Day in the Life: April 2008 Archives

I've come to realize that my parents have what I like to call parenting schizophrenia, the unique ability to vacillate between being convinced that a) We're overworked, overburdened and exhausted, and b) We're lazy.

Usually it amuses me, particularly when they come up to help the overworked, overburdened child, despite said child's protests that it isn't necessary for her septugenarian parents to whirl into town, whip themselves into a frenzy of yard and housework, and then collapse on the sofa, crippled and drained of all energy.  Not that I don't appreciate the help, but part of the schizophrenia is their insistence that I have too much stuff, combined with their resistance to my actually getting RID of said stuff.  And so we have conversations like this one:

Mom:  I cleaned all those coffee mugs out of the cabinet - do you want to put them in storage?

Me:  Nope.  We'll just give them to Goodwill. 

Mom:  Are you sure?

Me:  Did you see how many mugs there were?  Did you notice that I can still serve coffee to 16 people at a time, even with the mugs gone?  I don't feel like toting them around - maybe someone else can use them.

Mom: (goes and gets box of mugs, pulls one out and shows it to me)  What about this Christmas mug?

Me:  Nope.

Mom:  (methodically unpacks each mug that she had previously methodically packed and shows them to me - all 2 boxes worth) This Halloween mug?

Me:  Nuh-uh.

Mom:  Stonehenge?

Me:  No.

Mom:  Star Trek?

Me:  No.

Mom:  This one?

Me:  Mom.  No.  I do not need them.  I do not use them.  They have been in that cabinet for a decade, and I no longer wish to be burdened with their presence!

Mom:  Your Maw-maw gave you this one!

Me:  When I was twelve.  Yes.  And while I appreciate that, I am not attached to a coffee mug with a unicorn on it.

Mom:  This one's cute.

Dad: (piping up from the recliner) Do NOT bring that stuff into our house and clutter up the place!

Mom:  But I could drop the rest by Goodwill.

Dad:  You always say that, and then it just sits in the garage.  You don't need a mug.

Me:  There's a Goodwill right down the road; we'll take the stuff there.

The Boy:  I want to go there now!

Me:  It's 8:00 p.m.  They're closed.

Mom:  (looks sceptical about my ability to take boxes to Goodwill)  Well, okay.  (Sets mug she thinks is cute beside her purse)

Dad: (sighs and grumbles about shoulder injury he received while overdoing it in the backyard, despite being told not to by his daughter.)

Me:  (sighs) Look.  Can we all just sit here and chill?

Mom:  (rolls eyes at her shiftless, feckless child who should totally be working around the house until at least 10 p.m.!) But there's so much to do!

Me:  And you don't have to do it!

Blessed Moment of Silence, and Then:

Mom:  So what about that Christmas china you wanted to get rid of?

Oh my God.  Ever have one of those days where you just want to crawl under your desk and die?  Okay, today is that day for me.

Every week, I have to sit in on a conference call meeting on a topic dear to the heart of one of our colleges. They've hired an outside PR firm, so basically all I do is listen without contributing, to make sure that the budget doesn't get out of control.

Usually it's fine.  The issue is sort of political, so they are focusing on an information campaign with op-eds, info. ads, etc. 

Except that the PR guy for the college that's involved keeps bringing up the idea of using the op-eds as a call to get readers to write letters to the editor in favor of our position.

This is a big no-no, and he's been told this before.  The University cannot advocate a particular political position, or encourage political action on the part of anyone else.

So again today, I'm sitting at my desk, reading a report, when college pr guy brings up the idea again.

A loud "NO!!"  Burst forth from me before I could control it.

Then I hear, "Hello? Hello?" from the conference call.

As there is no way in hell to soften that particular faux pas, I chose to clam up and bang my head on my desk a few times rather than admit to my outburst.  Of course, it's not like they didn't know it was me, but I'm hoping I can pass it off as a technical glitch, instead of as my intense irritation with the college pr guy - with whom I have to work closely on a regular basis.

Dear God, I am embarrassed.  Although on the bright side, at least I didn't let fly with the profanity.

Thank God it's Friday.  And at least you guys can get a chuckle out of my lingering embarrassment.

And I'll pay attention to the election stuff.  Because thus far, all I've discovered about politics in 2008 are the following:

• "Smart" equals "Better than you."  Or it should, dammit.
• The corollary to the first point is this:  "Smart" is defined as having the correct political opinions.  The correct political opinions are the ones held by the person calling him/herself smart.  Ergo, all smart people think correctly, correct thinking is smart, and anyone holding a different political opinion is therefore stupid and should die in a fire. QED.
• The definition of "working class" differs according to the state where it's being applied, and the size of the population that can be shoehorned into the working class, particularly where vote pandering is concerned.
• People are always shocked, shocked! That folks on their side of the aisle can act as horribly as folks on the "evil, other side," especially when the "evil" actions on their side are directed against the candidate they support. 
• The definition of "evil" can include asking legitimate questions of a candidate you support and/or making remarks which could be construed as critical of said candidate.
• No one wants to resort to negative campaigning, except to mention all the ways in which they COULD have campaigned negatively before rejecting the negative campaign strategy.
• Similarly, all candidates have moved beyond race, gender and age issues, and will point that out by telling the voters how wrapped up in race, gender and age issues the other candidates are, or by subtly reminding the voters that the other candidates are of a different race, gender, or age than they are.
• Policy discussions must avoid "getting bogged down" in things like plans or strategy or details, to avoid "confusing the voters."
• The only people who will have to pay higher taxes are always those who "deserve it," and the definition of this class of people varies in size and income levels based upon the number of "working class voters" in the voter population being addressed.

I'm sure my list is incomplete, but my sense of self-preservation has prevented me from thinking about this any further, because I'm not in the mood to reconstitute my head post-explosion.

Or the T-ball field, whatever.

This year's team is only nine members strong.  Of those nine, seven of the kids are sweet and well-behaved.  And then there are the other two, who will drive me to snatch them baldheaded.

I'm the default dugout mom this year, primarily because Hublet is the official assistant coach, and the head coach's wife works 2nd shift at the local mental hospital. Insert your own joke there.

The positive aspect of managing the dugout is that it's helped me clarify my thoughts on what I have dubbed "Third Child Syndrome."  Apologies in advance to those of you have managed to raise 3 or more kids without it turning into your own personal version of Lord of the Flies, but know this - you are definitely the minority here. From my admittedly small sample, I have deduced that in many cases, by the time the third child comes along the parents are just too exhausted to deal with it, and so the child raises itself, often becoming feral in the process.  Think Mowgli without the jungle entourage.

The coach's son is an excellent example of Third (Feral) Child Syndrome, with a side of Potential Future Serial Killer thrown in for laughs.  He doesn't listen.  He is randomly violent.  He spent the entirety of last night's game attempting to zip himself into an equipment bag.  Full disclosure - I was EXTREMELY tempted to help him accomplish his goal, mainly so I could just hang the bag on the fence and not have to deal with keeping up with him. When I submit my final report on T(F)CS to the DSM-IV, this kid's photo will be included.

 Unfortunately, feckless parenting does not correlate directly to family size.  Nowhere is this more apparent than in the behavior of Belligerent Non-Listening Boy.  What does he do?  Please refer to his nickname for your answer.  He is defiant, whiny and incapable of listening.  He is also the eldest of two.  His parents, who attend every game, have no control over this kid, even though they try to intervene.  Well, the dad tries.  And he is a very nice man, which I believe dooms him to failure, because he cannot seem to make the carrot/stick approach work with regard to his son.  Or any approach, really.  I may suggest the Equipment Bag/Fence approach as a future option, primarily because I am tired of wresting a bat out of this flailing mess of a child's hands when we're in close quarters with other kids, peeling him off the fence, and rescuing caterpillars from his clumsy grip.  Seriously, he has cut a legendary swath of destruction through the local caterpillar population.  Combine him with Feral Child, and you may never see another butterfly in Johnston County.  Those two are like the Genghis Khan and Attila the Hun of anti-caterpillar warfare.

We have another month of T-ball.  At this rate, I'll end up in the mental hosptial and the coach's wife will be bringing me my meds during her shift.

Yesterday the fam was making its merry way down the highway when we found ourselves behind a truck with this license plate:

TRKY JEDI

I said, "Look!  Tricky Jedi!"  and Hublet said, "Or Turkey Jedi."

My first impulse was to laugh at Hublet. Then we passed the truck, and upon closer examination it looked like it could be a hunter's truck.  Plus the driver was wearing camoflage at 11:30 on a Sunday morning, so maybe he's a hunter.  Who likes hunting turkeys.  And who is so adept at turkey hunting that he has the nickname Turkey Jedi.

What say you?  Is it possible to be a turkey jedi?

Because this is IMPORTANT, Dangit!

Every night during the news I am subjected to the same freaking UPS commercial at least 3 times.  Not only is the commercial boring and pointless--something about a whiteboard and blah blah blah delivery service whatever...seriously, WHO DOESN'T KNOW WHAT UPS DOES?--it features a man whose hair I blame for every bad thing that has ever happened in the world.  Ever.

His hair is AWFUL.  It actually manages to have no style at all, which must break some law of physics or something because just having hair on your head means that you have a hairstyle by default, but this guy?  Nope.  It's kind of long and kind of straight but there aren't bangs or wings or an alternative ponytail or even mullet tendencies--it just HANGS THERE like a DEAD LEMUR and I CANNOT LOOK AWAY and it's like being the narrator in the Tell-Tale Heart who is driven to murder by the appearance of some dude's eyeball!  ARRGH!

So in an attempt to ignore the hair of doom, because I don't want my epitaph to read "She was okay until that random guy's hair drove her into insanity and an untimely demise" I decided to focus on other aspects of the dude in question.  Guess what?  He has really bad posture and burgeoning man-boobs (thanks, Hublet, for pointing out that salient fact).  Awesome. 

Why does this man's hair irritate me so?  I don't know, but thankfully, I am not alone in my suffering!

Ah, sweet internet.  Balm of my soul.