YMCA Fieldtrip 7th Circle of Hell

It occured to me this morning that I beleive have fully recovered from the PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome for those of you without your DSM IV handy) I suffered from the 6th Grade YMCA overnight trip.  To the right is my possy of tards posing in front the the YMCA statue.  I call them tards, because that's what they acted like for the 48 hours I chaperoned their little butts.

Don't be fooled by the precious picture you see of Drew and I atop the mountain looking down into the Morae Valley.  While beautiful, I am pretty sure it was 20 below (okay not 20 below, but damn close to 20 degrees) and we had just hiked up to said spot with our guide, Helen, the mountain goat. 

Helen is to the right, with our group.  This was pre- hike up the mountain when she still held out a glimmer of hope that the kids would not test her patience at every turn.  Helen is about 800 years old and "knows these woods" like the back of her hand.  With such precious knowledge, she dared impart her wisdom and superior hiking skills to a group of about 20 questionably retarded 6th graders and their overly tired chaperones (this was day 2 of said trip). 

Helen, the mountain goat, lost all patience by the time we reached the summit of the trail, that she just sort of stared at the kids in utter disgust and stopped speaking the whole way back down the trail.  Poor Helen. 

The whole debacle of me even going on this trip started with my husband, Jon, signing up, attending the meeting, then realizing there was no way his employees could handle themselves without him physically being present at the office.  This is another story all together titled "workaholic". Because of Jon's issues, he signed me up at the meeting and announced I would be going on the trip to bond with Drew.

Now, granted, I have been on every single field trip with Drew from pre pre school to present.  But, said field trips never lasted overnight, and there were never raging hormones and snotty teenagers involved.  I digress.  As I write these words my hands are shaking and there is a good possibility I might end up curled into the fetal position sucking my thumb before I end the tale ... YMCA: 7th Circle of Hell

The day of the trip parent chaperones were told they could drive their own vehicles to the YMCA camp.  The drive is beautiful up the canyon into the Rocky Mountain forest entrance.  I was grateful I didn't have to ride on the bus (hate bus rides), and decided to carpool with a fellow mother that had a son on Drew's football team.  A much as I like this mother, I wasn't aware of her love of music.  Her love of said music was only enhanced by the loud roaring "hot shit" system she had installed in her cruising wagon, complete with a bopping "sweet ass" bass (sp? fish or base). All this being said, I rode to the YMCA camp, over an hour's drive, feeling like I was in a night club yelling over the music as my friend told me how "sweet ass" her stereo system was and how she "pumped it up" when the boys were in the car and how much they liked it.  As much as I love this friend, she is a total sweetheart, I didn't love the music (sorry lady!). 

Upon arrival at the YMCA camp I realized it was cold there.  Not cold like New England cold biting through your skin, but Rocky Mountain cold with a gusty wind that rivaled New England cold minus humidity factor.  The buses arrived soon after our arrival, and we were told which dorm was which, boys and girls, opposite dorms, and assigned our chaperone groups.  The kids arrived, mass chaos ensued getting their crap off of the busses, and somehow in all of that we managed to get the boys into their dorm, and the girls into their dorms.  The dorms boasted 2 bunkbeds, and a trailer like bathroom.  I was fortunate enough to bunk with three other mothers, AND got the top bunk.  Lucky me.  I was about 6 inches from the ceiling, and I am pretty sure prisoners in southermost work camp federal prisons get better mattresses.

We went straight from the dorms to the main building.  It was there we bonded with what would be our groups for the next two days.  To the right, my group.  Stop laughing.  I learned their names pretty fast, because I had to say them repeatedly about a million times over the next 48 hours.

The groups were divided into what the USAF would refer to as "flights".  Groups of groups, forming a little larger groups.  Each "flight" was assigned different taskings so that over the next 48 hours each group would experience all that the YMCA, and employees had to offer.  Gratefully, our first flight activity was indoors. 

Ungratefully, our second was outdoors.  So cold, bitter cold.  It was at this time I realized my group was drawn like moths to a flame to pick up everything off the ground (sticks, rocks, whatever they found first) like a bunch of ADHD kids that lacked medication intervention.  When they were not acting ADHD, whipping sticks at each other, or rocks, or trying to get into the water, they were refusing to wear their hats, coats, gloves, etc.  I suppose that the ladies of the group of 6th graders thought coats would not show off their clothes, and the boys were being tough.  Regardless, I spent the next two days repeating the following phrase, "put down the stick ... put down the rocks ... stop hitting each other ... put your coat on ... put your hat on ... get your gloves on ... if you get pneumonia I don't want to hear you whining!"

After our second activity of the day, the kids were allowed to go to their dorms to prepare for "dinner".  They were TOLD that they needed to grab everything they would later need to attend the bonfire.  They were to take all of their crap (coats, hats, flashlights, gloves, etc) with them to dinner.  The kids liked their dorms, so much that I had to smoke them out of their room.  Okay, I didn't have to smoke them out, but I am pretty sure the smell of cheap aftershave wafting from the boys dorm did the trick.  I suppose the boys, hormones racing, thought a little cheap cologne might get them some bonfire action.  Gross.  The girls dorm was no better.  Gross.

We had all of our meals at the "cafeteria".  For woodsy delight meals meant to feed hundreds, it was actual okay.  BUT, it was a buffet and my germaphobic anxieties went into massive over drive as I saw the grimy little monsters with their nasty little dirty hands touching all of the food.  Use the tongs/spoons/shovels provided for God's sake!  The level of sound in the cafeteria was deafening.  Pre-pubescent teens covered in cheap cologne/perfume trying to act "groovy" as my mother would say. 

There was a post dinner activity planned for each "flight" after dinner, and pre bonfire.  As the kids sat their eating, being groovy, and chatting away, a teacher stood up and started speaking quietly in an attempt to get their attention.  It was painfully obvious that she was being ignored and her tone got a little louder ... louder still ... louder ... then a sort of shrieking desperation took over her person as she screamed, "boys and girls, do you all want to go to bed at 8 o'clock tonight?!"  I looked at her, in disbelief, thinking, "oh hell, the inmates have taken over the asylum."  The kids pretty much ignored her threat/question then out of the crowd I hear, "SHUT UP!!!!!".  It was my friend with the "sweet ass" radio system in her car.  She proceeded to chew ass and tell the kids what ungrateful fools they were, and turned the time back to the teacher.  It sort of worked.

Our pre-bonfire activity was the swimming pool.  I was not swimming, as were NOT any of the other chaperones.  The kids in our flight were ALL swimming.  The only thing I can say positive about the experience, is that it was WARM in the indoor pool sitting poolside,  Warmth, I had been craving it all day.  I watched the dance of the pre-pubescents ensue and took note of their behaviors.  The boys were acting like 11-12 year old boys.  They wanted to "roughhouse" in the pool, dunk one another, and try to play some ball with the hoop on the side of the pool.  The girls, however, were sitting about waist high in the pool trying to not wet their hair and "trolling" as it were, for the boys to notice them.  I was amazed that some of their parents had purchased their interesting choices of swim apparel.  I think there is more fabric in a washcloth than some of those bathing suits.

When the swim time was almost over, I volunteered to go BACK to the dorms before the boys got there. Of course, they and everyone else had not taken everything they needed with them to dinner for the bonfire later.  I started out on the trail from the pool to the dorms, (not a huge walk ... as long as you don't get lost).  It was pitch dark, and I had a little flashlight.  Out of the darkness I heard my phone ring.  Holy crap, I could get texts!  I stopped myself immediately and texted my friend, who is a professional counselor.  "Help me, I am trapped in the 7th circle of hell ... and I think I am lost, and it's cold."  She told me to hang in there, via text, followed by a LOL LOL LOL!.  This was SOOO not a LOL! moment!

I was officially lost and a 10 minute walk turned into a 30 minute attempt to find the dorms praying I would not die lost in the woods.  I made it to the dorms ... gathered my group of wet headed, refusing to wear their coats and hats crew, and we were off to the bonfire.  Bonfire.  Imagine about 400 kids, give or take, surrounding an ampitheater style bonfire, and YMCA camp employees (early 20's, granola eating tree loving unshaven (girls too) nature lovers) trying to "entertain" the group.  This group?  Unentertainable.  Is that even a word?  It was the case.  My friend and I sat there thinking, "are you kidding me?"  The teacer who shouted the threat/question of an 8 o'clock bedtime tried to again assert her weapon of an early bedtime, to no avail.  Other teachers tried the same.  I was trapped in cheap cologne/perfume and boys that smelled like wet dogs from their pool wet hair experience. 

The poor camp counselors were trying to get the kids to sing campfire songs, and/or participate in their campfire entertainment venue. The kids sort of took to it, but not really. A few were escorted from the bonfire for irrational and disturbing behavior.  It was pitch black, despite the bonfire, and I just wanted it to end... at this point, my life.  In desperation I discovered a tool that shut some of the little monsters up.  I overheard an "F" bomb (and for my Utah friends/family, it was NOT "freak") and I turned on my flashlight and lit it in the kids direction.  Like a deer caught in the headlights, he was mesmerized and at the same time, paralyzed with fear.  My friend and I burst into hysterics.  For the next hour we spent our time randomly turning on the flashlight directly onto kids to see the paralyzed, mesmerized, deer in the headlights reaction.  Good times.

Upon our return to the dorms, I safely tucked in each of my group into their beds.  I told them to go to bed, and bid them farewell.  They were no longer my duty, I headed to the girls dorm.  Upon my arrival to the girls dorm, I hunkered down for a long winter's nap on my prison bunk.  On the first floor of the dorms there was a coffee/tea station.  The 11-12 year old girls, in an attempt to be "cool" all started to help themselves to a late night cup'o'joe.  The mom's in my room, and myself, rolled our eyes, but then realized to our horror, that cup'o'joe shock to most of their systems would keep them up ... all night.

Without a moment's notice, or a chance for me to get on my prison bunk, we had a knock at the door.  Oh, what luck!  Little did I know that one of the three mom's I was bunking with was no less than the 6th grade "queen bees" mother.  Shit. If you don't know what a "queen bee" is, think "mean girls".  A queen bees duty is to squirrel up the hive.  She utilizes her powers with precision passive aggressive behaviors.  It was this behavior that led queen bee and her prey to our door.  A girl fight ensued, complete with hair pulling, and the queen bees mother lamenting the rest of the evening that her daughter was singled out.  Well, hell lady. She's the queen bee! I was so tired at this point, I fell asleep to the lamenting mother's cries of her little queen bee's innocence.

The next morning the day pretty much wrapped up the same as day one.  I repeated over and over for my group to stop picking up sticks, rocks, whipping one another, etc.  Their first activity of the day with their "flight" was a course where they had to cooperate.  I must say, it was pretty hilarious watching these kids try and make the course challenges cooperating.  I texted my friend a few more times that day, and she responded with LOL LOL LOL ... not LOL!  I held onto the glimmer of hope that this was the LAST day, and I would be home in my cozy bed that evening.  Late in the day, mere moments before we finished our last activity of the day, survival (how fitting), it started to snow ... and it was not a little snow, it was Rocky Mountain high snow, fast, furious, and sticking.  We were somehwere in the middle of the woods with the kids making stick forts for survival.  I questioned whether we should head back down the mountain asap, and was greeted with a survival response, "nah, we're good."  Hell.

We finally made it back down the mountain, the dorms were in few, and I'm pretty sure I was in a hysterical dead sprint.  Alas, the busses, 2 freaking hours late because of snow!  This landed all of us, with our stuff, in the main lodge.  My special, special boys?  Well they took it upon themselves to spend their time on the lodge phone.  The phone mysteriously rang suddenly, and I answered it while the boys look bewildered.  "Um, hello, maa'm.  This is the Rocky Mountain Emergency services.  We've received numerous calls in the last few minutes from this phone and wanted to make sure this wasn't a hoax and/or of we are needed?"  What the freaking hell?  This was the last straw, FOR SURE.  I informed the man that I was a chaperone of four boys that were medicated and had missed their dosage that day, and fervently apologized.  His repsonse, "well, if you could keep them off this line, that would be appreciated."  I just stared at them ... all four of them ... in disgust.  I shook my head, I'm pretty sure cussed under my breath, and prayed the bus would step on the gas. 

My group was one of the last to get on bus #4.  Of course.  I got back into my friend's car, with the "sweet ass" jamming radio system, and we headed home to the jamming bass and my head pounding.  The ride, because of the snow, was twice as long, but I didn't care.  I was going HOME!  Drew and I finally got home, and I told Drew that I loved him dearly, but never, ever, ever again would I go on an overnighter with his grade.  Exhausted, I fell into my nice warm down comforter and went fast asleep.

Sneeze Guard Optional

Buffets.  We've all been to at least ONE in our lifetime.  Don't lie, you have all been to at least one.  I have an Uncle who (allegedy) only eats at buffetts claiming they are the only place with enough food for your dollar.  Hmmmm.  I suppose the post food poisioning and medical bills after consumption of said buffett are included in that "bang for your buck" theory. 

With increasing age, I am aquiring an unnatural fear of germs.  I wouldn't call it a full out time to get medicated for OCD fear. My unnatural fears extend mostly to waterparks, public pools, anywhere where large amounts of children (walking little petri dishes) reside (playgroups, my sons first grade classroom, church nursery, movei theatres, etc.), gas station bathrooms (still have anxiety ridden nightsweat nightmares about the last gas station bathroom attack of the toilet hose debacle), hotel glasses/bedspreads, and the like.  To be honest, as I am sitting here writing this, I think I might be a little OCD germaphobic.  I just think things are gross.  I also have a bit of an addiction to 20/20, Dateline, etc. and I take all their healthscare news as gospel truth.  Hence the reason I don't drink soda.  Only water, bottled, somehow if feels safer that way.

I can tolerate movie theatres.  Admittedly I wrap my coat over my chair so the cooties that were obviously left by the last movei goer will hopefully be suffocated by said coat before burrowing into my scalp.  I've never had cooties, but I'm pretty sure if myself and/or my children ever got them, it would be time for me to be committed at least until my house was fumigated and my children boiled.  I can "hold it" for an inoridnate amount of time if a gas station bathroom is my only option.  I bring hand sanitizer to rub liberally all over my children and any other child that gets close to me or my child at other locales.  Public pools.  Unlike Nike, I DON'T DO IT.  Gross.  There are lines, and some must not be crossed.  I even successfully avoided going in a lake next to our house in New Hampshrire for three years when I saw a diaper laying haphazardly on half water/half beach one day.  That was the end of the dips in the lake

With full knowledge of my germaphobic OCD, you would THINK my husband could clue in that the last, and I mean LAST place I would ever want to consume food would be a public buffett for hell's sake.  My face turns green and my stomache immediately churns when he and the boys insist on IHOP.  I feel dirty the whole time I am there, and no, watching my husband shove slimy "stuffed french toast" down his throat does not help.  I watch 20/20.  You don't KNOW what that crap is stuffed with, you just never know.

The other morning, Jon suggests we all go to breakfast.  I have successfully avoided IHOP and greasy spoon cafe centrals for other options here in Colorado (admittedly where the granola loving, clean living, mother nature worshiping crowd hangs out) that are actually delicious and don't leave me feeling dirty.  Jon hates them.  All of them. He insists, like my Uncle, that he pays twice the price, and still leaves hungry.  I suppose a delectable dish entitled "GRAND SLAM!" is more his style as it slams into his arteries, sliding down into the chambers of his heart, slowing the arterial flow, and slamming him into the cardiac unit.  They serve fresh fruit at my breakfast locales.  Jon and the boys sit and stare at it like someone has placed an alien lifeform in front of them.  Caden, my little 2 year-old, will happily chaw down on the fruit ... until a pancake with shipped cream and chocolae chips is served.  Goodbye fruit.

So, back to Jon and his breakfast idea.  Here's the conversation, "how about the Waffle House?"  "Uh, no, vomit, Jon it's by the freaking side of the highway and the parking lot is filled with 18 wheelers!"  "Village Inn?"  "Sick, gross, no." "McDonalds?" "I thought we were going OUT to breakfast?"  "I don't know Cort, you hate everything!"  "No, I like La Peep, The Egg and I, Dicken's Tavern ..."  In unison now, all of my boys (even Caden), "DISGUSTING!!!!!!" (Caden said, "gwosss!!!!")  As we're driving down the road, contemplating our familial breakfast dilema of grease versus quality, fresh versus packaged, my fresh hell opens it's gaping jaws as Jon declares, "boys, look, an OLD COUNTRY BUFFET ... and they have BREAKFAST!!!"

Old Country Buffet .... Longmont, CO.  I have been to one other Old Country Buffet in my lifetime.  We lived in Maryland, it was amongst friends, and I was 25 ... my OCD had not yet set in to it's disproportionate abject terror of all things germs YET; but I was still grossed out.  There was a time in New Hampshire where I was coerced into going to some other buffet called the Red Apple (I think). There was nothing there to do with apples, some wierd chinese, american, mexican dishes and some in between the united nations buffet tour (the worst sort of buffet).  However, again, amongst friends so the panic was minimal as I carefully selected items least likely contaminated by the kitchen staff and/or sneezed on, touched, or generally discombobulated in any way by my fellow buffet officianados. 

Jon and the boys rememeber buffets with the fondest of memories.  All the food you can eat, followed by even more gluttony (isn't that one of the seven deadly sins?) of greasy fried glories, ice cream bars, desserts of every imaginable kind, followed by heartburn and the "potions" as my little sister would call them.  Come to your own conclusions about the "potions".  Our particular Old Country Buffet is in the mall.  Yes, I did say the Mall.  And not any Mall ... it's the Mall sporting about four stores that has officially been deemed "blighted" by the city of Longmont.  Blighted, loosely translated, means it's a piece of crap that needs to be blown up and started over. Jon pulled into the parking lot of that blighted mall, tires screeching, and I am prettu sure up on two wheels, the boys whooting and hollering like rednecks hunting coon screaming "sumbitch" we're going to the buffet!

I walked slowly through the parking lot following my skipping and hollering in delight children feeling like a prison camp victim headed to my certain death.  After entering said "blighted" mall, there in a larger than normal sign was posted "breakfast until 11, only $4.99!  Jon looked at his watch, 10:45.  "Look at that honey!  We're here at the end of the breakfast, beginning of the lunch change!"  Holy crap.  The best part of this whole situation ... there was a line waiting for their $4.99 breakfast lunch change deal to become the reality of their lifeitme dreams. This event, NOT on the bucket list.

As we got into line I said to Jon, "you know how I hate public pools?  this is worse, waaaaay worse."  I decided to spend my time in the line, leering.  Leering is this nasty habit I have had forever that I didn't even know I did.  It is uncontrollable, my sister made me aware of it in Junior High while sitting in the mall one dat.  The mall, of course, is the best people watching on the planet. Apparently I am uncapable of not staring at said interesting characters without my face uncontrollably distorting itself into disgust and horror.  My sister calls it "leering" and often would jab my side and whisper in the "death tone", "cort, STOP LEERING!"  How could I NOT leer at this line, this crowd, the people leaving the buffet as we waited?  This was a leering hot bed.

First, there were your seniors.  And by seniors, I don't mean high school.  I mean the blue haired newly coifed seniors toddling along their way through the buffet.  AND, wait for it ... there was even a rascal in the mix. A RASCAL for hell's sake.  How in the hell does an individual convince themselves that in the mad rush that is a buffet a rascal is ever appropriate.  She even beeped her rascal horn at me.  I didn't know they had horns on them ... until this day.  So, back to the line ... we finally get to the head of the line to pay and Jon announces three adults, one child, and one freebie.  Drew is standing next to Jon, I am leering, Caden is yelling at me, "peeeeeeeese noooooooow!" for a gumball from the machine, and Bradyn is hanging off my leg asking if they will have sausage AND bacon?  The lady thanks Jon profusely for his "honesty" in telling her Drew was 12.  Then announces, "you know, he could have easily passed for 10 and you could have lied to me, thank you for your integrity."  Drew, who is a little sensitive that his growth spurt has not quite caught up to that of his peers ... was now also leering in disgust at this most vicious of insults. 

Because of Jon's generous moment of integrity, the lady whispers to Jon (as if this was covert information she was sharing), " ... you know, since it's almost 11, you guys are really lucky because they are putting away the breakfast buffet and bringing out the lunch buffet items!"  Jon looked at me grinning from ear to ear.  "Did you hear that honey??!  We will get the fresh stuff for lunch!!"  "And the old as hell stuff for breakfast," I replied.  Then, and only then, when I thought things could not get any worse, I see a fellow buffet attendee sporting a t-shirt I might never forget.  The lady was 5x5, as my brother in law would say.  Again, come to your own conclusion about her body type.  Her t-shirt was white and at a distant glance looked like it had a giant Mountain Dew logo on the front.  As she edged closer I noticed the writing.  It did NOT say Mountain Dew.  Oh no, it said, horror of horrors, "Mount me and do me". 

Drew could not control himself, and in his louder than normal 12 year-old voice screams in laughter, "mom, mom, look, look, NO ONE would mount her, much less DO her!"  Okay, I have to admit, it was one of those parenting moments where you have to look away because what he said was so damned funny, but as a parent you also know that you should be scolding him for such a trashy comment.  I was in the Old Country Buffet.  As if ANYTHING he said would offend any of the rednecks I  was leering at ... I let the comment go, and tried like hell to get my cell phone out fast enough to take a picutre of her shirt. Alas, I failed.  Much like hunting the mullet in it's native habitat, my quick draw to the cell phone camera was in vain.

When I was SURE nothing could get worse, the manager/host comes out of nowhere and says to Jon, "how many?!"  I was pretty sure this guy was on crack ... okay not pretty sure, I was sure.  He proclaimed to Jon and I, "wow, wow, it's early in the morning (11 am, really, does the crack affect your internal time clock?) and I haven't even had my morning coffee (I think that is code for crack at Old Country Buffet)!"  He is squeeling this at about 90 mph and I am leering at him.  Jon says, "4 and a high chair".  And when I think my public shame can reach no higher level he screams at the top of his voice, into the microphone, "hey, 4 and a high chair!!!"  Why didn't he scream this for anyone else in line?  Why were we so "special"?  Of course, everyone in the buffet looks at us.

Crack man is pointing like a wild man at his "staff" and finally leads us to a table in the corner ... so lucky, a Jon would exclaim, CLOSE to the buffet!  Crap.  The buffet, like any other buffet, was a disgusting display of gluttony, grease, and general nasty.  I tried like hell to find anything that looked "okay", there was nothing.  I don't care HOW many noseguards you put up ... people are reaching their nasty paws in one by one, touching the spoons to scoop out their piles of lard onto their plate.  Lard being cleverely disguised as "mac and cheese".  I didn't know these people, and it would be wierd for me to stand at the front of each line offering hand sanitizer.  Which, come to think of it, should be a required practrice at any buffet establisment.  Including and not limited to employees standing outside buffet bathrooms sanitizing people as they leave the bathroom.  I digress.  As promised, the breakfast items were slowly being carted out and replaced by lunch items.  I made a plate for Caden, then tried to make a plate for myself.  Couldn't do it.  Just couldn't do it.  The boys were in HEAVEN, going back and forth and back and forth and Drew finally announces, "mom, WHY are you not eating, I mean, this is like heaven, all the food you can eat, you don't even have to finish everything, and you can keep going back again and again!"  Jon was across the table masticating his recently aquired larger than lifee piece of "hand carved" roast squeeling in delight at the deliciousness I had to partake.  I took one bite, swallowed, and was sure I would be in the ER later that afternoon. 

I spent the time in the buffet leering.  It didn't take a rocket scientist to ascertain that there was not ONE person in there that was thin or oven moderately healthy.  In a state, Colorado, that I have determined is the thinnest, healthiest population I have ever seen I came to the realization that this place, the Old Country Buffet, had to be the shame of shames the Weight Watchers dieters came to weekly meetings about and "confessed" their sins to all. 

When Jon announced it was time to go home, Drew said, "what, we're leaving?"  I said, "no Drew, we're staying here, all day, until we get hungry again so we can fill more plates you won't finish."  I was done.  The boys announced as we left, "Dad can we come here EVERY Saturday?!?!"  All I could muster was ... "this is soooo going in my blog."

 

DODGEBALL, KICKBALL ... the Devil's Game

Two days ago I get an e-mail from a friend stating the following, "hey, my husband and I want to get together a kickball team for this summer!  If anyone is interested, let us know!"  Now, this girl is not a really good friend, but she's a great gal (the few times I have met her), and alot of fun.  Despite all of this, my response, in my head, "hell to the no."  THEN, our best friends here in Colorado respond all immediately, "sure, wer're in!
  I promptly sent my BFF and her husband a skathing e-mail telling them they were dorks. I did not disclose my personal secret at that time, as noone needs to know of my traumatic childhood past.  I thought I had deleted said e-mail, but alas, I had not. 

Jon returned home, checked the home e-mail, and returned downstairs with that "shit eating grin" on his face, along with a proclamation that sent a bone chilling fear down my spine, "hey, guess what, I pretended I was you on the e-mail (giggle, giggle) and I signed us both up for that kickball league (giggle, giggle, wide smile on his smug face).  "It's going to be WICKED (wicked, a word I learned while living in New England, and one he grew up with, it's sort of like "smurfy", wicked can be used as a noun, verb, adjective, etc. in all sentences, look in my blog for further explanation of the lore of the New England word, "wicked") AWESOME!"  (giggle, giggle, hysterical laughter - from my husband)
I happened to be on the phone with my BFF at the time (the one who I had earlier referred to as a dork for wanting to play kickball) and she started laughing in hysterics.  Jon knew my secret, he knew the abject terror this little announcement would have on my physical and mental self.  I felt my palms start to sweat, my body shake, and I was pretty sure I was having a minor which could quickly turn into a major panick attack.  It was then that I had to face the secret I held, face my fears, and tell my BFF all things.  I was, am, is, are, afraid of balls.  It's not all balls, mostly balls wherein the intention is for people to hit you with them. 

Dodgeball?  The devils' game.  It never made ANY sense to me why dodgeball was even invented.  What sort of sick and twisted mind would ever think to themselves one day, "hey, how about a game where people are on opposite teams that hurl the ball at one another with the point being to hurl said ball as fast as possible to injure, bruise, and or (if said ball was hurled fast enough) knock people's feet out from underneath them so that they would fall ass up while eveyone fell into contagious fits of laughter while the victim simultaneously hauled their humiliated butt off the court." Kick ball?  The Devil's game part II.  The only difference between kickball and dogeball is that with kickball the victim has a little more momentun underneath their feet (thus making them helplessly less stable) trying desperately to run to a base while the "other team outfielders" try to slam the victims feet ... because who wants to hit you in the head?  In the psychotic twisted minds of a kickball player it is far funnier to hit one in the feet and watch them scramble and then fall into a pile of dust before even reaching the base).  People are SUPPOSED to get the ball to the "base" where you can be gently "tagged out".  There was never a time in my elementary career where there was ANY gentle tagging out going on.

My Mom is now an Elementary School principal.  On Spring break we went to Utah to visit.  One day we went to her school so she could "open the gym and get out all the toys" for the grandsons to burn off some energy.  What did I see upon entering the parking lot and getting closer to said elementary school?  A killing ground.  That's what I saw.  It was a wall with a few doors COVERED in what had to be "ball marks" from balls that had been hurled, fast, at other poor elementary school victims playing the worse form of all kickball games... the one your teachers made you play, I call it prisoner dodge ball, when everyone stands up against the wall and one/two/three however many students the borderline psychotic teacher appointed would then slam the balls at you as hard as possible as you stood there helpless against the wall with your other classmates? The "goal" was you were supposed to CATCH the screaming 80mph ball as it hurled towards you head (even though the teacher was screaming, “below the waist, below the waist!”).  THAT my friend was equivalent to Neo Nazi german war games of terror if you ask me. If said appointed students had guns, it would seem no different to me … the fear would be the same. Eventually I was going to die. The difference was in the prisoner dodgeball, it would be a slow painful emotionally crushing death where I was hit, sometimes might fall, and then would stand in the corner with my fellow comrades pissed that this game was ever even invented. On a seperate note, I was, however, the 4 square champion. That required no violence like dodgeball.  It was the same ball as in dodgeball, but with 4 squares, and some skill. THAT I could do … oh, and double dutch jump rope. I'm pretty sure I suffer Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome from all those damned years of dodge ball/kick ball in Elementary School.

Then there was junior high school gym.  I STILL to this day remember one particular girl (okay two particular girls) who I am pretty sure had an influx of testosterone the rest of us would never fathom, who were eventually forced to only throw "left handed" by the gym teacher as their bloody off the feet conquests were numbering the whole class after about 15 minutes of the dreaded game.  I finally figured out by 8th grade (as did my BFF Jenny), that if you just stood there, and didn't move, you would be hit, but there was a little more stability in not moving, less chance you would fall to the ground from an 80mph hurling death ball from Brittany or Tasha, and then you didn't have to play anymore.  Get hit, your out, then you can sit on the sidelines ... until the satist possibly, okay definately, lesbian gym teacher started another game!  Yeah ... usually a given class period would get in about three games.  Yeah.

Last night I had a NIGHTMARE about this while situation. Jon, my oh so supportive former high school jock, told me to not worry.  He offered to let me stand the front room and he would throw balls at me to get me over my unnatural fear. Ass.  I explained to my BFF this whole situation and her only response was, "good thing I didn't let you play on my volleyball team!  Those balls are screaming fast and you would cower and I would have to pretend I didn't know you."  Nice, nice BFF! 

Oh hell! I explained I would not cower in the corner, more like cover my head, squeal, and cower somewhere between first and second base (assuming I even make it to first base). When I am hit, and I will be hit, I suspect my feet will be slammed right out from under me, I will fall, I will curse, and I will probably need to have a local Psychiatrist on my cell phone speed dial for an immediate emergency appointment for earlier stated Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

My BFF was a rodeo person.  While she did not wear bedazzled, fringed shirts with a horsey sporting a braided tail, pink bows, and a matching bejewled cowgirl hat, she did slam large beasts (she claims baby beasts) into the ground to tie their feet together.  Which admittedly also makes no sense to me.  Hey, baby animal, run out into that rodeo circle because someone is going to rope you, then slam you to the ground and humiliate you as they hog tie you all the while with a smile on their face.  I have way to many allergies and abject terror that said beast would retaliate as I attempted to “hog tie” it’s poor little legs.

If my family had horsies, I could have been a rodeo princess, with cute wranglers, a bedazzled shirt with fringe, a braided horsey tail for my horse, and a pink saddle with matching cow girl hat. There would be no balls thrown, only me doing tricks and racing around barrels. THAT I could do, because I would look so stunning in my bedazzled cowgirl shirt.

Kickball ... I might kick jon in his balls for making me play. Butthole. My only solace is that I will be amongst friends.  Despite my BFF's threat to walk away from me as if she has no idea who I am as I cower, hands covering my head, and squeeling like a stuck pig (perhaps not squeeling like a stuck pig, she may have flashbacks and trie to rope and hog tie my hand to my feet), she better claim me and walk off the field with me as I incoherently mumble something about the trauma of Elementary School/Junior High school dodgeball.


CORT

BSA - National Racketeering

BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA -
"Racketeering parents since 1930"

racketeering: (v) An organized conspiracy to commit crimes of extortion or coercion.


I'm a tad bitter and I have had a throbbing headache for over a week now, so you might want to stop reading my incoherent, bitter ramblings. On the other hand, if you have a male child in your home that ever intends to call himself an almighty "Eagle Scout" please read on for warning ...

Scout Oath (or Promise)
On my honor I will do my best To do my duty to God and my country and to obey the Scout Law; To help other people at all times;To keep myself physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight.

Scout Law
A Scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty,brave, clean, and reverent.

The Scout Oath and Law, as I have clearly posted, pronounces a few things very clearly. A scout is to be "mentally awake ... morally straight ... and thrifty." Let's explore these three items. First, apparently no one told the BSA that these laws also apply to the parent(s) of boy scouters. Why? No "mentally awake, morally straight, thrifty" person can possibly find sense in purchasing anything from the BSA. Even if you have piles of money stuffed under your bedroom mattress for frivolous spending (I know you all have this, don't lie), you can still not profess yourself to be "mentally awake, morally straight, or thrifty" if you purchase the BSA required uniform for your scouter ... and this is just the beginning.
I think BSA is an organization secretly involved in parental racketeering. Clearly, purchasing a single "number" to place on your BSA uniform (and most have at least 3 numbers) for almost $2 is extortion. Did your little darling go to the train station and ride the rails for his "rail riding merit badge" (no, I can't make this crap up, it's for real, I wish I could make it up, truly I do)? Congratulations! You now have to purchase the corresponding merit badge to be sewn (another nightmare) onto the gold encrusted BSA shirt (okay, so I haven't seen the gold encrusting on Drew's shirt, but for the price, I am sure there is gold on or in the damned thing somewhere) for a mere $3-$8 dollars. What the hell?

BSA further commits extortion through coercion convincing the NATION that being an Eagle Scout is the end all be all to eventual manhood. Didn't Obama use that line? That he was an Eagle Scout? Hmmm, hell of alot of good that has done our nation. I guess there isn't a merit badge for anything financial ... oh wait, BSA doesn't want you to know about finances, they just want you to put your credit card "on file". Maybe that's why Obama is putting the nation into financial duress, former BSA days, he's putting America's "card on file". I digress.

Humor me. Let's discuss extortion and coercion for a moment and the whole Eagle Scout idealism. Once upon a time, let's say almost 20 years ago, my little sister and I went on a backpacking trip in the Wind Rivers region with our Dad and an all male all the time group of our cohorts. We were the only females, and as such, deemed unworthy of all things outdoors or manly ... including but not limited to the ability to "make fire". We were, as so emphatically stated amongst our group of males, amongst "Eagle Scouts", after all.

The first evening we arrived in our camp it was cold, wet, and did I mention cold. We were exhausted from our all day drive to the "hiking drop off point" and all I wanted was a vanilla soy latte' and a warm bed. But, alas, I was in the wild surrounded by "Eagle Scouts" and such things were not available. The best I could hope for was an MRE (meal ready to eat, gross by the way, especially when your Dad purchases them from the local military surplus store so I am pretty sure they are circa WWII) packet slightly warmed in boiling water. However, this luxury required fire to boil the water. But, no worries, we were amongst "Eagle Scouts", as my sister and I were AGAIN informed by the masses.

I was to tired and hungry to express my disgust over this male dominated world my sister and I were about to entertain for the next week, so I sat back and kept my comments to myself as I watched the "Eagle Scouts" attempt to make fire. Did I say attempt? Yes, I did. The "Eagle Scouts" tried to make fire in some half-assed backwards nonsensical approach. My sister and I sort of sat and stared at them, for over an hour, as more of the "Eagle Scouts" in our group gathered. It would seem that this "make fire" tasking would take more than 4 Eagle Scouts to complete the job. An hour passed ... no fire. My sister and I looked at each other, not helplessly, but with the "stupid boys" look in our eyes. Linda, our mother, had raised us amongst many other things to know one thing ... in many situations boys are stupid and eventually you just have to do it yourself. I was hungry, and cold. Get out of the way Eagle Scouts.

My sister and I had participated in "church girls camp" since we were 12. I was 18 at the time, so a good 6 years of "church girls camp". Church camp happened annually. There were no merit badges involved, no gathering of levels of manhood (I think Drew is currently trying to get his Ferret or Rodent, or Tender Rat or something) towards Eagledom, nothing. There were "levels", but they went by year, and each year you learned a little more, and each year you bettered your poker game and brought more candy with which to "gamble". Despite my sister and I being certified black jack dealers (6 years girls camp = full certification in Las Vegas style black jack), we had also learned a few survival skills along the road ... once a year mind you ... not gathering Ferrets and Rodents along the way. We COULD make fire.

Maranda (that's the sister) and I bid the Eagle scouts adieu' much to their manly chagrin. I think if we were both wielding machete's to cut off their manhood their faces would have been less disgustingly disfigured than two "non eagle scouts" manifesting "move, we'll make the fire". Maranda and I gathered up our "fire makin' tools", and within about 2 minutes, wala', fire. To this day, I have found little or no need for scouting. Of course, then God blessed (uh-huh) me with 3 boys, who will all inevitably want to be in the BSA. Gross. Eagle Scout? Whatever.

Our church has bought into the madness of scouting so there is further coercion towards your son becoming an "Eagle Scout" one day. When your son turns 10/11 years of age, the scouting begins ... your parents (that would be me) take out a second mortgage on their home and purchase your BSA outfit and sew (that would be me again) on the accompanying crap for the shirt. My mom said, "make sure you use a big stitch, you'll have to move all of the patches, I hated doing that with your little brothers shirt ... did it for years ...". (At this point mom moved into the corner, curled into the fetal position, and started sucking her thumb reminiscing about moving patches, purchasing patches, "rounds of applause", and cake auctions at blue and gold or white or whatever events to help offset the outrageous cost of the BSA events.) I still haven't sewed on the patches, I'm scared I'll have to move them.

So, the madness begins at 10-11 years of age, patches are moved, your credit card is ablaze from BSA "required" purchases, and what do you get? A party, I think similar to a Jewish Bar mitzvah for a boy coming of age, wherein your "Eagle Scout" wears his "BSA CERTIFIED" badges, and accompanying clothing, looking like a super dork, and everyone gives him a "round of applause" (round of applause: picture your hands going in a circle over your head in a round shape clapping) and then the kid gets to say, "I'm an Eagle Scout" and eventually use it in his successful presidential election... stating he his "mentally straight, morally awake, and thrifty" but he still can't make fire or budget to save his life.

I think parents should unite and stop the madness. Not kidding. The BSA Gods may strike me down, and I might have to have a special meeting with our church hierarchy about my bitter attitude, but I think this is a fight that deserves a good right hook. The BSA is smooth and cunning convincing a whole nation, including Normal Rockwell, that being a scout is all that is American and if you aren't ... perish the thought. I wonder if Normal Rockwell's parents had to purchase all of the scout crap I have to purchase today? I can "make fire" and a "budget" and I don't have a merit badge to prove it. I'm still worthy. My Aunt and Uncle set a RULE in their house that you have to have your Eagle Scout (typically happens when you are 16) before you can get your drivers license. No Eagle, no drive? I only had to learn my times tables to get my ears pierced ... and that only cost mom a set of earrings, no merit badges or banquets.

As I write, I am thinking that perhaps the whole scouting idea is really creating a bunch of wimps. Why do you have to have a banquet to show you tied a knot or rode a train or cooked an egg (all merit badges, again, I can't make this crap up)? Why can't you just learn the skill and move on? At the very least, I think Mr. Eagle Scout President Elect Obama should let parents write purchased scout crap off their taxes. I think Jon and I would enter a new tax bracket if he would allow that... I think its called, "the working poor".

My sister called me the other day (Maranda) to tell me she had been given a new job at church ... Den Leader. She is currently looking for a scout shirt and has considered going to the thrift store. I told her, "do it, go to the thrift store, maybe you can find a shirt with the crap already sewed onto it, but make sure the stitch is loose, you'll have to move them, ask Mom." She doesn't want to look "frumpy", I told her "not possible, you're in BSA dork wear." Let's just hope my little sister can take some of her black-jack toting, fire making girls camp skills and teach my nephew better than an Eagle Scout. Maybe one day he can preserve the family name and make fire? Let's just hope the nation never needs to call on its Eagle Scouts ... I think the Girl Scouts should be on speed dial. Amen.

Boys, Boys, Boys ...

Today I took a second to look back at some old posts I had written about my boys, and I realized that parenthood, although a seemingly endless, joyless, and daunting task some days ... is really sort of hysterical. Who else but kids, especially boys, come up with the crap that they come up with on a daily basis. The adage, "you'll laugh about this later" really is true. As I reread some of their "antics" I am laughing. I don't recall laughing when it actually happened ... I believe there was more anger and complete disbelief that I had actually brought creatures onto this planet that could possibly be this stupid? But,I digress. I've said it once and I will say it again, mind you with all love and sincerity, boys ARE stupid and mine prove my theory every single day.

My mom forwarded this to me today. Mom usually sends me funny forwards, so now and then I bite and open them. I'm so glad I opened this one! I'm making my 11 year-old read it right now!
Gooooooooo former "drug" babies!

FAMILY UPDATE

This was originally a response e-mail to my baby brother about some school pictures I had sent of the kids. I will attach photos later, so this makes sense, but for now, here's an update.

Hahahah! Oh yes, Bradyn. Captain social. He, "LUUUUUUUUBS KINDERGARTEN!!!!". He informed me Thursday evening that he needed a quarter for Friday because they were having popcorn. SO, I give him 2 quarters and I say, "here's one for you and one for a friend if they forget their quarter." I always send two or three of everything to the kids' school because inevitably there are ALWAYS kids without so a few parents take up the slack. SO, when he came home from school I asked him if he was able to share his other quarter and he said, "yep, I gave it to Riley," and grinned. Okay, Riley is not a boy. She is this gorgeous little blonde creature who ALSO went ot preschool with Bradyn. I don't know her as well, but she looks like a supermodel at 5. Bradyn then asked me WHEN it would be Friday again because in kindergarten Friday is "Popcorn Friday" and that means he gets to munch popcorn AND watch a movie during snack time. His two most favortie things in the world! Hahaha! So, Kindergarten pretty much rocks for Bradyn.
Those are two girls from his Preschool class a year ago. The one wearing pink with the "demure" look on her face is Ellie (shorter one). She will one day be my daughter-in-law so go ahead and get to know her face now. I have already informed her mother that Ellie and Bradyn will make beautiful grandbabies for us ... And Ellie is the youngest of three, with two older brothers she frequently beats the hell out of. She is a spirtfire and I know she can keep my Bradyn in line as any good woman should. Most important, she loves me and hugs me whenever I see her. So I know I will have one daughter in law I like. Drew's current girlfriend is growing one me. Like Drew, she is quirky and a little strange, but she is incredibly intelligent and actually enjoyable to talk to. She'll be the griflriend I have always predicted he will bring home ... The one from Harvard with a black turtleneck on drinking coffee like it is going out of style and secretly exchanging glances with Drew to inform him of how insiginificant his familt is in scholarly circles. Fortunately, I will have my sister-in-law Sarah to talk about who will be some world renowned psychologist by that time, who has discovered her own personal psychological theory that everyone in academic circles will be buzzing about. Yep, I can say, "oh yeah Drew's snotty girlfriend, THAT is my SISTER!" hahah!
Drew loves middle school. He has decided that is fits his academic and social needs much better than elementary school ever could. His favorite part so far is that he has his own locker. Uh-huh. I asked if he wanted crap for his locker to decorate it (because that is what I did when I was in school!)and he sort of looked at me like I was some damned fool. I forget he is a boy some days and that what was cool for me as an 11 year-old girl is not so cool for him as a boy. His first school dance is at the end of October (think really, really, really, sad junior high stomp and you will get the picture). Of course, since we are not in Utah everyone thinks they have to have a date to take to the really sad junior high stomp. Drew told us he wanted to take Jacquie. Current girlfriend. Jon and I both stared at him and I stated the obvious, "Drew, that's sort of like a date and you know the rule, we don't date until we are 16 and you can actually DRIVE your date." He said, "uh, mom, no, everyone is asking someone." I said, "uh Drew, no, you aren't everyone." (As I thought to myself, holy crap, I sound like my parents.)Jon then stated the SUPER obvious, "Drew, how are you going to get there? Are you going to put some pegs on the back of your bike so you can have Jacquie stand on the back?" Then Jon started laughing hysterically. Jon is an idiot when it comes to these tender parenting moments where I am trying deperately to state to Drew the obvious reasons why dating is stupid before you are 16, ie:driving the date and not having your parents drive you. Drew, frustrated, replied with something that threw Jon into such fits of laughter he almost drive off of the road. A little background. Drew's lady friend, Jacquie, has a special talent. She rides a unicycle. Now, I have to admit, there must be some school in the ability to ride a unicycle and I am quite amazed that she possesses the abdominal strength to center herself on that thing and stay moviing in a forward motion without falling over. She has to have abs of steel for sure. At any rate, Jacquie, aka Pippi Longstocking, also doesn't give a damn what anyone thinks about her in the cruel, cruel, world we know as middle school. SO, she rides this unicycle from her house to the schoo (and has been for over a year now) despite some of the obvious jeers and jabs from her fellow classmates about the unicycle girl. Some of the boys have tried to ride her unicycle, with no success, and have therefore deemed it "stupid" like anything else an adolescent male cannot conquer it is then deemed, "stupid" and if you can conquer it you are also "stupid". So, Jacquie and her "stupid" unicycle. Drew PROCLAIMS to Jon, "NO!!!! Jacquie has her unicycle and I have my bike so I don't have to put pegs on my bike and "peg her" (terminology for having someone riding standing on the pegs on your back wheel of your bike), she can ride her unicycle! I know, I know. As Jon was almost driving off the road laughing I to burst into tearful laughter. Drew realized the "stupidity" of his own comeback and even he had to smile despite himself. I reiterated, "see Drew, that's why we don't date until we are 16. Can you imagine pulling up to the dance on your bmx bike with Jaquie in tow on her unicycle? I guess you could share a bike lock for ultimate romance?" Oh Drew.
Drew has become victim to fashion divadom and is rather insistent on two things. One item of his clothing has to be sporting some obvious name brand that everyone can see(Aeropostale, Abercrombie, American Eagle, etc.)so that whatever he has paired his ensemble with will cancel out the fact that his jeans, shirt, socks. Whatever, are secretly from Walmart, Target, or JCPenney's. Oh, this and his hair has to be "tipped" dyed blonde and messy spiked like an Abercrombie model. I have mastered tipping the hairs at home as well as the cut so we can save money on the little divas getting their hair done professionally at the salon. Bradyn also demands the same updo. It works pretty good. I shave Caesar's butt with the clippers, then I shave the kids heads, then I use one bottle of dye to tip both their heads and put a few streaks in my own hair all in the same day. Caesar, however, does not yet get his hair "tipped and dyed". That would require another box of hair dye.
Caden loves his Nanny. She's 52, has red and gray hair, sounds like a high pitched sing-song cartoon character, frequently wears clothes sporting any and all Disney characters, and she watches Sesame Street with Caden and congratulates him when he poops, farts, or burbs. According to "my Donna" (the name we have given the nanny, Donna, since Bradyn has adoptd her as his very own and gets very upset when anyone else is here with the two of them (ie: Bradyn was home from school one day and Caden was pissed he had to share "my Donna". He was "off" all morning. The next day Bradyn was back to school and Caden was back to himself. Little Turd. So, we now call Donna, "my Donna" for Caden alone., Caden's favorite character on Sesame Street is a toss up between Elmo (Drew's favorite when he was a baby!) or some pink fairy that comes on occasionally and is "new" from when her kids (now in high school) watched Sesame Street, so "my Donna" isn't quite sure who the pink fairy is called, but apparently whenever the fairy comes flying in Caden freaks out and squeels. "My Donna" feeds Caden on demand and I think he might be looking into baby weight watchers before long. She is amazed at how much he eats, and Jon is already telling me he is worried Caden doesn't have the natural switch in his brain to tell him to stop eating! Hahahah! Wrong, he's burning calories like a mad man constantly moving ... He is strong as a freaking ox and almost crawling. I can't believe it. I sit him somewhere on the floor and come back and he is across the room either from scooting or rolling. AUGH! He's almost on the move! He has also discovered that Caesar's tail is a nice fluffy thing you can take a handful of and not let go. Caesar, fortunately, has lost his will to fight anymore and complies well with his new playmates abusive play style.
Jon is mourning the loss of his great Tom Brady to a first quarter, first game of the year, season ending ACL injury. How sports enthused did I just sound in that last sentence? I almost sounded like I knew what I was talking about! = ) I'm running for our local town school board, and elections are Ocotober 7th. Gooooooo Eldridge. I have the backing of the school board president, etc. and only one person I am running against. I am pimping out the kids to wear bumper stickers on their backpacks saying, "Vote for my Mom", etc. Wait for election day, I will eb the one with my WHOLE family, dog included, outside of the polls meeting and greeting in GOOOOOOO Eldridge t-shirts or something. There is a public forum on the 29th September and I am on the docket for that. Not sure WHAT that entails, but I think it is say a few words and answer a few questions. I am acutally looking forward to it and hope the campaign is successful. Our little town is failry economically challenged in a lot of areas, but it has a lot of revitilzation potential, and I would love to be able to be on the school board and make sure the kids in this town are getting every educational advantage possible. Wait and see.
Jon and I (how weird is that?) are still working for the same company. Jon still thinks he is my boss although we work for completely different divisions. My boss had to inform him that he was indeed NOT my boss and if he decided to jump ship and come to our division she would not hire him because I already worked there and had seniority in that division. Jon still says he's my boss ... An a multi billion dollar worldwide company with multiple divisions ... He's still my boss. Fool. I like the new job, it's interesting and entertaining. For those of you that don't know, I am the new wekk paid babysitter of 120+ engineers on the east coast and southern states. I am essentially like the den mother who manages play time which for them is work time. I make sure they use their purchase cards correctly, keep their finances in order, don't tick off the clients, actually work and stay on task, and then I solve their PDA problems which somehow occur multiple times a day. It requires dealing with millions of dollars and math. IT scares the shit out of Jon that his company (remember, he thinks he is my boss) trusts my math and their money. But, the computer (Excel)is pretty idiot proof and I don't have to use algebra (even though my teachers always told me when I had a job one day when I was an adult algebra would be required ... Liars.)I work from home, the epicenter of babysitting operations, which works well for me. I am set up with a laptop, to many programs to count on the computer, various expensive office type things like copiers, files, etc. From my office I can literally track my little darling's if I so desire (a really cool little function)to make sure they are working and not at home in their parents basment talking to babes on the computer. My new gig has proven to be much like parenting three boys. Sometimes I have to scold them and tell them their communication and work ethic is about two notches above that of a baboon. Notice I didn't say a rheese monkey, the one's that can do sign language? No, rheese monkey's are smarter than most of them. I said, baboon.
Engineers are an interesting bunch. They are very analytical, which you know I am obviously not, and we have to find a groove somewhere in between their lack of personality and my sarcastic overabundance. For instance, some have called me on occasion and they always start the conversation the same way, "uh, Cortney, I screwed up when I was entering materials into my PDA, I think it is all messed up now." On days I am feeling rather sarcastic, most days, I will sit there in silence for a moment (judging the timing of that moment is critical, wait to long and I have an engineer on the phone panicking going, "Cortney, Cortney, are you still there?!?!), then I will say, "I'm sorry. You're fired." Again, there is that awkward moment of silence where you have to wait just the right amount of time before you come back with, "Relax, I'm kidding!" BUT, if you wait longer than a millisecond longer than the precise amount of time for that "moment" you have a panicked engineer sputtering, "well, uh, it's this PDA, I don't get it and noone else does either and ..." It is then that I have to talk them off the ledge and explain the fine art of sarcasm to them and that they are NOT fired and we can get through this PDA disaster one step at a time. AUGH! A few of my engineers call me ... daily. I wasn't really sure why for the first week or so. They never seemed to have life threatening or relevant questions ... It was then that I realized they were lonely and using me as either a pseudo cyberspace girlfriend, counselor, or medical doctor. Oh yes, I have solved such ailments as, "my stomache hurts today, I think it is what I ate last night" followed by a 30 minute explanation about Stouffer's mini pizzas and how to "doctor them up just right with extra cheese and peppers", but "do you think hot sauce goes bad after it has been in your friedge for over a year" because "I used that on my pizza to and I think it made me sick". My response? "General rule of thumb, clean your fridge once a month. That's gross you have seomthing in there that is over a year old! You must be single, right?" This was met with a chuckle and a, "uh, yeah, how did you know ... So do you think the hot sauce was bad?" My response, "yes, it was bad, take a tums, drink some water, quit eating stouffers mini pizzas you doctor up yourself with refrigerator remnants over a year old."
Then there was the, "Cortney, I fired an engineer yesterday and this morning one quit!" "Um, okay." This segued into, "and you know what ... I can't believe the one quit this morning because I have known him for over ten years and there was no explanation no warning no 2 weeks (this is where I think I hear a little emotion welling up with a sniffle from the chief engineer of the southeastern division)." It was as if his girlfriend/wife had left him without warning. I spent the next hour and a half, not kidding, talking this guy through the firing and quitting of his two employees and how it was not his fault, he was a good boss, and there were lots of other engineers out there that needed a job and he would find two that would be perfect for his team. Can you imagine this conversation for one and one half hours. This was crisis intervention and thank the Maker I have a psychology background so I could use big words like, "self-esteem, coping, concerned, and "I" messages (I understand, I feel like, I am hearing, you know the drill)" The other day I received an e-mail stating an engineer was "no longer with the company" and his PDA would probably not be able to be "recycled" because it was in pieces. I read between the lines and just imagined an engineer reaching his wits end and threatening a small group of innocent bystanders as he threw his PDA to the ground and stomped on it repeatedly yelling out words not fit for retype. I don't know if this is what happened, but my imagination has told me that is what happened. Why the hell else is his PDA in pieces?
I have had to "break up" with two of my engineers. They know I'm married, they know I have kids, they have no idea what I look like, but they still started to cross the "weird" line. Ie: one called me from home at night, left me some message about calling him and did I know this was his home number he was calling me from and I furhter did I know I could call him ANYTIME and it didn't have to be about work? What the hell? The next day he called me in the a.m. (of course he did) and I said, "um, yeah, got your message, did you need something in particular?" He responded with, "no, but did you get that I was calling you from home, did you see my home number, did you know you can call me at home even if it's not about work, okay?" My jaw hit the ground as I imagined some lonely little fellow that lived in his parents basement calling me and leaving me a message on his speaker phone trying to act like a cool dude while his other 40-something fellow basement dwellers listened in. I tried to be kind given this image I had concocted in my head. "Um, you know I'm married, right?" Uh, yeah, I know that. "Uh, you know I have three, count them, THREE kids, right?" Um, yeah, I was just saying you know if you ever ... I finally had to just let him think his advances were not unwarranted and I said, "oh, so and so, you don't even know what I look like, what if I am a 600 lb cookie eating greasy red head?" He laughed and said, "Oh, Cortney, you're so funny. I am so glad you work here. You make our days brighter." Crap. I finally said, "oh so and so, I am so happy I can make your day brighter, but please know that I will never, ever call you at home because company policy prevents me from calling people at home ... Ever... Under any circumstance ... And I have three kids to feed, so I have to follow policy." I think it shut him down. Then I had a chief engineer call me and ask exactly "what" I had said to so "intrigue" his engineer that the engineer called to let his chief know he would be "driving to New Hampshire" tht evening to "meet Cortney in person". I recalled the conversation and thought, good hell. I think I told him to have a good day and maybe laughed at his stellar attempt at humor, not sure. Apparently I so beguiled him that he thought an in person visit was in order. I informed his chief that my husband was a large and jealous man who also worked for the company and was at the proverbial "top" of the company food chain and he would probably not appreciate some random engineer showing up on my doorstep to meet me in person ... Even if it was innocent enough. The engineer gave me a nervous laugh and said, "uh, okay, but I can't proimise anything with this one." What!?!?!? Fortunately, the New Hampshire roadtrip was cancelled and this engineer has limited our liasons to phone calls. I think we have to break up this week. He calls to often and I have to much work to do. My favortie part is when I END the conversation with them and I say, "well, I better let you go, my inbox is larger than my outbox, you have a good day!" and then there is this awkward silence where they start to stammer like a teenage boy and say, "uh, yeah, uh, I was just saying, uh yeah, I gotta get going to, I got a lot of work, but you know that!" Honestly.
So, I serve as counselor, den mother, doctor, financial analyst, computer specialist, and pseudo cyber-girlfriend for all the 40 somethings living in their parent's basement with the sweet shag carpeting and a speaker phone they share with friends to hear my voice. Uck. BUT, there is also a majority of engineers who serve as big brothers or father figures to me. They ask if the other engineers are "talking nice" to me and "acting like gentleman" and to "let them know" if anyone steps out of line and they will "take care of it". Some are grandpa types that ask about my boys, their ages, and if I got them all successfully off to school that morning and still kept my sanity intact. And some know my husband works in the upper eschalons of the company, even though I repeat it is a DIFFERENT division, and they kiss my butt thinking he can get them an interview with corporate if they are nice to me. My boss told me one thing when she hired me, "Cortney, you will never be bored." She was right.
That's about it for now. I have written far to much because it has been far to long. I sort of miss my old friend, the computer/counselor to vent my feelings to and throw out there into cyberspace. Haha!

MY MULLET HUNTING FASCINATON ...

I'm not really sure where the whole fascination with Mullets began for me ... I think it started when my little sister, Kati, introduced me to the "phenomenon" that I just knew as a haircut sported by every football player/cowboy etc. in my school during the late 80's early 90's time frame. My younger sister (10 years younger) informed me that this coif' was not just a way to do one's hair, but a lifestyle with dedicated followers AND hunters. So began my fascination with the mullet, it's mullet counterparts, and all things mullet. Here in New Hampshire, the mullets roam free across their natural terrain,

NH MULLET AS SEEN IN THE WILD ... HUNTED UNDER DURESS

(I think the state logo,"Live Free or Die" should be changed to "Sport Mullet ..or Die".) A NH mullet is often seen in any type of store that sales bait and hot dogs in the same locale. In NH, there is usually also a handmade sign that states, "WICKED GOOD WHOOPIE PIES HERE!".

I have, unfortuantely, witnessed the child abuse of mini-mullet coifs at school functions where the little abuse victims have no idea their mullet (matching mommies AND daddies mullet) is really an indicator that your family loves pork rinds and RC Colas, or whooppie pies and fluffernutters (another blog for another day ... yes, fluffernutters are a food, and yes, only a Yankee could have invented such a foul concoction), as in Yankee land.

I have not hunted the mullet in quite some time, Jon tells me it has something to do with me being a mom now and maybe going to jail and setting an example or something like that. Kati (little sister) has carried on the torch and she and I occasionally will call one another via camera phone to show a particularly stunning mullet worthy of hunt status, roaming free in the wild. Recently, I came across a NH mullet that insisted it was a "shag". The mullet was so obviously NOT a shag and so very stunning that I had to revisit my love/fascination of the mullet via the web to make sure my mullet sighting skills had not been depleted after years of being mullet hunting free. Yes, this mullet was seen in the wild and the picture was taken under duress.

To the web I went. Mullet sites have come a long way in a few years. There are pictures, classifications, descriptions (in detail from the femlet to the mulletino) and many tips and tricks to hunting your own mullet. Please see below some tips and tricks I gathered from the web if you would like to enter to world of professional mullet hunting. The link above will take you to a professional mullet hunter's experience in case you need more pointers.

Happy Hunting ...


Cortney - aka "retired mullet hunter"

Hunting Techniques

These are the techniques that have worked for hunting thus far.

STEALTH: The pic is taken from a distance or behind an object (tree, car, etc.) The mullet usually has no idea you have hunted him. It's a really good technique to use when you sense the mulletude and you need the pic.

RESULT: Pictures are usually too far to be useable (unless you have a good zoom) but you walk away unharmed.

BAIT: (Most common) You have a friend stand next to the mullet and pretend like you're taking a picture of a friend (the bait). This works well because you can get a nice close up of the mullet. You might get a few strange looks from the prey...but whatever, that's part of the fun of hunting.

RESULT:Decent pics with minimal risk of physical harm.

GUERILLA:(My favorite) Walk straight up to the mullet and snap the pic in their face (3/4 head shot is best). This will cause a reaction of confusion and bewilderment. It's totally legal, so don't sketch. It's up to you how to handle the post-hunt reaction. Your main focus should be to somehow distract/confuse the mullet. (Fortunately, mullets are easily distracted and not difficult to confuse) You'll need to divert their attention from what has just happened. You will have to make quick, instinctive and reactionary type decisions. For example, if you're sensing that the mullet is not going for the whole distraction angle, you might have take off running. Keep in mind that every case is different, therefore each post-hunt reaction will be also. Obviously, this is a very dangerous technique that should only be practiced by the most CONFIDENT of hunters.

RESULT: Almost ALWAYS, this technique gets you the best pics. Unfortunately, there is a REAL possibility you could get your ass kicked.

My sister Kati has been known to employ this hunting tactic as seen below... the CALL OUT.

CALL OUT: It involves going right up to the Mullet and Calling him/her out.

Hunter: " Hey Dude, that's a stylin' Mullet"
Mullet: "Huh?"
Hunter: "Yeah man, it takes balls to sport that hair"
Mullet: "Huh?"
Hunter: (Say it fast for confusion) "Oh Yeah, It's the Mullet, Camaro Hair, The Charlotte Mud Flap, The Kentucky Waterfall, Hockey Hair, the 10-90, the Achy-Breaky- Big-Mistakey, the Ape Drape. You know, the only hair style that has web pages devoted to it."
Mullet: "Huh?"
Hunter: "Do you mind if I get your photo? I'm going to put you on the Internet. You will be famous."
Mullet: "OK"
Hunter: "Please turn sideways so I can get a good shot" Click. "Thanks."

DIRTY TACTICS: First hold up the camera, then turn and ask a friend if the flash is on . Your friend answers that he/she doesn't know, and for you to try the camera to see. Quickly aim the camera towards the mullet you desire to capture on film and snap the picture in their face. Say "oops! sorry dude. by the way, nice mull!" Walk away calmly, leaving the mull in confusion, as though nothing ever happened.
Mullet Junkies -Jessica & Liz, VA

* One more thing: Always keep your camera with you. I'm sick of hearing the, "I saw this GREAT mullet at the supermarket, but I didn't have my camera" story.

Happy hunting,
-Me

The Good Wife's Guide ... Revised

An oldie, but it never gets old! Please see the good wife’s guide on the link below ... then see my REALITY version! Cort

http://www.samtsai.com/p419/the-good-wifes-guide-guys-favorite

Just in case any of you were wondering what you are supposed to do when you husband comes home from work, here are a few tips to follow. I always do this for Jon!
Oh wait, no, here is the reality …

“Have dinner ready, plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious dinner ready … most men are hungry when they come home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed …”
Have the number to the local pizza place on speed dial. If you don’t have one close, make sure you always have bacon in the fridge. Your husband may not appreciate hours spent on a new chicken dish, but put a slap of heaping bacon in front of him and he and his cholesterol-clogged arteries will thank you.

“Prepare yourself, take 15 minutes to rest so you’ll be refreshed when he arrives…”
Lock yourself in the bathroom or bedroom away from your children. If you are lucky, your children will give up beating on the door after 5 minutes and will trun their efforts to destroying your house or beating one another. This will provide you with time to rethink your life’s direction before your husband comes home.

“Be a little gay … his boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it …”
Be a little gay? My neighbor actually has a recurring “girls gone wild” fantasy world he lives in. Perhaps this means purchase the latest, “Girls Gone Wild, Co-Eds on Parade” so that your husband can see a little pretend lesbian gay on the television? Not sure.

“Clear away the clutter … make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives …”
Kick a trail through assorted children and dog toys from the front door to the kitchen. After all, when your husband comes home he will immediately start removing his work clothes and throwing them wherever they land on his way to the kitchen to give the fridge a hug and a kiss… you don’t want him tripping on his way!

“Gather up school books, etc. … run a dustcloth over the tables …”
Brush away all chunks from the table, open the back door and let your dog in to clean the floor. Sometimes the dog (if you have a cat-dog like ours), will step onto the counter or table. This just saves dusting for you as the dogs furry butt will slide across the dusty table removing any dusting work for you. Remove the dog from the counter/table.

“Over the cooler months of the year, you should prepare and light a fire …after all catering for his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction…”
Give the children a book of matches to play with. They should have a roaring fire started on the living room carpet within moments. For a special treat, sometimes the children will light the dog’s tail on fire. Flame propellants, such as lighter fluid and gasoline, should be left where children can explore the possibilities. Your husband will enjoy the fact that his son’s can create fire in his absence, and then they can all pee on it together. It will provide an important moment of bonding.

“Prepare the children … take a few moments and wash their hands and faces, comb their hair, and if necessary change their clothes. They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part … minimize noise … try to encourage the children to be quiet …”
Prepare the children … take a few moments to threaten them about their recent fire lighting escapades with the “death whisper”. Wrap your husband’s little treasures hands with rope so that they can not wreak further havoc. This is, of course, after you have locked yourself in the bedroom/bathroom for 15 minutes. Never bind your children with rope in anger. Encourage the children to shut up by using threatening phrases such as, “wait until your dad gets home”.

“Be happy to see him …greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity when you greet him”
Sincerely offer him his bound and gagged children with a smile indicating you are happy that he is home and you are now off duty.

“Listen to him, you may have a list of things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours …”
As your husband unbinds and de-gags his “little treasures” hold off on telling him that the youngest called 911 and that the city will be billing him for the “false alarm”. Remember, his news of the fabulous place he had lunch, with real live adults and real food, is far more important.

“Make the evening his … never complain if he goes out to dinner or other places of entertainment. Instead, try to understand his world of strain and pressure and his very real need to be at home and relax…”
Make the evening all about him. If your husband goes out to “other places of entertainment”, don’t hesitate to call the local authorities to pick him up and bring him home so that he can take care of the children as you make travel arrangements to your mother’s and consult with the divorce attorney.

“Your goal, try to make sure your home is a place of peace, tranquility … where your husband can renew himself in body and spirit.”
See gag and bind the children. Tell your husband to find himself in the yard, with his lawnmower, renewed by mother nature in her bounty. Your husband will appreciate any opportunity to utilize tools of power (ie: lawnmower, weedwacker, etc.) to fend off his stressful day.

“Don’t greet him with complaints and problems …”
See hold off on telling him about the 911 call … and the fact that your oldest checked the aerodynamics of the dog … and they weren’t that good.

“Don’t complain if he’s home late for dinner … or even gone all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through all day.”
Don’t be home if he’s late … especially if he’s gone all night. Leave a cheerful note explaining to him that he can now have all the peace and tranquility he needs … as long as he makes sure your monthly alimony and child support check isn’t late.

“Make him comfortable, have him lean back in a comfortable chair … have a cool or warm drink ready for him.”
Offer him something with hard liquor. After all, you’ve been drinking all day, perhaps if you are both loaded the children won’t seem “that bad”?

“Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes … speak in a low, soothing voice.”
Resist the urge to arrange a pillow over his head if he complains about dinner. Speak in a low, soothing death tone telling him that you have been with “his” children all day and the last thing you want to hear is a complaint about the pile of bacon you just gave him for dinner.

“Don’t ask him questions or question his judgement … he is the master of the house and will exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness … you have no right to question him.”
Allow your husband to feel like he is in charge. In fact, tell him that he IS in charge of his “little treasures” as you leave the house in a dead sprint. Allow him to be the “master” of his house without you assisting. Let him rule his kingdom and his “little treasures”.

“A good wife always knows her place…”
A good wife knows she is better off at the day spa.

As Always,
Cortney

Campinng at Patuckaway State Park 2007

CAMPING AT PATUCKAWAY STATE PARK ...

Early in the Summer, we went camping with friends to Patackuway State Park. It was absolutely GORGEOUS there. Our campsite was literally at the edge of our own little private beach. There were a family of ducks (and by the end of our time there, I am fairly certain they had invited friends) who were OBVIOUSLY domesticated. They walked right into our campsite, the mother and babies, and we of course obliged and the kids managed to feed them AT LEAST 2 boxes of fishy crackers, and graham crackers. The second day we were there, I was up earlier than anyone else and started to make breakfast. In a moment, there were the ducks, ready for breakfast. Since I was the only one in sight, they actually ate right out of my hand and we chatted about the morning. Yes, not only did I camp, I talked to the wildlife. We attempted to go on a hike, but apparently hiking through a "marshland" in muggy weather is not the best idea. I think the blackflies and mosquitos had not seen human flesh in that part of the woods all year! THe further into the hike we got, the more we noticed the bugs seemed to be getting more "aggressive". Jon swears they were organizing troops and executing advanced "dive bombing" missions. Our friends, Candy and her son Tyler, went ahead of the group to scout out the situation to see if we should even go on. After a few minutes, we suddenly see Candy and Tyler running and flailing their arms coming at us screaming, "RUN!!!" with a cloud of dive bombing bugs in their wake! I WISH I had captured that picture. Apparently, further up the trail, and the fact that Candy and Tyler had not taken any reinforcements, the black flies and mosquitos organized a posse to take them out. They were helpless to the bugs masterplanned attack, and Candy grabbed Tyler, attached him firmly to her side, and started to RUN back to the rest of us. She finally dropped Tyler, and started flailing her arms to warn the rest of us. We all started running back out of the woods screaming. Needless to say, we packed in the whole hiking idea and finished up the day at the beach. The kids had a blast and Jon and I loved being able to "relax" for just a minute! Yes, there was even wildlife at the beach. These geese and their babies all of a sudden marched right onto the beach, in the middle of crowds, and went right into the water with everyone! It was hilarous. They acted as if they were just out for a day at the beach like everyone else as people on the beach and in the water stood by slack jawed. Of course, it didn't take long for the geese to become more than any kid could handle, and there were kids trying to "catch" them. They geese swam around for a minute, left the water, then proceeded to sun themselves on the beach for awhile. I got some great shots. Candy had a bit of a mexican stand off with the "head" of the pack when she tried to take some pictures and feed them! All in all, despite the kids pyromania at the camp fire and my boys melt down over cheesy poofs (another story, for another day, jsut know that standing between Bradyn and a 5 lb container of cheesy poofs is like holding a bleeding fish out in front of a shark and telling him he can't have it ... madness did ensue) it was a great trip.