Happy Hermit

As I get older and most of the general public becomes dumber, I find myself doing more things online rather than going to a store.  This is especially true during the holiday shopping season.  My husband’s mother and sister always want me to participate in Black Friday, but every year I turn them down.  I can’t deal with the crowds, the rudeness, and the personal injuries.  The fact is I just don’t like people.  There, I said it.  I just don’t like them.  In general, people are rude, uncaring, unknowing, and blissful in their stupidity.  If you don’t believe me, go to Best Buy on Black Friday around five in the morning, and sit back and watch the events unfold.  You’ll be agreeing with me before too long.

Also as I get older, I find myself having absolutely no patience for waiting in lines.  When I was a teenager, I had no problem waiting in line.  My friends and I waited two and a half hours in line at Splash Mountain in Disney World.  We’ve waited in line for concert tickets, and even just to eat.  An hour wait at Olive Garden?  Piece of cake!  Now, if I have to wait twenty minutes for anything, it’s just too long.  Maybe it’s because now that I’m in my [cough] thirties, I can’t waste precious life minutes waiting.  Or maybe it’s because I have too much crap to do; I don’t have time to stand in line!  Those dishes aren’t going to wash themselves!  Yikes, can’t believe that one came out of my mouth.

So in my attempt to avoid people, I tend to buy many things online.  I buy movie tickets, Christmas presents, wrapping paper.  I buy birthday presents, reserve library books, do all of my banking.   I have direct deposit, direct payment…this way I don’t have to buy stamps.  However, I’m not as bad as my mother, who will buy deodorant and shampoo online so she can avoid Wal-Mart.  I’m sure it’s coming though.  If I wanted to, I could buy my groceries online and have them delivered.  Come to think of it, I really don’t have to go outside at all.  I can see my friends and family on Skype.  Now all we need is some sort of teleportation device so I wouldn’t have to drive anymore.  Beam me up, Big Y.

Alas, even though I think I would be happy as a hermit, I would miss Starbucks.  I also wouldn’t be able to get material for the blog.  Drat, I guess I will have to remain a part of society.  At least for the lattes…

Responsibilities

It wasn’t that long ago that I was a teenager.  I’m only 31, so we’re not talking eons here.  But things have changed dramatically since then.  Drugs, especially prescription drugs, are so easily attainable.  Alcohol is also easy to get when you know who to ask or which store to go to.  We blame lawmakers, we blame store owners, and we blame parents.  But we overlook the fact that teens today are smarter than we realize, and that some of the responsibility must lie with them.  It scares the hell out of me when I think of how close my daughter is to her teenage years.  I can only hope that I’ve instilled what values I’ve held on to since my teenage years, and hope that if I give her a big enough boost, she’ll try to reach the stars. 

I was the product of a single parent home.  My mother was our rock, our constant, and the only one that we could always rely on for anything and everything.  We didn’t have much, and my mother struggled for every penny she earned, no thanks to my deadbeat father.  However, I can say that neither I nor my sister ever participated in underage drinking, underage smoking, or drugs on the whole.  I am proud to say that I’ve never picked up a cigarette, and never took any type of drug recreationally.  I’ve never been drunk in my life; I’ve never lost control of myself or my actions.  I’ve always been the designated driver, because to me, it’s just not worth it.  In addition, I can also say that my friends never did the whole peer pressure routine.  And if they did, I was smart enough to know it and to avoid it.

Why do teenagers, especially teenage girls, think it’s cool to binge drink and then pass out on a bathroom floor?  Do they think that it’s attractive when they are vomiting all over themselves?  It is a dangerous world for a young girl to drink to the point of intoxication, and many have been the victims of sexual assault.  I just don’t understand.  All I want to keep asking is “WHY, WHY, WHY?”  Is it because of the media and how they seem to glamorize underage drinking?  Is it because alcohol is so readily available, and so socially accepted?  Do these kids not understand that one night of partying can change their lives forever?  Drunk driving, blood alcohol poisoning, sexual assault, violence—does this sound like a good time to you?  It doesn’t to me.  Consumption of as little as four shots for a teenage girl is enough to cause blood alcohol poisoning. 

Most parents rely on their child’s school to teach them about drugs and alcohol.  There are DARE programs and health classes.  But for some reason, the teachings are not making their mark, not hitting the target.  Yes, the statistics show that the use of illicit drugs among teens has declined, but use of alcohol, tobacco, and prescription drugs has not budged.  Not to mention the use of ecstasy, methamphetamine, overdosing on cough syrup, and skittling.  That one might be the most disturbing of all.  Kids take their parents prescription medications, dump them into a big bowl at a party, and take a handful.  What are they thinking?  Do they realize that they are dipping their hands into a big bowl of death?  Again, I just don’t understand.

I guess that all I can really do is keep talking to my daughter; talk to her about these new fads in drug abuse and talk to her about underage drinking.  I need to know who she is with and where she is at all times.  That’s my responsibility as a parent.  I need to love her and support her, and tell her that she can be anything and do anything with her life.  I will always be proud of her, and tell her I love her.  I will be her rock.  Mom, thank you for being you.  Thank you for saying no and setting rules and curfews.  Thank you for showing me the way, and I hope that I can be the mom that you are to me.  I love you.

Such are the Dreams of the Everyday Housewife

 

Yep…I am a housewife.   I prefer the term “domestic engineer” because it sounds like I may get a salary for this type of career, and it sounds more prestigious than “homemaker.”  I cook, bake, wash dishes, do laundry, take care of the children, and chauffer.  I could add cleaning and ironing to that list, but since I try not to do either very often, I will omit them for the time being.  But being a housewife comes with certain woes.  You have to deal with illness on a regular basis, both mental (usually your own) and physical (usually the kids).  You have to budget time as well as the money.  You have to pay bills when all you want to do is buy those leather boots.  But the worst woes have to do with the little things that the other members of your family inflict on you.  Here are some of the things that I ponder every day.

1.       Why does most children’s clothing have to be ironed?  Can’t they make these items out of something that doesn’t wrinkle? 

2.       Why do children and husbands have to take off all of their clothing inside out?  Is there some sort of mental block that prevents them from taking off their clothes right-side-out?

3.       When the socks go into the dryer, do some of them go into a fourth dimension, or do they disintegrate into the lint trap?

4.       Why do ladybugs have to stink up the entire house when you suck them up in the vacuum?

5.       Why is the husband “He-Man” for most of the year, but turns into a baby when he gets sick?

6.       Why do children and the dog aim for the couch when they have to vomit?

7.       How does shaving gel get on the wall?

8.       How does toothpaste get on the mirror?

9.       Why do I use every pot and pan in the house when I cook a meal?

10.   Why do dogs like to rip apart napkins and paper towels?

11.   Why can’t children be born with the instinct that makes them put toys away when they are done playing with them?  Can we genetically engineer this trait?

12.   Can I design a dumbwaiter system in my house so that I don’t have to bring groceries up the stairs?

13.   Why does the dog walk directly in front of me when I am trying to answer the phone?

14.   Why do telemarketers call at nine o’clock at night?

15.   Why do children begin fighting and crying as soon as you pick up the phone to make a call?

16.   Why do only eggs and bottles of oil drop and shatter onto the floor?  Do they have different gravitational pulls than other items?

17.   Why do windows, televisions, appliances, and glossy wood get fingerprints?  Can’t someone invent a coating that prevents this particular affliction?

18.   Why can’t anyone hang up their coats in the closet when they come in from outside?

19.   Why do the children and the husband demand certain food items only after I come back from the supermarket?  Do they think that I am psychic?

20.   Why can’t I ever find a pen that works when I really need one?

Possessed

I should seriously have my head examined.  Why?  Because I do things that normal people would probably not do.  Maybe my sanity has finally left me for good.  I think it just got fed up and said "I'm outta here, woman."  I suspect this is what happened.  For today, I was muttering to myself, in a store, like a crazy old woman who hoards cats.  But I believe that I brought on this latest psychotic break purely because I went clothes shopping with two kids, of which one was dangerously close to nap time.

Today being “Elect a Liar” day (thanks Jeff); my daughter has the day off from school.  So I thought it would be a good day to do some fun things.  We went out to breakfast at the Shack and got some pancakes.  First mistake, giving a three-year-old sticky food to eat.  He does well with his fork, but if a bite of pancake falls off the fork before reaching his mouth, he picks it up and eats it with his fingers.  That’s okay, this is what kids do.  But as the parent, you have to be quick on your game, and have the wet wipe ready to clean the sticky mess from the fingers before said fingers grab Mommy’s freshly washed sweater.  No coffee + no sleep = slow Mommy.

After getting cleaned up after the breakfast mess, we set off to visit Borders.  My daughter loves this store, and has, at any one time, fifteen gift cards to spend.  We got to Borders without incident.  She had all of her books selected within five minutes of getting there, so I decided to look around a little.  Mistake number 2.  Three-year-old boys do not like book stores.  Yes, they like to touch everything in the store, and run through the racks playing hide and seek, but they do not appreciate book stores like girls do.  On several occasions in the fifteen minutes inside the book store, my son wriggled out of my grasp and proceeded to either run in the opposite direction, or disappear altogether.  Now I know why they have child leashes.  How much are these and where can I get one?

At this point, I was ready to throw in the towel, give up and go home.  However, my daughter reminded me that I needed to go to Kohl’s to get her an outfit for her audition on Saturday.  Therefore, I redirected my car towards Kohl’s.  After warning my son in the parking lot that he either behaves or he would be sorry, we ambled into Kohl’s.  This is where my daughter begins to regress from a rather able-bodied twelve-year-old to a whiney five-year-old, literally dragging her feet through the aisles.  She hates clothes shopping and hates trying on clothes.  I think she would be happy wearing sweatpants and pajamas throughout most of her teenage years.  So with a pouty bottom lip, she tried on several selections.  While I’m trying to help her and look at the fit, my son is on his hands and knees looking under the stall wall into the adjacent stall.  I yelled at him, and secretly doing the sign of the cross thanking God there was no one in the next stall.  How embarrassing!  We finally decide on an outfit for Saturday, and dragging my son through the check out, we made it out of Kohl’s.  By now, the children are still intact, but Mommy is a mess.  I am still afflicted by some phantom stickiness left over from breakfast, which I trace back to my keys.  I heave the younger child into the car seat, who is blubbering still about being forced to hold hands with mean Mommy while crossing the parking lot.  I take a deep breath, thinking that I can go home now, only to remember I still have to go to Big Y. CRAP!

By the time I get to Big Y, I am hoarse from yelling and in my mind I’m wondering how I am not a raging alcoholic.  I place my son in the cart because I’m not in the correct state of mind to allow him to walk.  Once inside the store, I realize I have absolutely no idea why I am there, what I’m supposed to buy, and why children just can’t live on cereal.  I begin to gather what is left of my thought process, and start to collect some items.  By this time my son has given up, thankfully, and lies down in the cart.  Once things are semi-quiet, I can begin to piece together some semblance of meals for the next couple of days.  We get back to the car, get everything in, and start the drive home.  HOME!!!  What a beautiful word, home.  I love home. 

Now I’m sitting here wondering what possesses me to do errands with two kids.  Someone always ends up crying, and most of the time it’s neither of the children.  What possesses me to think that a morning of errands would be fun?  This is why I tell my husband that the next time I get any brilliant ideas, just to shoot me.  But every week, I forget the homicidal or suicidal tendencies and I do it all again.  Maybe I am a glutton for punishment, or maybe I’m just that naïve to think that “it will be different this time.”  Either way, I’m glad I’m doing this with just two kids and not six.  No wonder my grandmother would brandish wooden spoons like tomahawks.  She was possessed too.

Peppermint Candy

I guess I missed the memo that informed the public that the Christmas season begins before the Halloween crap is even off of the shelves.  Hell, we are still in Daylight Savings Time.  If the commercialization gluttons get their way, we will be seeing holiday items in stores around the time the Independence Day items are being packed away.  It will truly be Christmas in July.

In an attempt to ward off the holiday depression that takes over my life every year, I have decided to thrust myself unwillingly into the holiday shopping epidemic that plagues my pocketbook not only for December, but for months following the joyous season.  So this year I figure that if I start early, maybe I can forego some of the financial hurt we experience in January and months after. 

We began at Toys R Us Express, a nice store filled from floor to ceiling with all of the year’s new toys.  Absent from this store is the noise, obnoxious clerks, and unnecessary bells and whistles of the Toys R Us superstore that we have in Waterford.  We were able to purchase a few items that were on Santa’s lists, and ended up saving twelve dollars in the process.  Apparently, the Toys R Us Express store has sales on some items that the parent store does not.  Keep that in mind all of you Santa’s helpers out there.

We then ventured over to the Toys R Us superstore.  We just so happened to stagger in during the “power hours” sale that was occurring between nine and one, therefore the store was overrun with other Santa’s helpers.  Being that Halloween is tomorrow, some of the shelves were bare, but overall the store was well-stocked for us early holiday shoppers.  We proceeded through the many aisles with caution, trying to get a sense of what our children would like to add to their un-played toy collections.  The “power hours” sale proved to be a little promising and we were able to purchase some items at a reduced cost.  I will not be divulging any sensitive information for that fact that one of my children is quite computer savvy and will probably be reading this blog within the next couple of days (Hello Mary). 

Having obtained several deals, we decided to push our luck at the local hobby shop.  Lee’s Toys in Groton is a great little store, often triggering nostalgic feelings when perusing the overstuffed aisles.  I saw toys there that I played with when I was little; toys that you would not see at a Toys R Us or Wal-Mart.  We were good little parents, however, and didn’t purchase anything bigger than stocking stuffers here, even though I wanted a Jacob’s Ladder and a new slinky (for myself, of course!)

I was happy with our purchases for the day; they did not break the bank but we did get some of the items on the wish lists.  And furthermore, we didn’t get buffeted and run over by the bullies who take over the stores somewhere around Thanksgiving time.   We actually had fun shopping today, I think because we weren’t under the holiday pressure yet.  Although, I must say, I did feel a little foolish wrapping Christmas presents while my jack-o-lanterns were staring at me.  Their eyes had that “what the hell are you doing, woman?” look in them.  What can I say?  Desperate times call for desperate measures.  As long as I don’t start decorating the Christmas tree in September…

Remember What Mama Said...

Do you remember some of the things that your mother told you when you were a kid?  Do you remember how you said to yourself that you would never say those things to your own kids?  Well, the time has come for you to admit that you were wrong and to woefully avow that "I should have listened to my mother, she was right."

I have two children, as most of you know.  One is three and the other is twelve.  Most days, as you've probably gathered, I'm very close to breaking that one precious thread that is holding the last of my sanity.  Every day I say the same things to my children, and every day I have to be disappointed when I realize that my words did not make an impression, and that those words didn't even pass the ear drums into the brains.  Have you ever heard your mother say, "I feel like I'm talking to a brick wall?"  Well, I remember that one among many others, so I guess I'm getting paid back.

 My daughter has the messy gene that apparently she may have inherited from me.  Messy meaning that her room looks like a J.C. Penney vomited all over her floor, her dresser and most days, her bed.  There are clothes everywhere, some are clean and some are dirty and somehow they are organized because she knows which are which.  I tell her every day to hang up one or two shirts, because by the end of the week, most of the clothes would be put away.  I say this every day, sometimes twice a day.  And yet, when I go up to say good night, the room looks exactly the same.  However, I believe that I'm getting paid back for what I used to do to my mother.  History repeats itself.  Mother, I apologize.

My son also does not understand the English language.  Every day I tell him not to antagonize the dog, and every day I have to listen to the whining when he gets nipped.  I tell him if he keeps lying on top of her like a pig pile, she is going to nip him when she's had too much piling.  I say this at least five times a day, but to no avail.  I separate the two, I put the human child on time out, I yell, and sometimes I even spray them both with the water bottle.   There’s only so much one person can take.  I can understand now what my mother had to put up with when my sister and I would start our daily brawls.  She must still cringe when she hears that whiney “Mom!” or the infamous “I’m telling!”  Again, Mother, I apologize.

My husband says that his mother would always say, “I’ll give you something to cry about.”  Children whine.  I’m not talking about crying when they are infants, that’s different…that’s communication.  I’m talking about the incessant whining that children begin to do right around the time they learn how to talk.  This time just so happens to be the same time that they begin the “terrible twos.”  They whine when they are hungry, sad, mad, tired, jealous, too hot, and too cold.  They whine at meal times, play time, nap time, bath time and bed time.  My daughter, even at twelve, still whines about taking a shower, about cleaning her room, and about doing homework.  My son whines about everything else.  There is no point to it, and sometimes I think they are just trying to see if anyone is listening and if anything is going to be done.  I have a whine filter, which I installed right around the time of my son’s terrible two’s.  My husband, however, does not have the whine filter.  So he cannot block the penetrating whines of the children from entering his mind.  Therefore sometimes I hear “I’ll give you something to cry about!”  In spite of this, the whining ensues, because the children see their Daddy as a big playmate, and not as the disciplinarian.  That’s my job, add it to the list.

Lately, my son flat out cries when he doesn’t get his way.  And lately, I’ve been using the old adage, “Your face is going to freeze like that.”  I remember when my grandmother used to use that one on my sister and I when we would do the same thing.  And yesterday, I used “If your friends jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge, would you?” when my daughter was telling me a story about a group project in school. Wow, I think I’m getting worse.

Postal Employee Newman

Some of you have known for some time that I have been in the process of obtaining my passport. It is a process because of the time and energy that it takes just to haul my ass into the post office, an establishment of this country that I hate whole-heartedly.  I dread going, and I will do anything at all in my power to prevent going.  I celebrated the day when my supermarket started selling postage stamps, and UPS installed drop boxes.  But I digress…

First, I had to acquire the necessary paperwork from the post office.  I stood in line for about thirty minutes while the huddled masses made their way through the unnecessary long line to the two postal employees working the counter.  So pleasant are these two that they just exude joyfulness to everyone around them.  (Note—if you’ve ever been to an American post office, you know that I am being sarcastic here.)  Once I got to the counter, I was greeted by said employee, who proceeded to shove a form at me, and telling me that I needed to gather the appropriate paperwork before I can have the passport photos taken.  I left the post office, feeling slightly confused, embarrassed and stupid, because apparently I look like an idiot, since I had just been treated like one. 

I returned to my humble abode, settled myself into a chair, and filled out the application form.  Now for anyone that has applied for a passport will understand, the paperwork is not the easiest to understand.  Especially when one is trying to comprehend exactly what is needed for proof of citizenship, what copies are needed, what originals are needed, and what the fees are.  The State Department website is absolutely no help in the matter, unless you want to know what countries NOT to travel to.  After reading and rereading the forms, I finally decipher that I need an authorized copy of my birth certificate, a copy of my driver’s license, the form and the fee.  I cannot ascertain the fee because evidently it changes every day.  One day it was $135.00, the next it was $115.00.  Luckily, I had a stamped and authorized copy of my birth certificate from when we applied for our marriage license.  I rejoice because this is one less government establishment that I would have to visit.  I put everything together that I need, and return regretfully to the post office.

Today there was one postal employee working the counter, and she was none too happy to wait on any customers.  We were inconveniencing her cigarette break time, I guess.  After 20 minutes, I finally made it to the front of the line, and handed over my paraphernalia.   She scrutinized the forms, happily informing me what I filled out wrong, and what information I was missing.  I had forgotten that in my 31 years, I did not change my last name only once, but twice.  When I was born, my last name was Ring, from my father.  When I was sixteen and trying to forget I had a father, I changed my name to my mother’s name, Di Buono.  When I got married, I changed my name again, this time adding the Russo to the Di Buono.   And apparently, if you add an “e” to your middle name, you are no longer who you thought you were.  I had put on the form that my middle name was “Anne” and on my birth certificate it was “Ann.”   I had no idea that would be such a showstopper, and I was almost foiled in my quest.  She decided since I didn’t look like a terrorist, she would use some whiteout on the aberrant “e.”  Phew, that was a close one. 

After going over my paperwork with a fine tooth comb, I was told to write a check out to the Department of State for $110.00.  I laughed to myself because the State Department website today had a current fee of $120.00.  Then I was charged $40.00 for the post office processing of the passport paperwork and the taking of the photos.  She told me to wait for her out near the post office boxes, and she would be along shortly to take my photos.  I walked out into the lobby, looking for some sort of sign of where to meet her.  I heard some rummaging near an ancient door that looked like it hadn’t been opened since 1943.  I heard her unlock it and she had to push all of her weight against it in order to open it wide enough for a human to pass through.  I guess I had been correct about the 1943 assumption.  I sat down in a chair in front of the camera.  She prepared the camera for the photo-op, and told me to smile.  Now here is the dilemma.  I am in the post office, I’ve been here for 30 minutes, I don’t want to smile.  But I squeeze one off, although not very convincing.  I have terrible flashbacks of my DMV photo that is on my license and have a momentary sense of an oncoming panic attack.  I am told by postal employee to wait for her outside.  The line now is all the way into the lobby, so I skirted around the sullen faces to wait for her to come back.  At this point, I had no idea what I was waiting for, but I was told to wait, so wait I do.  Five minutes later, she emerged from the annals of the post office, and told me that I was all set.  All set?  That’s it?  I just handed over all of my pertinent vital statistics to a complete stranger without so much as a receipt or proof that I was ever there.  Feeling a little numb and a little violated, I ran back to my car, and thanked the Lord that I made it out of there while keeping most of my sanity.

According to the State Department website, I will be receiving my passport in 8 to 10 weeks.  We’ll see how that goes.  Of course I am at their mercy, since I have no confirmation number to check the status, and actually no proof that I was ever there.  All I have to show is the PTSD—post traumatic stress disorder.  “When you control the mail, you control…information.”