Whee! All The Way Home

The Rumor Mill Grinds On

2012-02-12T09:01:00.000-08:00

The long-anticipated new boundaries for middle school and high school came out in draft form this past week. I won't bore you with the details. Do they really matter to me and mine? Not in the sense that my kids could have found themselves in a different school seeing as we're just blocks from one of the high schools and far closer to one middle school than the other. But in the sense that the district was purportedly social engineering the boundaries, sure, that matters.

Curiously, for all the bluster about trying to make the schools match in some socio-economic way, the new boundaries make the secondary level significantly more imbalanced, sending poorer kids to the schools my children attend and making the schools my children attend more ethnically and racially diverse. [In this town, diversity and income are highly entwined.] And, believe me, there was a lot of bluster about balancing on those points, but the recommended boundaries seem to not reflect that at all.

Instead, the overriding concern seems to be this strong desire to have feeder schools: these elementary schools lead to this middle school which leads to this high school. The kid who wet his pants the second day of kindergarten? He'll be sitting next to you at high school graduation. In fact, all 19 of your fellow kindergarten classmates will be there. That's the feeder system. And that idea seems to be what's, well, feeding the boundaries.

I'm not a true believer of the feeder system. Sure, it works great if schools exist in a perfect pattern, but the schools here aren't. So this feeder system has folks geographically closer to one high school being sent to a different high school. It also forces one middle school to increase in the number of socioeconomically disadvantaged students while the other decreases. The impact on the high school will ultimately be mitigated on that score because it also houses a county-wide arts magnet. [For the time being as I understand efforts are being made to make it into a county-wide charter and ditch the current location for a new one in another part of the county.]

Didn't I say somewhere I wouldn't bore you with the details? Oops.

Folks at Youngest's elementary school who live in certain areas are happy dancing that their fourth graders and fifth graders who were slated to go to our middle school are going to be sent to the richer and whiter one instead. I'm doing my part in dampening their enthusiasm by noting that rumor has it that the principal at that middle school is retiring. And that the principal at the elementary school is going to go there instead.

It's a true joy to see their crestfallen faces.

First World Glow

2012-02-09T10:39:00.000-08:00

Awakening this morning, I trudge down the stairs and start the coffee and tea kettle. I look down the long hallway and see a light bath casting from Daughter's room into the hallway. I marvel that Daughter is awake even before me, the early riser. At 5:50 a.m., she is already...

...screech.

Wait a minute, damn it, Daughter is banned from all electronic devices for the month of February, thanks to her "forgetting" to use the landline to exchange the near-constant murmurs of love with her boyfriend. Murmurs that cost 40 cents a minute on the cell phone once we have hit our shared-minute ceiling.

I march down the long hallway to see what device she has secreted into her room and is now defiantly using.

What I find is an angelic teen sound asleep, bathed in the glorious light of a near-full moon. The light, while bright, is thankfully not bright enough to illuminate my red-faced reaction to my obvious miscalculation.

Why, Indeed

2012-02-07T06:50:00.000-08:00

I've been blogging for more than five years. I don't imagine how anyone, particularly someone who could so easily fall into the mommyblogger category, could be blogging more than six months in the past five years and not have come to know of Susan Niebur. Her name is synonymous with the WhyMommy moniker.

Was.

She died yesterday, leaving behind her two little boys and a husband, not to mention, of course, an extended family IRL and legions of friends and admirers and supporters and rooting onlookers from around the country. She was a brilliant woman -- an astrophysicist, for God's sake, a word I can barely spell let alone describe -- and she was a fighter, refusing to give Inflammatory Breast Cancer an easy win and letting it take her away from her sons that much earlier.

We as a society spend far too much time mourning the passing of well known people whom we really don't know at all and who have honestly contributed little to the betterment of others. [I'll leave you to fill in your own dead celebrity du jour. I've got several in mind.] And not enough of us mourn the loss of the really good ones out there who have fought for their children, for their husbands, for the many others who could be affected by such insidious diseases, and, yes, for their own lives.

We'll never be able to give a child a proper answer as to "Why Mommy?" in the face of mommy's cancer and death, but maybe we can give a little so there is one less child wondering that. Go give to the IBC Research Foundation today, and give in Susan's name.

Signs of Technological Singularity in My Life

2012-02-05T09:41:00.000-08:00

I am convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that technological singularity has arrived, and I am the first victim. If you know what technological singularity is, skip to the next paragraph. If you don't, either click here to see Wikipedia's entry on it or recall the Terminator movies. Got it now? Good.

My story is simple. It started with a Trojan horse, one that entered our home, according to the experts, the day before we returned from our England trip. It sat and sat and sat and sat. And it sat some more. Until the day one of us got a message from Norton saying a breach had been discovered and could be simply and swiftly dealt with by clicking the cute little Norton-esque update button.

The hidden evil within the Trojan horse was unleashed and it permeated via our lovely wireless connections. No computer in the house was left unscathed. Many hours and many dollars have gone into salvaging what we could salvage. Don't get me started on how long it has taken and how much it has cost.

Don't.

Then? Then someone else in the house "forgot" that she had been instructed to not use her cell phone to talk for hours on end to her boyfriend because the 1,500 shared minutes -- and unlimited texting -- was not enough for Pete and me to use for business and cover her 2,400 minutes in one month. Overage charges galore. Don't get me started on that.

Don't.

"Grounded" doesn't begin to address what has happened to that female child of mine.

You need more evidence that I am the test case for technological singularity and the need to take up survival skills to take on the evil that is Artificial Intelligence? For more than 24 hours, I have been unable to access my Hotmail account. Pete can access his from both my computer and his laptops. But I can't access mine from anywhere. Sure, I can log into MSN, and it shows me that I have mail. It is taunting me, though, with a "You've got mail, bitch, but good luck accessing it" attitude.

I am the test case. Which child of mine do you think Arnold Schwarzenegger is coming after?

Doing (Gas) Lines

2012-02-01T05:59:00.000-08:00

If the woman who cut in front of me in line at the gas station hadn't done so right after my encounter with the selfish jerk who had finished pumping his gas but didn't move his car, I probably wouldn't have been so amped up about it. On the other hand, maybe her actions and attitude would have been enough. Suffice it to say that the people at the other 15 pumps were likely relieved that I was an old white woman pitching a fit rather than one of the ever-increasing gangstas moving into our town.

The attitude with the first guy was typical of that I-am-the-center-of-the-universe (IATCOTU) one I encounter when watching the traffic circle at Youngest's elementary school when it's raining. [Yeah, I get off on standing in the rain just to marvel at the actions.] There's a long line, and it takes a long time to finally make your way to the circle to pick up your now-drenched kid. Rather than pull all the way into the circle, get said kid in and get the hell out, the IATCOTU drivers will stop as soon as they see their precious offspring, stopping the extremely long line of cars behind them from entering the circle, thus delaying the whole damn process. Because they're special, right? And they apparently have no recall of the 12 minutes they've just spent in line and how frustrating it was to watch similarly-minded IATCOTU drivers do the same damn thing. Because they're special.

That was the attitude of the first guy I encountered, who had the fuckin' gall to hold his pointer finger up to me in a "one-minute-can't-you-see-I'm-talking-on-the-phone" gesture. Yes, that would be talking on the phone after having pumped his gas and not moved his car. At all. In recognition of the serfs behind him in line waiting for His Majesty to move.

Okay, there weren't that many cars in line, but still, there WAS a line.

The woman in the Volvo though, the one who cut around up another lane and then backed into the opening, breaking all protocol for line waiting? I made the leap of faith that she just didn't realize all those other people IN LINE were actually IN LINE. So I got out of my car, went up to her car and said, "I'm sorry, but there's a line. And I'm next."

To which she nodded, but proceeded to turn off her ignition, gather up her purse, and get out of her car. To which I said, more emphatically, "Excuse me, it's not your turn."

To which she said, "I'll only be a minute."

To which I said, "Are you kidding me? Move your car."

To which she chose not to respond except to lock her car and walk into the mini-mart.

To which I look around to all the onlookers and say, "Are you kidding me?" Onlookers are shaking their heads, which I take as a sign of support that they agree that she is one rude fuckin' bitch as opposed to a sign that they think I am one fuckin' wingnut.

And then I notice I am blocking a car in the aisle so I have no choice but to move my Jeep so she can get by me because I AM A CONSIDERATE PERSON.

I am going to just drive away because I am beyond pissed. But a space on another aisle has opened up and the line has dissipated for that aisle, so I pull in, and I start the process of paying a fortune because of EVIL OIL COMPANIES MAKING PROFITS ON THE BACKS OF HARD-WORKING AMERICANS UNLIKE THAT VOLVO-DRIVING BITCH WHO PROBABLY OWNS MUCH STOCK IN CHEVRON, and I glare across the aisles at that bitch's Volvo.

And I say to myself, "I'm tired of always just thinking what a bitch someone is when they do something like this. When she comes out of that store, I'm going up to her and say, 'You're a bitch.' That will really make me feel good."

So she comes out of the store and walks over to her Volvo and she goes up to the gas pump to start the process, and I march across the aisles to have my say.

And she sees me, scurries to her car, starts the ignition and drives away before I get close.

Bitch.

I See a Career in My Child's Future

2012-01-29T10:29:00.000-08:00

My father was in the Air Force. All four siblings breathed huge sighs of relief when our oldest brother went ROTC in college and then entered the Air Force. We were off the hook. Bonus? He went on to reproduce quickly, freeing the rest of us up from the pressure to do the same. [Remember, I came late to the parenting game. By the time I had my first child, my father had been dead nearly a decade, and my brother's kids were into the teen years already.]

Up until just a couple of days ago, I was of the mind to not pressure my kids into any particular career path. My mantra is was "Graduate from college and do a job you won't hate." No more. Based on my experience over the last week or so with all of our home computers being essentially fried and spending triple-digit dollars and double-digit hours online with tech support, I have decided the only career path for at least one of them is IT.

My thinking is this will best suit me in my old age. Now, you might think it would be handy to have a doctor in the family. Nope. The good ole U.S. of A. is more than happy to pay for my health care when I'm old. Let me be a drain on the taxpayers as a whole rather than my offspring.

But computer problems? Sadly, the U.S. hasn't gone socialist enough -- nor do I think it ever will -- to fund computer repairs and Trojan horse removals and computer virus inoculation. It costs a freakin' fortune to counteract those effin' hackers in the Ukraine who get off on effin' with good ole Americans' ability to telecommute, not to mention being able to access Netflix for the latest American Dad episode or post snarky diatribes about the school district. [Nothing against the Ukraine, mind you. I'm sure the non-hackers there are just fabulous folks.]

So one of my kids needs to go into tech support. I will, however, heed the advice of the tech support guy at AVG I spent quality hours with on Friday and make sure that child of mine does not get into the whole sweatshop atmosphere of a call center.

Buzz Cutting the Christmas Tree

2012-01-28T07:36:00.000-08:00

We must have missed the missive from the ~~garbage people~~ waste management company telling us the day of the Christmas tree pick-up. The tree was long ago undecorated and set out on the little spit of land that is our property but close enough to the curb to be an eyesore to neighbors. The week we figured trees would be picked up, our slowly decomposing tree was not. Not really giving a shit what our neighbors think of us, we left it out for another entire week. That second Friday after trash ~~pick-up~~ waste removal, it was still there.

Rather than start a brand new compost pile at the front of the house -- something a lazy person such as me would have done -- Pete started sawing off branches and loading them into the yard clippings trash can. It's a good thing we did miss the pick-up because look who had escaped from the house by hiding himself in the Christmas tree branches:

It makes me wonder where Woody and the others are. Have they gone to look for Buzz? Had he gone out to look for them? I've put Buzz on my router to remind me to go into the ~~hellhole that is our storage closet overrun with so much crap it will take a full day to go through it~~ secret room, where all the decorations are stored, and track down Woody and the gang. Otherwise, I fear Chicken Man will get his greasy ~~paws~~ feet on them and ship them all off to Japan. And then how sad will our tree look next year?

Kayla Rose and Grace

2012-01-25T19:56:00.000-08:00

This is a girl I have never met.

I do not know her family. I first heard of her family when I read a very funny story on a local Patch site which included a picture of her father and the lengths he went to as coach of her recreational soccer team. This is a picture of him.

Within a month of reading that story, I learned about the story of Kayla Rose and her very recent cancer diagnosis.

She is currently undergoing treatment at St. Jude's. Her mom and dad and younger brother are all with her in Memphis right now. Her mom is keeping locals apprised of what's happening at her blog, Curing Kayla Rose. Many fundraisers are going on back home as people who know and love her -- and people who don't know her -- do their best to ease the family's financial strain while their physical and emotional strain is surely bursting at the seams.

I don't know her at all. But I do know that there but for the grace of God or Budhha or the Fates or the Big Bang go me and mine.

Last week, the school she attends held a coin drive. It occurred to me, remembering how I first heard of Kayla and her Angry Bird dad, that this Sunday's soccer Jamboree would be as good a place as any to collect for them. So I'll be at the high school turf on Sunday for a couple of hours as the kids warm up for the looming soccer season, and I'll be shaking down everyone who comes in, asking them to shake loose their change, whether they know her or not.

[Top photo courtesy the Curing Kayla Rose blog; bottom photo courtesy Nicole Choi.]

Psychics and Super Powers

2012-01-24T06:43:00.000-08:00

Youngest steers the dinner conversation toward his latest school assignment: choosing a SUPER POWER -- not of the Soviet Union v. U.S. v. China sort -- and detailing how he got his SUPER POWER and how it benefits others. His choice appears to be SUPER KNOWLEDGE, and he scoffs that most of the kids in his class choose INVISIBILITY or SUPER STRENGTH.

His dad opts for the ability to FLY, noting that this will dramatically lower his carbon footprint. This, of course, leads to a three-minute break in the SUPER POWER discussion in order to explain what a carbon footprint is and why we are freely ridiculing the choice of FLYING as a SUPER POWER. The other break in the conversation? Why we hate politicians and how we've never had the chance to vote for a great presidential candidate and none of us ever will.

SUPER POWERS. Right. That's what I was writing about. I toy with TIME TRAVEL, but we all nix that because of that whole space-time continuum issue. Yes, that's right, we have to take reality into account when we're talking SUPER POWERS. We also believe that taking out, say, Gaddafi Duck would only have let some equally evil dictator take the same appalling actions. In the end, we're all for taking out Hitler and Pol Pot and Stalin, but again come back to that continuum issue.

PREDICTING THE FUTURE? They say that's got the same issues as TIME TRAVEL.

How about READING MINDS? Pete scoffs at that, pointing out it will all just be like a tweet stream to me.

In the end, I choose SUPER JUDGE. Yes, I get to determine what and who is right and what and who is wrong. My SUPER POWER makes me a SUPREME JUDGE of the world. I certainly am quite the critical sort, right?

*******

This conversation came on the heels of a conversation I had with a friend not that long ago. There is a murder trial set to happen soon in Marin County. Joseph Naso appears to be a serial killer. They seem to have him dead-to-rights on it. I doubt they'll seek the death penalty, though, seeing as he is 78 years old. His victims likely number more than the four women he is accused of killing.

What if you suspected someone you knew was of a similar ilk? What if you encountered someone with psychic abilities who told you things that fed that belief? What if there were little (and bigger) events or circumstances or feelings or senses that you got that told you someone in your life was not only fully capable of doing evil but likely had? Did Naso's ex-wife ever somehow know but didn't really know and so did nothing about it? Would some of those women still be alive if she had?

You'd sound crazy with absolutely no evidence. Throw in the unexpected encounter with a psychic, regardless that it was in a social setting and she just started telling you things, and you'd sound totally bonkers. Besides getting yourself the hell away, there really isn't anything else you can do. Right? Except hope that 10 or 20 years later it doesn't all turn out to be true and the best you can do is say out loud, "I had no idea," but know inside that's not true.

MIA

2012-01-22T08:43:00.000-08:00

Here's an incident at work I can finally find some humor in. We were looking for an administrative assistant to work from 2 p.m. to closing each night. The woman I work ~~for~~ with pays hourly workers on the low end. [Thankfully, she makes up for it by paying me on the high end. Heh.] But this particular job included benefits of the health care and vacation and sick time variety, so it was a decent salary for someone starting out.

I waded through a huge number of resumes, narrowed it down to a half-dozen, interviewed them over the phone, and then invited five in to talk to us. Two never showed. Among the other three, one was so-so, one was really good, and one was fabulous. We offered jobs to both the "really good" and the "fabulous." "Fabulous" accepted right away. "Really Good," who had just moved here from New York, scoffed at the hourly wage, saying she was holding out for at least $2 more an hour.

So "Fabulous" started the next Monday. In accepting the job, she indicated she had already made plans to be out of town for a three-day weekend starting on the Friday, so her first week was only going to be Monday through Thursday.

On Monday, she dove right in and did brilliantly.

On Tuesday, she did more of the same.

On Wednesday, when I wasn't in the office, I got an email in the morning from the night supervisor saying that "Fabulous" had left Monday at 7:30, citing a deadline for a school essay. On Tuesday, "Fabulous" ducked out at 8:00, not saying anything about why she was leaving early. (She was supposed to stay until 9:30 each day.)

Since I wasn't going to be in Wednesday, we all agreed the night supervisor would reiterate the hours that day and I would have a come-to-Jesus talk with her on Thursday when I was in again.

Wednesday night, she waited until the night supervisor stepped out for a smoke, and then she left without saying good-bye at 8:30.

Thursday, she sent an email saying she was sick and would be happy to work from home. I declined the offer and said she should just stay home and recover and I would see her Monday.

Of course, she never showed on Monday, and we never heard from her again, until payday 10 days later, when she sent a note.

"I wanted to deeply apologize for my abrupt disappearance... I am so sorry about that, and I realize I handled myself very unprofessionally. I just don't think I was a good fit for the job.

However, I still do of course expect to be compensated for the work I did. I believe I left my time sheet on the desk I was working at.. I did keep track of the hours I worked there, in case you need me to send them to you etc. Please let me know if there's anything I can do from my end to make this less work for you.

Again, my sincerest apologies. I'm so sorry it didn't work out.

Best,

Mia"

Yeah, the Missing In Action employee was named Mia. And her time sheet listed hours as if she had actually worked when she was supposed to work.

The upshot for us? We will never again hire a person we believe is absolutely fabulous.

I Gotta Feeling I Like American Pie

2012-01-21T08:37:00.000-08:00

I am driving Daughter home from her Girl Scouts meeting, and the Black Eyed Peas song "I Gotta Feeling" comes on the radio. At best, I know the chorus and a few random lines throughout. Daughter? She has it down cold, inflections included. Hand gestures, even.

I listen to her sing along -- and I pipe in with my own feeble warbling of those random lines and the chorus -- and I wonder how many times she has listened to the damn song in order to memorize it. I imagine her sitting at her computer, singing along with a YouTube version that has the lyrics scrolling along. She intently listens and stares and backs up the video when needed. Eventually, she knows it as well as the Black Eyed Peas do.

"What a waste of time," I think.

After the song ends, Don McLean's "American Pie" comes on. Daughter knows the chorus, of course, but only only only because her boyfriend was in the car with us once when the song came on the radio. I sang along then, of course, because, hell, it's "American Pie." Daughter bitterly complained, not just over the embarrassment of her mom singing IN FRONT OF HER BOYFRIEND, but also because the song is so lame.

Her boyfriend, however, is an aficionado of classic rock, and he informed her that "American Pie" is fabulous. So Daughter, while still embarrassed to death that her mom is singing IN FRONT OF HER BOYFRIEND, no longer complained about the song itself. She even learned the chorus.

All of which leads us back to last night's "American Pie," when I sing every single solitary line of that song -- and Daughter chimes in at the chorus -- and we even drive around the block so as not to arrive home before the song is complete. And I am transported back to the days of 45's and playing a song over and over and over until I know it as well as Don McLean himself does.

"Maybe not so much a waste of time," I think.

At the end of the song, as we are pulling into the driveway, I tell Daughter that "American Pie" is the only non-Springsteen song I want played at my funeral. She agrees to remember. Here's hoping she has to remember for a very long time.

2012-01-17T12:54:00.000-08:00

Soccer season? Already?

It is. The season kicks off with some warm-up sessions for the kids the next two weekends. Then there is a 10-day break, and then try-outs are in February. Alas and alack, it turns out Youngest has to try out with his age group. You remember all my bitching about that team, right? And the coach? And the other parents? And the fuckin' nightmare that all that was? [Oh good God, don't click the links. We'll all just get sucked right into it again.]

I remember, too.

It's not a foregone conclusion that he'll play on that team. On the upside, there will be a new coach. Yes, everyone, you can thank me and mine for that. On the downside, it's possible that the former coach will still have his kid play in this league, on that team. Worse, of course, is the certainty that a couple of very vile parents will certainly still have their kids playing on that team.

In the end, we lucked out by having Youngest play with the older kids this year. The coach was fabulous. It was as if the old coach was a Stephen Colbert parody on what coaching should be like, and the coach of Youngest's new team was the real thing. Hell, he even won Coach of the Year. And, no, I don't think it was because he had to put up with me, thanks for asking.

Mostly, I'm so sad that the league president sent me the following email:

I am very pleased to hear Youngest had such a great experience with BEST COACH EVER. Our policy does require Youngest to try out for his U11 team (correct age group)...NEW COACH BECAUSE OLD COACH HAS BEEN KICKED OFF is fantastic! We are so excited to have him and I am equally excited for Youngest to meet him!

So, stay tuned. Nearly all of me wants Youngest to continue playing up. In a testament to my managing to keep my mouth shut about his original team, Youngest is excited that he might be able to play with his age group again. There's that damn "excited" word again.

Forgot the Title on Last Post so This Post Only Gets a Title

2012-01-17T05:55:00.001-08:00

2012-01-15T12:52:00.000-08:00

I've noticed my Google Reader subscribers inching up, and I can't help but feeling it's more of those locals angling to read without giving me the satisfaction of a hit. They're likely interested in seeing what outlandish crap I'm spewing. Dissin' the elementary school principal? Goofing on the goings-on around the various schools my kids attend? Owning up to being an idiot? Poking the school board with a stick? [Note to self: be careful of that last one. Remember what happened to that poor woman. Cryptic enough for you?]

Anyway, regular readers may very well recall that I discovered in March that the school district had blocked any computers on its network from accessing my blog. The reason cited was "adult language." I noted at the time that I had been using adult language most of the five years I've been blogging, but it only became a problem right at the moment of the uproar over the school district motherfuckers closing the middle school Daughter and Eldest attended.

Do you think the use of "motherfuckers" in this post is going to get it blocked again? Because it was unblocked after a couple of months. Now, you can't say that's not fucking curious, can you? So just to be clear as we gear up for more local gripping and such, I'm giving them a golden opportunity to block me again. I'll even throw in a "vagina" to seal the deal. (Thanks to any mommy for that reminder back in March.)

There is a point to this post, though, and that is that Google Reader and other feed readers and aggregators must make it really easy for folks who like to view adult content 24/7 to do so even if their workplace blocks such content. I mean, do businesses typically block feed readers? They don't, do they?

But should they?

Christmas Cards Still on To Do List

2012-01-14T08:49:00.000-08:00

The Sunday before Thanksgiving, we piled into the car and drove down to the land of Disney for a very brief visit. "Brief" as in one day. Yeah, I know, we're gluttons for punishment. But with no In-N-Out Burger joint nearby, what better excuse than to drive hundreds of miles and get our In-N-Out fixes coming and going? And as a bonus get to see Disney done all purty for Christmas. Done all purty like, but still managing to never actually use the word "Christmas."

We needed to dine out in a not-In-N-Out at least once, so we bopped over to the Buca di Beppo across the parking lot from our hotel. And that's when we got our Christmas card picture. [Did you see that, Disney? I can use the word "Christmas," and I have not experienced a backlash initiated by the many I must clearly offend by the use of the word.]

Of course, work beckoned mightily, and I never did get those Christmas cards done. But you get the picture.

Merry belated Christmas. Happy 2012. May this, in fact, not be the year of the end of the world, Mayan calendar creators be damned.

The Landlord with a Roach Problem

2012-01-12T07:41:00.000-08:00

It's a fairly indistinct three-story building a block up from Broadway, in the area becoming increasingly known as Oaksterdam. If you're not familiar with that part of Oakland, let me just say that you need to imagine Amsterdam. Got that image in your head? Good. Now, put a bunch of street people and extreme low-income folks into the mix. Add the Occupy Oakland people. Throw in some thugs. There. That's where I go into work a couple of days a week.

The landlord is an idiot. He's a business owner whose parents apparently bought him the building where he had his office when the previous landlord put it up for sale. He probably thought it was an easy way to make bank. He puts almost no effort into the upkeep, making up excuses as to why, for example, the elevator isn't repaired in a timely fashion or why the lock on the ladies' bathroom isn't fixed or why one of the toilets in said bathroom is out of order for nearly two months. [That last one was only fixed when I posted a sign on the door to the restroom saying "Women Held Hostage Day 42," and updated the number each day.]

In the dead week between Christmas and New Year's, when I was under extreme deadline pressure, I let a handful of interviewers come in and work a project while I was in the office anyway. On the first day, we spotted a brown paper bag outside the men's bathroom. As I'm asking people about it, the door opens and out come two guys, who scoop up the bag, wave to us and go about their merry way. We're the only tenants on the third floor as the landlord -- the other business on our floor -- was closed for the week. So these guys came from who-the-hell-knows-where. And that's when we first noticed the smell of pot. [And when I noted that the idiots couldn't be bothered to flush the toilet. Yeah, I checked the men's room after they left. The toilet seat was up, too, but I guess that's immaterial to the story.]

Someone tried to break into the landlord's office the Monday after New Year's. The person breaking in was cognizant of the cameras and entered the building backwards, with his hoodie up. He didn't reckon on the third-floor camera, though, so his face was visible as he exited the elevator...before he ripped out the camera, that is.

Long story short: the landlord has rented offices on the second floor to a guy saying he owns an urban farms business. The landlord was suspicious enough that he never gave the new tenant a key to the building or a code to get in. He only told him when the building opens. At precisely the moment the building's door automatically opened that Monday after New Year's, that would-be thief entered the building. I wonder how he knew the hours of operation?

We've had more run-ins with the tenants. Their clients hang outside the building after-hours, waiting for one of the interviewers to come out so they can come in. As they wait, they smoke dope in the vestibule. It's clear they are selling pot and smoking it, too, in their offices. The smell wafts up to us.

The lawyers with offices on the second floor have apparently also complained to the landlord. The poor spa on the ground floor isn't likely to get much business with folks standing in front getting high. And we've got staff -- almost all women -- who feel absolutely intimidated when asked to let scruffy-looking dopers into our building.

God bless the urban farmer.

FBriends of FBriends

2012-01-10T19:30:00.000-08:00

Damn, I've had to start a whole new tag of "FBriends of FBriends."

Without any introduction beyond that, here are two from just the past 24 hours. [For the record, the folks commenting on the status are not my FBriends; they are FBriends of my FBriends. Still, if the enemy of my enemy is my friend, does that mean the idiot of my FBriend is my idiot?

No, he's not ill. He's just at a hospital waiting for medication.

"Struggling"? Seriously? You call an A- "struggling"? Glad my kid doesn't have you as a parent.

Batting Around Coconuts

2012-01-09T18:34:00.000-08:00

A teacher of high school freshman has as the classroom bathroom passes a coconut for the girls' bathroom and a plastic bat for the boys' bathroom. The sexual references to gender is intended, the teacher admits. The teacher told students on the first day of the second semester last week, the first day likely all of these freshmen met this particular teacher as it is a one-semester class, that if the teacher's crude language or sexual references or off-color jokes are too much for them, they should make that known.

The only bathroom passes I'm aware of other teachers using are your run-of-the-mill paper ones.

I have a few questions for you.

1. Would you complain if it was your son's teacher?
2. Would you complain if it was your daughter's teacher?
3. Would you complain if it your son or daughter wasn't a student in the class? (For the record, this teacher does not teach at my son's high school.)
4. Does it matter what the gender of the teacher is?

My answers.

1. Yeah, I would.
2. Yeah, I would.
3. Yeah, I would.
4. No, it doesn't. (For the record, the teacher is a male.)

Does My Kid Have to Spell Correctly to Graduate?

2012-01-08T16:40:00.000-08:00

In the school district's January electronic newsletter is this little tidbit:

Yes, the yellow highlight was added by me for emphasis.

Lord knows how long it will take before someone -- anyone -- who happens to read this little corner of the Internet will alert the superintendent or the public information officer about this and take steps to fix it. In the meantime, I'm enjoying sharing it. I'm also enjoying seeing the link forwarded to our precious Calfornia students.

Peace out.

Or pease owt. We our en Calfornia aftor al.

A Girl and her Boy

2012-01-07T07:58:00.000-08:00

I didn't get a chance (yet) to do Christmas cards, updating everyone on the goings-on in the household. I also still have to do the 2012 calendars for family and close friends. I'm sure everyone on those two lists is feeling something slightly amiss in their lives because they lack those items. I imagine they're sitting down at the table, sipping their tea or coffee, watching the sunrise, and musing to themselves or significant others, "Doesn't something feel off this year? I can't put my finger on it. But something is askew." They shake their heads and mutter, "Not that, you idiot," when their significant other points to the crooked artwork.

Daughter is still going out with her boyfriend. Yes, the same boyfriend she started up with in May. Yes, she was 12 then and is now 13. Yes, he was 13 then and is now 14. Yes, they have now been officially dating over the course of two calendar years. Yes, they have been together through nine calendar months. Yes, they still talk to each other every single day, sometimes for hours on end. Yes, hearing her side of those conversations sometimes makes me want to hurl.

Yes, yes, yes.

She says they will eventually marry and have two children, one girl and one boy. "What should we call the Jack Russell Terrier he's going to get me when we're married?" she asks. "You won't call any small dog we get a 'rat dog' so long as I don't carry it in my purse or put clothes on it, will you, Mom?" she asks. "Do I have to invite Youngest to the wedding?" she asks.

"Whatever," I say to the first.

"Yes," I say to the second.

"If you want us to pay for it, yes," I say to the third.

Thankfully, their relationship is still mostly virtual. They get to see each other and hang out together every three weeks or so. They both seem content to spend the hours talking and texting and flirting and laughing virtually rather than IRL. Thank God. And, if school boundaries stay what they are, they won't be attending the same high school either. Hooray!

She skews very young, that Daughter of mine, and she has been lucky to have found another her physical age who appears to have a similar emotional age. They will mature, of course, but I'm grateful that it is quite the gradual process.

Much as I'd never believe it myself were I not witnessing it unfold before me, I find myself actually starting to believe that the two of them are truly soul mates who have found each other in seventh grade and who will ultimately be together for 73 years. With a bunch of frickin' rat dogs yipping and yapping as they sit in their rocking chairs and watch sunrises and sunsets together.

Hey, Magic Man, Can You Make Her Disappear?

2012-01-06T07:09:00.000-08:00

Having spent the last seven weeks of 2011 under a hell of a project deadline, my presence at home and at the kids' schools and in town has been almost nil. When I took Youngest to school on Tuesday, the first day back after the two-week Christmas break, I felt as if I'd been away from the school for an entire semester.

And it felt good to have been away. I have clearly overspent my time at that school. Eldest started there when Youngest was months old, which means it's been more than nine years since we first became a part of that community. I loved that school. My kids have all loved that school. Youngest still does. It is his school, after all.

I pin my dwindling love for the mechanism that is that school to the announcement on the day of Daughter's fifth grade promotion that the principal was leaving. The she/he combination of the interim co-principals for the next semester was laughable. And then the new warden came almost exactly two years ago. "Warm and fuzzy" isn't a term used to describe her. And, while I know I should be cognizant of the fact that locals read this and what I say here can be used against me in a the court of public opinion, fuck that.

All that people say about that school, long before she arrived, is now true if we are to look at her as the representative of the school. She is stand-offish. She acts far superior than others. She acts the role of prison warden. Her rules for behavior do seem quite Stepford-like. She is rigid. She communicates poorly. In short, she really is what people think the school is like.

If I were a wing-nut conspiracy theorist, I would believe that she was recruited to exaggerate all of the behaviors the school's parents and staff are accused of displaying as a means of making the elimination of its by-lottery status an absolute done deal.

There is another school, a K-8 one, which has as part of its parent pool a professional magician. He's putting on two shows this month as a fundraiser for that school. It's a public school, part of our school district. And it's a magic show, a fun outing for a family with kids. He asked to have a flier promoting his show sent home in the Friday folders of all schools. Frankly, it's not unlike promoting the Christmas tree recycling program one of the high schools is putting on. Why the hell not, right?

Our principal told him no, it didn't make sense for our school to promote another school's fundraiser.

That right there?

That's the attitude we as a whole are accused of having.

That's the behavior we as a whole are accused of exhibiting.

That's the sound of the by-lottery school becoming a neighborhood school.

Cop Out of an Opt-Out

2012-01-05T06:33:00.000-08:00

I hate opt-outs. I hate it when it's PG&E's SmartMeter program. I hate it when I'm signing up for a Norton package. I hate it when I'm signing up a kid for soccer. I hate it when it comes from the Marin Energy Authority.

Most of all, though, I hate it when it comes from the curb painting people. You know who I'm talking about, right? Each year, a team of hey-they-can't-have-a-real-job-for-several-reasons-including-drug-addictions-and-below-average-IQs-and-felony-records slimy looking men leave a note in your mailbox about their upcoming sweep of your neighborhood. [Hey, isn't it illegal to leave something other than a legitimate Post Office-delivered item in your mailbox? Officer, arrest them!]

The note indicates it will cost us the princely sum of $20 to have our house number painted on the curb. In order to have our house skipped -- and leave us open to the danger of fire engines, ambulances and police unable to find our house in cases of dire emergencies -- we have to check the box telling them not to do it and leave it taped to the mailbox.

Opt out my ass, man. Stay the friggin' hell off of my property, including my mailbox.

So, of course, I didn't fill out the form. Did I mention I hate opt-outs? A couple of weeks ago, I came home from the project-from-hell to find something akin to this painted on my curb:

I am not exaggerating. In fact, my feeble rendering does the real work of art little justice. The two numbers are askew. The paint of the numbers dripped. And they don't line up. Hi-friggin'-larious, no?

So one of those hey-they-can't-have-a-real-job-for-several-reasons-including-drug-addictions-and-below-average-IQs-and-felony-records slimy looking men came to my door last night and said he was there to collect the money.

I said, "I never asked you to paint the numbers. And have you seen what you did? The numbers are off, they're totally crooked, and the paint dripped all over."

"Well, it was wet on this side of the street," he said.

"I'm not paying you anything for such a crappy job," I said, and then I closed the door which had been opened only two inches, and I locked it, and then I went upstairs and hid looking out a window until he got into a car driven by one of his fellow hey-they-can't-have-a-real-job-for-several-reasons-including-drug-addictions-and-below-average-IQs-and-felony-records slimy looking men and drove away.

Then I went outside and locked up all the loose crap we have outside, like soccer shade structures and tents, because I just know they came back last night to get even.

False Assumptions

2011-12-05T06:19:00.001-08:00

We were down in Burlingame on Saturday, the two older ones dragged along with us and subjected to watching one of two of Youngest's soccer matches. Normally, we don't make them come to the games; truly, there's enough resentment of Youngest on the part of the other two that we try to avoid anything that increases it. But our Chinese family lives in South San Francisco, and we wanted to get all of us together because it's been such a long time since we've seen them.

So off we went, and after the first match, Eldest and Daughter went off with their Chinese parents. Pete, Youngest and I hung out with the two younger generations -- including the most adorable two-year-old I know -- in between the matches. While Pete took Youngest back 45 minutes before the second match, I got to hang with Oliver and his parents in a coffee shop.

It being the family-friendly kind of place, I was goofing off with Oliver around the place. As I have him in my arms and he is laughing up a storm, a fellow Caucasian woman comes up and says to us, "Oh, he's so happy! It's Saturday and he's out with his mommy. What fun!"

Huh?

Oliver's mother watches the exchange. While she can't hear what is said, she turns to her husband and completely nails the gist of what the woman said. I come back over and relate the conversation, but the two of them already know.

Obviously, a white woman can't be playing with an Asian child unless he is her adopted son. Change the ethnicities of the two people -- make the toddler white and the woman Chinese -- and no one would make that assumption. But they'd still probably make a false assumption: that the woman was the nanny.

Apparently, white people and Chinese people aren't ever presumed to be friends. Or family of a different sort.

[Photo ripped off from Oliver's mommy's FB page.]

In Brief(s)

2011-12-01T06:01:00.001-08:00

I'm grateful that it means less laundry for me, but I do think it's only a matter of time before someone at Youngest's school notices he always goes commando. I can just imagine the sexual harassment charges to be levied against him by the elementary school ~~warden~~ principal. Zero tolerance for zero underpants, is my guess.

**********

I hope anyone who has been paying through the nose for Lipitor all these years switches to the generic version, and fast. Pfizer's negotiating with health insurance plans now to give their insured Lipitor at the market rate of the generics is such bullshit. I grant you that Pfizer was well within its legal rights to charge whatever the hell it wanted on Lipitor all these years, but that doesn't mean it had to charge such outrageous sums. How many times over has it paid for its research through the pickpocketing of those in need of Lipitor?

**********

Not only has work been kicking my ass the last couple of months, but this month is in its own category of special hell. I've got a project due to the feds by December 30, and it's a flippin' huge one. I need to hold meetings and conduct interviews with thousands of people. And the kicker? Most of them can't speak English. That leaves me relying on others to help me, and we all know how reliable others are.

**********

Can I tell you how nice it is to be far removed from the school setting? This is the lull before one hell of a firestorm coming up. At least the firestorm will happen after the new year, when my recall of all that is happening right now will be fuzzy with the giddy relief that the project from hell is done.

**********

We are all well. Daughter still hates her new middle school, and she always will, but she and her boyfriend are still going (virtually) strong. I swear she's going to end up marrying him in a decade. Eldest has turned 15 and we are taking him (illegally) for driving lessons. Youngest remains soccer-mad. On the one hand, I'm thankful his season continues for another three weeks. On the other hand, I can't believe we've got to go to Manteca. Twice. Thank God Pete's project is done and he is working locally. For now. Me? I remain as frenetic as always. Can't you tell?

Password Protected

2011-11-19T08:50:00.001-08:00

In the five years I've been doing this blog, I've never felt the need to password protect a post. Until today. Alas, there is no way to password protect a single post on Blogger. (You've got to wonder why the hell not, right?)

The post I've written is not incendiary. It is not about a personal crisis. All is good on the home front.

It is about how it's taken me five years to make a bad decision about what I have posted. Don't go trolling through the blog archives. I stand by everything I've written here: incendiary, personal, deep, ridiculous.

It's something I posted on Facebook that I truly can't justify having posted. The problem is, writing about it publicly makes the since-deleted post still public. So I've written a blog post, but I'm not posting it.

I hope I can go another five years before making such an error.

A Tale of Two Soccer Coaches

2011-11-02T19:31:00.000-07:00

It's evaluation time, and we're asked to assess our kids' coaches. I took the liberty of rating both Youngest's ex-coach and his current one. It was designed to be anonymous, to encourage honesty. Screw that, though, I don't need anonymity.

The comment I left regarding Youngest's current coach:

My son and his teammates are blessed to have COACH as theircoach. He works them hard, but he does it without belittling or ridiculing. Heplays them fairly. He cares about not only their skills and performance now butabout their skills and performance in later years as well. He is actuallytraining them beyond one season. He talks to them, he counsels them. There's aword for that, it's on the tip of my tongue. Oh, yeah, he's a"coach." And he excels at his job. If my son were to play soccer nextyear, I would love to have COACH as his coach again.

And the comment regarding his ex-coach? Yeah, that:

No need for me to hide behind anonymity. This is Patty. I believe I have outlined my incredible dissatisfaction with DUMBASS indetail, in writing and verbally. He has a temper. He gets out of control. He isabusive. He plays favorites. He becomes frantic when losing. He is the absoluteantithesis of a role model I want for my CHILD. I do believe he has the supportof a small and select group of parents with the same poor sportsmanship andwin-at-all-cost attitudes. These are CHILDREN. Passion is one thing.Uncontrolled and untethered bad sportsmanship is far more suited for the worldsof Enron and PG&E and Lehman Brothers.

BTW, that dumbass works for one of those latter-named companies. Huh.

Perspective

2011-10-21T07:04:00.000-07:00

I have a client whose husband has brain cancer. In the year since his diagnosis, there has been some hope and much despair. She does not want to speak of it and, when she does, she is only always upbeat and positive. My colleague and I know the truth through mutual friends and our client's boss. It is grim.

But we do not let on that we know, so we continue on with the years-long project, including her in all discussions and actions. If she is able to do what we need, she does; if she can't, she doesn't. And we all just move on.

We did a focus group earlier this week, and I opined that my life is very difficult of late, what with Pete traveling nearly every week. "It's really hard when he's not home and I'm left to deal with soccer and dance and school activities and work by myself."

"Try having a sick husband who is home and can't do anything," she said.

And that was Perspective giving me a little kick in the ass. And a pain in my gut.

What is Wrong With This Sentence?

2011-10-20T12:00:00.000-07:00

I will check email sporatically during this period.

That's the out-of-office reply of someone. So what is wrong with this sentence?

First, "sporadically" is misspelled.

Second, and most importantly, it is from the co-director of curriculum and instruction for our illustrious school district. Bravo! Or should I say, "Brevo!"?

Going, Going, Going, Gone

2011-10-18T06:19:00.000-07:00

Each class was assigned a theme for its items for the basket created for the auction at an annual fun fair type event for kids and their families. Most folks pony up $10 or $15 to the pool each year. Youngest has 26 classmates, and our class raised about $325 for our basket. The younger grades, with 20 per class, probably each raised a similar amount, being that parents at that point are still competing to give the most to make little Johnny proud.

I did the shopping and brought the goodies to the big "basket wrapping" to-do the Wednesday morning before the fair. Not actually having ever been a girl, I enlisted to former girls to do the actual displaying and cellophane-twisting and ribbon-selecting and bow-tying to make the baskets presentable. I bartered my writing and pseudo-Photoshopping skills in exchange for their help.

Their third grade class had a theme of "beauty" and they had raised about $350. They made arrangements with a parent of a fourth grader, a plastic surgeon, to donate part of his fee to enable them to offer a $700 Botox and Juvederm treatment. To each her -- or his -- own, right? I made the certificate for them to put in the basket.

I think the basket went for more than $400. Good for them. I don't know what my class's baskets went for -- one with SodaStream and one with Starbucks -- but I know all of the baskets bring in a hefty sum each fall.

Someone complained about their basket, saying it sends the wrong signal to the kids. "What next?" the complainant wondered. "Are you going to auction off a boob job next year? What should I tell my 8-year-old daughter?"

I found out about the complaint yesterday, and after laughing, I moved onto much eye-rolling and mouth-gaping. Really? This is what people choose to make a stand on? The excess of mass consumption of unnecessary items represented by the baskets is fine, but the fact that one deals with Botox is wrong? There are baskets with high-end Coach items and baskets with bad-for-your-health soda products and baskets with hundreds of dollars worth of video games which will rot your kids' brains and so on and so on.

Hey, that basket contained something I'd never be interested in, but far be it from me to tell someone else she can't go shoot botulism into her face to make her more satisfied with her looks. What to tell an 8-year-old girl? "Some people have a difficult time aging and are unhappy with how they look. It isn't something for me, and I can't imagine it being something you'd ever want to do, but it doesn't hurt anyone. We can even giggle about it, that a woman feels looks are that important to her self-esteem, but we won't giggle in front of her."

[Image courtesy BotoxInjectionsGuide.]

I Wouldn't do it if I had to do it Straight

2011-09-29T05:00:00.000-07:00

Yup, I'm room parent again this year. Thank God I ignore all sense of propriety and communicate with the parents the fun way.

By tomorrow morning, you will have seen in your child's Friday folder that the theme for our family dinner classroom basket in TEACHER'S class is Beverage Maker. Unlike in years past, the organizers of the FUNDRAISER are asking parents to donate money to purchase the basket items. Morally opposed to donating cash and really really really want to donate an item instead? Go for it. If you want to go with the flow and donate money, please make your checks payable to me. I will keep with the theme and head out to the LOCAL WIFE-BEATER BAR and throw back a few in your name.

No, wait, I won't do that. I will take all of the donated funds and buy the necessary basket items, including, apparently, a Soda Stream home soda maker or the Kuerig home coffee system. Then, a couple of days before the FUNDRAISER, we'll hang out with the other room parents and put the basket of goodies together for the silent auction at the FUNDRAISER on October 14.

There will be a Mike's Bikes bag -- go brand marketing! -- in the classroom for you to put your donation into. I will keep careful records and turn in all receipts. Have no fear.

Questions? I'll do my best to answer them. If I don't know the answer, I'll either make one up or point you in the direction of the person who can answer your question.

Patty

Some Spam Scams Amuse Me

2011-09-28T09:10:00.000-07:00

I don't know why I didn't delete this from my junk folder as soon as I received it. Usually, I don't read any of them. But this one amused me. For the record, no, I shan't be helping this soldier. Who actually falls for this? I really have to know.

Hello Friend,

How are you and your family? I hope all is well. My name is (Sgt. Scott McLean, I am an American Soldier serving in the military with the army's 3rd infantry division. With a very desperate need for assistance, I have summed up courage to contact you. I found your contact particular in an address journal. I am seeking your kind assistance to help me clear the sum of ($16.5 Million U.S. DOLLARS) sixteen million five hundred thousand United State dollars which is already in the United State, as far as I can assured that my share will be safe in your care until I complete my service here. Source of the money: Some money in various currencies were discovered in barrels at a farmhouse near one of Saddam old palaces in Tikrit-Iraq during a rescue operation, and it was agreed by Staff Spc. Daniel Collier and I that some part of this money be shared among both us before informing anybody about it since both us saw the money first.

This was quite an illegal thing to do, but I tell you what? No compensation can make up for the risk we have taken with our lives in this hell hole, of which my brother in-law was killed by a road side bomb last time. You will find the story of this money on the web address below;REDACTED. The above figure was given to me as my share, and to conceal this kind of money became a problem for me, so with the help of a British contact working here, and his office enjoy some immunity, I was able to move the package to United State entirely out of trouble spot.

He does not know the real contents of the package, and believes that it belongs to a British/American medical doctor who died in a raid here in Iraq, and before given up, trusted me to hand over the package to his family. the package was moved to United State with the help of prudent Red Cross Officer who traveled to Washington DC for an official meeting for a war report, and I will discuss this with you when I am sure that you are willing to assist me, and I believe that my money will be well secured in your hand because you have a fear of God. I want you to tell me how much you will take from this money for the assistance you give to me.

One passionate appeal i will make to you is not to discuss this matter with anybody, should you have reasons to reject this offer, please and please destroy this message as any leakage of this information will be too bad for us soldiers here in Iraq. I do know how long we will remain here, and I have been shot, wounded and survived two suicide bomb attacks by the special grace of God, this and other reasons I will mention later has prompted me to reach out for help, I honestly want this matter to be resolved immediately, please contact me as soon as possible via e-mail which is my way of communication.

God bless you and your family.

Sgt. Scott McLean
(3rd Infantry Division)

Foodie Geography

2011-09-26T06:13:00.000-07:00

One of the best fourth grade activities each of my kids has participated in is the California Cookie project. Kids in small groups take a large cookie shaped like the state of California and they fill in the mountains and deserts and rivers and coastline with chocolate chip cookies and brown sugar and blue icing. They place Red Hots on the largest cities. When all is done, the cookie crumbles and the kids chow down on the state.

This boy? He is hyped up on the mountains of California.

Shuffle Along

2011-09-20T20:39:00.000-07:00

With just three minutes to spare, the following post was pulled before being published on a local news site. Why did it need to be pulled? Because the powers-that-be in Youngest's soccer league stepped in and rectified that situation I felt could in no way be rectified.

But all is good now. Youngest is playing up an age group and is away from a very bad situation. But here is what I was all ready to say.

My youngestson loves a sport beyond belief. I’ll call that sport “shuffleboard.” He is inhis fifth year of playing shuffleboard. He plays shuffleboard whenever he can,including seemingly non-stop against the house, at practice, at matches, on thehigh school shuffleboard court with his dad, at recess and lunch at school,after school with his friends, and in the mornings when we take the dog to thefield near a shuffleboard court. He watches shuffleboard matches with his dad,rooting for his dad’s favorite team. He subscribes to shuffleboard magazines.He knows the names of all the best professional shuffleboard players.

He wanted toplay competitive shuffleboard last year, but we weren’t ready to take on thatfinancial and time commitment of having him travel all over northernCalifornia. We had also heard horror stories about the shuffling of parents offthe shuffleboard court. But he is shuffleboard-mad, so we took the plunge thisyear, and he made the top team for his age group. He was the only player new tothe world of competitive shuffleboard to make the A team.

There havebeen many incidents in his time on the competitive shuffleboard team that havehad my husband and me regretting the decision.

When I wasfired as manager by the coach after Ihad done all the scut work of organizing kids’ birth certificates and forms andpayments and photos and held an extremely contentious meeting between A teamparents and B team parents. Why was I fired? Because I went to the shuffleboardleague to complain about how carryover funds from two years prior were beingdistributed.

When we heardhow the coach yelled at nine-year-old boys when the team was losing, duringmatches, singling out boys and screaming such good-sportsman-like statementssuch as “Get the Goddamned shuffleboard thingie.”

When we sawno rhyme or reason to how much time some boys played and some did not, musingthat perhaps it had more to do with the coach’s relationships with someparents.

When weheard how the coach yelled at referees when a call was missed or the coachdisagreed with the call.

When I foundmyself sitting on the side of the shuffleboard court with the opposing team’sparents because I was embarrassed at how he sounded.

When hebegan substituting players every two to three minutes during 25-minute halves,oftentimes barely letting a boy warm-up on the shuffleboard court beforeyanking him.

When weheard following Saturday’s match that his 15-minute post-match “pep talk”included the use of obscenities and threats to move boys down to the B team.

He calledSunday night and said he was moving my son down to the B team, to give him moreplay time, he said. My husband spoke succinctly and brilliantly to him. I hadlistened in on the call and when I had had enough, I called the coach a coupleof obscenities. I obviously get my good sportsmanship from the same place thecoach does.

We have paidabout $250 in registration fees, another $1,100 in team fees, another $235 forthe uniform and equipment, and another $150 for our portion of tournament fees.We have paid plenty more in getting the kid to and from practices and games.The first true game of the season was Saturday. The team lost 3-0. Of the 13boys on the shuffleboard team, perhaps two played well. My son was not one ofthose two players.

There are norefunds. That’s the rule one agrees to when one signs a kid up for acompetitive shuffleboard team.

That’s ahard-and-fast rule, apparently, unlike the rule that says a coach can only staywith the same team for two years. The coach of my son’s shuffleboard team is onhis third year of coaching the same team.

Unlike therule that says every family has to contribute at least six hours of volunteertime or the kid doesn’t play.

And unlikethe rule that says the family who has the team shuffleboard equipment for gamedays is not able to sell it all on Craigslist when their kid gets kicked offthe team.

Sordid Soccer Saga Continues

2011-09-15T06:03:00.000-07:00

I took Youngest to soccer practice yesterday, swallowing more bile than I thought I could not only get down but also generate in the first place. As promised, the league president and the coach arrived 15 minutes early so that Youngest could be assured that he has a rightful spot on the team and that it was all a misunderstanding among the adults. The president did all the speaking. Really. The coach was silent as the assurances were made to Youngest, who was then sent off while the three adults continued the conversation.

Or while the league president spoke and the coach and I remained almost completely silent. The death rays I have wished since I was six to be able to shoot from my eyes again failed me lo these many decades later.

"A lot of harsh things were said," the president said. "For the good of Youngest, we're going to set that aside and stay focused on the kids. You're both adults. I'm not going to make you apologize for things that were said. Do either of you have anything you'd like to add?"

"Nope," I said.

"No. It was just a misunderstanding," the coach said.

"Patty and I are going to keep talking. You can leave," the president said in such a dismissive tone to the coach.

The motherf$%er walked away.

* * *

How did we get to this point from the seemingly irreparable fracture of just a day before? By dealing with a league president who has worked at a frenetic pace, talking with many people involved or in charge, to make sure that things were set right. He has slammed the coach for his behavior on and off the field with the boys and on the phone with Pete and I. The coach? He has denied that he said he was moving Youngest. He claims it was all a misunderstanding.

My claim? Nice try buddy, but I recorded the conversation you motherf$%er. [Illegal, true. Unethical, true. Totally necessary when dealing with this motherf$%er, true.]

That league president has repeatedly told me to remove myself from the equation, to remove the coach from the equation, and just project out what is best for Youngest. He offered up several options for Pete and me to consider. Sadly, none include the outright firing of the coach.

He can stay on the A team. He'll get the minimum play time. He'll be with the teammates he's been playing with for months. He'll still have that motherf$%er coach. And we'll still have to deal with the man and the fellow parents in the most petty clique I've seen since junior high.
He can move to the B team. He'll play a lot more. He'll be with the teammates he's been practicing with for months. He'll still have that motherf$%er coach. And we'll still have to deal with the man.
He can move up a year and play on the Under-11 B team. He'll get the minimum play time. He'll be the youngest and smallest kid on the field for the rest of his youth competitive soccer career. He will have a different coach who has, by all accounts, a far different style and demeanor. He will know only a few of the kids on the squad. And we will never have that motherf$%er coach to deal with as either a coach or a parent.

The third option seems the best to Pete and me. The lad? He wants to stay with his friends. We have shielded some of the most heinous information from him. In short, we are letting him believe in Santa Claus. And I don't know if that fantastical belief should be allowed to continue, for his sake, in light of the real detriment we see the coach's behavior and treatment of the kids could have on him.

In the Latest Soccer News

2011-09-13T06:26:00.000-07:00

Have I calmed down since Sunday night? No. Have we taken further actions? Yes. Pete has written an amazing letter to the youth soccer league president, pointing out issue after issue and, in the end, demanding our $1,800 in total fees back. I have written a post for the local news blog. At the suggestion of the editor, it will be run anonymously as an op-ed piece with an editor's note asking for readers' suggestions on what should be done.

The team manager, having included us on the list of recipients of an email outlining the practice schedule for the week, expressed surprise when I said the following:

"Obviously, since Coach has kicked Youngest off the A team, there is no need to include us in any further emails about this team."

She replied with:

"I need to look into this. The State Cup rosters were locked on September 5th, so I'm not sure what is going on. Let me talk to Coach today and get to the bottom of this."

Obviously, she hadn't read my pithy missive to the league president the previous night. My reply to her?

"There is no getting to the bottom of it, Manager. He kicked Youngest off the A team. Period."

Late in the day, the president emailed Pete and me, apologizing that he hadn't responded earlier because he'd been away with his daughter for the weekend. He asked for the two of us to sit down with him and talk rather than dealing through email. Unfortunately, I was at work until 9 last night, and Pete left at 5:30 this morning and won't be back until Friday. The two of them agreed that we'd arrange something for Friday.

Meanwhile, he sent me a note with the subject "It will all be ok. I promise you."

But it won't all be okay, and I told him that.

"President, I really do personally like you and I admire and appreciate what you're doing for the league, but when it comes to this situation, you cannot make that promise because it will not be okay. In the end, my son doesn't get to play the sport he loves because of the actions of his coach. Period. And I can't put him in another league because the rosters are locked."

And amid all this swirling, how is Youngest doing? As late as last night, he held out a ray of hope that he could still play. I squashed that for him. I explained that there are times when taking a stand for what is right is really hard, but really necessary. We have not told him that his coach was trying to kick him off the A team. He only knows that his coach is doing something that Pete and I cannot allow.

The coach truly is a horrible role model for the kids. Letting him continue unchallenged, playing favorites and showing such extremely poor sportsmanship in matches, is not an option. There are genies that, once released, cannot be put back into the bottle.

Now, folks, on a lighter note, here's the deal: I have in my possession the bag containing the game balls, goalie gloves and cones. Among the money we forked over is $150 to the team itself to pay for tournaments. (The remaining $1,700 went to registration, coaches/game fees and Youngest's uniform.) I want all of the money back, but that $150 in particular sticks in my craw. So, what to do with that bag of game balls and equipment? Of course, I want to hold onto it. Call it "ransom." Call it "collateral." Call it whatever you want.

What would you do with that bag?

The End of Youngest Playing Select Soccer

2011-09-11T20:45:00.000-07:00

What I Sent to the President of the NYSA Soccer League:

"By the way, I'm okay if you pull me out of select."

So says my son, Youngest, who we were told by his coach tonight, that he needs to be moved to the B team, purportedly so he gets more play time.

President, I am beyond ballistic about this. We are, of course, disappointed by Coach's assessment, which is apparently based on the performance of the game yesterday, in which NONE of the players performed admirably, Youngest included. Coach spoke to my husband, and I listened until I could stand it no more and called Coach a number of obscenities. Not the obscenities Coach felt to share with the players following yesterday's match, which included "bullshit" and "ass."

I cannot convey adequately how I feel about this. Suffice it to say, we are sorry we ever signed Youngest up for select. He is soccer-crazed. We thought we were doing right by him. Little did we know.

I'm going to end this now, before I go ape-shit over Coach and his mishandling of the team by playing favorites, regardless of skill level and apparently based on the drinking capability of the fathers. I, for one, can drink most of them under the table.

I want a refund of the $150 for "fundraising." I actually want more back, but I figure no one will give up what we've paid to the league.

I will never understand how you guys have left him as a coach for three years.

Of Course, I Do Remember

2011-09-11T12:19:00.000-07:00

What I remember is such chaos and fear and sadness. I was on vacation in Delaware, visiting my mom with my 3-year-old son and 2-year-old daughter. I was in the first trimester of pregnancy with Youngest. My mom and I took the kids to the boardwalk to escape. There was no escape. There would be no escape for months.

I do remember. I do mourn. I chose then to avoid all the images. I choose to avoid them again today, 10 years later. I have not forgotten. I will never forget. But I choose to go forward.

Sweet Hilarity

2011-09-08T05:43:00.000-07:00

As they stumble to the kitchen, sleep still on their minds, Joanne's daughters are greeted cheerily by their mother. "Good morning, Sweetness," she'll say. Or maybe "Good morning, Sweet Pea," will be the greeting she offers up.

They'll respond in kind, of course.

One recent morning, perhaps a bit sleepy still herself, Joanne watched as her dozy 10-year-old daughter made her way to the kitchen.

"Good morning, Sweet Peaness," Joanne said to her. Realizing the mix-up as soon as the words left her mouth, Joanne fumbled to set it right quickly. "I mean, good morning, Sweetness...Sweet Pea...Honey."

"Mom, did you just call me a p*nis?"

Why, yes, in a manner of speaking, that's precisely what she called her.

It's a story the two girls are likely not to tire of telling any time soon. And it's a story I think of every time Joanne now calls or texts me. Why? Because I have renamed her "Sweet Peaness" in my contact list.

[Photo courtesy theflowerexpert.com]

Bruce Would Understand

2011-09-05T09:29:00.000-07:00

For her big Christmas present, we gave Daughter two tickets to the Taylor Swift concert. She would take her best friend, and Pete or I would schlep them down to the HP Pavilion in San Jose and lurk in a parking lot for a couple of hours.

As it happened, Joanne, the mother of Daughter's BFF, and I decided to take the girls down, grab dinner before the show, walk them over to the Pavilion and then hang out in a bar for a couple of hours. That sounded far more appealing than lurking in a parking lot.

Nearly nine months after being bestowed with the BEST CHRISTMAS PRESENT EVER, September 1 finally rolled around, and off we four chicks went. With a start time of 7 p.m., we figured the concert would be over by about 9:30 p.m., so after enjoying a couple of drinks and listening to not-Taylor-Swift in a funky restaurant, Joanne and I wandered over to hang out at the Pavilion.

Not five minutes after sitting there, two women exited the show, clearly done for the evening. As they passed by, one of them said, "Do you guys want tickets to the show?"

"No, thanks," we said. "We're good. We're just waiting for our daughters."

"They're really good seats," one of them said.

"Oh. Sure, okay," I said.

"They're front row," she said.

We grabbed the tickets and went to the door, expecting to be turned away since the "No Exit and Re-entry Allowed" signs were posted big and bold everywhere. The first guy to scan the tickets couldn't get them to scan.

"Busted," I figured.

But the worker right next to him tried them, the scan worked fine, and we were in. A mad dash down to the floor, and, no shit, there we are front and center. Technically the 10th row, but with the stage's apron cutting off nine of the rows, we were, in fact, front row.

Being good mothers, of course, and me being fretful that scoring such seats for the Taylor Swift concert would totally screw up my Springsteen karma next time around, we texted and texted until we got hold of Daughter. Joanne hightailed it to their far, far, far away seats, passed our front row tickets to them, and down they came.

After being granted squeals and a huge hug of gratitude from Daughter, I left them on their own, hooked up with Joanne again, and left to hang on the sidewalk once more. The girls got to enjoy another 20 or 30 minutes of the show, up close and personal with Taylor.

Springsteen is, of course, a parent. He surely knows what people are willing to do for their kids. He can't possibly hold this against me. I'm sure he would understand and won't have these circumstances offset my chances of fantastic seats the next time he comes to town.

You do understand, right, Bruce? Bruce?

This is where we were when we first arrived. [Photo credit: Joanne]

See that first glow at Taylor's right foot? Those are our daughters, in a picture taken from the seats they originally had. [Photo credit Joanne]

Adventures in Dog Sitting

2011-09-01T05:50:00.000-07:00

Daughter and her 12-year-old friend asked permission to dog sit for a couple going out of town for four or five days. They live near her friend, which meant I'd have to drive her to perform her dog sitting duties, but I said it was fine. And when it turned out after the fact that her friend was going away from Friday morning until Sunday afternoon, meaning Daughter would have to do both the morning and afternoon shifts, we coped.

But when it turned out the owners weren't returning for three weeks, which meant both girls would be unable to do the morning shift during the week because, hello, school was starting, I was livid. Both girls swore the owners never said anything about being gone that long.

I was beyond livid when I discovered the dogs were staying in the backyard the entire time. The little 12-year-old terrier mix, an apparent escape artist, was to remain on a chain at all times. The lumbering oaf of a 2-year-old Golden Retriever had free reign of the backyard. I have had visions of finding that little dog dead, hung by the chain.

There's a whole litany of other reasons to really hate how these dogs are treated and be annoyed at the entire set-up. I'll just leave it at this: every morning when I go over to tend to the dogs, I curse the owners.

All this leads to Tuesday, two days after both dogs escaped under the less-than-watchful eyes of the 10-year-old brother of the friend. Thankfully, a nice couple found both dogs, called the owner's cell phone that was listed on the collar tags, and the dogs were put back in their proper little hell. We noticed at the time that the terrier's collar was fraying.

I walked into the yard Tuesday morning, greeted the oaf, and called for the terrier. Rounding the corner, I saw the chain with a now-broken collar attached to it. The dog, of course, was no longer attached to the collar. And he was gone. The oaf and I started walking the neighborhood, shouting out the terrier's name. My first call to the Marin Humane Society went unanswered. My second went through just as the friend's mother pulled up alongside me.

The Humane Society worker checked her records and said that, yes, they had picked up a dog as I described at 10 p.m. the previous night about a mile from the house. Except it was a female. Was I sure the dog was a male? Hell, I had never really paid attention, but the girls both said it was a boy. But how many brown-and-white older terriers are loose in our town?

The worker refused to let me have the dog. The owner had to grant permission. Oh, and by the way, the Humane Society doesn't open until 10, so screw you if you have to go to work. I asked if the owner's sister could get the dog. Obviously, the worker was no dummy as she saw right through my scheme to pretend to be the sister.

So there was no choice but to have the Humane Society contact the owners. We went back into the yard to feed the oaf and curse the owners and the Humane Society as well. As we were cleaning out the food and water bowls, I heard a noise. There, in a beat-up old dog crate, was the terrier. He had been put there the night before by that same 10-year-old brother who had noticed the broken collar and feared the dog would escape.

Laughing so hard tears were coming out and my stomach hurt, I called the Humane Society back to answer my own question: "How many brown-and-white older terriers are loose in our town?" Apparently, two.

Mundane Matters

2011-08-29T05:59:00.000-07:00

How ridiculous is it that lockers are not assigned in the high school? Instead, students go down to the school, slap a lock on one of the working lockers, and then tell the office what their locker number is. It wouldn't actually be so ridiculous if, one, there were as many lockers as there are students; two, all of the lockers were in working order; and, three, they told freshman about this free-for-all before two days before school began.

Eldest, of course, is locker-less, as are many other students in the school. This fact lead me to leave a message on Friday with one of the assistant principals, a man I know from when he was at the middle school, asking about the situation. Not hearing back from him, I sent him an email to follow-up:

I left you a message earlier today regarding the lockers at the high school. I have a freshman there, and I called to ask about the locker situation. I originally spoke with the office manager, who told me that the procedure is for a student to find a free locker, put a lock on it, and then come to the business manager and let her know what the locker number is. I explained to her that not only had my son looked for a free locker, but so had I, and we could not find any free lockers that were intact. She indicated that there are, in fact, more lockers than students and that, yes, there are more than a few lockers which are damaged. She suggested I speak to an administrator.

I would like to know:

1. Do you happen to have a secret cove of working lockers somewhere that I could direct my son to?

2. What is the student enrollment at HIGH SCHOOL?

3. How many lockers -- not including the PE lockers, of course -- are there?

4. How many of those lockers are broken?

Yeah, it’s tough being my kid, right? The assistant principal didn’t reply to either my voicemail message or the email. Understandable, really, when you figure I didn’t start trying to contact him until Friday morning and it’s not yet Monday school time.

The school has about 1,500 students. I don’t know how many lockers there are, but I am figuring no more than about 1,200. And of those 1,200, more than 100 are broken. So what can you do?

Well, Pete can go down to the school Friday evening with Eldest. They can find a locker which stands a chance of working with some repairs. Pete can go to the hardware store Saturday morning and buy the hardware to fix it. He can then go to the school with his tools and hardware Saturday morning, repair a locker, slap Eldest’s lock on it, and call it a day.

And plan on breaking the damn thing the last day of school, taking home with him the items to repair it come the new school year, and go through the process yet again.

Meanwhile, we can watch the school district spend hundreds of thousands of dollars on building a whole new administrative offices wing at Eldest’s high school. As long as the administrators are cozy, that’s really all that matters, right?

Cone Heads

2011-08-28T08:16:00.000-07:00

If we get to claim that all of the glories of our children are a direct result of our stellar parenting, excellent genes and fantastic character traits, then it stands to reason that we have to claim the blame for their foibles and missteps. We can't have it both ways, pointing to their successes as ours and their failures as, I don't know, their father's or society's.

The children have been back to school a grand total of three days. It only took one, really, to send two of my three into a frantic feeding frenzy of angst. The problem is they don't see it as being a momentary state of being. As I said yesterday, they are both acting as if their current lot in life is their lot in life forever. They are, truly, like dogs with a hot spot, forced to wear a cone of shame and believing that the cone of shame will be upon them forever.

They are akin to the teenage girl, following being dumped by her jerk-off boyfriend, who listens only to the saddest songs, reads the most heart-breaking poetry, and focuses only on everything that is bad in her world and the world at large.

They are, in short, far too much like me. We are a family of cone heads, but not the cute Lorraine Newman sort.

Weekly Wonderings IX

2011-08-27T07:03:00.000-07:00

1. Nothing says more about the elementary school principal than her own introduction at the first PTA meeting of the year. "I have a husband and two dogs."

2. Why, yes, I am implying -- and you should be inferring -- that she isn't maternal in any sense.

3. You are also free to infer that she is also unable to relate to parents.

4. Speaking of the elementary school, there is a Parent Agreement everyone needs to sign with loads of rules and such. The last item is "Respect student confidentiality and not discuss matters observed in the classroom, on the yard, or in other school settings."

5. Seeing as I get many of my inspirations from precisely the goings-on at the school, I crossed it off before signing and wrote, "Please be more specific. I will not discuss what happens in the classroom."

6. Gee, I hope that doesn't get me banned from the school.

7. Two of my three kids are not happy with their lot in school, and both are fixating on how it is now.

8. I've tried telling them they are like a dog with a cone on its head: woe is me, life will be like this the rest of my life.

9. I should probably go dig Corrie's old cone out and make each wear it when they start in on me again.

10. My kids are truly very good kids. They deserve a far more sympathetic mother than they have.

One Good Prank Deserves Another

2011-08-25T06:54:00.000-07:00

The woman I've worked with for 20 years on various projects, and whom I now owe my health care insurance to, also happens to be a good friend. And I think it's in the spirit of being good friends that she conceived of the idea to throw me a surprise birthday party for me at work.

The only problem? I didn't show up. So working from home yesterday, I got to hear several times about the fun party they all had without me on Tuesday. I felt bad, frankly. And I kept apologizing.

I kept apologizing, that is, until another woman in the office fessed up: they were pulling my leg. My friend was just having fun with me, going to the point of having someone record what sounded like a party so they could play it for me the next time I was in the office.

Bitch.

She got me. So what can you do? Well, if you're me, you can make her feel like crap. Here's the email I sent this morning to her. I can't wait to hear how bad she feels for tricking me. Heh heh heh.

Thank you so much for the gorgeous edible "bouquet." I cannot believe you had Martha drive all the way out to my house to deliver it, along with the very funny card. I am beyond touched.

I am also so sorry that you had arranged a surprise party and that the guest of honor didn't show. I feel so guilty. Pete had to go out of town at 5:30 a.m. Tuesday, so I had no choice but to get home after the focus groups to deal with the tribe. But I would have begged the woman watching the boy to keep him a half hour longer if I'd only known. I know you didn't want to ruin the surprise, but if you'd have only told me, I wouldn't have disappointed you. And I wouldn't have had you go to all that trouble for nothing. I feel just terrible. I hope you know how sorry I am.

Unexpected Tears

2011-08-24T09:41:00.000-07:00

Releasing their hands as each made their way into the kindergarten yard, I knew there would be tears which would have to be hidden.

What I did not expect today were tears as Eldest made his way to high school for the very first time. Tears fighting to stay hidden as we spoke in the dining room of his anxiety and worries and hopes and expectations. Tears fighting to stay hidden as he noted that this was the first day of his last four years at home. Tears of my own worries for how he will navigate through his own worries fighting to stay hidden.

Tears of acknowledgement that it has been pure blustering on my part that the best present for my 50th birthday is all of those damn kids going to the first day of school.

I'm free now to let those unexpected tears flow.

They'll Just Keep Being Stupid

2011-08-23T05:43:00.000-07:00

The rumor mill last week said one of the fifth grade teachers was moving down to teach fourth grade, so that the open teaching spot would be filled by a new fifth grade teacher. The rumor mill was correct: the teacher Daughter had for fifth grade would now be open for business in fourth grade. She's wonderful, and I know the kids who get her will be thrilled. Youngest has another fourth grade teacher, the one we had requested at the end of last year.

Me being me, I sent a note to the principal Monday morning. Class lists would be posted at 4 p.m., so I thought it would be a good idea for her to tell people -- particularly parents of fourth graders and fifth graders -- about the change in staff and the new staff. So I emailed her:

"I offer up a suggestion that it would be a good idea to send an email to all parents about the changes in teachers prior to the posting of class lists. I know most parents of 4th graders are unaware that TEACHER has moved to 4th grade. Telling everyone about her and the new 5th grade teacher -- and other new staff -- seems appropriate from a 'keeping you informed' standpoint."

Totally harmless, right? Suggested in the spirit of communicating, right?

Her response:

"The information is online under News."

Really? That's nice, isn't it? Of course, none of us know that there is any news to read online. In fact, none of us are ever directed to the school's website. This principal's mode of communications is almost exclusively email. (She really does seem to avoid ever having face-to-face communications with parents. I can see why. I mean, who wants to talk to parents, right?)

My reply:

"I'll be sure to tell everyone I see. Thank you."

And then I suggested to people that the first order of a charter school might be firing the principal.

The post's title comes from Pete's favorite adage, "If you don't tell people they're being stupid, they'll just keep being stupid."

And, yeah, I'm back, baby.

View of a Death

2011-08-08T20:02:00.000-07:00

Only after I'd written my mash letter to the kids' doctor did I get the news: the father of Eldest's best friend -- a doctor, as it so happens -- had died that morning. His friend called to tell me, saying, "You were asking how my dad was the other day, so I thought you should know that he died at 10:30 this morning."

Bereft, he was, and the pain in his voice pierced me, causing a pain in my heart far less than what he surely must feel. It cuts, those words. It cuts, that knowing. It cuts, the voice of my own words murmuring insignificant words of sorrow for him, for his sister, for his mom.

Oh, sure, I said the "right" things. But that description can only truly exist within quotation marks at a time like this.

He is 14. His sister turns 16 in weeks. His mother has only just gotten through her cancer and chemo and radiation.

For more than three years they have collectively lived to fight battles no one at their ages, at their life stages, should have to fight. For more than three years, his father has had the worst of times, always highlighted, I am certain, by the impact his illness had on his children.

Eldest's best friend called back Friday night to tell me of the service times because I had asked him to. I don't know if he would have if I hadn't asked. His family has borne much of the tragic circumstances on its own, privately, always with upbeat news of how his father was faring and how his mother was faring and how they all were faring.

Eldest was the boy's only friend at the cemetery for the service and at the reception at the house afterwards. His friend's sister had one friend in attendance as well. Family and former colleagues were a strong showing at the service, but few but family made it back to the house.

The others could go immediately back to their lives, the ones they lived before his death and the ones they live again. Eldest and I lingered in another life for a bit longer, but we have since returned to our own lives. We talk of placing ourselves in their situation, but it is only talk. For we are all still here.

And they are not.

Love Letter to My Kids' Doctor

2011-08-05T19:42:00.000-07:00

I actually got teary eyed this morning filling out requests for transferring of files from the kids' pediatrician to our new health provider, Kaiser. I couldn't just send the forms in the mail, so I sent the doctor this letter. He really has been all that.

Dear DOCTOR,

It is with sadness that I am requesting the release of records on my three children, Eldest, Daughter and Youngest, to Kaiser Permanente. Financial constraints have forced me to sign on with Kaiser through my employment, and while I am sure I will be satisfied with the care the kids receive through Kaiser, I know that we will never find a kinder and more attentive physician than we have found with you and your colleagues.

I am particularly grateful for your guidance a number of years ago when Daughter was four years old. Your intervention and attention then laid the groundwork for her to become a most fabulous newly minted teenager. I will never forget your help then.

I know I can’t express adequately how much I appreciate the care you’ve provided my kids. I will leave it, then, with a simple thank you.

Sincerely,

Patty

The Cutest Couple on Earth

2011-08-02T15:11:00.000-07:00

Or so the Daughter says.

Welcome to the Teens

2011-07-31T20:22:00.000-07:00

You are a newborn, and we are driving somewhere. It is a very hot August day. I have the air conditioning on full blast in the Subaru. You make no sound.

We are driving into the city, I think, to pick up Eldest. Pete must have taken him to Maria's to give you and me alone time. But it is time to retrieve him, to bring him back to the fold. Perhaps Pete has taken off to New York or Las Vegas or Los Angeles for a meeting. No matter. We are off to retrieve my big boy, your big brother, Eldest.

And you make no sound.

Being me, I imagine horrors. You are too hot, surely. You have stopped breathing, certainly. I pull off at Seminary Drive because, certainly, you are in distress.

You are not. You are just quiet. Too quiet for this mother who must hear all to know all.

You were fine that day. You have been fine every single day since then.

Still, your mother worries about you. Frets. Fixates. Likely annoys the crap out of you with her questions. "Are you okay?" "How's it going?" "Everything all right?"

Today, you are a teen. And your mother will keep worrying about you. Until the day she dies.

Happy birthday, sweet 13-year-old Daughter. Cut me slack. You are the only Daughter I will ever have. You are the only Daughter I will ever love with all my being.

Pressure? Yeah, but you can take it. After all, you're my Daughter.

Oh, Lookie Here, a Birthday Post

2011-07-27T09:03:00.000-07:00

This makes the 16th birthday I have been a part of in his life. Given how old ~~we both are~~ he is, that number doesn't even register one-third of his birthdays. He lived more than two-thirds of his life before we met. We both did. And if we manage to both make it to about 70, we'll just about reach having known each other for half of our lives.

[I know. It's summer time. Who the hell wants to do math word problems?]

I could bemoan not having shared more of his life, or him not having shared more of my life. But the life I've had since his entrance into it has been exponentially better than the life I had before. [There goes that damn math again.]

Happy birthday, Pete. Thank you for the life you've given me.

Weekly Wonderings VIII

2011-07-24T18:18:00.000-07:00

1. To those lovely women (formerly) in our lives: however can you afford another child given how strapped you are for money that you are completely unable to pay me back the thousands I loaned you?

2. To me: you are a heartless bitch.

3. Also to me: you are a significantly poorer heartless bitch.

4. I have discovered a time machine: oldies radio station.

5. I have discovered the elixir to make the time machine work: alcohol.

6. Memo to self (and Pete): no matter how icky we find Daughter's conversations with her boyfriend regarding who is more adorable or cuter or sexier -- ACK! -- let's not ever tell Daughter again that she's the second most adorable person we know.

7. I miss Bill the Cat.

8. I'm not sure why Bill the Cat makes me think of Bill Clinton. But he does.

9. Speaking of bills, no more from Blue Mofo Shield of California for me and the kids. With little fanfare but with an overwhelming sense of satisfaction, I cancelled the insurance effective July 15.

10. More to come on how much I hate Kaiser. Not!

[Photo courtesy of Berkeley Breathed. I miss you, Berkeley Breathed. All is forgiven. Please come back.]

My Liberalism Takes Another Hit

2011-07-22T07:17:00.000-07:00

I was talking yesterday with a colleague about the killing of Kenneth Wade Harding in San Francisco over the weekend. I said I could understand how people in the community could react initially to what we all thought at the time was the death of a young black man at the hands of the cops. I said if I were there, I'd have been protesting and upset at the beginning. What I couldn't understand was the continued outrage once the facts came out. He was a convicted child rapist. He tried to force his 14-year-old victim into prostitution. He was the suspect in the shooting death of a 19-year-old pregnant woman in Seattle just days before. He fired at the San Francisco cops as he tried to escape when he was stopped by them. Video and photos and audio seem to clearly show he had a gun and he started shooting first.

And yet the protests continue.

***

We are talking with a couple of interviewers, one an African-American woman and the other a Latina, about one of our studies which involves interviewing women who recently had a baby. The Latina interviewer mentions a woman whom she recently completed a survey with who happened to live in Mexico. It turns out that she lived in Mexico up until the time she gave birth, and she immediately returned to Mexico after giving birth.

I mentioned to my colleague that our previous conversation and that current one underscored my need to give up my ACLU card yet again. I am astounded at the woman who crossed the border illegally to give birth. I am astounded at the protests of a justified shooting of a bad man.

We explain our previous conversation. The African-American woman couldn't agree more with our confusion over the continued protests even as more and more supporting information for the shooting comes out. [It since turns out Harding died by his own hand.] The Latina murmured how sad it was about the poor man who was clearly troubled and who so obviously needed help.

As I walked back to my office, I told her she so definitely needed my ACLU card.

Crowning Mouse America

2011-07-19T07:09:00.000-07:00

Since our return from the U.K., we have been plagued by mice in the house. I write “mice,” but we believe it is only one mouse, a frightened little brown and black creature which we have seen holed up in the kids’ bathroom and scurrying from said bathroom to Pete’s office in a matter of seconds. Seconds during which I spent screeching like, well, a girl. We have also heard it within the walls. Two nights ago, it left the relative security of the downstairs level to spend the late night/early morning hours within the walls of our bedroom.

I would have likely slept through its foray in the wee hours of the morning had it not been for Pete’s actions to eradicate the mouse from within our bedroom’s walls. The banging on the walls, stomping on the floor, turning on the lights, shaking the bureau and cursing up a storm brought me straight out of bed. All that action had the mouse quiet as, well, a church mouse for brief periods of time.

Since Pete is the one who laid out traps three days ago, I imagine the mouse has him within its sights. The addition of poison in the cave – the crawlspace under the house – and electronic “mouse-away” contraptions yesterday, again through Pete’s efforts, apparently pissed off the mouse even more. Last night’s activity within our bedroom’s walls shot up several notches from the night before.

Telling our friends about the mouse when they were over Saturday night, I indicated the size of the mouse.

“Dude,” Joanne said, in so many words, “that’s no mouse. That’s a rat.”

I argued that the size was clearly mouse’ish rather than rat’ish. She asked its color, and when I told her it was brown and black, she relented in her assertion of the species.

“Oh, if it’s a model, then, yeah, it’s a mouse.”

“A ‘model’?” I wondered to myself. “What the hell is a ‘model’ mouse? Does that mean it competes in mouse beauty contests? Does it have a little tiara?”

Of course, the word she used was “mottled.” Which makes a hell of a lot more sense to me. I’m sure it does to you as well.

I wish it were a model and that it was taking a stroll down the catwalk.

[Photo courtesy sciencemuseum.org.uk.]

Shot in the Arm

2011-07-18T07:25:00.000-07:00

The state of California has a new law requiring all students entering 7th through 12th grades to have a Tdap booster shot before starting school. Without proof of such a shot having been administered, the child is excluded from attending school from day one of the 2011-12 school year. In 2010, there was a whooping cough "epidemic" in California, with 910 cases reported by the time the school year ended in June, including three deaths of infants down in Southern California. By the end of 2010, a total of 10 infants died from whooping cough. From what I understand, most likely got the disease through exposure from a sibling who was in a day care or school setting in younger grades.

I get it. I really do. By forcing everyone of that age to get the booster, at a cost that surely must be about a billion dollars, the state hopes to prevent a similar "epidemic" and loss of life. A billion dollars in vaccinations, doctor and clinic visits, parental time off from work, local school district administration in notifying and verifying families, and state oversight of the whole thing. A billion dollars.

My feeling on this leaves me open to the accusation that I am acting the part of the Ford Motor Company and its whole Pinto fiasco. At best, Ford decided to forgo an $11 repair for each Pinto because a cost-benefit analysis indicated that it would be cheaper to pay off any lawsuits as a result of gas tank explosion injuries and deaths. About two million cars times $11 equals $22 million. At least 27 people died as a result of that defect. Many more were injured.

That $22 million seems completely reasonable. The billion dollars for the Tdap booster? Sorry, I am heartless, but that seems ludicrous. I come to that tentative conclusion because it seems the state is also barking up the wrong tree. These teens are far less likely to come into contact with non-vaccinated infants than the kids in elementary school, who are still covered under their initial vaccinations. I'd spend more time and money and energy and resources on not allowing so many people to opt out with Personal Belief Exemptions for the initial vaccines.

Yes, I'll be getting the kids their boosters. Although I might be tempted to opt out just on principle by filling out exemptions for Eldest and Daughter, I happen to be one of those parents who keeps her kids vaccinations up to date. Maybe I'll get them vaccinated but still fill out the exemption form. Or maybe I'll see how the school district plans to handle the loss of ADA (Average Daily Attendance) funds and we'll all get one last good vacation in after school begins. No shot, no school. I think my kids could rally behind that.

Feeling Connected

2011-07-17T09:37:00.000-07:00

I don't get this feeling when I tread within my own country's borders. Surely, peoples existed long ago who walked these very same trails I frequent now. But I am disconnected from them. In contrast, I find connections to all who came before me when I visit England and Wales. Their voices I seem to hear loudly within me, not muted by time. I heard them everywhere I was.

Within centuries-old churches

In fallen-down castles

Where babies were baptized 1,000 years ago

On rocks overlooking coves used by pirates 800 years ago

At sunsets seen by many before at that precise location

Within the mysteries

In the many surviving ancient stone walls separating fields

In those fields where sheep still graze

In cliffs housing birds for as long as birds and cliffs have existed

On rocky cliffs

In the hills amidst the mist

Weekly Wonderings VII

2011-07-16T05:26:00.000-07:00

1. It's bad enough that my sleep patterns are far worse since making the eight-hour time switch from England to California, but the fact that my teenage boy gets up before 8 a.m. is more amazing.

2. Speaking of that teenage boy, he managed to get to see Harry Potter for the midnight opening Friday morning. Brings to mind my Star Wars outing at a comparable age.

3. Also brings to mind how very old I really am.

4. Sleeplessness and early rising aside, we're all getting back to normal from our great adventure. Of course, normal around here during summer makes for its own kind of adventure.

5. Sadly, with the weather being what it is, there is far less swimming going on. It is downright chilly around these here parts. I should be complaining about the heat right about now, but, no, I'm stuck complaining about the cold.

6. When we were in the U.K., the weather was mostly warm and gorgeous and clear, and I had to repeatedly rescind my lame joke that "England" is Latin for "Land of the Pasty White People."

7. Walking about London with the kids in the 94-degree, humid-as-hell atmosphere was surreal almost. And, of course, "England" is also Latin for "We Don't Believe in Using Ice, You Barbaric Americans," so cooling off was nigh impossible.

8. I've talked about sleep and weather so far. Want to know what I had for dinner so we can get the three most boring topics of blogversation out of the way?

9. I ran into an old Chronicle colleague last night when I was dropping off Youngest to see Harry Potter. We didn't get a chance to chat but for a minute or two, but it was fabulous to see one of my two most favorite journalists.

10. I was only slightly embarrassed to be clad in horribly ripped jeans and my Wooly Rascals slippers. There really does need to be a dress code for life outside the home. We'll include in it what not to wear if you're from the Land of Pasty White People and there's a heat wave. Nobody wants to see that much pasty white skin.

Travel Amnesia

2011-07-13T05:40:00.000-07:00

We are not equipped to be air travelers. "We" as in my family. As Pete said while he was on hold with Virgin Atlantic for more than an hour the other day, "I already function at too high of a level of frustration." True dat. True for me as well. I lack patience from the moment I get out of bed each day. There are no stores of it within me to put up with the current world of travel.

Pete booked our flights and put in our seat requests when he bought the tickets in January. What did Virgin do? Kicked us all out of our seats for our flight to London. If you'd have heard him on the phone with them before we had even left on vacation, you would have believed they'd have marked his ticket "red alert." Instead, we ended up scoring premium seats upstairs in the 747.

So what happens when checking in online the day before our return flight? Virgin did the same damn thing in terms of seating us throughout the plane. [Let me state that, while I did think it might be a blessing for me to be separated from all of them, that momentary twitch at the very thought of such a luxury was quickly extinguished. Of course I want to sit with my kids. Of course.] No amount of cajoling could get them to change it over the phone. We were simply told to show up early in hopes of having the agent sort it out at the gate.

Sigh. Damn heavy sigh. An even heavier sigh relating to Avis and its complete and utter lack of service both when picking up the car and when returning it.

Eldest bemoaned the likelihood of ever getting to fly Virgin again. That opened up the perfect opportunity to explain how all airlines suck and all car rental agencies stink. It's a lot like health insurance companies, I explained. Or banks. Or utilities. Or school districts. Or politicians.

I will forget yesterday's travel mishaps, which of course included an excruciatingly two-hour long bus ride back home, soon enough, thankfully, and instead remember the incredible time we had in England and Wales. Three kids, three weeks. At least I'm not complaining about that.

A Broad Abroad

2011-06-17T06:24:00.000-07:00

We're headed off to Pete's home country tomorrow for what has historically been our bi-annual trek. We got off track last year because of client obligations. This year, I have those same obligations, but have chosen to do the best I can to, one, deal with issues and reports from my laptop and, two, let my very brilliant Argentinean colleague cope with everything as best she can. The drawback to the latter? She's going to ditch me for nearly three weeks while she and her family make their annual trek to her home country. All that means is, within moments of stepping foot back on American soil, I will hate her for being gone and any warm and fuzzy vacation memories will vanish, sucked away by the chaos that is the working life.

Is it any wonder I operate at near anxiety attack level all the time? Here I am, worrying about when I get back on top of worrying about getting everything done before we leave. Worry, worry, worry. Worry. That's a word I should learn to say in several languages. I mean, it's as much a curse word as any other curse word, and I know how to say those in other languages.

[I really don't, but I thought it made me seem far more worldly than I am to feign such knowledge. Provides an air of sophistication, don't you think, Cleatus?]

But soon enough we'll be with Sir Richard Branson's fine staff in one of his fine aeroplanes, watching some of his fine in-flight entertainment and being annoyed by not-so-fine fellow travelers, including those smaller ones Pete and I are bringing along. And the worry about how I will get everything done before I leave will be over, whether things have actually gotten done or not.

Our itinerary is quite full: the caravan park that Pete's sister runs on the Jurassic Coast right next to the pirate cemetery; Manchester to see most of the remainder of Pete's family and to tour Old Trafford; his aunt's house right on the Irish Sea in Morfa Nefyn, Wales; London for a brief trip that enables some expenses to be of the business variety; and, for the first time for me and the kids, Scotland. Magnificent, all of it, made only slightly less magnificent by the bickering among the smaller of our fellow travelers. And the need to do laundry all the time to prevent all of us from being the smelly noisy Americans. With clean clothes, we can just be the noisy Americans.

Now, off I go back into panic mode to get things ready for us and the impending arrival of our house sitter. Ta-ta!

The Idiot Mark-up

2011-06-15T05:21:00.000-07:00

It's not an easy project to administer, this pipe dream a researcher has. It is extremely complicated and it is fielded in the toughest of neighborhoods throughout the East Bay. Tracing the respondents the researcher wants us to survey will be very difficult. Actually getting them to take part will be even harder. The act of conducting the survey will be dangerous. But the overall goal of the social research is right up our alley.

The last part mitigates a lot of the hassle. Yet there's an overriding reason why we don't particularly want to do the study. The potential client is a moron.

How do we know this? She is incapable of "replying to all" when it is so obviously necessary. She is unable to answer the basic questions of sample design. She can't open, much less read, spreadsheets we supply her during the proposal phase. She agrees to conference calls and then is a no show. Hell, she arranges conference calls and is a no show.

No surprise, then, that we applied a large idiot fee on top of the already extremely high project costs. The only problem? The cost is still acceptable to her.

So it looks like we are going to have to do the project. Which goes to show who the true idiots are.

My Ears! They Hurt!

2011-06-12T19:47:00.000-07:00

Do you remember that "Friends" episode when Ross and the new girlfriend he hooked up with overseas are going back and forth on the telephone, each telling the other, "No, you hang up"? [Screw you. Too snooty for "Friends," are you?] Rachel grabs the damn phone out of Ross's hand and hangs it up.

That, my dear friends, is how I feel when I am listening to Daughter talk with her boyfriend. "I love you, too." "No, I love you more." "Yes, I do."

Oh, how I pine for the days the two of them merely texted back and forth or messaged back and forth on Facebook!

Hang up, already! Or, for God's sake, at least get out of my hearing range. Because, truly? Gag me.

Weekly Wonderings VI

2011-06-11T06:40:00.000-07:00

1. The big family picnic at Youngest's elementary school was Friday night. It's just a very casual, non-fundraiser, fun event where the PTA supplies the burgers, dogs and refreshments, and people bring side dishes to share.

2. I realized how many people I don't know, now that Youngest is in third grade and the two oldest are long gone from the school.

3. I realized further that I'm so happy not to know them. I have so obviously been a parent at that school far too long.

4. I was pleased to note yet again that the principal failed to show at an event intended to show what a great community we are. That made the evening far more enjoyable.

5. Seeing how she hates parents and all. She does great with teachers, I hear. Dogs, too.

6. Unfortunately, kids outnumber dogs at the school by a ratio of 500:0.

7. The middle school's impending closure is making me far too sad. If I get through the last day of school Wednesday without shedding tears, I'll be amazed.

8. Daughter is steeling herself for the next few days. The primary cause of her sadness is that her boyfriend will be attending the other middle school next year.

9. I have been very good about not pointing out that they'll be long past the boyfriend/girlfriend phase by the time another 10 weeks elapse anyway.

10. Rarely a parent with restraint, I deserve a medal for keeping silent on that point.

Two Wolves

2011-06-08T06:10:00.000-07:00

I arrived home very late last night after an excruciatingly long school board meeting. I was too wired to go to sleep, so I finished a book I was reading called The Year of Pleasures by Elizabeth Berg. This is a passage I came upon that struck me deeply:

There is a story about a Navajo grandfather who once told his grandson, "Two wolves live inside me. One is the bad wolf, full of greed and laziness, full of anger and jealousy and regret. The other is a good wolf, full of joy and compassion and willingness and a great love of the world. All the time, these wolves are fighting inside me." "But grandfather," the boy said, "Which wolf will win?" The grandfather answered, "The one I feed."

I have been feeding the bad wolf for most of 2011. I was feeding it as recently as last night at the board meeting. I had prepared a statement that ripped the board and the district for the many injustices and wrongs I perceive them as perpetuating. In the end, I spoke, but not from anything I had prepared to speak. Why? Because they were poised to do yet another thing that was so blatantly in direct contrast to what they had promised to do that I had to address that.

And that bad wolf grew and grew, getting fat on my anger and mistrust and disbelief and feeling of betrayal. And I arrived home after everyone in the house had gone to sleep, wired and ticked and feeling hopeless; in other words, I was feeding that frickin' bad wolf again.

I want to start feeding the good wolf. I don't know if it is possible without essentially walking away and no longer paying attention to what happens around me. These folks are truly not to be trusted. Do I just give up? Can I just give up?

Weekly Wonderings V

2011-06-05T06:12:00.000-07:00

1. After Daughter's boyfriend came to watch her dance recital last night, I told her that he was definitely a keeper.

2. Frankly, any 13-year-old boy who would have his mother drive him to an auditorium 20 minutes from home so he could sit by himself and watch a two-hour dance recital is a fine lad in my book.

3. Their five-week anniversary is on Tuesday. Maybe by the time of their 10-week anniversary they actually will have been to each other's houses or hung out outside of school.

4. Two weeks from today, we will arrive in merry ole England on our 3-week vacation. The amount of stress I feel in getting to that point is far too high to ever be alleviated by the vacation itself.

5. As any parent knows, there's no such thing as relaxing on a vacation if you've made the error of bringing the kids along.

6. Of course, I'll also still be working while I'm there, seeing as my major project is in the just-launched phase and not yet on auto-pilot. Nothing says "vacation" like a laptop and wi-fi connection.

7. Spending all day yesterday at two dance recitals and killing time in between is going to seem like a breeze given my duty today: driving to Sacramento with Youngest for his three soccer matches.

8. Did I mention rain?

9. Did I mention I'm regretting not encouraging him to excel at baseball instead, a wussy game that is never played in the rain?

10. Save your hate mail countering my allegation of the wussiness that is baseball for another time. Like a time when I am dry.

Hair of the Dog

2011-06-02T18:16:00.000-07:00

I find it quite curious that I no longer need to shave my legs with any degree of frequency. It's not that I don't like smooth legs, mind you. It's just that hair doesn't grow on my legs at any real perceptible rate anymore. The moaning I did as a tween and teen and young adult about the jungle of leg hair is completely unnecessary now. I could probably go two or three months without taking a razor to my legs. No kidding.

I should celebrate, right?

And I would, so long as I didn't have to show other places where hair grows.

It seems that, as I age, the growth of leg hair is in direct inverse proportion to the growth of armpit hair.

If it were only that correlation, I'd keep it to myself. Sadly, it appears that the growth of leg hair is also in direct inverse proportion to the growth of chin hair. And nose hair.

You're welcome.

Further Proof I'm a 12-Year-Old Boy

2011-05-31T06:13:00.000-07:00

I am reading a story on HuffPost about Rachel Maddow's story about Rick Santorum's "Google" problem. I do as directed, going to Google and typing in "Rick Santorum." Go do that. Right now. Or click this link to go to my search.

Did you do it? Are you a 12-year-old boy, too, laughing maniacally? It takes one to know one, eh?

Weekly Wonderings IV

2011-05-28T06:21:00.000-07:00

1. The bag of hair I've spoken of in the past showed up 3.5 hours later than her scheduled start time of 10 a.m. The reason? She overslept.

2. I have decided that she should become a Post Office employee. I came to that decision following being on hold for 14 minutes with the Post Office while a worker tried in vain to get me to just hang up.

3. Instead, I used my cell phone to call again and again and again, while still on hold on the office phone, until the bitch picked up and I got the pleasure of saying, "Hi, it's Patty, the woman who has been on hold for 15 minutes waiting for an answer to where her 316 pieces of mail are." That wasn't enough to get them to deliver the damn completed surveys that day. I had to drive to the Post Office and retrieve them myself.

4. When complaining to the Consumer Affairs employee, we discovered what we had already come to know: everyone complains about that woman and that department.

5. Which brings me full circle to ole bag of hair: sometimes, we all know a loser when we encounter one.

6. Best text I've received all week goes to this one about our acting schools superintendent: She colored her hair brown. Maybe trying to disguise herself from all the angry parents?

7. Speaking ill of government workers -- yeah, yeah, I know the Post Office is not technically a government agency but it certainly has all the trappings of one -- it turns out that our former schools superintendent was more devious than I even believed: the email address she provided as one for the school board members turns out to only work internally.

8. So all those beautiful missives to her and the school board that I sent only went to her.

9. Or so says an IT worker at the school district. Of course, he's a government worker, so who can really ever be sure?

10. More on that theme of sucky government workers: the volunteer luncheon at Youngest's elementary school was Wednesday. I didn't go. Neither did the principal although she was on campus the whole time. She just showed up as the lunch ended, grabbed a salad, and took it to her office to eat.

Her Wish is Someone's Command

2011-05-27T00:05:00.000-07:00

"Don't you think Moonshine should be dead by now?" Daughter asked last week.

Moonshine is Daughter's goldfish. We inherited her -- note the pronoun refers to the goldfish, not the Daughter -- when Daughter's BFF and her family moved to New Zealand three years ago. They returned a year later, but they never demanded the fish back. And so we have been dutifully caring for it. "We" as in Pete, mostly, as he's the official tank cleaner and the official reminder each day with, "Did you feed Moonshine?"

Daughter thinks the goldfish lived with her BFF -- Daughter's, not the goldfish -- for a number of years before shacking up with us. Since our previous record of keeping a fish alive couldn't have been more than six months, the fact that Moonshine is still with us seems remarkable to Daughter.

And by "is," I mean "was." Yes, Moonshine died sometime yesterday, a mere week after Daughter wondered how she -- the goldfish, not the Daughter -- could still be alive.

I asked her to please never wish me dead. I fear Daughter must have some powerful mojo going on. She swears she would never wish that, and she swears she will never say she hates me.

Just the same, seeing as I, too, was once a nearly teen-aged girl, I think I'm going to be very cautious around her.

*Isn't it bizarre that Blogger thinks "Zealand" is a misspelling?
**We inherited the goldfish but Daughter rechristened her -- the goldfish, not the Daughter -- "Moonshine." Daughter has just learned the other definition of moonshine.

[Image swiped from firehow.com.]

You Know You're Too Old to Have Kids So Young

2011-05-25T17:04:00.000-07:00

...when your son, throwing the covers off his bed, says, "Oh my God, I'm having a hot flash!"

No nine-year-old boy should have a 50-year-old mother. No nine-year-old boy should have to hear about what hot flashes really are and why they occur when all he wants to do is go to sleep.

As the School Sinks

2011-05-24T05:45:00.000-07:00

I've surely prattled on long enough about the closing of the middle school and the debacle surrounding it. With the school year ending in just a few weeks, you'd think I wouldn't have much more to get all riled up about, wouldn't you?

The I'm-not-a-real-one-but-I-play-one-on-paper Acting Superintendent happens to be the brutal HR director for the school district in "real life." I say "brutal" but I could just as easily say "unqualified" or "promoted above her abilities." For one year, when Eldest was in sixth grade, she was the principal at the middle school. She came over to the middle school the year after she had overseen the improprieties during STAR testing at the elementary school she was principal of. Her one year at the middle school was marked by massive disgruntlement among many staffers.

These same staffers are the ones she is now charged with placing since their middle school no longer exists. Ah, revenge is a dish best served cold. And, damn, she is serving it up to many of the teachers. Our wonderful music teacher, the one with the most seniority of all the secondary school music teachers, finally got her assignment for next year at 4 p.m. on Friday. The assignment? She's being split between two different schools.

Yummy, that dish.

We've rallied to her defense, but the I'm-not-a-real-one-but-I-play-one-on-paper Acting Superintendent appears poised to ignore parent missives. None of us who have filled her email box and the board of trustees' email boxes with missives decrying this have heard jackshit back.

It is exhausting, trying to get people, particularly governmental employees with pensions beyond belief who really in good conscience shouldn't get to live far into retirement, to do the right thing.

All this stage setting is to explain my reaction when the assistant principal at the school said a couple of teachers were "uncomfortable" with our parting gift to all students and staff. It's a T-shirt. It's a silly white T-shirt, blank on the back so kids can sign each other's shirts with statements proclaiming undying love for each other and the school.

The front will have the school's mascot on it and a few words:

They closed my middle school and all I got was this lousy T-shirt.

Come on. That's freakin' hilarious given everything that has happened to the kids, the staff, and the parents. And it's something we've talked about at the past three PTA meetings. And now concern is raised?

So my reply to the vice principal was simple:

I look forward to hearing your input on the level of discomfort. Meanwhile, I will keep reorganizing the deck chairs. Yes, snappish I am today.

Summer can't come soon enough.

If You Have to Sit Through a Middle School Musical...

2011-05-23T06:47:00.000-07:00

...make sure your daughter is the lead so it's far more bearable.

A Bunch of Yo-yos

2011-05-22T07:05:00.000-07:00

About six weeks ago, there was an amazingly cool assembly at Youngest's elementary school about yo-yos. It was one of the best assemblies ever, according to the kids. And it was after that assembly that the yo-yo craze hit the school, and hit it hard. Every kid wanted a yo-yo, and the sounds of shattering piggy banks and whining to parents for one was heard throughout the land.

Dozens and dozens and dozens of kids brought the yo-yos to school to hone their skills. Some became so obsessed that they stopped doing anything else at recess except play with the yo-yos. Every time I was there doing my yard duty tasks, I dealt with at least one kid who needed knots untangled or strings untied or justice because another kid had stolen his yo-yo or borrowed it and wouldn't return it. When the bell would ring to mark the end of playing time, many continued to play with their yo-yos. It was freakin' nuts.

There's a massively stupid rule at our school -- actually there are a bunch of massively stupid rules at our school but this one might take the cake -- that says no toys from home are allowed. [I know, right? No toys. Seriously.] After narrowly escaping the wrath of an around-the-world yo-yo gone amok, I sent an email to the principal entitled "Yo-yos Have Got to Go-go":

I think it's time that you step in and ban the yo-yos from school, citing the SCHOOL Handbook, page 7, which states "Personal items such as toys, trinkets, etc are not to be brought to school."

Not only are students bringing them to school, but they use them irresponsibly, often coming very close to whacking someone else and continuing to use them in line after the bell has rung. I'm also extremely tired of being asked to untangle knots and negotiate settlements over whose yo-yo it is.

I happen to disagree with the "no toys" rule generally, but I'm not opposed to using it to my advantage. It's time those yo-yos get left at home.

And so she banned them. But then came the backlash from students and some parents. So coming home in kids' Friday folders was a missive from the principal that opens with the lines, "One of the goals of SCHOOL is to CREATE STRONG LEADERS amongst our students. Because we believe in a democratic system, I have agreed to revisit my decision to ban yo-yos..." It goes on and on, with the upshot being that the kids on the upper yard (4th and 5th graders) will be able to use their yo-yos in a "designated area for yo-yos and there will be supervision in that area."

So I've sent along my comments, as requested in the flyer:

I am disappointed that we are going to have it be a case of upper grades get to keep their yo-yos and lower grades do not. I am also disappointed that there is going to be some type of supervision that is going to need to go on. I have to assume that is by a yard duty supervisor. I find that ridiculous in light of the number of yard duty supervisors there and the fact that one is already committed/stuck at the play structure.

Were we talking about a sport, sure. But it's not a sport. It's not a skill. It's not anything that gets kids actually moving, which I always thought was the purpose of recess.

It's really a stupid first-world issue, isn't it? In the grand scheme of things, it's not worth a blip of my time (or your time but here you are reading this). Do I really care if anyone has yo-yos at school? Nope. Do I really find it freakin' hilarious that so many people have wasted so much time on this? Yup.

Weekly Wonderings III

2011-05-21T06:32:00.000-07:00

1. Why do you think In 'n Out Burgers promotes the fact that they use "real American cheese" in their radio ads?

2. I think it's because they're patriotic.

3. God knows, although I am a big fan of their burgers, there's no such thing as "real" when it comes to American cheese.

4. The bulletin board at the middle school of 6th, 7th and 8th graders had a message "Happy 15th Birthday, John!"

5. If I had an 8th grader who was turning 15, I don't think I'd be telling the world that.

6. It occurs to me, maybe he's in 7th grade.

7. I officially resigned my job Thursday.

8. I really should have used quotation marks for "job," given that it's the elementary school yard duty gig I'm talking about.

9. Yo-yos finally did me in. Yes, yo-yos and their proliferation. But that's another post in and of itself.

10. I don't know how the family will manage without my $108 a month from the school district.

See You Sunday

2011-05-20T06:17:00.000-07:00

If I remember the story correctly, long ago, Pete's aunt and uncle were on their way to London for a huge meet-up of a Christian-sect-which-shall-remain-nameless. They popped in to say hello to their relatives in Manchester. They were filled with excitement. It was going to be the end of the world, and they were two of the select chosen. It was all going to happen on Saturday afternoon. The end of the world.

Pete bid them farewell as he left the house to go off with his mates. "Have a good time," he said. "Oh, we will," his aunt replied. "We have tickets for the theater Saturday night."

That would be the Saturday night after the Saturday afternoon rapture.

Oh, ye of little faith. Perhaps it was precisely the fact that they had purchased those damn tickets that the rapture didn't come. It's plausible that those two are the reason for the failed end of the world in 1975.

Anything is plausible. Anything is possible. Maybe Kirk Cameron is going to go immediately up in the rapture Saturday. Maybe those chosen ones prepaying for the care of their pets in a post-rapture world aren't losing $20 each. Maybe some prime church real estate will be available under squatters' rights come Saturday. Maybe Harold Camping did just make a simple mathematical error when he originally cited Sept. 6, 1994, as R day, but he's taken a remedial math course and now has it right.

Maybe.

Or maybe it will go down more like it did for this poor schmuck in 2003.

Shame of Fools

2011-05-18T17:58:00.000-07:00

When the friends I have made over the course of my children’s middle school years introduce me to others, they often note that my youngest is at the by-lottery school, but they quickly add, “But if it were a neighborhood school, it would be their neighborhood school.” I joked the other night at a district-wide dinner honoring volunteers that I really need to have a tattoo to that effect put on my arm.

If that by-lottery school were a neighborhood school, it would be my kids’ neighborhood school. At least, I tell myself that but, given the idiocy at the district level when it comes to school boundaries, it’s possible that my home would be carved out of the boundary. But just my home, me being who I am.

It hit me Tuesday night, as I was leaving yet another school board meeting filled with accusations from the two sides of the aisle, that I am feeling a sense of shame. The supporters of the by-lottery school arrived wearing red in a show of unity. The detractors seemed to be wearing anything but red. It felt like the Bloods and the Crips were out. Actually, it was probably more like the Jets and the Sharks. At any moment, I expected to see Tony and Maria and switchblades and dancing.

I wore blue. I intentionally did not wear red, although I think I likely left the meeting red-faced. Red-faced with shame.

The parents of children at the by-lottery school do not love their children any more than the parents of children at other schools love their own children. The children at the by-lottery school are no smarter than the children at other schools. The children at the by-lottery school are no better than the children at the other schools. The teachers are no better than the teachers at other schools. The principal, God knows, is certainly no better than the principals at the other schools. The curriculum is no different.

There is but one difference: luck. By the luck of the lottery draw, your child “won” a spot. Not everyone tries to get their children into the by-lottery school. Some want them to go to their neighborhood school. But the luck of other children who would be attending their neighborhood school leaves the neighborhood schools with fewer parents who are college-educated and at higher socio-economic levels. The ones left behind by the rapture that is the by-lottery school have to bear a greater weight.

We started at the by-lottery school when the curriculum was markedly different, and it was a magnificent place for Eldest and then Daughter to be. But as the district pummeled out any differentiated instruction, the school ended up being just like any other school. Just like any other district school but without the trials and tribulations of non-English speaking children or children of a low socio-economic status.

I wore the red on my face because it has taken me a long time to get here: there is no plausible reason for that by-lottery school to continue to exist with zero specialized curriculum being offered. There is no plausible reason for it not becoming a neighborhood school. There is no plausible justification for making neighbors trek to schools farther away from their home when there is a school just like any other right down the block.

*The title? It's a mondegreen.

I'm Sure it's Rapture to Him

2011-05-18T06:25:00.000-07:00

Youngest's elementary school had its annual used book fair last week. Families donate the books, and they're sold for a quarter or 50 cents each. Kids get to buy new-to-them books for pocket change. And people like me get to pass along all those Magic Tree House and Pooh and Pokemon books the kids begged me for years ago.

Nothing controversial about that, right? Unless, of course, someone has a warped sense of humor or is, quite possibly, some kind of pervert. [No, it wasn't me.]

A bunch of kids were tittering and giggling and pushing each other in one corner of the book fair. Alarm bells went off in the head of one of the volunteers. The kids were acting just like they do at the Scholastic Book Fair when they find out what page "World's Largest Breasts" is on in the Guinness Book of World Records.

She discovered a cache of pornographic comic books. Believe me, they were hardcore. [And you'd also better believe I'm not looking forward to what Google searches bring people my way in the coming days. Ha. A pun! Totally unintended.]

I'd post an image of the cover, which is mighty tame compared to the inside pages, but I can't seem to find the copy I brought home with me for the sole purpose of scanning the cover to share with you. [Here's hoping the littlest and most naive of my children don't come across it anytime soon.]

The comic books were all brand new. This leads me to believe they weren't donated by accident. I think someone is getting off on the fact that a 1st grader or 2nd grader likely stumbled upon them. That icks me out beyond belief. I realize there are perverts all around. I just didn't realize they have children at my kid's school. [I'm not calling them a pervert for reading those works of art, mind you. I'm calling them a pervert for putting them in children's hands.]

I know at least one person who isn't going up in the Rapture on Saturday.

Manner of Speaking

2011-05-16T06:12:00.000-07:00

The troop leader related this story to me about the car ride up to Girl Scout Camporee this weekend. I'll try to tell it as perfectly as she did.

Daughter is telling everyone about her boyfriend, Paul. She is in the car with three other girls in the troop and the 9-year-old sister of one of the other girls. She describes how she and Paul first kissed.

"Ewwwwww," is the comment from the 9-year-old.

"Not 'ewwwww,'" Daughter corrects. "Ahhhhhhhhhh."

One of the other girls nudges another and asks, "We still think 'ewwwwww,' right?" She needs to just check in to make sure not all the girls in the car have gone the way of Daughter, stolen away to the other side of childhood.

My Sister

2011-05-15T18:24:00.000-07:00

So it figures there'd be a huge #BloggerFAIL just when it came time to publish my birthday greetings to my sister. Two days late, then, here it is.

Whatever I am, she is. And then some.

I am smart. She is brilliant.

I am quick. She is lightening fast.

I am funny. She is freakin’ hilarious.

I write well. She writes circles around me.

I am old. She is older.

Happy birthday to the best sister anyone could hope to have. At the top of my list of regrets in life, a very short list, is the one wishing our relationship had been as good as it is far earlier in our lives. Being one who always looks on the bright side of things – ha! – that regret gives me comfort. Why? Because I know that eventually, although maybe not in my lifetime, my children stand a chance of enjoying each other’s company, of loving each other so strongly, and of having each other intertwined in their lives for as long as they live.

I love you, Virginia. Happy birthday, sis.

I Do Not Like that Scam, I Am

2011-05-11T06:41:00.000-07:00

This is the letter I wrote for my friend to send to a mediator in another state who was trying to help a poor schlub that fell for an age-old scam. Let it be noted that I managed to never call the schlub a moron, though clearly he is.

Dear MEDIATOR,

I am in receipt of your letter of DATE, and the documentation you included regarding a complaint filed by Mr. DUMBASS. Let me state unequivocally upfront that my firm, which I founded in YEAR, has nothing to do with this scam being carried out by persons unknown to me or anyone associated with my company. My company’s name, or variations of it, has been used by scammers apparently operating out of Toronto, Ontario and New York. I am sure you are well aware of these scams taking advantage of people throughout the world. My company is as much a victim as the individuals apparently hoping to get something for nothing but instead being suckered by criminals and conmen.

I say “individuals” as we have heard from nearly a dozen since the beginning of the year, all offering up poorly written letters, paperwork, and copies of bad checks as proof. None of this originated from my company. None of the phone numbers or addresses provided by the criminals are owned by or used by my company (nor by the other companies with names identical to or similar to my own company). We have made every effort to track down the criminals but have been unable to have any governmental agency assist us in any way. We have posted an alert about the scam on our website. We have spoken with the Better Business Bureau and have filed a report (REPORT LINK). On the advice of the BBB, we have filed a report with the Federal Trade Commission (NUMBER) and we have filed an identity theft report with the CITY Police Department (NUMBER). We have pleaded for assistance with both the CITY PD and the FTC, but neither seems able to do anything about it, and the victims keep getting victimized. Additionally, we have contacted the Canadian Embassy, which did not return our repeated calls; we have called the New York Police Department, which did not return our repeated calls; and we have filed a report with the Office of Homeland Security, which has not contacted us.

Perhaps your entity would be able to assist us or perhaps you have other ideas that you would be able to discuss with me at your earliest convenience? MEDIATOR, I do feel badly for DUMBASS, but his falling prey to a criminal is not in any way related to my firm. I wish you all the best in tracking down the culprits. Again, if you have suggestions on what else I can do to try to put these scammers out of business, I would so appreciate hearing from you.

Perils

2011-05-10T06:27:00.000-07:00

A friend of a friend, she was. This was way back in 8th grade. The friend she was a friend of was the girl I hung out with when I wanted to score some dope, take one of her Dad's More cigarettes, or drink from the stash her mother kept in the alcohol cabinet.

None of these desires of mine do I not think back with without feeling such a huge sense of shame. It was what it was. I am what I was. I am what I am.

Her name was Dawn.

She was there in 9th grade, too. Perhaps we had other classes together beyond PE, but PE is where I remember her. In the spring, when we had to do the President's Physical Fitness test, she was there. All of us in the class looked upon our teacher with more than disdain when she made Dawn keep running those laps we had all finished. We looked upon that PE teacher with pure hatred as Dawn collapsed, unable to do more than one meager lap.

It wasn't just that Dawn was heavy that prevented her from doing more. She was pregnant. She was more than seven months along.

In the summer, I visited Dawn with her new daughter. One visit. There she was with this precious little tiny baby. No gifts or cards from us. Just fascination mingled with shock.

I have no idea whatever became of her. I have no idea whatever became of any of the girls and boys I hung out with in 8th or 9th grade. I haven't really thought of Dawn since the summer after 9th grade, except when I hear of another young girl pregnant. Or, now, when my own kids are closing in on that age and I realize with a start that I'd better start talking a whole hell of a lot more to those kids about perils beyond not holding my hand when they cross the street or not brushing their teeth.

To the Best Mom Ever. Love, Momself

2011-05-08T19:11:00.000-07:00

I bought two Mother's Day cards to send to my mom. One was to be from me and Pete. One was to be from the kids.

As days ticked by and Mother's Day approached and it was clear I'd never get the cards to her on time, I went with the age-old Plan B. I sent her some beautiful flowers.

I only call it Plan B because the cards didn't get sent on time. I always send her flowers or a plant on her birthday and Mother's Day and, more often than not, on Valentine's Day and Easter, too. I don't think I've ever noted the Fourth of July or Labor Day with greenery.

Talking with her this morning, I fess up to not having sent the cards. Hell, she's my mother. I can't very well lie to her when I tell her Youngest's thank you card for his birthday gift is written and included with her Mother's Day cards. I have to add, "...which are sitting on the kitchen counter, waiting to be mailed." I don't feel compelled to add, "...not to mention waiting to be written."

[Hey, she's my mother. She doesn't have to know everything. It's not like I'm nearly 13 and kissing my first boyfriend like some nearly 13-year-old daughter I know. And with whom I live.]

So, I just now pulled out the cards to sign and have the kids sign, and I realize I'm missing the card I got for her. I instantly realize that I'm not missing the card. I have the card.

It's the one my own nearly 13-year-old daughter gave me this morning.

Yes, I bought my own Mother's Day card.

And, yes, payback is a bitch.

*I tell Pete this. His response? "I saw the three cards in the bag and I figured you bought them yourself to make sure the kids gave you cards." The boys made me their cards, of course, and I had expected Daughter to do the same. Just wait'll Father's Day, man. I hope he's planning on buying his own cards as he certainly couldn't expect his children's mother to make sure it happened. As she has managed to do each and every year since the year he was only a father in theory.

Weekly Wonderings II

2011-05-07T05:55:00.000-07:00

1. Working back-to-back-to-back 12 hour days is very tiring.

2. Knowing that my weekends for the next three weeks are filled with, first, back-to-back 12-hour days working, second, camping with the Girl Scouts, and, third, Daughter's Annie performances leaves me pining for days of yore.

3. And by "days of yore," I mean those before my kids had any activities beyond having diapers changed and being kept constantly amused by me and Pete.

4. I don't remember the "days of yore" before kids. I suspect weekends were far more peaceful and self-centered then.

5. Doing the project work I do now is far harder today than in my younger days. Hell, doing anything now is far harder than in the past.

6. The latest project has me encountering hundreds of regular folks from all walks of life. And because it's work, I can't even make fun of them.

7. At least not where they can hear me.

8. Now, if I could only remember that all the interviewers working for me have recorders going the whole time. I keep forgetting that, which means I'm going to have to edit out quite a few snarky comments before handing the tapes over to the client.

9. "Regular folks from all walks of life" has a different meaning in the Bay Area.

10. "Regular folks" seem to be at a distinct disadvantage in this area. We have far more irregular folks per capita than most places.

Love, American Tween Style

2011-05-04T17:20:00.000-07:00

Daughter and I were texting back and forth while I was at the school board meeting last night. There was a catastrophe of sorts when the two youngest could not turn off the hose, which I had put in the pool to top it off. Many texts back and forth surrounded this calamity, until I finally told her to get Eldest from his friend's house or our lovely neighbor across the street to deal with it.

Daughter: Eldest did it. And P.S. I think I have a boyfriend!!!

Patty: Zomg! P?*

D: YES!! He texted to me that I was beautiful!! And then we texted we love each other.

P: Oh wow! Wow!**

D: I know! It's amazing!

P: Can't wait to talk to u!***

D: I know!

*Oh good God, no!
** Oh good God, please, NO!
*** Oh for the love of God, PLEASE, NO!!!

We did talk when I got home. We talked of her desire for a boyfriend at nearly any cost. "Cost," you wonder? Yeah, cost. Because she does like him. He's a very sweet kid. He's had a crush on her for a very long time. But she doesn't like like him. And bandying about "love"? Really? We talked of that, too.

She is much younger at nearly 13 than I was at 11. I am not saying that merely because OH GOD PLEASE NO! [Although, frankly, OH GOD PLEASE NO!] I am saying that because it is true. She is mired in late childhood and has barely begun, intellectually and emotionally and socially, crossing over to tween, much less teen.

Ultimately, she will break his heart or, far less likely, he will break her heart. It will not be intended, either way. But it will happen. So I will watch, from afar but also nearby, just as I watched her take those first steps nearly 12 years ago.

OH GOD PLEASE NO!

Although she does not read this blog, she does know of its existence. And she has given me permission to blog of this. Hell, if she's old enough to love, I guess she's old enough to opt-in to blog posts.

Fleeting

2011-05-03T23:10:00.000-07:00

I try to explain as best I can
not negating those feelings.
Those feelings which feel so final.
So permanent.

So young, you are, I want to say.
So strong, you feel.
So permanent.

They are fleeting.

I can list one, two, three, four
those who came before.

Further back I can go,
one, two, three, four, five.
Oh, and six.

Those I loved.

With all my heart.

Decades later,
it is so easy to see.

Fleeting, those feelings.

But I remain.

And so will you.

Titled "Entitled"

2011-05-02T10:00:00.000-07:00

There's a talk show lawyer who bills himself as an "Elder Advocate." When the kids aren't in the car, I get to listen to content that is far less overproduced. But I find it is as insidious.

A caller's father needs to go into a nursing home, and he wants Medi-Cal to foot the bill. But what will happen when his father dies, the adult child wonders? Will Medi-Cal try to take the proceeds of the sale of his father's house? What can they do to make sure the offspring reap all the benefits and not let the evil government swoop in and take some or all of the money?

The "evil" government that is going to pay for the father's care until his death. The "evil" government that is funded by me and you.

Another caller talks about her niece who is on disability and who was bequeathed $5,000 from her dead father. How can that money be hidden so the niece doesn't have to give up any benefits? How can the evil government be stopped from taking money rightfully the niece's?

The "evil" government that is paying for her care month in and month out. The "evil" government that is funded by me and you.

I was also reading comments from a survey of women, and I came across one written by a self-identified Caucasian who was complaining about the difficulties in getting Medi-Cal assistance while she was pregnant. Why is it so easy for Hispanics, especially the illegal ones, to get assistance? How come the evil government won't pay for her as well?

The "evil" government that ultimately footed the bill to ensure the health and welfare of her baby and herself. The "evil" government that is funded by me and you.

The sense of entitlement that people have doesn't astound me. I see it all the time. It doesn't astound me; it angers me. Why the freakin' hell should I pay for that man's father's care or that woman's niece's care or that pregnant woman's care? It's not the nameless government that pays. It's me. And you. And you. Apparently, it's everyone except the people who should.

Weekly Wonderings I

2011-04-30T05:59:00.000-07:00

1. It's not that I haven't been wondering since the last time I did a Weekly Wonderings. It's just that I haven't been sharing the tidbits.

2. Try not to be so thankful for the hiatus.

3. I believe it is nigh impossible for anyone who has seen the movie Up not to have a squirrel pass her line of vision and not stop, point like Dug and say, aloud and in Dug's voice, "SQUIRREL!"

4. And it's impossible to not do that even when you're walking alone with no children to pretend to be amusing.

5. If there were enough spiders the size of the one we trapped the other night, I'd be worried.

6. Mostly I'd be worried that they'd join up with the stick demons and rule the world.

7. Or at least rule my house.

8. "Does she come from the same place as Fez?" Youngest wants to know about a mother of one of the boys on his soccer team.

9. Pete doesn't understand what the heck the kid is saying. I do. That's what we get for watching an episode of "That 70's Show" each night with the kids.

10. Do you find it amusing that the first image found when Googling "fez" is this one?

Gong Show

2011-04-29T06:33:00.000-07:00

Try to corral dozens and dozens of middle schoolers. Go ahead, try. I'll wait.

Not easy. It's even more difficult when they're all hyped up with nerves because they're going to be performing in a talent show. In fact, it's far more difficult in that scenario, particularly when it's clear that no auditions were required. It's kinda cute when a kid in third grade tries to sing or dance with no discernible talent. It's much less cute when the "kid" is no longer a kid.

That's not to say there weren't some good acts mingled among the 37. Let me repeat that number. 37! And when the show starts 10 minutes late and the jazz combo comes out and plays for 22 minutes, you know it's going to be a very long night.

A talent show of middle schoolers with no auditions which has an opening act of 22 minutes -- 22! -- ends up nearly three hours long. Three excruciatingly long hours, culminating with me ultimately telling everyone to shut the f#$k up.

No, I wanted to say that, and worse, but I didn't because, you know, they're all just such precious tweens and young teens.

The highlights of the evening, besides watching Daughter dance a solo and sing a duet, included:

Being enlisted by the people running the talent show -- I only showed up to help backstage -- to gather everyone's CDs and ipods with their music on them starting exactly 27 minutes before showtime. They waited that long before thinking it might be a good idea to have the music in advance.
Finally blocking the stage door to prevent performers from coming and going throughout the show and having a teenage girl a full head taller than me stomp her foot in anger.
Stomping my foot right back at her when she came to apologize a few minutes later.
Watching the neighborhood thugs waiting for the perfect moment to steal the cash boxes in order to stop that from happening.
Saying "shut up" about 142 times to the performers coming and going throughout the show while other acts performed.
Being asked by the principal to go on stage to get the jazz combo to stop, and thankfully stepping onto the wings at the precise moment they finally stopped playing.

I'd post some videos of the really bad performers, but then I'd truly have to admit to being a bully. Trust me, some were really, really, really bad. I will say this about the overflow audience: at least they were kind. There wasn't a Chuck Barris in the crowd.

Regulating Childhood

2011-04-26T06:34:00.000-07:00

I tuned into a radio talk show in the middle of the hosts talking about some lame rules recently implemented which ban quite a few kids' games because they're dangerous. I assumed it had to come from California, of course, because we often seem to be the trendsetting implementer of incredibly stupid laws. Turns out New York gives California a run for the title of Queen Nanny State.

The New York Daily News -- yeah, I know, that totally reliable journalistic source -- had a story last week on the rules summer camps have to abide by. NBC New York and others say the rules have since been rescinded. Yes, I do see that you might say that archery and rock climbing are dangerous, although with proper adult supervision at, say, a Girl Scout camp, I don't know why you also can't sign the kids up for that.

But wiffle ball? Playing tag? Kickball? Those are "inherently dangerous"? Dude, even the lame-ass elementary school Youngest attends lets them play kickball. But no tag is allowed at the school. And you can't play tennis baseball (our local equivalent to wiffle ball) until you're in 4th or 5th grade. No running on the blacktop. No chasing games of any kind. No more than 30 children on the playground structure at a time. No knock-out basketball. No no no.

Were it not for the fact that Youngest plays soccer every single recess, I'd probably fight for his right to play tag or run free.

I do have an idea for health departments everywhere: let's focus on getting kids healthy by playing real games, like tag or dodgeball or kickball, rather than playing video games and staring at the TV. Or maybe the health departments can work toward eradicating diseases and rampant teenage pregnancy and transmission of STDs.

You think?

A Bad Easter Post

2011-04-23T12:32:00.000-07:00

I suppose it's most in the forefront of my brain because of Easter, that day believers find the most cherished of days. Believers.

What is it like to believe? I liken this feeling of non-belief to the times when I am not feeling well. When I'm sick or in pain due to a flare-up, I find it hard to even imagine when I was well. How does it feel to be well? What was I like when I was well?

Or maybe it's like the dog feels when she's in the cone of shame. Her limited grasp of time and how it passes leaves her believing, as my friend Joanne put it once, that her life will be forever shackled to the cone. There is no other life but the cone.

That crisis of faith I mentioned awhile ago is apparently my cone. I am shackled to a life of no longer believing. That crisis of faith is my illness where I can't remember what being healthy was like. Worse, I think, my faith was an illness. I can't remember what it is like to not believe.

Maybe it's that, if I buy into all that I once bought into, I am condemned, so not believing means not being condemned for my past actions, my sins. Not believing means those I loved who have committed the same actions as me (or worse), who have had the same thoughts as me (or worse), will also not spend an eternity condemned.

Maybe my mind is telling me that it is better to believe there is nothing than to believe there is eternal condemnation.

Not very good thoughts on this eve of Easter. Were I a believer, I do believe I'd believe I'm headed to hell. In an Easter basket.

Stealth

2011-04-22T14:45:00.000-07:00

A visitor joined the elementary school's PTA meeting last night. I heard the woman introduce the visitor as someone from another elementary school. I imagine her last name was used, but I didn't hear it.

Listening to my SmartPen recording, I realize she didn't say more than her first name, noting that her children went to another school and that she was getting involved in the PTA at her school and was seeing how other meetings were run.

That last part was clearly a lie. She is the wife of one of the most vocal opponents to our by-lottery school. I didn't realize that until she went to get copies of all the materials being handed out, including our financials. That was when a couple of PTA officers started acting a bit squirelly about her.

When our PTA president appeared following a district meeting set up to discuss the dismantling of our by-lottery school, the woman running the meeting pointedly introduced the outsider. That was when I heard her last name and it all clicked.

Seriously, people have enough time to visit other PTA meetings? I don't have enough time to clean the damn sink in the kids' bathroom, but some people have enough time to go to other PTA meetings? Really?

If you're there to observe and learn and take back whatever paltry information you glean in your stealth, undercover forays into enemy territory, can you at least own it?

I called her on it, when her last name was mentioned. Publically outing her so all of us at the meeting knew there was a spy within our midst.

Spying on other PTA meetings. Now that's something none of us should have the time to do. Pentagon Papers, sure. Barry Bonds' grand jury testimony, sure. 60 Minutes, maybe. Wikileaks, maybe. PTAleaks, no.