The Best Approach Sometimes Is To Retreat

It's been one of those crap days, from beginning to end. You know the kind: you get woken up not by birds chirping merrily but by shrieks of anger by the devil-spawn that have possessed your children.

Got everyone off late to school, multiple trips back to schools to bring things forgotten, fielding phone calls from my mother, shattered glass in the dishwasher,  and before I know it the children are home.

Dashing from one sport activity to another, Middlest still raging against the unfairness of the world, and finally home for dinner. Toss some pasta into a dish, cover in sauce, and throw into oven. Eldest has an, ahem, girly issue which requires a quick run to the store for the appropriate products and breaks down in tears over god knows what. Home to find Middlest has decided to pull all the books off the shelves and throw them at her brother. Books scattered all over, crying Eldest, screaming Middlest, and Littlest hiding under the dining table.

In the midst of chaos, the smoke alarm in the kitchen starts to shrill. Rush in to find smoke billowing from the oven.

I pull the charred remains of dinner out of the oven, look around at the disaster of a house, listen as Eldest and Middlest have a screaming match, and promptly burst into tears myself.

Littlest comes out from the under the table, glances at the scorched dinner, and looks up at me, blue eyes wide open and earnest.

"It's okay, Mama, I'm sure however you cooked it, it's absolutely perfect."

He and I took refuge in my room and had ice cream for dinner while we let the teenage girls battle it out elsewhere in the house.

How To Snare A Man According to My Mother

Strolling hand in hand down a cobblestone street with the geologist/hiker/camper guy (I can't just say geologist, that sounds water-torture drip drip drip painful) the other day.

Phone rings. It's my mother. I debate internally the pros and cons of answering, but finally give in, knowing that of I don't, she'll continue to call back until I answer.

"Hi, I'm over at WalMart. Do you need a new bra?"

There's just too many things wrong with that question for me to ennumerate.

I glance over at K, who is suddenly immensely fascinated by the pigeon waddling by and determinedly not listening to my very loud, New Yorker mother on the phone.

"Um, errr, no Mom. I don't." I sigh, knowing the conversation is not about to end there.

"Of course you do. Half the time I see you, you're not even wearing one and you look like a streetwalker standing on the corners." (Translation: prostitute picking up clients).  "How are you ever going to meet a nice man and get married again if you look like a floozy?"

K is intently watching the pigeon go poop on the bench as though it's a wildlife documentary worthy of an Oscar.

I have no choice. "Ma. I. Do. Not. Need. A. Bra."

She continues on, as though I hadn't said a word.

"They're on sale for only 3 dollars, it's silly not buy one at that price. Do you want white or nude? How about white so you can bleach it. That's more practical."

I don't answer, as there's really no point. K has given up trying to pretend he's not listening, and I can see the laughter about to erupt.

"I have to go, Ma, the kids' school is on the other line. Bye."

K can't hold it in any longer. "Can't wait to meet her, " he says finally, after he subdues his laughter and tries to wipe the grin off his face. "Well, that and see the fantastic man-getting bra first-hand."

Cheeky bastard.

To Poo or Not To Poo. That Is The Question.*

*And Shakespeare's rolling in his grave.

"Come on, guys, let's go, let's go, we're late!"
Me yelling at the kids because Littlest and Middlest have baseball games.

Eldest is nowhere to be found.

Plus one of the suitors is meeting me at the games because I have very little other free time this week. So pressure is on.

Eldest is still missing.

I search the yard, the bedrooms, and finally, from the bathroom comes a small, angst-ridden voice.

"I'm pooing, Mama. And I  can't get it out."

I look around. Littlest and Middlest are already in the car, bats and gloves at the ready. Eldest is still in the bathroom.

"Can you hurry, honey? The little ones are already late..."

Cue the exasperated teenage sigh and the shoulder shrug I can't see, but I can hear.

"Really, mum? It's poo. I can't tell it what to do."

My mind makes starts to tally the number of similarities between children and poo (always needs to be cleaned up, never happens when it should, doesn't listen, and always making us late),  before I realise what I'm doing and stop myself.

"Okay, then, honey,  can you hurry it up a bit?" I  ask, watching the clock and gauging how long it will take me to get to the baseball fields, whether or not I may actually make it there before the suitor does, and if the games will have actually started.

I get silence from the teen sitting on the toilet.

And I  wait.

And wait.

And wait some more.

I bite my nails. And then my tongue. And I count to 30 and then lose it.

"Ok, honey, I'm sorry, but you're done," I say, "I don't have time for you to poo," forcibly unlocking and opening the bathroom door. "You're just  going to have to hold it. Pull up your pants and get in the car."

Surprisingly, she did.

Someday, in probably the not too distant future, she'll sit in a therapist's office and cry about the time her mum wouldn't let her poo.

Well damn. There goes my "Mother of the Year" award.

Insomniatic ramblings

It's 3 am, and the power's just gone out. It's an odd feeling, this, no lights anywhere to be seen up and down the street. SmallTown being what it is, I rang up the local police to let them know.

"Odd," says Daly, the dispatch girl. "I'll get someone on it. Do you want me to give you a ring when the power's back on?"

SmallTown genius at work.

I would notice, I think, if it came back on, given that I noticed it went out. That, or given the time of the morning it is, I could (and hopefully will, curse you damn insomnia) be sleeping and would not much appreciate being woken by a phone call.

In other news...

I drove to the coast and took the ferry across to visit a friend. On the ride over, I had the pleasure of sitting behind what can only be described as the stereotypical California blonde.

"Really, buffalo are extinct, I swear," she says to her traveling partner.  "I read it online! Here, let's call Jay, he'll know." Proceeding then to put her cellphone on speaker, the couple calls their friend and has a 20 minute discussion as to the extinction status of buffalo, which ends with:

"Well, they might be extinct. 'Cause, you know, people want their fur and all."

Buffalo "fur". It's the next fashion craze. You heard it here first.

Checking In

It's been 2 years since I moved back to SmallTown, and I'm still struggling not to lose myself to blandness and Stepford-wife-like mannequin-ness. No that's not a word. But it describes perfectly the life that people live here. No feelings, no emotions, perfectly, properly bland.

Me being me, I'm bucking the trend as much as possible. As much as possible without creating waves or drawing undue attention my way, anyway.

I've been filling my time and trying to avert boredom by dating this, that and the other thing, and by working a ton (for very little pay and even less appreciation).

Jumping out of planes (skydiving) has become a new pasttime for me. Some may question if I'm still in the throes of a mid-life crisis  (who the hell jumps out of a perfectly good airplane?!)  Not sure, but if that's what this is, it's a hell of a lot of fun! Besids, I've got to do something to prevent becoming mummified here in SmallTown.

And that's it, folks, just checking in after god knows how many months away. Wish I had more to report on!