What Recession?

Cra-zy (kra’ze) adj. From the Latin meaning, I went to the mall on the Saturday before Christmas. Not that this is news to you. Based on the population of Triangle Town Center Mall, I’d wager all of you were there. And, yes, even my out of state readers. I parked between two mammoth SUVs, with license plates from Colorado and Iowa. I didn’t park at the mall exactly, just an outskirt that may or may not have been in Raleigh, but was definitely in North Carolina (I saw NASCAR stickers). But, anyway, I was thinking that perhaps our mall is the front line of the war against the recession.

Remember when I was ridiculing the people that had their Christmas shopping done by the end of October, yeah, well, that gulp you just heard was me swallowing those words. Because those are the people curled up on the sofa today watching National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation and sipping hot cocoa with tiny marshmallows of satisfaction. Though, to be fair, I wasn’t at the mall to Christmas shop, as there is no one on my list that’s been nice enough to warrant me entering a battle of that magnitude. I was there because my daughter had a lunch date at California Pizza Kitchen, which is at our mall, and she’s not old enough to drive, yet. Or pay. Or wipe her mouth effectively. So I tagged along.

The girls loved that the mall was so crowded and that multiple people were wearing red Santa hats. For them, there was excitement in the air. To me, there was just the heavy stench of too much cologne and perfume broken up by the wafting smells of b.o. and waffle fries. And Santa hats really only work on the big guy himself and possibly the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders. Other than that, it just looks creepy and sad on adults. Sadder in say February, but still not great in December.

I only went in one store and that was to purchase a gift for my mother, who, for whatever excuse, is still not a follower of my blog, but does read it, so I’ll not name the store I went to. I’ll just say that there was a line and I had to wait in it with two girls who were so happy about their playdate, they were twirling. Twirling and knocking things down. Twirling into people. Twirling and making me dizzy. You get the picture. And that wasn’t the only line we were in. There was also a line to walk through the mall. I didn’t notice at first, but then when the family in front of us stopped short right in front of The Gap, I realized we couldn’t walk around them. It was too crowded. We got into a thirty person pile up because Susie Glitter Shoes and her mom were discussing if they should go in and look for something for her cousin Adrianna. (I’m not sure of the spelling of Adrianna, but the fact that I know her cousin’s name should be enough. Too much even.) “Maybe a vest or a scarf?” Mom asks, as Dad eyeballs The Great American Cookie Company. He’s been there before, I can tell. I really wanted to suggest they step into the store to decide. Because going in isn’t a contractual obligation to purchase, you know. I was even considering taking the dad to the cookie place with us, if they’d just get out of the way because that’s where we were headed anyway. But luckily I thought twice before saying, “I’ll take your husband, if you’ll let us by.”

We purchased our cookies and began the long odyssey back to the van. I was worried both of the girls would have a birthday or two before we made it, but we got there in thirty minutes flat. I auctioned off our parking spot for twenty bucks, and vowed to never return to the mall again.

Limited Choices

I hope all of you voted yesterday; I did. Sadly we didn’t get to try again with the President thing; I feel like four years is pretty optimistic in light of current national problems, but no one asked me. I did get to vote for Senator, House Representative, Sheriff, judges, and even the super-important office of Soil and Water District Conservation Supervisor. The only thing stranger than that being an elected position is that there was more than one person who wanted to do it. Who aspires to something like that? Is it people who spent their childhoods playing in the mud and just can’t get enough of it, or is Soil and Water District Conservation Supervisor a stepping stone to The White House?

And how is that two people were running for that office and only one person wanted to be District Attorney? I can’t speak to the glamour involved in the Soil and Water office, but based on the four hundred seasons of Law&Order I’ve seen, I think D.A. is a fairly prestigious and exciting job and it seems like more people would want to do it. I, for one, was kicking myself for not running against that guy. Granted I don’t have a law degree or any actual experience, but I’ve read the complete works of John Grisham and if that doesn’t qualify me for District Attorney, I’d be shocked.

There was also a proposed state constitutional amendment wherein no ex-felons could become sheriff, and we were either for or against that. Seems like a pretty obvious choice to me; I don’t want felons out there arresting people. I thought that would be a unanimous decision, but then woke up today to find the election results showed over 300,000 voters would like the option of a felon sheriff. Really? I went to Google for answers.

Apparently, some people were against this because they don’t like adding things on to the constitution willy-nilly, and felt there was no need for this amendment. Maybe, maybe not. If you look at the types of people Americans are electing these days, putting Sheriff Reformed Felon in office doesn’t seem outside of the realm of possibility. I mean, have you heard Joe Biden speak? He had to pick up some of that language in the joint and you know it. (Other people were just against the amendment because they think a felonious sheriff will be more forgiving of the crimes they’re planning to commit, and I suppose if I were a criminal, I would’ve voted that way, too.)

And since I fulfilled my voting responsibility yesterday, I didn’t feel the need to fulfill any others. Like, I don’t have to make dinner, I voted today. I’m not one to burden myself with too many tasks in one day. Vacuuming can seem like overkill when I’ve already showered, brushed my teeth, and driven the kids to school. Speaking of adding on random amendments, can we put something on there about skinny jeans and who can and cannot wear them?

The Silence Of The Preseason Shoppers

I have had not one, but TWO friends tell me they’re done with their Christmas shopping! I know what you’re thinking; I need to get some new friends. I’m working on it. But, in the meantime, the ones I have are making me feel really behind. The first time someone claimed this completion, I ignored it. One overachiever doesn’t need to upset the balance of my laid back lifestyle, but the second time gave me pause and I conducted an impromptu interview of the friend in question, trying to isolate and study the mutated gene of foresight and planning that I do not possess. It was kind of like when Clarice Starling interviewed Hannibal Lecter so she could get into the mind of a psychopath and see what makes him tick. But with less discussion of what wines go best with the human liver.

She said that she starts buying gifts the day after one Christmas in preparation for the next, and then she just picks up things “here and there” throughout the course of the next calendar year and is usually finished by the end of summer or early fall. She just happened to notice that Christmas comes around again every year and rolled with it. Well, I’ve noticed that everyone eventually dies but I’m not out shopping for burial plots right now. But maybe these are the kind of people you want evaluating your retirement portfolio or something. Come to think of it, if my husband didn’t put money into that 401K thingy, I might have a little cash to participate in all of this preemptive Christmas shopping that’s all the rage.

I decided I could at least write out a list of who we need to buy presents for this year. And I thought I’d use that list to jot down some preliminary gift ideas, but actually all I’ve done is cross people’s names off because they’ve irritated me in some way or another. The way things are going the only person who’s going to be left on the list in two months is my grandma and, at age 86, all she’s into is warm socks and Pond’s cold cream. That seems pretty doable at the last minute. Overall, I think the less time my family has where they could potentially be moved to a naughty list, the better.

But while I’m not much of a gift planner, I’m very into the decorating. I think Christmas lights make the whole world a brighter place. I only wait until Thanksgiving Day to get ours out because I have this innate fear that the social-norm police will show up and give me a citation for off-season light displaying. And if the social-norm police ever show up here, I’ll have lots of explaining to do. Maybe not as much as Hannibal Lecter when his freezer was raided, but still.

So, I didn’t buy any Christmas gifts when I was Target today. I bought a couple of pumpkin scented candles instead because it seems like we’re going to go ahead and have fall and Thanksgiving first again this year.

A Shot In The Dark

I knew there would be tears yesterday; that’s expected when you take three little kids to get their flu shots. However, I wasn’t expecting both my mom and I to end up laughing so hard at the kids that we were crying, too. Even looking back, I don’t know how a trip to the pediatrician turned into a Comedy Central special, but it did.

First let me say that I don’t know what the protocol is for telling your kids they’re going to get a shot. Do you warn them a week in advance? A day? How about 15 minutes prior to departure when they ask why they need to get their shoes on? I went with option C because my son, six years old, is a pathological dreader, and the more time he has to worry about something, the worse that thing becomes in his mind. Like if he gets in trouble and I say “I’m gonna tell your dad about this when he gets home,” if that’s twenty minutes from then, he’s a little anxious, but still functioning normally. But, if it’s going to be another five hours before my husband gets home, then my son has his bags packed for the orphanage and a copy of his last will and testament in his hands. Thus the short notice on the flu shot.

Well, I was shocked at the level of frenzy he managed to work himself into in a mere quarter of an hour. The wailing began before I even put the punctuation on the sentence telling him where we were going. By the time I wrangled him into the van, a la goat herder, he was acting crazy enough to qualify for government assistance. And this is the juncture where I should point out that his four year old twin sisters were fine. One of them was smiling and fairly pleased with the opportunity to get out of the house, the embodiment of “no fear”, and the other one was only concerned enough to have a slight chin quiver, but no actual resistance.

Fast forward fifteen ear-piercing minutes and we’re in the waiting room, garnering looks of pity from other patients who are just glad they don’t have whatever my son has, which unbeknownst to them is only a lethal case of trepidation. The nurse came and escorted us to the room in the back where the shots were going to be administered and that whole scene was like something straight out of Dead Man Walking or The Green Mile. Really, if for whatever horrible reason my son is ever sentenced to execution, I’m quite certain his walk to the death chamber won’t be any more terrifying than the 50 foot march he was subjected to yesterday.

Mom and I finally lost it when all three kids were lined up on the table awaiting the executioner. I was signing that release that asks if they’ve been sick in the last two weeks – No. If they’re allergic to chicken or eggs – No, though I’d love to see that validated by my son actually eating eggs. And the last question “Is anyone in the household pregnant?” – No, but, wait, what kind of shot poses a threat if just someone in the house is pregnant? Does the recipient of the shot emit some kind of harmful radiation post-injection? Is that why my son was frightened beyond words? I looked up and saw that my son had his fingers hooked on his bottom jaw, like he was auditioning for a Scooby-Doo movie and screaming like he was engulfed in flames. He wasn’t. He was however about to cause permanent hearing damage for everyone within a ten mile radius. Beside of him sat two little girls, all dressed in pink, swinging their feet back and forth and smiling while protecting their own ears by covering them with their little hands. I never have the video camera when I really need it.

The twins went first. One of them barely whimpered when they injected her because she’s made of tough stuff, possibly oxidized steel and duct tape. But, when they were done and it was Scooby’s turn, he started begging for his life, literally throwing himself on the mercy of the court. In the span of thirty seconds, he said the following: “Can I just come back tomorrow? I won’t do it! Get away from me!” and here’s where it took a dramatic turn “It’ll kill me! I’ll die!” Mom and I, not having access to horse tranquilizers or a straight jacket, had to restrain him with all of our strength while he got the shot. Which, for the record, is not the same as being shot, though he didn’t seem to grasp that.

When we got him off the table, he started limping out of the room. Full-on dead leg hobble, refusing to even set that foot on the ground. His sisters were giggling and racing out to the van. It was hilarious, even the nurse was laughing at that point.

I’m pretty sure I’ll just risk him getting the flu next year, unless a nurse can be dispatched to my home in the middle of night to administer the shot as he’s sleeping. And let me just say, he’s got nothing left in the reaction arsenal for when encounters an actual crisis. Broken bones, masked intruders, plagues of locusts; I won’t know. Because his screams and emotions couldn’t possibly be more potent than when he was six and got a flu shot. And I will be saving this story for when his younger sisters need to pull it out and level future playing fields.

Holidays I Skip

My mom left a message on our answering machine yesterday to remind us that it was Grandparent’s Day. “Don’t worry,” she said, “we can wait and celebrate when I come down there on Wednesday.” Sure, and while we’re at it, let’s start celebrating Arbor Day, and Washington’s birthday, and Columbus Day. I mean, at least Christopher Columbus discovered America (well, not really, but that’s another blog for another day). All grandparents did was have children that got pulled into the same vicious cycle of parenting as them. And those marketing tyrants over at Hallmark decided to capitalize on this common coincidence. But, how dare them try to shove another greeting card obligation down our throats! I saw on the Today show last week that the mark-up on cards is like 200%. So, their money-lust really should be satisfied by all the birthday, Christmas, Valentine’s, Mother’s Day, and Father’s Day cards we buy. I remember one year when my kids got Easter cards in the mail and my initial reaction was “What sucker bought them Easter cards?” Their grandparents, of course.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not completely against the idea of cards. I got some that I really loved for my birthday this year. But they’ve gone on to that big American Greeting Graveyard in the sky. Cards at my house have about a four day shelf life, which is still a much higher survival rating than they get with my brother. He opens and reads cards above his garbage can to expedite their disposal. Even if they warm his heart or make him laugh, they’re read and gone. Because he’s a practical guy and he has never seen any point in holding onto things like that. I don’t know what the opposite of a pack rat is, a smart cookie maybe, but that’s him. And every time I see one of those Oprah specials about hoarders, I’m reminded of the superiority of this way of thinking. I know his grandchildren will appreciate it when they don’t have to dig their inheritance out of 40 tons of mildewed sentimental refuse. They’ll also appreciate not feeling obligated to send him said sentiments.

On a related note, I’m not a big fan of the written thank-you cards either. To me it’s just Emily Post legalism, plain and simple. If I say thank-you when I get a gift from you, or you do something nice for me, why the big charade over mailing a note? It’s like saying, “I’m so thankful I’m wasting postage.” Can’t we just get by on the verbal gratitude? I got a thank-you text the other day and I loved it. I was like “And thank you, friend, for saving me a trip to the trash can.”

I'm not sure what Mom wants or expects for Grandparent’s Day. Clearly, I can’t afford gifts because I had three kids! I suppose I could make a cake, mostly because I’m always looking for an excuse to eat cake. I could probably loan her the grandchildren in question for a day, or a week, or even a half a month. That seems like an appropriate gift for the occasion, does it not? All I know is that if she’s hoping for some greeting cards, she better not be holding her breath.

Justice Is Blind (And, Apparently, A Cheapskate)

I’m officially a grown-up. I know because I finally got summoned for jury duty, and I’m so excited! I know I’m not supposed to be, that most people try to get out of jury duty, but I’ve always thought it would be a cool gig. Probably because Hollywood glamorizes it and I’ve read one too many John Grisham books. And the letter itself seems so serious and dramatic, with a bar code and at least three levels of bold. A good half of it is in all caps, too, so you know they mean business.

Imagine my surprise when I got to the second page and saw the heading: Payment. Well, that high was short lived because within the first sentence I realized that McDonald’s pays five times as much. I’ll get $12.00 for the first day, $20.00 a day for the next four days, then $40.00 a day for every day after five days. (For the record, I’m gonna have to drag this thing out at least a week and a half, if I’m going to afford those new shoes I want.)

I scoffed, aloud, and asked my husband what $12.00 divided by eight hours is. $1.50 an hour! “THAT’S RIDICULOUS!” I said in all caps. “Honey, that’s a dollar-fifty more per hour than you make right now,” my husband so kindly brought to my attention, causing me to fall into a downward spiral of depression.

But, that’s okay, because I was already counting on some kingpin sending his hired thugs to the swanky hotel I’ll be sequestered at to offer me a bribe. Don’t worry, I’ll find a way to take the money without sacrificing justice. And, yes, I do think I’ll be sequestered at a really nice downtown hotel, and be provided with three delicious restaurant meals every day, because the government was obviously budgeting for this eventuality when they were determining our monetary compensation. I’m sure they know that you can’t put a price on 800 thread count sheets or 24-hour room service.

The summons goes on to say business casual attire is required. Yay! I never get to dress “business casual”. I may even need to purchase some wardrobe additions for the occasion. Then, after some notes of no concern to me, the letter mentions that Children are not allowed. Say no more, I’m sold. And, Absolutely NO weapons (scissors, knives, knitting needles, etc.) Wait, they’re listing knitting needles but not guns? Does “no guns” go without saying? And if someone can turn a juror’s knitting needle into a weapon, I say let ‘em. That’d be worth the price of admission.

So, next month I could be getting paid to sit and listen to people argue all day, instead of doing it for free while I fold the accused’s laundry. I’ll get to dress up and meet new people, people that know how to take a person down with a knitting needle! I can’t wait!

Sugar, Spice, And Everything Nice?

This blog is dedicated to my brother’s wife, who is pregnant with their first child and recently found out they are expecting a girl. Well, L, here’s what you’re really expecting: DRAMA! And based on how poorly my brother handled my own female theatrics growing up, I’d say you’ll be managing a lot of these productions on your own while he seeks refuge in an ESPN bubble.

You know how, as women, we all have those days where we don’t like anything in our closet? Well, this morning, my daughter was frantic that her new Hello Kitty shirt was in the clothes hamper, still, a full twelve hours after she had deposited it there. I pointed out that she had two drawers of cute alternatives. “I don’t like those clothes!” None of them? Almost everything she had was clean except for the beloved Hello Kitty shirt. And, for the record, she picked out half of those items herself during shopping expeditions. But, I get it. I picked out all of my clothes, and there are days when I’d like a complete do over with my wardrobe. I finally talked her into a skirt that she loved as recently as last week, but even as she walked out of the room I heard her grumbling that “This skirt doesn’t even twirl.” How is she going to handle something like not getting the lead in the school play if she can’t even handle a skirt that doesn’t twirl?

Next, as I assisted the other girl in her Friday clothing selection, she said, “I’m not going to like J so much anymore.” Two things of note here; first, J, a boy, is one of her closest friends, and second, these were actually her first words of the morning. My response was, “Why?” She started digging through their accessory drawer, putting on several bracelets and headbands and necklaces without choosing a single one that matched her outfit, and then turned to me and explained, “I just don’t want to like him too much, because he likes my sister more than me.” I was speechless. He actually does like her sister more than her. But, mostly, I was impressed at her ability to reason herself out of a crush. Here’s hoping she can keep that up for the next twenty years.

Earlier this summer the girls told me they were going to marry J. Both of them. They were blissfully unaware that this wouldn’t work out and there was no point in correcting them. But, I remember wondering why they were thinking about marriage. They’ve never even been to a wedding, so it was really out of nowhere. My son has yet to give matrimony a single thought, and based on studies of the male species, probably won’t until he’s in his mid to late twenties. Nor does my son act like every injustice served to him (be that in the form of green beans or whatever) is the end of the world. The girls seem to suffer irreparable emotional distress three or four times an hour. “You took the doll I wanted to play with!” one of them will scream through a torrent of tears. “I got it first!” the other one will point out needlessly. “Well, I’m not your friend anymore! And, I’m never talking to you again!” Um, overreact much?

And even at this young age, they talk about their feelings. I’m not sure how my brother will handle this with his daughter, since, as far as I know, the only feelings he’s ever experienced are of disappointment when the Jets lose. But, it comes up all the time. They’ll tell me how they felt nervous the first time they went to the dentist, how they felt sorry for the kid that got in trouble at the pool, or how sad they were when another little girl at church wouldn’t play with them. Once, and I’m not making this up, the twin that was born second looked at my mother and said, “I was so lonely and scared when I was in Mommy’s tummy by myself.” If she’s going to take her mommy issues back that far and be upset over those two minutes, then I give up!

Good luck, L; maybe your little girl won’t struggle with fashion or overactive emotions. Maybe she won’t walk around trying to win an Academy Award for best dramatic performance on a Tuesday afternoon. Maybe her hair won’t get tangled, and her size won’t ever matter. Maybe she’ll never cry about being left out, or have her heart broken by a boy. But, if any of these things happen, and she’s standing there clenching her fists and weeping loudly, and my brother says, “I don’t know why she’s crying.” Please tell him she’s crying because he called me a cry baby. Tell him this is restitution for him always telling me I was too dramatic.