The point I am making here, is that 1989 was the shit

Watching The Minion run into school each morning is so adorable.  And it always makes me think about my school days.

Elementary school was undoubtedly the best time for me.  When everyone was friends with everyone else and I wasn't yet hyper focused on AP classes and scholarships and all that jazz.

But my favorite year of school was 9^th grade.  At the time, I went to a junior high, but the junior high thing was being phased out and everything was going to the middle school format.  We were the last freshman class.  We got away with all kinds of shit.

We were old enough to have power and be the rulers of the school, but still young enough that we really didn’t do anything too terribly dangerous or stupid.  Or at least my crowd didn't.  That I know of.

There was a rather large group of us that were friends.  My first and only time really being in that big group dynamic.  It’s just not my thing.  I’m more of a one friend at a time kind of girl.  But it was fun.  We had classes together and sat at a big long table together at lunch. Frozen Capri Suns and Teddy Grahams were the thing back then. And Guess jeans (though they never fit me right, so I always wore Levis). Pasta sweaters. Swatch watches (I was a Mickey watch girl myself). Big hair.  Oh Lord, the big hair. Mine was this odd orangish blond color thanks to a liberal dose of Sun In. 1988-89. The fashion was awesome and glam metal was mainstream.Every Friday night was spent walking around the mall for hours, seeing and being seen. The Good Ole Days.

I tend to block out a lot of stuff.  Most of high school is just a big blank, especially 11-12 grade.  I honestly do not remember more than a snippet of something here and there.  But 9^th grade, I remember.

I had a boyfriend that was MUCH older than me, and a VERY bad dude.  I think that was the only appeal truthfully.  People were scared shitless of him, and that was cool.  I spent just about every lunch hour of 9^th grade glued to the pay phone in the cafeteria.  Literally as my foot hit the bottom step into the cafeteria, the phone would ring.  He was diabolical like that.

 

I had big hair.  I was painfully sarcastic.  I wore a Harley biker jacket.  I smoked.  I cursed like a sailor.  I was definitely the rebel of the group.  People were intimidated by me, thought I was a giant bitch.  And I loved that.  Of course, I was also a straight A student in all honors classes and band.  Go figure.  I was a conundrum wrapped in an enigma.  In high school, I labeled this as being the band whore.  I was cool with it.  I didn't do drugs or drink or party.   I slept my way through half the drum line and a tuba player for good measure.  It was my thing. 

One thing that has always stayed with me is the sarcastic wit.  I’m not as quick with it as I used to be.  But man, back then, I used to just eviscerate people with words.  And much like now, I just did not give one flaming shit what anyone thought of me.  If you did not want the truth, then you should not ask me the question.  I was the friend that would tell you, “Yes, those pants do make you look fat.  And the color isn't that great on you either.  Also, what the hell is wrong with your make-up?  You look like a rodeo clown.”  Yeah, that was me.

This look here, yeah, it happened.  I never personally donned such hideousness (the fringe ... Sweet Baby Jesus, the fringe), but I remember seeing it with my very own eyes.

One girl in our group caught hell from me all the way through high school about her blue eyeliner.  Daily.  I found it just so personally offensive for some reason.  A small group of us got together and had dinner right before our ten year reunion.  As she slid into the booth and made eye contact, I looked right at her eyes.  And she blurted out, “It’s GRAY!”  I laughed so hard I almost peed.  Obviously my critique of her eyeliner choice left a lasting impression.  At the 20 year reunion, I figure she was probably quite pleased to see that while she was still tiny, I am not at least twice the size I was back then.  Some people get fat.  I’m one of them.  It happens.  It’s not really a big deal.  What I noticed was that she had on eyeliner that could only be described as Raccoon Style.  And it was not blue.  So, good for her.  Maybe she finally learned that blue eyeliner was not her friend.

Once during freshman year, the group got together and decided that I should no longer be allowed to be in the group of friends because I was just too damn mean.  They elected a spokesperson to deliver the news.  I don’t remember what I said to her in response.  I do remember that my life went on without a hitch for the next couple of weeks.  I didn't speak to them, didn't even acknowledge them.  I ate lunch, went to class, did my thing. Wasn't affected at all.  And after a couple of weeks, they graciously allowed me back in.  I still find that funny.  And even though I was “in” the group, I still didn't really participate with the group.  I was attached at the hip with my best friend, but the rest of them were incidental outside of school walls.  Even then, school was about school, not socialization.

For some reason that escapes me, our freshman English teacher was gone for most of the year.  We had a few substitutes before we got the one that was there long term.  He was a nice guy, but not really that interested in expanding our young minds.  It was more of a ‘highlight the key points of the lesson plan and then leave us to our own devices’ kind of approach.  We were good with that.  The school was what you could most simply describe as a split level.  And our classroom was on the second level.  It had a window.  The window opened.  Right out onto the roof of the school, right over the front entrance.  One day at lunch, several of the students got the bright idea to go out the window and hang out on the roof.  I don’t think they got caught.  And if they did, I don’t remember the punishment.  It was just one of those random acts that 14-year-olds do, and then feel like they've made some big statement.

I also remember someone getting the answer key to one of the tests and we all had tiny strips of paper on the inside of our watch bands with the answers.  I rarely studied and still pulled all A’s, so I just used it to check my answers.  But I remember him being amazed that we all aced the test.  Poor guy.

Same for science class.  We had those big tables with the black tops because we did lab stuff.  We sat two to a table. And on test day, the teacher would make us put our chairs at the ends of the table so we would be far apart and not cheat.  I never cheated.  But my friend and I did share a calculator and worked out an elaborate system of checking our answers against each other.  We still did the work.  And if we got different answers, then we’d both work the problem again.  The teacher watched us.  And he never could figure out how we always managed to miss the exact same questions.  Bless his little bow-tied heart.

I got meningitis and missed Halloween because I was in the hospital. That really sucked. Though my friends did come see me, I still hate that I missed out on the fun that year.

My best friend had a HUGE crush on a guy that played drums in band.  We were all friends.  He turned us on to Led Zeppelin.  He always wore Polo.  Somehow I ended up with a bottle of his Polo.  And in like 2001 when we moved into our house, I was cleaning out the shelf in our headboard and found that bottle.  I have no idea why I had kept it, but there it was. Some good memories there.

Sometimes it’s nice to take that stroll down memory lane.  But it’s always best to come back to the present.  Who I was then, definitely shaped who I am today.  I’m older.  Better.  And I still don’t give a shit what anyone else thinks.

Dealing with obnoxious mom and pre-teens, and living to tell the tale

This weekend was full of events. 

Saturday morning we were at The Minion’s school for his big fall festival school fundraiser thingy.  Because I was having a moment of weakness, and truthfully just damn tired of getting all the stupid emails, I volunteered to do an hour at his classroom game booth.

I don’t mind doing that sort of thing, when I have the time.  But, I sure do hate the people I have to deal with.  First, let me say that this is my first official kindergarten volunteer experience.  Second, our room mother sucks.  Not only did she not tell the volunteers what the game actually was, she also didn’t mention where it was located.  I assumed it would be by the classroom.  It was not.

I spent 45 minutes searching for someone (ANYONE) who could tell me where his class game was.  It took me several volunteers before I was finally sent to a PTO mom with a walkie talkie, and she pointed me in the direction of another PTO mom with The Notebook.  Notebook Keeper was able to tell me what the game was, and where it was located.  In the courtyard, across from the library … which was nowhere near his class.  I was 5 minutes late.

The mom that was there was cool.  There were two senior guys there helping, and it was actually a fun bean bag toss type deal with an Angry Bird theme.  The boys were very sweet with the kids.  And one of them had actually played in the big town rivalry football game the night before, so he was dead on his feet.  Yet he still volunteered for the day and arrived at 9 AM for his duty.  Bless his heart.  He is the kind of kid that I hope The Minion becomes.

My time to leave comes and goes, and no new mom is there to replace me. Finally, at about 20 minutes after her scheduled shift, she rushes in, dumps her pre-teen daughter to help me, and then rushes back out saying she has to find her son first since he thought the game was near the classroom.

Now, at this point I need to take a little side journey regarding this mom. Follow me, if you will.

You may remember a Facebook post a while back about a birthday party where the birthday boy was kind of a dick.  Where the mom was actually about 15 minutes late to her own kid’s party.  She was a flurry of drama in her very fashionable maxi skirt, and I just couldn’t even deal.

A week later, this same mom made an appearance at another party.  At this party she ranted about how the party mom not personally addressing her and welcoming her to the party pissed her off.  About how she had to do EVERYTHING at home and that even when her husband asks if she needs help, she’d just rather do it herself. Because, obviously, if he can’t look around and see what needs to be done, why bother.  Remember her?  Yeah.  A real crazy bitch if I ever encountered one.  So, her behavior here isn’t all that surprising.  Okay, back to the tale.

The son is quite the little shit.  But her daughter is fantastic.  She jumped right in to help.  She is super sweet. I actually feel rather sorry for her.  For those keeping a tally … she arrived 20 minutes late to her appointed time.  Now, she FINALLY reappears another 20 minutes later.  She has approximately 20 minutes left of her volunteer shift.

Once again, she rushes out the door to where we are, all frantic drama.  So so sorry it took so long.  She had to find her son, and then she had to get him fed.  But she’s here now, and thanks so much for staying longer, blah blah fucking blah.

Now.  I have several problems with this.  In no particular order:

    

    You volunteered for a specific time frame.  Do not show up late and then vanish again.

        

       You were aware of the time frame.  Feed your kid FIRST.

    POF saw her leaving initially and her son was WITH her.  They actually went back outside and he jumped on the bouncies for about 15 minutes, then they spend the last few minutes walking around the cafeteria looking at the crafts and stuff, and stopping at the bake sale booth for a treat. Bitch just flat out LIED.

POF said that she had Crazy Eyes and he would stay well away from her if he was me.  I concur.  As I said, based on my previous encounters with her, this wasn’t really a surprise.  But it did really piss me off.  She gets to pat herself on the back for being such a good volunteer mom – with such a busy schedule – and everyone else gets to clean up her mess and resist the urge to smack her.  

I am sure there are MANY moms like this at school.  And I am wondering how long I will endure it before losing my shit on one of them.  Time will tell.

Finally, to POF’s credit, he did not say a word, but he did let her know that he knew she was full of shit.  Apparently she passed him as she was rushing out to “go find her son”.  Since he was with The Minion and they were wandering around, he passed her a few times.  He made sure to make eye contact with her at the bouncies AND in the cafeteria.  

And he was back in a flash at the game site when he saw her headed that way.  He made eye contact there too, as she was giving her “I had to find him and feed him” routine.  He stared her down HARD.  There was no doubt that she knew that he KNEW she was spouting bullshit lies. And he made sure that she knew that he was with me.  So, hopefully she will keep her distance in the future and I won’t have to verbally disembowel her in public.

After I was finished with my momly duty, we went back home for a bite to eat and a nap before our evening adventure. 

The evening was all about some Halloween fun at The Hermitage.  The Hermitage is a historic site, the home of President Andrew Jackson.  One night a year they open the plantation up for trick or treating and other fun stuff.  I had never been to the Halloween event.  In fact I haven’t been there since I was a kid on a school field trip.  I happened to score free tickets, so I figured it was worth checking out.

We got there and there was a huge line waiting to enter.  And as luck would have it (sarcasm on), we happened to end up behind a group of 25. The group consisted of approximately 18 pre-teen girls.  All were in elaborate costumes. Two of the parents that were chaperoning consisted of a local news station anchor and his wife.  Obviously private school.  One of the other moms had her big fancy camera, and she was so obnoxious with the photo taking, I was ready to slap her before we even got in the gate.

Okay, Queen of Hearts, give me your best Queen face!  Oh, love it!!!

Alright Cleopatra, give me your best Egyptian pose!  So great!!!

Come on Miss Pirate, give me your best ARRRGGG!  LOVE IT!!!!

And on, and on.  It was so over the top.  I swear that woman filled up a memory chip before we even got to the main part of the night.

As we are standing there in line waiting, the news van for this anchor’s station pulls up.  So of course he’s all “Oh, what are ‘my people’ doing here?” and goes to check it out.  Here he comes back a minute later, camera crew in tow. 

“Come on girls!  Let’s circle around and say hi to everyone watching the news!!!”

Oh yay.  I am trapped behind this group.  And now I might be shown on the news, totally against my will.  I am beyond thrilled.

We make our way through the gate and manage to get around them as we head up the path toward the house.  But as we are literally walking up to the first trick or treat point, they swarm us and another family, totally pushing us aside to get there first.  Alright you little Mean Girl bitches, it’s on!

They go in the two house tour groups ahead of us, and I am hoping that gives them enough time to get a bit ahead so we can avoid them.  No luck.  Every stop has a line waiting.  We get into the potions line.  We are in front of the group, thankfully. 

The set-up was neat.  Three ladies, in period costume, at this long table.  Each had three ‘herbs’ in big apothecary jars.  They give a little spiel about how back then they didn’t have pharmacies and had to rely on home remedies for things, and explain a little bit about what each of the three herbs were for.  Then they put a tiny spoon of each into an adorably small mortar and pestle and let the kids crush it up.  The results are put into a tiny little vial with an equally tiny cork stopper.  So cute.  The Minion was excited to get a magic potion.

It is finally our turn and we are with the lady at the very end of the table.  The group of Mean Girls is slowly starting to crowd around the table, to the point where they are just about in her lap.  She asks politely, twice, for them to please not crowd.  She’s trying to go through her little speech and is getting distracted by them.  

One interrupts her, right in the middle of a sentence.

“Hey, is that candy?” (pointing to the plastic cauldron of gummies next to her)

She stops, looks up. “Yes.  You get a treat for your candy bag after you make your potion.” Prepares to continue her speech.

“Oh, can I have one now?”, as she is taking one out of the pot.

“Me too! I want one!” Another hand into the cauldron

And another hand, and another.

At this point, I am glaring at them. I mean, really, could you be any more rude and obnoxious?! No manners.  The parents looked on.  I was incensed.

Two of the girls from the group had by this point come to the other side of me, to the lady in the middle of the table, for their potion.  The one next to me looks over, sees hands in the cauldron, and says, “Oh I want candy!”, and proceeds to reach ACROSS me and The Minion to get one.  I looked her square in the eye and said “REALLY?” She drew her hand back pretty quick and looked away.

 

Ran into this little guy in the Stay-Puft costume several times.  Cutest. Thing. Ever.

We finished our potion, then took a stroll through the garden and ventured over to the hayride line.  We managed to get far enough ahead of them at that point that we had about 8 people between us and their group in the hayride line.  This was enough to ensure some distance from them for a while.

The Minion loved the haunted hayride.  He wasn’t at all scared of the ‘monsters’ that were jumping out at us, and loved the zombies from the cornfield chasing us. Even when we went through the old barn and fireworks were popping and people were jumping up from everywhere screaming … he wasn’t impressed.  The ten year old boys beside us were losing their shit.

Afterward we grabbed some popcorn and a big sugar cookie to tide us over, then moseyed our way around the grounds to get a bit more candy before leaving.  We went to the original log farm house and walked out to the big porch on the back.  The two rooms on each side were set up for pumpkin decorating, but it was PACKED and I wasn’t going to deal with that chaos.  After playing on the porch area for a bit, we headed back toward the main house.  

If I ever get to build my dream house, I want a porch like this.

They had a big movie screen set up and they were showing Halloween movies, so we sat down and watched about 15 minutes of Frankenweenie. By then it was close to 7 pm, and they changeover to the more scary stuff for the older crowd was about to happen.  The Minion agreed we needed to get gone before that happened.  It was fully dark and he was starting to worry about people jumping out to scare us.  So we headed to the parking lot and made our way home.

I asked him what he wanted for dinner, and he chose Krystal.  Love this boy.

For those not of The South, you may have something similar in your area known as White Castle.  However let me stress that, while similar, White Castle ain’t got nothin on a Krystal.  They are tiny squares of deliciousness.  Best consumed when slightly drunk at 3 am, but always good.

We scored our bounty – including a few Krystal Chicks for variety (little chicken sandwiches, equally yummy) – and headed home.  I was fighting a headache pretty seriously by that point, so I was ready for bed.  I had all day Sunday to rest and recoup.  I STILL have a headache.  And I also still have some serious seething rage about those bratty ass teenage girls.  Someone needs to smack some manners into those little heifers.

Boys apparently find it impossible to aim INTO a toilet. Surprise.

Today, my friends, we are talking about pee.  Specifically, the tiny one’s inability to effectively convey said pee from his body to the toilet.  The Minion, it seems, has very shitty aim.

Okay, that’s not exactly true.  The kid has a surprising trajectory and range, given the right circumstances.  Put him outside with a target, and the kid could hit a bull’s-eye from a good ten feet.  He’s like that carnival game where you shoot the water gun at the target to inflate the balloon.  It’s impressive.  But, give him a toilet a mere foot away, and all bets are off.

Add to the fact that this same child, who can sit for HOURS and build with Legos, apparently enters the bathroom and suddenly develops the attention span of a housefly with ADHD.  He’s looking around everywhere.  And naturally, where his eyes go, the penis follows.  So that means the pee follows.  Suddenly I have some sort of demented Water Wiggler situation in my bathroom.  No wonder it always smells like a gas station men’s room.

Just the other morning, I walked into the bathroom to something so incredible, I thought I was seeing things. 

Now, keep in mind, the total width of the bathroom is maybe 6 feet.  And once you add in the toilet sticking out, there’s probably only 3.5 feet of actual space between the wall and the toilet. Still. 

I walked in to find The Minion, casually leaning against the wall, peeing into the toilet.  The toilet on the opposite wall.  Over the distance of that 3.5 feet.  With terrible inaccuracy.  Pee was going all over the place.  And he did not give a shit.

Now, I realize he was sick and didn’t feel well.  But damn, dude.  No wonder I can’t ever get rid of the pee smell.  I screeched at him to pee INTO the toilet.  And, as a natural response, he looked AT me to whine that he KNEW that.  And, as it always happens, when he looked at me, the penis followed.  So now, not only do I have pee all over the toilet – and wall – but also on ME.  It was a moment.  And not a good one.  He starts crying.  I try to calmly remind him that we pee INTO the toilet, not around, beside, above or below it.  More crying.  I send him shuffling out and spend a good ten minutes scrubbing the area.  Gagging was involved.

So now I am THAT mom.  The mom that follows the kid to the bathroom to supervise and remind him to aim at the actual toilet.  Repeatedly.  And then remind him to aim down, he does not need to look at me.  This is followed by the caveat that I know we generally make eye contact when communicating.  But when we are in the bathroom and I tell him to not look at me, for the love of all that is holy, keep your eyes on the toilet. 

And this inevitably ends up with him saying that he can look around and not pee everywhere.  Then he tries to demonstrate.  And then we have pee everywhere again.  It’s like Groundhog Day, the Urine Version.

I am dreading the teenage years.  Though I am hoping that his aim will improve somewhat.  His father seems capable of hitting the bowl, so there’s hope.

QoE attends a work conference. It's actually better than it sounds.

So.  Work conference meeting thing.  With The Boss.  Giant ass hotel/conference center.  Really giant.  Seriously.  Go look up Gaylord Opryland hotel and check out a map of that bad boy.  I walked at least two miles last night, and at least half of that was just from the parking lot.  Because I am cheap and refuse to pay $21 to "self-park". W. T. F.  

Instead I parked in the free lot that is approximately 87 miles away in the far corner of the property and hoofed my fat ass all the way across the massive expanse of asphalt.  Then I proceeded to navigate my way through another good mile of hotel bullshit.  There are no straight shots in this place.  Everything is scenic and meandering and confusing as fuck.  I've been going here relatively often since high school, and I still get lost.  It is a directional nightmare.  

I get there and start making my way through the various themed sections of this monstrosity.  The Boss calls.  Says he's arriving in a few and that I should "Find the bar nearest to the conference room.  That's where I will be."  Of course he will.  I would expect no less.

Unfortunately, there is a huge conference of some sort there and all the restaurants and bars are closed off for Private Events.  After asking two separate employees where the closest bar is, I finally found him.  And yes, that sounds as comical as it seems.

Staff:  I'm sorry ma'am, this section is Reserved.

QoE:  Yeah, okay.  I just need to know where the closest bar is to meeting room

Staff:  *look that is questioning yet also radiates disapproval*

QoE:  I have a meeting at 6.  The Boss said to find the closest bar to the room and that's where he'd be.

Staff:  Oh. I see. (how can a hospitality employee manage to radiate such disdain? it's a gift, apparently)  Go through the double doors and continue through the large lobby with the blue carpet.  When you get to the lobby with the gold carpet, you will see the Jack Daniels logo of the bar.

* Because, yes, this place is that massive that they must give directions to the sections by way of the carpeting color.  ridiculous *

I get to the bar.  It too is reserved.  Contemptuous staff guarding the entrance. I saunter on over.

QoE:  Hi.  So, where is the nearest bar that ISN'T reserved?

Staff:  *raised eyebrow*

QoE:  Find the nearest bar, find The Boss

Staff: * superior lip curl *  I do not think there are any bars not reserved this evening.

QoE: *glancing up staircase and pointing*  Oh, never mind, there he is.

We are off to a whiz bang start.  We loiter around for a few, waiting for time to go into this meeting.  Here are my notes from the evening:

Meeting Notes:

This feels like we are about to watch a pitch for a timeshare on the beach.

Yep.  Oh joy.

There’s an open forum.  This could be bad if The Boss decides to chime in.

Very bad jokes.  No one is laughing.  Tough crowd, he says.  No, we just think you jokes suck.

Highlight so far:  Free pen.  And notepad.  Whee!

Okay then.  One thing to pay attention to.  Except we use a similar program and I think ours is better.  But still, make a note to do some further comparison of the two.

Blah blah blah

Uh-oh.  The Boss just sat up and started paying attention. 30 minutes to food – Priorities.

Sweet Jesus this shit is boring.

Oh, late arrivals coming in.  Bastards.  They missed thirty minutes of this crap.  Curse my punctual nature.

This guy keeps talking about how the product is “high level”.  Yeah.  We so do not function at this high level.

And he keeps referencing juggling spreadsheets … I must be doing something wrong cause I don’t juggle spreadsheets.  But I do like a nice spreadsheet from time to time.  It brings a false sense of order and calm to the chaos.

However, feel comatose from the sales pitch.

This provided meal better not be some brown bag sandwich bullshit.  Fat girl wants good food for enduring this fuckery.

One third of the women here are wearing some form of leopard print.  I feel very beige.

It’s cold.  My fingers are numb.

The Boss just asked if I wanted to bail at the dinner break and go get bar food.  Duh.  Of course I do.  But, my sense of responsibility prevents that.  I have Catholic guilt and I am not even Catholic.  He IS Catholic and has no conscious about ditching.  Actually, just no conscious. Interesting.

The couple in front of us to the left are snuggled up.  Either they are hypothermic or this is the worst date EVER.

Onboarding program = no job for me.  That sucks. Yes, by all means, recommend a program that effectively makes my job obsolete.  Hope The Boss isn’t paying attention … shit.

Hold up note pad for him to read that says, “This eliminates my job. Onboarding is a NO.”

The Boss shows me his notepad.  The only thing written says, “Onboarding looks like a viable option.”

The Boss is an ass. He finds it hilarious that he’s brought me to a seminar that is demonstrating software programs that essentially eliminate my job.  Oh, the irony.

The food is surprisingly tasty for hotel buffet food. I made it through the line without a disaster. Well, except for dumping my dessert helping directly onto the middle of the dessert table.  That was pretty awesome.  I’m sure no one will notice the big whipped cream blob on the crisp white linen tablecloth.

Ok. Flaky puff pastry is NOT my friend.  I’m like a toddler over here, making table art with my food.

You know what? I love fresh berries.  But, if you are presenting something that looks like Tiramisu, it should involve chocolate and espresso, NOT berries.  Angry.  Still eating it. Dammit, it’s good.

The Boss has been gone for quite a while to get a drink.  He left his phone and keys, so he has to come back.  Though I really wouldn’t put it past him to try to escape and hide out somewhere.

Now it’s hot in here. 

Asked The Boss if I could put this three hours on my time sheet.  He laughed.  A lot.  I am guessing that’s a no. I'm totally adding it to my time sheet anyway.

Completely distracted by the bald guy in front.  How did I miss that before?  The bald spot is narrow and cylindrical shaped.  It’s like a condom shape down the middle of his head.  That’s freakish.

More crap I don’t care about.  Ignoring it to stare at weird bald spot.

Want to snap pic of bald guy.  Can’t without the presenters sitting behind me knowing what I am doing.  I do have a small amount of professional decorum. Conflicted.

Just completely zoned out and started thinking about new fall TV shows.  I have no idea what that last bit was about. Not even sorry.

The guy directly in front of us has his arm across the back of the guy next to him’s chair.  Awkward.  Maybe they are on a shitty date too.  Ha.  I am funny.

The new iPhone, in a case, is larger than a Pop Tart.  That’s weird.

Brain numb.

8:30. Finally.  Home stretch.

Bald spot is very shiny. It’s mesmerizing.

The current presenter, when viewed from a certain angle, and with eyes slightly squinted, slightly resembles David Boreanaz.  Spent almost his entire presentation thinking about Buffy & Angel. Have no idea what he talked about.

Parting gifts.  That’s nice.  Bluetooth speaker.  Multi cord charger thingy.  Can we say re-gift? Yes.  Yes, we can.

Synopsis:   

  

Free pen and parting goodies

Decent food, despite the Tiramisu deception.  That was bullshit.

New product offering that makes employing me totally unnecessary

So, meeting over.  Now it's 9 PM and time to make our way out.  The Boss declares that he has a "free night out" so he's hitting a bar.  I decline.  I ask if he's going to drive me to the Outer Rim so I don't have to walk, alone, at night, all the way across 100 miles of asphalt to my vehicle.  He laughs and tells me I am on my own.  Then he piles his folders and parting girts into my arms and tells me to take his stuff too.  He REALLY is an ass.

I follow a herd of conference attendees as they seem to know a shortcut.  Alas, it IS a shortcut.  But, I end up in a different area of the section where I entered and go out a different door than what I came in through.  Shit.  I have no idea where I am.

(Interesting fact.  If I have a map, I can figure shit out.  Left on my own, I have pretty much zero capability of visualizing where I am and where I need to be, thus rendering me pretty much useless for navigational purposes.  Like now.)

I start walking.  Through a large parking lot.  I get a good quarter of the way around the perimeter of the hotel.  Where the fuck am I?  This does not look right at all.  Dammit.  Spot valet guys.  Ask them where lot I need is.  Explain that I came out a different door than I went into and have no fucking clue where I am, or which direction I need to be going in.

They look at me like they think I am probably drunk, possibly mentally unstable. Tell me I am going in the wrong direction.  Of course I am.  Turn around and head back the way I came.  Keep going about halfway around the hotel in the proper direction.  Again.  Alone.  In the dark.  Juggling an armload of folders and small boxes of parting gifts.  Finally find lot and make it to vehicle.  Curse The Boss all the way to pick up The Minion from The Mother of All Evil.

It's almost 10 AM.  Guess who hasn't called or come in yet.  Bastard.  I hope he is hung over and miserable.

Hormones are fun, she said sarcastically.

I started getting irritable last night.  After snapping at POF during dinner prep for no good reason, I decided that I had to be hitting my PMS stride.  I could go from happy to rage in a single sentence.  Fun times.

Sure enough, this morning I had some acne breakouts on my chest.  I can deal with that.  But what’s this?  Acne.  On my scalp.  WTF?!  Okay, that’s new and not so fun.  Have you ever hit your head on a cabinet or shelf and had a sore spot?  It’s like that.  In about 4 places.  With what feels like bumps the size of a golf ball … though I looked in the mirror and they are really tiny and not huge and freakish at all.  So that’s a plus at least.

Anyway, hormone overload.  Short temper. Grrrrrrrrrrr.

I got up at 4:30, as always, to pack POF’s cooler for the day.  Now, I know there are two schools of thought on alarms.  The people that have one or two alarms on their phone, programmed to go off automatically every day as needed.  And the people that have like 30 alarms set on their phone, none automatically.  Guess which one is POF?  This makes me crazy.  I mean, how hard is it for a grown man to set a freaking alarm?  Too hard, apparently. 

I packed his lunch, and went back to lay down at about 4:50.  Because I am grumpy and hateful and want more sleep.  He woke up as I came back into the bedroom.  I asked if his alarm was set.  He said it was.  It was not.  So, when my second alarm went off at 5:30, he was still there.  Asleep.  And he was pissy because he usually leaves the house by 5:15.  Lots of muttered curses and big sighs and frustrated huffs followed.  And it was generally my fault, as it always is.  Because apparently I am supposed to ensure that he remembers to set his alarm.  Really?  You need an alarm every day.  How can you not remember this on your own?  Baffles me.  Makes me want to hit things on a good day, so you can imagine how I feel with PMS Crazy.  Seething rage is a good description.

Anywhoodle …. POF is out the door in 5 minutes.  I did get a text later to say he made it without being more than a few minutes late, so that is a good thing.  He has to drive over an hour to his work site, so he does allow a few extra minutes for traffic fuckery.

That leaves me.  Still angry with PMS Crazy.  I shower.  And, oh look.  A sty is popping up on my eye.  FUN.  Add that to my lumpy acne scalp and boob zits, and I am feeling like Quasimodo level attractive.

The Minion does not want to get up. I get snacks packed, my lunch packed, and throw a waffle in the toaster.  Holy shit.  You would have thought I’d drawn and quartered the kid over that damn waffle.  He didn't want it toasted.  See, my kid is odd in that he eats his frozen waffles frozen.  Straight out of the box.  It’s a thing.  I don’t care as long as he’s happy about it.  I have tried it myself, and they aren't half bad.  Whatevs.  Moving on.  He REFUSES to eat said waffle.  Battle of wills ensues.

Regardless of The Waffle Standoff, we manage to get dressed and ready to go with about ten minutes to spare.  So I relent and give him a frozen waffle.  He eats and we gather stuff up to leave.  By this time, we are needing to go ASAP.  Two minutes difference in departure can make the difference between a 5 minute commute to school with hardly any line and a ten minute commute with a good 10 minute line. Twice in the last week I have had to actually park and walk him swiftly to the doors so he wasn’t late because we got stuck in the later traffic.

I start to pull out of the driveway and all hell breaks loose.  He wanted the LeapPad.  It’s inside because he knows we don't do the games in the morning thing anymore.

Here’s the deal.  Before, when he was in preschool, we had about a fifteen minute drive in the mornings to the other side of town.  I would let him take the LeapPad or Nook and watch a video or play a game on the way to school.  Now that we are a mile from school, I have stopped doing that.  Drop off line is serious business, and you have to be ready to deploy like a paratrooper with military precision when you hit your mark and stop the vehicle.  There is no sitting in the parking lot for ten minutes waiting for him to finish his level or his favorite part of the cartoon.  Shit is serious when it comes to kindergarten arrival times.

Well.  I told him that he wasn't getting the LeapPad because we were already getting behind schedule and would be late.  He lost his fucking mind.  I slammed the van into park and jumped out.  PMS Crazy kicked in.  I opened that side door and jumped in, chewed him a new ass, threatened to spank him, and then got back into the front, barking orders to buckle up.  He was crying and yelling back at me.  It was not a Proud Parenting Moment.  It was a PMS Crazy Parenting Fail.  Big time.

We head to school.  I angrily inform him that this tantrums over stupid shit MUST stop.  Not in those exact words.  I was using the serious, angry mom tone. He informed me that he did not care and he was MAD at me and NOT talking to me.  Fine.  I didn't feel like talking to him.

We are inching forward in the traffic line and he tells me that when we get to school, and get to the front of the line, and he opens to door to get out, he is NOT giving me a hug and telling me bye.  And I said that was fine because I didn't feel very huggable right about then.  Angry silence ensues.

We get to school and the line is short and moving swiftly.  I tell him to go ahead and move up to the middle seat so he’s ready to jump out.  He refuses.  Says he’s not ready to get out.  I tell him that he has to because we are almost there.  We stop.  He won’t budge.  Then he bursts into tears.  Tells me he’s not ready to get out because he’s sorry and he’s going to miss me today.

Well, fuck.

Now PMS Angry turns into PMS Sobbing and I have to get out of the van and go around to the side door and try to coax him out as he’s crying.  And that is a BIG no-no.  You no NOT exit your vehicle in the drop off line.  Finally he shuffles forward and I grab him in a big hug and kiss his head, telling him I love him.  I turn around and set him down, and here comes the Assistant Principal to tell me to get into the van.  And then she sees the tears.  She stopped.  Didn't say a word.  Just took his hand and started telling him what a big fun day they were having, gently leading him toward the doors.  I called out a goodbye and jumped back in because everyone was waiting on me.  That woman deserves a cookie bouquet or something for that.  It was the perfect act of kindness that I needed in that moment.

I pulled out and headed to work.  And lost my shit.  I cried like a lunatic, then sat in the parking lot for a good 5 minutes trying to get my shit together so I didn't look like a PMS Crazy when I finally walked in. An office full of men is NOT equipped to deal with that.  Ever.

Still reeling from my emotional roller coaster, I texted my bestie.  She has two kids, so I knew she could relate.  I poured out my tale of woe.  And she knew just what to say:

Bestie:   Poor Momma. He will be okay. He will get to class and forget about the morning.

Me:        I know it. My hormones are making me crazy.

Bestie:   Find a book or bury yourself in work. It’s all good. I yell at the oldest all the time and she’s fine.

Me:        Heh.  That’s funny.

Bestie:   At least you don’t have to be PMSing with two teenage girls also

PMSing. That’s me. Poor husband.

Me:        Good Lord.  I’m pretty sure God knew I couldn't handle a girl. LOL

Bestie:   Oldest just said no aunt QoE needs boys. Haha

Me:        Yeah.  I’d be on the news if I had girls. Truth.

     I love her.  And her sister.  But I could not live with her. All with PMS.       Someone would not survive it.  I’m guessing it would be me.

     You deserve a freaking medal or something for that shit.

And just like that, I felt better.  I am still on a PMS Crazy roller coaster of emotion.  Right now there’s no coffee, and I can’t decide whether to break shit or cry.  But I know that when this day is over, I am going to go get my Minion and give him a big hug and then everything really will be okay.  Unless he refuses the hug.  Then I will resort to the Force Cuddle.  That’s what I call it when he doesn't want hugs but I make him endure them.  He actually Force Cuddled me for the first time a week ago, and it was just the best. 

I need a donut. Chocolate glazed.  This office’s survival today may very well depend on it.

the very short one where i think i broke the blog ... but maybe didn't

Ya'll.  I am not what you would call technologically capable.  I am woefully ignorant of this stuff.  It traumatizes me.

So, I was screwing around and broke the blog.  For a moment, I thought I had broken the blogger site, and possibly the internet itself.  Al Gore was about to send me a harshly worded letter.

Suddenly, all the pictures that I had put in the entries were gone.  Gone, I say!  And I tried to put stuff back and it just made things go sloooooooow and then things looked weird.  And then nothing would happen at all.  And Oh My God, Hold Me.

But I think I got it fixed.  I am still traumatized and woefully ignorant.  And Lord knows I need a big dose of chocolate and a hug.

Please note, I have no clue what I did to cause the problem, and I am equally unsure what exactly I did to fix it.  All I know is that pictures are back and the thing is loading.  So, yay me.

Damn.  Shit like this is why I sometimes consider day drinking.  At my desk.

Talking about body parts with my kid makes me awkward

The Minion hasn't really started asking a lot of questions about where babies are born or anything like that, so I've dodged the bullet so far.  But he does occasionally ask me if I pee out my butt or something like that, and it makes me pause.  The other day we got into that general discussion about boys vs. girls and peeing.  And it made me realize two things.

      I really don’t have a name for my nether regions.  I never refer to it by anything specific.

             When I do refer to said region, male or female, I generally use some sort of ridiculous term like nether region or dangly bits. 

It started as a joke years ago, making fun of those silly romance novels with their amusing phrases for sex and genitals. And then it became a habit.  It’s become so normal for me to throw out one of those terms that saying penis or vagina feels weird and awkward.  Kind of like the way you might refer to your husband as Honey or Daddy and then, when you call him by his actual name, it just feels wrong somehow.

So, here I am.  Awkward.  I know eventually these discussions need to happen.  And I am willing to let them come about naturally.  But then I panic.  I mean, he’s five.  I don’t want to give him TOO much information.  And I don’t want to get too technical or complicated so that he just doesn’t even understand what I am saying (and I might have a tendency to do that).  I also don’t want to give him wrong information.  And finally, I just want to avoid it.  I mean, I know if I throw out a new and odd sounding word like vagina, he’s gonna latch onto that baby and work it into every conversation.  And that is probably just about the last thing I want to deal with.

And I realized that I have a touch of prude to me.  I will blame it on being Southern.  This is something that ladies just do NOT discuss.  Yet, at the same time, I don’t have a problem with seeing or hearing about sex, or even discussing it myself.  In most circumstances.  Yet, I get with my kid, and I just have a total panic and freeze moment.

Maybe it's because I know this stuff is important.  For him to have a healthy view of himself and others. For him to understand the importance of bodily function and self-respect and privacy and all that.  For him to, eventually, understand the concepts of respecting others and intimacy and responsibility and all that.

I want to be open and honest.  I want to be the mom that he can come to about anything like that.  In theory.  The reality is that I get uncomfortable and a little red-faced and I tend to stammer a bit.  My default response to some things has become, “I can’t really explain that in a way that you can understand at 5 years old.  When you are a little older, we will talk about it.”  Naturally, this leads to a million questions about how old is old enough and when and all that.  I have a feeling I might even resort to the whole “ask your father” response as time goes on.

So I am at an impasse.  I don’t want to give the kid ideas before he’s even thinking about things, but I also don’t want him to be doing teenage shit without anyone to guide him in the right direction.  I want him to talk to me.  I am also terrified at the prospect of him wanting to talk to me.  I know I will catch him in an awkward and embarrassing situation at least once.  I dread it.  I hope I handle it with a sense of humor and not make a total idiot of myself.  I’m fairly certain one of us will be scarred for life.  I’d rather it be me.

And none of this mental musing helps me at all because, for the life of me, I still have no idea what to say now when he asks me how I pee.  The usual response of “sitting down” isn't cutting it anymore.  And quite frankly, I feel even more ridiculous saying hoo-ha, or something similar. 

Then I have this image in my head of my kid telling his girlfriend he’d like to “stroke her lady bits”, and after I stop laughing, I realize that’s not gonna cut it either.

It’s actually embarrassing for me to even talk about now.  I mean, everyone has a nickname for the genitals, right?  And everyone casually uses slang terms and phrases, don’t they?  It just makes me all kinds of awkward and uncomfortable.  I can’t say “the p word” without feeling like my face is on fire and everyone is looking at me.  It’s just not proper.  Ladies do NOT say those things (said in that prim genteel Southern tone).

I wonder if it’s because I never really had those kind of talks with anyone as a kid growing up.  You just didn't talk about that kind of stuff.  I knew what a period was, and why it happened (thanks to that 5^th grade film we had to watch), but there was never any sort of mother-daughter bonding moment like something out of a tampon commercial.  There was no big fanfare, no declaration of womanhood.  Honestly, I don’t even think I said anything when I did start my period.  I knew the deal.  I knew where the supplies were.  I started using them.  It was just never really discussed.

At least not that I remember.  And there’s a chance that I have totally blocked out some meaningful exchange … that happens from time to time.  But, I am fairly certain that my mom wasn't even aware that it was happening until several months in.

Same goes for sex.  Thanks to health class I knew about safe sex and diseases and how babies get made and all that.  But there was never really any actual dialogue about it at home.  The sum total of her talk to me on sex was, “Don’t.”  So, naturally, I did.  I wasn't always responsible or careful, and to be honest, it’s nothing but pure luck that I didn't catch any diseases or get myself in a whole lot more trouble than I did. 

Bottom line, I don’t want my kid to have a kid while he’s still a teenager.  But I also don’t want to be either the mom that goes into detailed speeches about anatomical function and what’s “normal” and all that crap.  But I also don’t want to be the mom that can only sputter out something like “make sure you wrap it up” and then hastily leaves the room.  That whole “ask your father” response is looking better and better.

Somehow I just know I am going to hand him a book called something lame like Your Changing Body and then tell him to consult me with questions after he’s read it.  Sweet Jesus.