh no! Mommmeeeee! Help!

Me: Uh oh, what? What happened?

Door opens, and I gasp. Evan has peed a bucket-worth of pee all over the floor. Not that he wasn't trying to pee in the potty, but he decided to sit instead of stand, and obviously did not adjust his aim.

Me: Evan! Why did you pee all over the floor??? Why do you think that happened?

Evan: Because I didn't do good?

Me: No, buddy, you did a great job of trying, ...

(I walk to the kitchen to get the lysol wipes to clean up the floor. All the windows are wiiiiiiiide open right where I am yelling back to Evan in the bathroom...)

Me: ...but for the love of god, next time POINT YOUR PENIS DOWN!!!


Seriously, what must the neighbors think?

What A Whorable Thing to Say!

Let me preface this by saying I hate family functions. Not my intimate family functions, where it's all love and warm fuzzies with family who I truly consider "my family", but those family functions. You know, in-laws, out-laws, half-siblings, and the other odds and ends that make up "family". Ahh, yes, today was one of those family functions.

Today was my nephew's baptism, followed by a luncheon where we all could share our discomfort of being crammed into the same breathing space while eating pizza. Yes, pizza. A holy choice, don't you think? Anyway, the fun little perk about these parties is watching my parents squirm through their discomfort in completely different styles. My dad, the drunk, my mom, the instant Mrs. Cleaver.

My parents divorced when I was 26 years old, after almost 30 years of marriage. My dad is still dating the whorable woman who he left my mom for, and my mom has since remarried. Other than my, ahem, step-dad trying too hard most the times, he's an ok guy, and we get along ok. Not comfy-cozy, but good enough. My dad and his whorable girlfriend, well, let's say we'll never be ok. It would be one thing if she was cute (she's not) or if she were polite (so not) or even intelligent (oh god, so not that either), but the thing is, she's like a drunk trucker at a ballet. Really. Ask anyone. I can't find a single thing to like about her other than she likes dogs. And unfortunately for her, that's not enough for me.

When I had Evan, I had to go through the trauma of drunk trucker whore wanting to hold my baby, while she was drunk. Thankfully, (or is that unfortunately??), I am a bitch, and did not allow such things, and made it well known that the drunk trucker whore could not touch my baby. So what did she do? Waited until I had to go to the bathroom or something to that effect, and then she would snatch Evan out of the arms of whoever was holding him. I finally learned to take Evan to the bathroom with me, and drunk trucker whore is still not allowed to be near my son alone. Ever. Today, we got to relive crazy flashbacks of this very experience as she drunkenly snatched my nephew from my dad's hands as my brother's mother-in-law physically restrained herself from bitch-slapping drunk trucker whore. It was hi-lar-ious. In a mean, ha! now see why I'm a bitch?! kind of hi-lar-ious fun. For once, I was the spectator, and I have to admit, it's pretty amusing when you're on the outside. Unfortunately, we're sort of on the inside, but I could see the humor in the situation since it wasn't my kid this time.

Instead of being bitch-slapped, however, drunk trucker whore, obviously being too drunk to notice, had my sister-in-law seething and demanding through her teeth, "Go. Get. Him." to my brother, who then yelled, "DAD!", but dad was too drunk to hear him, so then my sister-in-law yells to her mom, "Get the baby. I. Need. To. Change. Him. NOW." Then there is a good excuse to yank baby out of drunk trucker whore's hands in a politically correct way. Drunk trucker whore, being the stellar human being she is, never let my dad hold his grandchild at all before my sister-in-law was yanking the baby out of her hands as if she had the plague.

The afternoon came to a climax when my dad and my mom, trying to pass each other between tables, found themselves in crazy close quarters, and my dad, being drunk, slipped his arm around my mom's back and started flirting with her. Mom, smiling and playing along, flirted back. But only because drunk trucker whore was about 7 feet away, trying to pretend like she didn't see it. I had fun watching her pretend she wasn't watching. Her face, usually a nice ruddy hue from alcohol, became as red as a vine ripe tomato, and you could almost see the muscles in her fact starting to twitch with rage. Oh, does the fun ever end!?! To be a fly on the wall in my dad's car tonight. Ha!

Seriously, every time the family gets together, I feel like it's some crappy Jenny Jones hidden camera moment. I hate family get togethers. When Evan was born, I made it well known that he would not be involved in any family get togethers of those kind unless absolutely necessary. I just don't think he needs to think that sort of family is what love is. Because it isn't. The family he knows, my closest, most wonderful family members who strive to stay together and be strong together and support each other, that is what I want him to think that love is. Because it is. And maybe that's a horrible thing to say, to say that I pick and choose which family members I let influence my child and represent love to my child. He has plenty of time to learn that all families have some degree of crazy. I just don't want him to know that until he's old enough to understand some fraction of it. Call me crazy, protecting my child, but that's what I'm doing. Right now, I want him bundled up in a cocoon of love, laughter, and support- he can deal with the crazy drunk trucker whores of the family later.

CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW????

If you know me at all, you know I hate garage sales. Hate them. Hate going to them, hate having them. But crap, they are good fundraisers for my non-profit, and occasionally we have one. Like this weekend. Ugh.

Thankfully, hubby is out of the country so I have Evan to distract me (ahem, keep me away from the public shoppers), and I only occasionally have to step up to translate a little Spanish or pull out a shopping bag for someone. The other volunteers can count to, oh, five in Spanish and that's where it ends. Our garage sale is right smack in the middle of Little Mexico, however, and Spanish comes in handy. So, at least I can contribute without having to actually haggle.

I haven't really conversed in Spanish since I was 20 or so, when I taught horseback riding lessons at a local stables. In case you weren't aware, the equine industry employs a good chunk of not-quite-legal immigrants and those with work visas, so again, Spanish comes in handy. I am not fluent by any means, but I can hobble along in a conversation well enough to make my intentions known and to understand the intent of the other person as well.

When I worked at the stables, it never failed to amaze me how the rich kids were actually able to pretend like the Mexican helpers did not exist. No hellos, no thank yous, just plain old no eye contact. I never got it. Maybe because I wasn't a rich kid- I was the barn slave, the kid who shoveled shit and polished leather saddles and other rider's boots for a chance to be around horses, to breathe in horses, and to ride. I loved every minute and I earned every minute. They didn't. But I digress.

The Mexicans always liked me because I actually tried to converse with them. I would show up to work and I would get a "Hola Don!" and they would often laugh in good humor when I asked them "mas despacio, por favor" (slow it down! Geez! You think I speak Spanish or something??). They would eagerly bring me their 1st grade level Spanish-to-English work books and show me what words they had learned, ask me how they should be pronunciating those new words, and displayed great pride in learning a new language at 30 or 40 years old. I liked to help, I liked to speak with them, and I liked that I wasn't like those rich kids. It even got to the point where the manager would ask me to ask them something because her dictionary just wasn't helping her out. I never understood how some people reacted simply due to a language barrier. And damn, Spanish is not that hard. But even without it, an Hola! would suffice- much better than pretending someone is not there.

The one thing I always noticed, and of course it's a huge joke on tv, is when someone didn't understand a question, it was repeated louder, as if that helped clear things up. You know, someone asks where the bathroom is, and Jose says, Que?, and they ask WHERE. IS .THE. BATH. ROOM. Oh, Jose totally gets it now. Because louder English is way easier to understand than just plain old English. Today, it was that weird side of human nature all over again.

One lady obviously knew certain English phrases, and could form small sentences, but she pronunciated things so loudly, it was hard not to laugh. Of course, then our volunteers would answer back in English, louder and with hand gestures, because we all know hand gestures make things easier to understand as well. Seriously, it's hard not to laugh, but you have to imagine that's what these poor people go through all the time. I am one of those people who thinks that if you are going to live or work in America, you need to learn English, but everyone has to start somewhere. You don't just learn a new language in a couple of weeks. I understand that. But I also think that sometimes, people just don't learn English because it's easier just to not have to deal with the consequences of only knowing a little bit of English while dealing with Americans. Like the consequence of going deaf from so many loud repetitions of a question. I understand that, too.

Tonight, I'm actually going to brush up on a few phrases that will help us out at tomorrow's sale, relearn a few good verbs, and go out armed with some conversational tools that may help a few good immigrants get a good deal and still allow them to keep their hearing.

Oh My Gawd.

Evan and I were at the park yesterday, having a good ole time, when one of the neighborhood moms showed up with 2 out of 3 of her kids. The mom is very nice, somewhat boisterous, but always willing to talk and say hi to everyone. Her kids are nice, too, and Evan loves her 5 year old little girl.

Now her 5 year old little girl is not, um, little. She's a big girl. Not necessarily fat, but mom could definitely ease up on the high fructose corn syrup in this girl's diet. You can tell she's going to be "big" anyway from her bone structure and height, but come on Mom, help the kid out a little! Mom is carrying on about how she's starting kindergarten late because of Mom's "personal issues" and how "she just couldn't handle it right then (Mom, not little girl)" and so now the poor child has to endure stepping in front of the entire class as the "new kid", just because mom had too much on her plate to register her at the school two blocks away. Unbelieveable.

Little girl and Evan are running around playing tag, so I don't really pay a lot of attention to the little girl until Mom takes a phone call and I start to watch them play. Little girl is wearing a cute little 2 piece outfit, like a little work-out suit, black and simple, but it has a sweet glittery decoration on the hoodie and is adorned with small jewels. The whole outfit is hemmed in a beige stitching that stands out and gives it a little something extra. Cute, I think to myself. The little girl spins on her heels and dashes away after Evan. My jaw hits the ground.

On the outside of the pants, the stitching actually runs up each butt cheek and across the top of her butt, creating a THONG on the outside of her pants. I can't believe it! I must be seeing things, so of course, I have to get a better look. I go up to wipe Evan's nose and take a good look- yep, it's a stitched-on "thong". Good gawd.

My respect for Mom plummets. How on earth do you allow your FIVE YEAR OLD to strut around in a jump suit that has a stitched on thong on the outside of it? Is there no decency left? This poor girl will have enough issues in school, so why not give her an outfit where the underwear is not only revealing, BUT INSINUATED ON THE OUTSIDE OF HER PANTS???

Seriously, what has this world come to?

6 Degrees of Separation

One of my favorite songs is called "The People You Know" by Robynn Ragland. It's a great song, basically about the reality of the "small world" phenomenon. You know, you dated some guy in high school and now work with his sister's brother-in-law, though you're like 60 miles from where you grew up? My favorite line:

Isn't it odd? Take you and me - We're two little ants in one giant community But whether it's fate, or proximity You're one of my people, the people I'm into - I miss you - yeah, I feel akin to you.

Occasionally, my mind chooses to focus on this phenomenon of proximity while I'm driving because, well, that's the only place I ever get enough quiet time to actually think. So my mind tends to go into overdrive. Anyway, today I was driving through my old stomping grounds, aka where I went to high school, and I started thinking. How many people have I driven past today that I know? What are the odds that I would ever pull up to them at a stop light and be able to recognize them? Would they recognize me? Would I want them to? Would I wave, or beep, or just silently acknowledge who they were and drive away? Thoughts like this filter through at a rapid pace.

I tend to do this at concerts, too. You know, scan the crowd of eight bazillion people, thinking you'll recognize someone. Actually, my hubby is great at this. He can find one person he knows at pretty much any concert. It's incredible. But if I go to a concert, and know I could probably find half a dozen people I know or more, I never find a single one.

Am I the only one who obsesses about this every now and then? I do it in the airport, too, by the way. Sometimes, in the backyard, I even stop to ponder if that giant 747 flying over my yard contains someone I know. Is this a disease? Or is it somewhat normal? If you think about all the connections you've made in your life up until now, don't you think it could be totally easy to simply drive past people you know every single day, even in areas you don't normally trapse through?

Go Cubs Go!

Right now, hubby is enjoying his second row Cubbies tix while I am tending to the kid. Sigh. Oh well. But, damn, the Cubbies are on fire! Wahoo!

I've been a Cubs fan forever. I remember being really small and watching Cubs games at my Gram's house in the summer time, singing "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" and later "Go, Cubs, Go!" at the top of our lungs. Summer just wasn't summer unless the Cubs were on the radio or the tv somewhere.

Thankfully, I married me a Cubs fan. A true Cubs fan, not one of those "yeah, I like the Cubs" when they are winning fans. And now, Evan is a little Cubbie bear :) We took him to a game last month, and he liked the cheering and the yelling and the singing, though I'm not sure he could figure out just where the heck that speck of a ball was at most of the time. It rained, but we had fun, and those are the kind of memories I hope he will have about the Cubs when he is my age.

Daddy couldn't be prouder of his little Cubs fan. When you ask Evan who his favorite baseball team is, he yells triumphantly, "Da Tubbies!" and then will sing a rowdy version of "Tate Me Out To Da Bawl Game!" Complete with "ONE! TWO! THREE STRITES AND DEN YOU ARE OUT OF DA OLE BAWL DAME!!!!"

Even if you're a Sox fan, you gotta admit, it's still freakin' cute.

Idiots, beware!

Seriously, some days it simply amazes me how stupid people are. How incredibly irreversibly dumb, right down to the bone. Not your typical spaciness or forgetfulness or occasional ignorance- I'm talk D-U-M-B.

Case in point- a phone call at work today from a 30-something female:

"Hi, umm, I am interested in your [product] and need to fax you my information, but I don't have a fax machine- how am I supposed to get it to you??" My response: 1. Kinkos. 2. Snail Mail. 3. Email. I explain we do not have an actual [storefront], so everything is handled via fax/email/P.O. Box.

Her next question: "Ok, but I don't have the sheet to give to you with my information on it- how do I get that?" My response: 1. Email 2. Snail Mail. Again explain that we do not have a [storefront] where she can simply fill this out, so everything is handled via fax/email/P.O. Box.

Her last questions, "Ok, so once I get the sheet in the mail, where can I drop it off?" I explain one last time about the whole fax/mail/email thing, you know, without an actual physical place for her to drop it off at.

Seriously, she then says, "Oh, well I don't have a fax machine, so now what?"

Shut up.

It was the bestest day I've never known!

Preschool is awesome. Very awesome. Evan loves every minute of it, except for the minute where I come to pick him up to go home. The instant he sees me, his little lip starts to tremble, his eyes well up, and he stares at me as if I have crushed his little spirit, and he says "I stay here. You go away!".

The other parents laugh and always say "oh, that must be a good sign!", and thankfully, I'd rather have him crying when he leaves school versus crying when I drop him off. After he gets over the initial shock that, yes, good things come to an end, he puts on his little backpack, climbs up the stairs, grabs my hand, and is happy as a lark for the rest of the day.

We chit chat about what he did at school, what they sang, what they drew, who he played with, and he is ecstatic. He loves every minute, every second, every ounce of oozing fun-ness and newness about it. I love that he loves it. It makes me burst with pride and happiness for him. And even better is that almost every conversation ends with this:

"Mommy, today was da bestest day I've never known!"

Ode To Aunt Flow

Chill, lady, would you?

What now?

I haven't been writing lately because, quite frankly, my mind goes blank when I think of all the things I want to write about. All day long, I can write stories in my head, think of a gazillion things to say, can talk on the phone with an adult for far too long, but when I sit down to hammer it out into words, I'm too exhausted to go any further.

So, I'll talk about what's going on around here. My DH is soon going to be going away for almost 2 weeks to the lead-tainted land of China. Of course, his company has everything made over there, but thankfully, none of their products are painted. But 2 weeks without him is hard. Especially now that Evan is 3 and NOTICES THINGS. We've talked about China for a couple months now, pointed it out on a globe (who cares if daddy is on that side of the ball? I can still see him!), and talked about him having to sleepover somewhere else. But it won't sink in until about day 3, when his buddy daddy has not returned, and the bad behaviors will start up again. And they have been Oh-so-good the last few days! Progress, only to be twarted by Daddy's travels. Ugh.

On another note, we are looking into life insurance. Which scares me, right before DH goes flying off to a foreign country post-9/11, but is necessary. Not that I think it invites death or anything, the whole prospect is scary, but to put a monetary amount of money on a life never ceases to disgust me. But again, I guess it's a necessary evil, eh?

Evan is just a bowl full of cherries this week, just full of hugs and half-willing cooperation. School is doing wonders for him. And me. Yay for school!

Well, that's all for now. I'm sure I'll have more later. But now, I'm too tired to stay one more minute on this computer. Over and out.

Little E- Skool is Tool!

So, we did it. First week of preschool under our belts. And it was heartbreaking and uplifting and liberating all at once.

Evan started Tuesday, and was so excited he practically skipped out the door, little Diego back pack and all. He left the house with his official "in case of emergency" clothing, a snack labeled with his name, and lots of energy. I couldn't wait and neither could he! Daddy even came with, too, so he knew something was truly special about this day.

We arrived at the preschool along with another gaggle of parents, and Evan immediately got shy and quiet and decided to give in to the lure of the ginormous bookshelves of toys. He didn't want to join the other kids at the table, and it took a good 5 minutes of convincing that he should go play with Play-Doh like the other kids. When he finally sat down, we gave him a hug, told him to be a good boy and to tell Ms. M if he had to go potty, and calmly left his little self at the big table, in the hands of a stranger for the first time ever in his life.

I worried, of course, but more about poor Ms. M than Evan. Would he hit? Kick? Yell like a crazy child? I awaited a terrible report, only because I know how he is about conforming already. But when I arrived a few hours later, I asked how he did, and she geniunely replied with a smile "He did great!". I raised an eyebrow and said, "No problems?" and again, geniune with the answer, "Not at all. He did great.". Wow!

Of course, when he saw me come down the stairs, his little eyes welled up, his lip trembled, and he defiantly sat in his chair and said, "You go away. I stay here." Hooray! He liked school. He then proceded to punch me in the side of the head when I pulled up a seat next to him. Ok, we'll have to work on that.

When I told him there was a surprise in the car for good boys who got through their first day at school, he forgot his anger at having to leave and said a cheerful goodbye and we were on our way. He made friends, sang songs, and got to do some seriously awesome artwork.

Day 2 of preschool he practically dashed out the door to get there, barely acknowledged that I was leaving, and didn't even try to punch me when I picked him up, though he was mad again. Progress, and in the best way.

When you ask him what he thinks of school, he says, "Skool is Tool!" I think so, too. A few hours to myself, to do what I want, is almost beyond belief. After all, staying at home with him, my life has not been mine for THREE YEARS. I don't get a break, I don't get a nap, nothing. I've been on duty 24/7, 365, non-stop. I have no idea what to do now.

But I think I might sign up for the gym across the street. It's cheap and it's convenient. I could go work out, go grocery shopping and then go get him. Or I could go home and read a book or clean or do absolutely freakin' nothing.

Oh, the possibilities! I love that my little guy is old enough to go off on his own, even in such a small chunk of time. He enjoys it, I enjoy it, and I think we're all going to like this school thing!

My Apologies

Been sick as a dog for almost all of last month and still sick now, though better. Did you know you can hack up your lungs for 3 weeks straight? Yep, you can. Damn virus. I'm feeling better, and starting to conquer the giant piles of everything I need to catch up on.

First off, a congrats to Back To Me- She's finally preggo! Yay!

And another congrats to Speckblog for her little one joining the forces of school kids everywhere! Yay Wallace!

And finally, sorry for the lapse in postings. I'm feeling better, so I'll post some updates. My apologies to all.