Well, wonder no more, just head on over to ParentSociety.com where my latest article or rather ‘want-ad’ is running today. It might be good for a laugh (or cry).
Have you ever noticed how life can sometimes be a constant barrage, sucking away your ego and self-esteem bit by bit? Yeah? Well, I have been having one of those
days weeks months (as proof I submit to you The Day I Killed the Vacuum and Why I Can Never Be a Big-Boobed Hoochie Mama). But today, well today was like the cream of humiliation rising to the proverbial top.
Today, I had to go to my sons’ school – Teen and Pre-Teen. Not what you might think, I was just dropping something off to Teen. I stopped in the office to talk to the secretary, school nurse and principal. I walked through the school, waving and saying hello to students and teachers I know. I went into the middle school cafeteria, located Teen at his table, having lunch with all his middle-school teen friends and gave him the item I had brought for him. I stopped to say “Hi” to Pre-Teen as he entered the lunch room with his classmates. Lastly, I had a quick impromptu meeting with a teacher and then left the school, waving to more teachers and students as I exited the building.
Once back in the car, I headed straight to the grocery store. Upon arrival at the store, I leaned over to pick my grocery bags and for the first time noticed that the zipper, on my ever-so-snug skinny jeans, was wide open, X- Y- Z.
Yep, that’s right, I had just cruised all over Teen-dom with my barn door flapping in the breeze. (I just know tonight I am going to have one of those naked-walking-around-school dreams.)
And then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, I marched straight into the grocery store and for some bizarre reason, bought a plant. You know, a plant – innocent, helpless and with no idea of the horror that await it under my care. Knowing my track record with all things green (The Accidental Farmer), this venture will surely end badly for all involved – especially the plant.
The siege rages on…
See that cool lady in the photo? That is my Grandmother, on her 80th birthday, riding the pink bicycle she requested as a gift. The picture was taken shortly before she passed away. I love this picture because it will always remind me to…
Well, if you want to know the answer to that dangling statement you will have to hop on over to my recent post on ParentSociety.com, “How to Grow Old Gracefully”.
Here is a little excerpt to tempt you:
Here is the thing; mostly I picture my personal aging journey being more like “Sunset Boulevard” than to “Driving Miss Daisy.” And what’s more, I fear I will be taken through my golden years chained and shackled like Hannibal Lector in “Silence of the Lambs.”
However… bear with me here because I think I may actually have figured something out for once about How to Grow Old Gracefully!
Go here to find out what I think I may have, with the help of my beautiful Grandma, figured out about how to grow old gracefully! You might be glad you did…
Other musings on age: “Is There Life After 40?”
I have recently been in the unenviable position of seeking employment. Honestly, in this economy it’s a bit of a futile trek uphill. It doesn’t help that in my job life I have jumped all over the map. However, at this phase in my life I can pretty much rule out a few occupations:
A Vampire – I mean, Bella makes it look pretty cool but seriously, how great could it be having to drink animal blood for an eternity?
A Doctor – apparently you need some kind of special license for that job or something.
And after my experience last week, A Big-Boobed Hoochie Mama is now permanently off the list (and I am just sick over the lost tips wages).
How could such an admirable career goal be dashed with one experience? Well, let me explain.
Last week, I had an appointment with the dermatologist to have a little, itty bitty, teeny tiny cyst removed – a cyst that was trying hard to mind its own business but made the doctor nervous nonetheless. Apparently, the whole idea of someone coming near me with a knife freaks me out (Thank you Nightmare on Elm Street) because the closer to the appointment it got the more nervous I became – to the point where I could not sleep the night before and was a bundle of jittery goop by the time I arrived at the office on “the day.” However, the Doctor assured me once the numbing agents were in place, I wouldn’t feel a thing and it would be no big deal. Low and behold, he was right – that numbing stuff is the bomb! So I settled down and prepared for an easy experience feeling proud of my Spartan Woman level of bravery.
But then I began to hear something– snip, snip, snip, snip.
Doc: “I know you can hear the ‘snipping’ but don’t let your imagination run away with you.”
Um, too late.
It was pretty much a quick toboggan ride downhill from there.
Me: “Doc, you should know, I feel kinda sick at the moment.”
That statement was instantly followed by cold sweats, light headedness, the urge to hurl, and the involuntary desire to pass out – which I would have done had I not already been lying down with my feet now so very attractively hiked up in the air and the AC cranked down to Arctic proportions. Right then and there I knew I had pretty much blown my whole “I am woman hear me roar” status so I tried to concentrate on preserving what dignity I had left. And then finally, after an eternity, the ordeal was over. Ok, it only took, like, 10 minutes, but it felt as if I had watched Dr. Zhivago…twice.
Later, as I lay on the recovery table of shame, the Doctor came in the room to check on me.
Doc: “How do you feel?”
Me: “Fine” (I lied, no sense in enhancing my newly acquired wimp status).
Doc: “Hey, look at the bright side…”
What, there is a bright side? I’m not as big a wimp as it seems? I won’t be trying to live down my behavior for the rest of our doctor/patient relationship? I really am the Spartan Woman I momentarily believed myself to be??
Doc: “…At least you didn’t puke on my shoes.”
Yeah, ok, I guess I will take what I can get.
But, clearly, the boob job required for me to ever acquire the rack needed for Big-Boobed Hoochie Mama employment is unequivocally off the table.
There goes that “special skill.”
Today I go back to the Doctor get my stitches out. I hope Doc chooses his shoes accordingly.
I hate vacuums. I can’t even express how much I dislike all vacuums. Vacuums have been a plague on my life (no drama at my house). No matter how many vacuums I purchase, or how much money I pay for them, it is always the same story. They don’t pick up what they should, like dirt and animal hair. But oh yes, they love to pick up what they shouldn’t, like the carpet corners and their own chords. And speaking of the chord, is it my fault that my vacuum chord always ends up a mass of black electrical tape to fix the places where the vacuum has continually sucked up its own appendage and stripped it clean? Shouldn’t a self-respecting vacuum be more discerning? Eventually, my vacuums always end up spitting more dust than they pick up. And don’t even get me started on the new and improved “bagless” vacuum. Because changing a bag every once in a while was so much more inconvenient than having to manually dump the disgusting contents from the canister into the trash (as dust flies everywhere) on a regular basis!
Anyway, on the day in question, my current vacuum/bane-of-my-existence clearly crossed the line. Now, it is only fair to point out this was not my first indiscretion where machines are concerned. There was the time with the smoke alarm (Woman vs. Machine). However, trust me, this time the machine really had it coming.
Last week, I was up to my neck in a heinous vacuum job involving the eradication of a summer’s worth of dead and live, scurrying spiders. It was near the end of the job when the vacuum chose to jump (ok, it might have fallen) off the step it was perched on, thus dislodging the nearly full “bagless vacuum” canister and spilling contents all over the floor. In that instant, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt the vacuum’s time had come. And, ok, I will admit it…I was a tad peeved, and maybe a little pms, and possibly temporarily off my rocker.
Whatever the case, the annihilation began as I kicked the offending machine…several times. Lacking the desired results, I then proceeded to take the vacuum apart piece by piece and throw each piece violently out the back door onto the concrete driveway. I swear I heard the sweet sound of cracking plastic and dislodging mechanisms. The attack was only complete when the main vacuum unit was sent skittering across the driveway to its final resting place, lodged partially under a parked car.
Around this time, my sons, hearing the ensuing brawl, came to investigate.
Teen: “Uh, Mom, what are you doing?”
Me: “Killing the vacuum.”
Preteen: “Need any help with that?”
Me: “No thanks, I think I’ve got it covered.”
Then, I shed tears – not for the vacuum now lying scattered all over the driveway like the Scarecrow after the Flying Monkeys had their fun – but for the dusty, bug infested mess left in its wake that had to now be manually cleaned up and just out of good old frustration. And that my friends, was the end of the vacuum, or so I thought.
For you see, sometime later that day, I looked outside to see Preteen collecting up all the scattered vacuum parts. And when next I looked out the window, there sat my vacuum on the back porch fully reassembled (and I am completely sure it was snickering at me).
I left it sitting on the back porch hoping it was reflecting on its bad behavior and fairly certain of its demise as a result of the onslaught. However, the time came when pet hair in the house began to clump and blow in front of me like tumbleweeds in the Nevada desert. Dreading the thought of facing yet another new vacuum purchase, to the porch I went to drag the vacuum back in the house, hoping it could, albeit inadequately, still to do its job.
That afternoon, when Preteen came home from school…
Me: “By the way, I tried using the vacuum today and, guess what? It worked!”
Preteen: “Really? That is amazing!”
Me: “No Preteen, actually, you are amazing.”
Preteen smiled and then we both laughed.
As parents, it is our job to pick up our kids when they are down and put things back together for them.
But sometimes, it works the other way, too.
You are sitting in your car at the bank drive-through window waiting on the lone teller (we’ll call him Ted) to finish your transaction. Around the corner of the bank comes the other teller heading out on her way to lunch. She waves to you as she walks by heading to her car. Suddenly, she doubles back and approaches your drivers side open window.
Teller: “Paula (yes, first name basis, of course) could you give this key to Ted when he returns with your transaction receipt?”
Teller: “It is the key to open the safe to get money out. I forgot to leave it when I left for lunch and he won’t be able to get any money for customers without it.”
Me: “Um, yeah, sure.”
Me: “No problem, have a good lunch.”
And no, I did not run to the nearest Walmart to make a copy, because well, the Walmart is like everything else when you live in the boonies, far away. Oh, and that would be a federal offense…and wrong…and very un-small-town-like.
If your kids never, ever ask this question, wouldn’t even think asking it, would die before this question passed their lips, then stop reading right now this instant. However if, as I strongly suspect, your kids are like mine and fully abuse the question “How Much Longer?” , you might want to check out my latest article on ParentSociety.com,
Alright, already, here is the teaser…
My son has an annoying habit of constantly asking the question, “How much longer?” How much longer will something last, how much longer until we get somewhere, how much longer until something arrives, etc. (OK, it isn’t annoying, it is cute, endearing, precious, just like him … now do I get my parent-of-the-year trophy back?).
Actually, the problem isn’t just that he asks the question…
Enough? Now, if you please, go here to get the rest of the
Oh, and if you need further laughs on this Wednesday hump day, I recommend this short and sweet vlog – Boy Meets Tree
For more Sweet Spot Travels: Go Here!