I'll Do Whatever It Takes. . .

Dear Verizon,

Is it too late for us? I know that I said we were through, and at the time, I meant it. Being with you was costing me too much. And there were all these newer, younger providers tempting me with better, more economical deals. Virgin Mobile promised me the sun, moon, stars and unlimited texting….how was I supposed to resist that?

It was a mistake. The month of October was just one disappointment after another with V.M. No coverage, dropped calls, weak signals, and even worse, my new phone/provider woke me up in the middle of the night twice to tell me it was powering down. I had long since powered down myself and resented the interruption.

I finally reached my breaking point with Virgin Mobile today when I realized that my phone wasn’t working. The worst part is my phone was trying to hide it from me, acting all normal like it was sending out my texts. It was only when I went to call my mother that I realized my new provider had abandoned me. Apparently they had the wrong credit card number on file and when the new month started, my service ended. No warning, no customer service call asking me to give them the correct number, nothing. They just cut me off! As the day goes on, I’m beginning to realize all of the things I missed when I was without service.

I’ve seen you out with other people. You seem happy. And clear as a bell. I’m sure you don’t miss me, not after the way I dumped you and immediately took up with another provider. But I think about you all the time. How I never appreciated you when we were together. How you were there for me in even the most remote locations. I just wish we could’ve found a way to work things out.

It’s not that I don’t think you’re worth as much as my mortgage each month, just to have the ability to browse the web, not even fully surf on it, but why? Couldn’t you ease up on the Super Bowl advertising and lower the rates? I mean, I have three children and they’re not cheap. Is it worth sacrificing their futures just so I can have unlimited texting with you? Lately, I’m thinking maybe. But why do you always want such a long commitment from me? Can’t we just agree to take it a day at a time?

V.M.’s not half the provider you are, and I can’t even begin to tell you how much I miss you and wish I could afford you. If you’re ever willing to take me back, I think I could survive with less texting, go without GPS altogether, probably. I just want to be with you. For $49 a month or less.

Wishing I was yours,

Dangerous Credit Lines

Yesterday, after church, we took the kids to the pumpkin farm, because some friends of ours invited our family to join theirs for the seasonal outing, and I’m currently accepting all invitations to everything. My dry erase calendar looks like there was a catastrophic marker explosion. From what I can tell, I still have a little time available on the 36^th of November and maybe a lunch opening in mid-December, but that’s about it for 2011.

Back to the story though. . .we went to the pumpkin farm (the name of which I’m withholding because they don’t need any additional advertising) and as we pulled up the overflowing parking lots it was kind of disappointing, signaling we weren’t the only North Carolinians who had that idea yesterday. Judging by the crowd we endured, I’d speculate that a tenth of the population of our state was at this farm.

As we were parking on top of another minivan, my husband tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “Sorry,” I said, “I thought everyone would be at the state fair and we’d have the place to ourselves.” The kids were really excited though and already scanning the swarms of people for our friends, so I decided to just smile and to try to make it out of there at the end of the day with all three children and my sanity. (Or whatever the Heather equivalent of sanity is.)

Obstacle number one to keeping my cool was just paying to get in. (Once we got to the front of the line, which took a fortnight.) The prices at this particular pumpkin farm have $kyrocketed since we were last there three years ago. The superpass was $20 a person ($100 for my family) or there was a bare bones admission for $10, which my frugal husband opted for. “But that doesn’t come with pony rides,” Reckless pointed out. At which point we offered the twins the option to add that on if they would clean the toy room when we got home. “I wanna ride the ponies, but not clean up toys,” Stretch countered. “Yeah, well, I wanna beach house and a live in housekeeper, but life’s a compromise.”

As we passed through the gates I turned to the kids and said, “Remember today. When you’re older, I mean. Remember that we did take you places other than school and Target.” They nodded their consent and we went to get in the first of many, many lines. Some of the lamer options, like the hay jump, didn’t have lines. But if you wanted to do the giant mountain slide, you had to pack an overnight bag.

My son decided he wanted to do the “jumping pillow” and I told him that his pass didn’t include that, but he reminded me that he had his own money and could pay for it. He flashed me a wad of cash and I said, “Deal.” But, wait, why do you have more money than me? Lucky for us, he did though, because later, when the girls got to see those ponies up close, they caved and decided it would be worth it to clean up all the toys. (We got them to sign a legal binding document and had it notarized. With that many people, it wasn’t even hard to find a notary and a lawyer.)

We had exhausted our liquid assets getting into the farm, so we had to commandeer some of Brainy’s cash for his sisters. Looking back, I guess we essentially had our son pay our daughters to clean our house. American Dream REALIZED.

I actually thought I still had some cash back in the van, so I figured I’d repay him in the parking lot. Only I was four dollars short. My husband came up with one more Washington and we gave Brainy the five dollars. He was like, “What’s this? You owe me eight.” My husband said, “It’s a down payment. We’re good for the rest and we’ll get it to you soon.” Brainy scowled at us and started assessing interest that very second. He must have some high rates because he was already demanding eighteen before we even made it home. “Do you know how many things we buy for you?” I reminded him. “Wanna make it twenty?” he argued. I shut my mouth.

As we pulled into the driveway, my husband and I discussed if maybe we might be mismanaging our finances to end up indebted to a seven year old who’s gonna stay on us like a loan shark. Maybe. I have an idea for getting rich though. Buy a few acres of farmland, plant some pumpkin seeds, put a bunch of dried corn kernels in a big box for kids to jump in, purchase a few midget horses on their way to the glue factory, and throw around lots of hay bales and then charge people lot$ of money to stand in line all day. We’ll be printin’ money by this time next year. (Though Brainy already said I’ve only got to the end of the week to pay him back or he’s gonna hire the biggest kid in second grade to come and break my kneecaps.)

Nine Ten Never Sleep Again

I don’t like to be scared. I’m always looking for excitement, but I don’t want it at the cost of being afraid. Therefore, Halloween is not my favorite occasion. It’d be fine if it was all about chocolate, because I definitely believe in celebrating candy. But all the other creepy things that come along with it, like horror movies at the cinema and skeletons in peoples’ driveways make me uneasy.

When I was younger, I always thought that I’d grow out of my sensitivity to being afraid, like I’d learn to appreciate a good haunted house or terrifying movie, but I didn’t. A couple of weeks ago, I was at the theater with my friend and one of the previews was for some frightening, never-be-able-to-sleep-without-nightlight-again movie coming out this month and I turned to her and we, in unison, said, “I don’t like scary movies.”

It was reassuring to find that I’m not the only adult who shies away from intentionally terrifying myself. And that initial admission led to us disclosing that not only do we not like those things now, but that we’re still a little scarred by the experiences we had with them when we were younger. (That’s scarred not scared, though both are true in that sentence.)

For instance, I still freak out a little when I see static on a television screen, even if it's just because we don't get that channel and not because there's a demon who's reaching out and pulling me inside the TV. (I think they'd have a harder time doing that now that we have flat screens.) But, thank you Poltergeist!

And that movie came out in 1982! I was only five, so I’m sure my parents didn’t let me watch it until it made it's way to VHS, but still, whatever age I was, I couldn’t handle the thought of spirits haunting my TV. And over 25 years later, I’m still concerned that they’re there.

And a couple of decades after I was first introduced to Freddy Krueger, I can still remember the words to that scary little nursery rhyme about him: One, two, Freddy's after you. . .okay, I'm already freaking out, let's move on.

My friend and I talked about how upsetting all those haunted houses were that we went to as adolescents. Ironically, my church youth group organized a trip to one every year. It was usually something designed to freak you out about hell, show you the realities of the tormenting there and really bring it to life for you. Mission accomplished. Being forced to make my way through an entire darkened house, filled with horrifying images and blood-curdling screams, did feel like hell.

Once I even got lost and separated from my friends inside the haunted hell house. I was probably about fourteen, and I’m pretty sure that is still the most afraid I’ve ever been in my life. I was crying and trying to get some zombie “worker” person to break character and help me find my way, but that’s the thing about hell, no one’s nice enough to even think about assisting you.

And corn mazes! I hate those things! First of all, I have no sense of direction, so my only chance of ever coming out is to go in with people who can figure it out, or a mouse, or an Indian guide. And secondly, I watched Children of the Corn once and even cornfields that aren’t cut into mazes scare me. Honestly, I don’t even do well with corn on the cob when it’s on the menu.

But no one cares. People are hanging skeletons from nooses in their maple trees and turning their front yards into cemeteries, like my nightmares are my problem.

Last week, I went to Michael’s to pick up some craft supplies the twins needed for a homework project and there was a skeleton bride and groom that were propped up by the poster boards. I don’t know why the fact that these skeletons had on wedding attire made them a hundred times scarier, but it did. Skeletons = scary, Weddings = scary, so Skeletons+Weddings = I’ll never set foot in Michael’s again!

Even some of my regular television shows will have some “Halloween Episode” where they try to ratchet up the drama with some spooky stuff. Why? Can’t we just decorate with pumpkins and gourds and pay homage to Milton Hershey, Willy Wonka, and John Nestle by rotting our teeth out of our heads? (Okay, John is only a guess. And, actually, why do all these Halloween skeletons have all of their teeth? Did they die before trick-or-treating really took off? Or did they just keep up with their regular dental check-ups? That makes them seem pretty responsible, which doesn't make sense because somehow they ended up having their flesh torn clean from their bones and being used as lawn decor, which doesn't seem responsible at all!)

Regardless, I've been enjoying October, but the longer it goes on, the more tense I get, so if November could hurry up and save me from these neighborhood mausoleums and spider web covered coffins, I'd appreciate it!

Picture This!

Sometimes I feel extremely under qualified for this motherhood thing. After making several school related slip-ups last year, I resolved to be more organized and on top of things this year for Brainy. It took me all of seven school days before I blew it.

Today was apparently school picture day. I'm 0 for 3 on seeing those things coming. (My mom just stopped reading so she could call and berate me for messing this up again.) But, in my defense, it wasn't as if a note came home from school or anything. It was all over the website, I guess, and it seems they expect us to check that thing religiously, which makes sense given my son goes to a Christian school.

But what happened to sending home a note with your kid to inform you that their photo will be taken tomorrow, so that you maybe don't send them to school in a blue t-shirt that has not only writing, but also frayed appliques on it?

The biggest irony of today was that it was the first day I sent him to school this year not wearing a collared polo shirt! I like to start off the year making him dress like a prep school kid, and then get casual once he's settled in. Today I went for a I'm-here-on-scholarship look, so, of course, that's the day they had to capture for posterity. I'm so glad Brainy will have professional pictures to back up the stories of neglect he'll be sharing with his therapist one day.

Another bad omen for my mothering potential this school year is that last night, at the parent-teacher meeting, I threatened some of the other moms. The teacher was going over how each of our children would be star student for one week of the school year. She offered examples of things we could do for and during that week to make them feel special. Things like coming to eat lunch with them (okay, I can handle that), to sending in a bag of little treats or surprises for her to leave on his desk each day while he's out at recess (sure, but easy on the $$$, lady), to having balloons delivered from a florist (ummm, no, I'll just pay for more important school stuff like textbooks, thanks), and, in her final example, she told us how one mom made a scrapbook for her child, that she delivered and read to the class during her child's star student week.

The scrapbook contained a page with not only pictures, but handwritten notes from each person in that kid's life, like their grandparents, cousins, Sunday school teachers, and neighbors. SERIOUSLY!!! She couldn't just come and share a happy meal or something? No, she had to accost her neighbors and use those stupid scissors that make fancy edges and realign the sun so that it orbited around her kid, so that when I send in a Hershey's kiss for Tuesday, I look like a schmuck!

At this juncture of the meeting, I turned to the women sitting nearest me and said, "You guys better not try that hard this year! Because I'm busy and I haven't even finished filling out his baby book yet, so don't have me scramblin' to come up with some kind of ego-boosting shelf-filler that's gonna make my neighbors stop answering the door when I come over!"

Am I proud of him? YES, of course. But, I'm not looking to start some kind of Brainy fan club or hire him an entourage or anything. He's a second-grader! And, one day, he'll have the pictures to prove it. Pictures that also prove that his mother never knew when it was picture day. But not because I don't care. Just because I'm old-fashioned and think an actual paper note should be sent my way as a reminder!

The sad part is that he didn't seem upset this year. Last year I remember him saying, "Mom, all the other kids were really dressed up today, and I wasn't, because you forgot picture day!" I was sad and felt so guilty that I choked up confessing my oversight to my mother. This year, he came to me smiling and said, "Guess what?" I looked at him wide-eyed and he continued, "It was picture day today." He was practically laughing as he rolled his eyes at me and walked away in his beach apparel.

But who does pictures during the second week of school? Give us a minute while we work out carpool details and homework schedules and some nutritious lunches, okay! One day, I'll take all of the class pictures of my son and make a scrapbook entitled OOPS. I'll have friends and family (but probably not the postman) write exposes on how I tried, but always fell short of the motherhood mark.

A Big, Fat Brit Wedding!

I wasn’t going to watch the Royal Wedding myself, but my mom, or “mum” if you will, was here on that historical morning, to babysit my historical children, so I recorded it for her. She’s not a royal watcher so much as someone who enjoys any good spectacle. If people of a higher social stratum than her are dressing up in their finest for anything, she’s interested. Throw in a red carpet, and she’s hooked.

So, I had this recording, and even though I’m not British, I was curious. Along with two billion other people worldwide, apparently. I had something like eighty-seven guests at my wedding, so right off, I’m jealous. I was only four when Charles and Diana got married, so I don’t remember that extravaganza. And, I guess there’s that part of every girl that wants to see what the fairytale really looks like. Here in America, we can thank Mr. Walt Disney for that fascination. He brainwashed me with Cinderella, Snow White, etc., so that when I didn’t have a tiara and loyal subjects on my wedding day, it made the whole event feel a little flat.

I sat down and pulled up the menu on my DVR to find that “The Royal Wedding” was six hours long. Almost as long as some royal marriages. It was ten-forty-five when I decided to watch it. My husband, who would probably rather cut our grass one blade at a time than watch a televised wedding of British monarchy, questioned the sensibility of starting the show that late at night. I told him I just wanted to check it out for a few minutes, and that I’d probably fast-forward through the whole thing. He nodded and pulled out his laptop, possibly knowing there’d be nothing sensible about The Royal Wedding, at all.

First there was some sort of pre-game ugly hat contest that lasted over an hour. And I while I don’t know what the prize for winning that thing was, I would hope that it was a front row seat to the wedding, because if you were in any other row, you probably couldn’t see because of all the hats. One thing I had forgotten about Westminster Abbey is that it’s divided into different sections, many of them out of range for viewing the nuptials. So, some people got all dressed up, attached bird carcasses and sculptures of Transformers to their heads, and just got to hear the wedding.

Yes, I said that I’d “forgotten” that about Westminster Abbey. I’ve been there. I spent a summer in England when I was sixteen. Prince William would’ve been twelve, so had we met then, maybe he would have “fancied me” since I was older and from the country that is probably synonymous with rebellion for them. Maybe we would’ve had this epic romance spanning the next seventeen years and I could’ve been the girl living the fairytale, and then I’d have a very different tale to tell in this blog. Come to think of it, maybe I wouldn’t even be writing this blog. So, I guess the world is better off with me having married a commoner.

And, I just loved how the announcers of the wedding kept calling the Middletons commoners. I mean, they’re millionaires, not brick layers or shoe shiners. It’s as if the wedding helped me clarify the true meaning of “snob” in my head.

I fast-forwarded until I reached the point when the important people started showing up. Like the Queen, who looked remarkably well for her age. That was a bit of a disappointment, actually. Because I think it would be awesome to see a coronation. She’s been on the throne for like sixty years, so we probably don’t have any good footage of the last one. Certainly nothing in high-def. And, don’t get me wrong, I don’t wish she’d die. Though, when she does, it’s going to be difficult for newspapers to come up with a more eye-catching headline than that “ROT IN HELL!” one they used for Osama Bin Laden’s death. Anyway, maybe she could just step-aside, or down, or whatever direction her royal highness wishes, so we could get crackin’ on the next round, Prince Charles and his wife, the Duchess of Cornwall, formerly known as the Mistress of the Philanderer.

The titles really confuse me. Like why isn’t Queen Elizabeth’s husband King Philip? What’s with this Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh stuff? Is he a Prince or a Duke, and, really, why the heck isn’t he a King? Even stranger to me is the lack of surnames (last names, to us commoners) over there. During the nuptials, the Prince said, “I, William Arthur Philip Louis. . .” and I was like, “Wait, do you have a last name or just a bunch of old school first ones?” I had to Google that, and it turns out he does sort of have one that he doesn’t really use; it’s Mountbatten-Windsor. WikiAnswers stressed that the royal family doesn’t ever use it. It sounded like they probably wouldn’t even know what it is if you asked them. But what did little William put on the top of his homework papers in school? Was it William Arthur Philip Louis, or Prince William, or William A.P.L. Mountbatten-Windsor? (He probably had to use middle initials so his stuff didn’t get mixed up with all the other William Mountbatten-Windsors in his class.)

I stopped fast-forwarding when Kate showed up for the main event. She looked like a princess, which is what people always say about brides, but this time it was for real. I was a little weirded out that her sister, Pippa, wore a white gown, too. Something that an average girl would wear on her wedding day, but given that people came with geraniums on their heads and swords in their belts and ropes and sashes and all that, I guess the fashion police probably won’t call her out on it.

The wedding was romantic and entertaining and before I knew it, it was almost one in the morning and I was hanging around waiting for them to kiss. I felt like I was eight years old and watching Cinderella all over again. And even though Kate probably didn’t play with mice as a little girl, or have to scrub the floors on her hands and knees with a do-rag on, it still felt like a victory for commoners everywhere to have her catch that royal fish.

I Can't Recall. . .

I have never understood the saying “a memory like an elephant”. Maybe that just highlights my overall lack of knowledge regarding pachyderms. But I gather from the way it’s used that elephants have great memories. And I’m sure there’s probably an opposite axiom, concerning forgetful mammals, something like “a memory like a seahorse”, or a hamster, perhaps, but I can’t remember what that saying is, so I’ll just say that my own memory is very unelephantlike.

Today, I forgot where I put my sunglasses. Which is weird, because I don’t usually forget little things like that. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve misplaced car keys in my life, and, for the record, they’re never gone for good. I would need a lot more hands to count how many times I’ve forgotten to return a phone call, show up for an appointment, or take a medication. A ten day course of antibiotics usually takes me the better part of a month to get through. And I’m constantly amazed at the amount of friends I have when I’m notoriously forgetting to call them back, or respond to an email. When I get those reminder calls from doctors’ or dentists’ offices, I’m always surprised by them. Like, “I’m supposed to be there at ten tomorrow? Really? Who decided that?” Oh. I did. When I scheduled it six weeks ago. Then I scramble for a babysitter and cancel whatever else I’ve double-booked in that time slot.

I have a calendar that I write these things down on, but I forget to look at it! I think I’m going to find some success setting calendar reminders on my phone, now that my husband pointed out I could be doing that. But, so far, it’s been confusing. The ring is totally different than my cell phone ring, so I ignore it, thinking it’s someone else’s phone. The other day, this guy from work and I were walking around trying to see where that unfamiliar sound was coming from and just when we’d get close, it would stop. Back to work. Then, there it is again. He finally said, “I think it’s coming from your pocket. That’s why it always seems so close.” I pulled out my phone and it said I had a lunch meeting with the American Red Cross, which I was in the process of getting set for. As I walked to the car, I realized I heard that same sound when I was in the grocery store the other night. My phone and I still don’t know all there is to know about each other, but I did manage to locate a chamber where I had stored that other thing that I missed, which was a reminder to send something in to school with my son. Something I forgot.

I make lists for the grocery store, so that I won’t forget what we need, but then I almost always forget the list. This endless cycle has led to me being a “regular” at Super Target. The cashiers all know me, and I’ll probably be invited to all of their children’s weddings one day. I’m careful not to wear red shirts and khaki pants because then people will start thinking I work there. Which might be a better solution anyway.

But, the sunglasses mattered to me. They only cost ten dollars, and I bought them three or four years ago (I can’t remember, exactly) at Super Target. Because I’m there . . . ALL. THE. TIME. And they fit perfectly. Even for running, which I do a lot of. It’s hard to find a pair of sunglasses that you can run with. Ones that don’t move, but aren’t too tight, which would be equally annoying. I’d rather not run without sunglasses this time of year, because the squinting is only going to etch more lines on my face. Then I’ll be wrinkled and forgetful, and I might as well sit around and knit or play Bingo and just forget about going running. Which, given my memory-handicaps, shouldn’t be too hard.

The worst part of this is that I can remember cleaning them yesterday, wearing them to the frozen yogurt shop, sliding them up on my head and using them as a headband. I remember wearing them upstairs as I went to take a shower. And then that’s it. My memory after that, concerning my sunglasses, was wiped clean by that blue flashy thingy that Will Smith toted around in Men In Black. I wish I could at least remember meeting Will Smith, but I don’t. I think they’re really gone. My sunglasses and Will Smith. I’ve searched everywhere I can think of and it’s like my sunglasses never existed. There’s no trace of them.

I guess I have no choice but to go to Super Target for the eight trillionth time this month. It seems like there’s something else I needed to get while I’m there, but I can’t remember what it is. . .

Time Off For Bad Behavior

I heard that the federal government might shut down. What does that mean, exactly? I had to Google it. Not the federal government, just the shut down part. Turns out, my life probably won’t be drastically affected. As one of my insightful friends pointed out on Facebook yesterday, Netflix will still be up and running, and that’s a little more essential than being able to visit the Washington Monument. Apparently, probation officers won’t be working, so that will free up some time for me that I won’t have to meet with mine.

There’s this “National Reconnaissance Office” that for the record I’ve never even heard of, but they’ll be shutting down, because “there will be no support services – no cafeteria, no cleaning crews, and minimal heating and lighting”. Yeah, how can we expect them to go to work with no cafeteria and only sixty-watt bulbs? And who doesn’t refuse to clock in when it’s chilly? I mean, I don’t know what these people do, but National Reconnaissance sounds kind of important. Can’t they just brown bag it?

Congress will obviously be closed, but I’m betting they get just as little done as when they’re in session. Lest you lie awake at night and wonder about the livelihood of your elected representatives, they would still be getting paid. Hmmm. . .a paid vacation. . .I wonder why they aren’t in a hurry to patch things up and fix this mess?

The IRS would shut down, and isn’t that convenient since they owe me lots of money! I bet they’d find a way to accept my check, but it’s just out of their control that they can’t cut me one. This official site I was looking at also said that “Personnel who normally answer Social Security questions will likely not report to work.” Shouldn’t we add EVER AGAIN, because there is no Social Security left for any of us? And maybe they’re just grateful to shut the phones off because they didn’t have any answers anyway.

All of this I could possibly withstand, but it was the last “closure” that nearly crippled me. The White House Visitor Center AND gift shop would close to the public. The gift shop? Say it ain’t so! I mean, how could my family survive without the White House gift shop? Are we supposed to just build our own replicas of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue?

But all sarcasm aside, which I’m sure you know is difficult for me, our military better get their paychecks on time! Because not paying the brave men and women who protect us all would be despicable. And in what universe would it be okay to pay slacking Congressmen who are acting like three year olds, during a shut down, but not the soldiers risking their lives in Iraq and Afghanistan? If they want to hang on to my tax refund for a while, fine, but they better not let down our military.

Now, if the NFL really shuts down, then you’ll see a nation that’s hurting. I’m not sure if I could live through a football-less fall. I’d be willing to donate my tax refund to the New York Giants in return for season tickets if that would help.