Poopy Paul

The bus ride to school when I was growing up was a good, long, hour. That is a looong time for a bunch of bored, car sick kids to be in such close quarters and be expected to not agitate the driver and each other to the point of justifiable homicide. Yes, the bus ride was a microcosm unto itself where dramas, arguments, humiliations, miniature Greek tragedies and love stories all unfolded before we even got to school.

Case in point: Poopy Paul

Oh Poopy Paul. Regularly, but more often on long hot days, when the ride seemed longer than ever, there would arise an unmistakable stench. Not the stench of car sickness that alerted all in the back of the bus to put their feet up on their seats to avoid the inevitable tide of barf that would slowly cover the length of the bus as it traveled the inclines of our route. Nope, I mean the stank of poo.

Now, somewhere along the way, although nobody really knows how or when, it had been determined through no means fair, logical or evidentiary, that Paul was the source of the smell. Paul was just an ordinary second grader, with probably no more skid marks in his underoos than any other boy on that bus, but nevertheless, he was christened a new name, “Poopy Paul”, and given the unsavory and humiliating credit for all odors great and small.

One day when the ride was longer, hotter and more boring than usual, a stank began to emerge. No ordinary stank, but one of gag reflex inducing proportions. Quickly, the children all began to wail and moan and gesture toward Poopy Paul with one hand while holding their noses with the other and creating
such a commotion, that the bus driver pulled over abruptly to see what was going on. The children, all eagerly pointed out with certainty, “Poopy Paul! He’s pooped his pants again!” (Bear in mind, that any previous pants poopings were all mere conjecture on our part).

What we saw next, will forever be etched in my mind. The bus driver, annoyed and concerned, lumbered back to where Paul was sitting, and leaned over him to loudly inquire as to the cleanliness of his pants, and as he shook his head furiously in denial, his face turning all shades of crimson, she stood him up and quickly pulled the back of his pants away from his body a few inches and took a peek inside for visual verification. There was no poop to be found. At least not on Paul.

Screams of laughter echoed though the bus as the driver, turning her own special shade of crimson, hurried back to her helm to get us all home and the heck off of her bus as quickly as possible. The fact that Paul had indeed NOT been poopy after all, was of little consequence. He continued to hold the moniker and be the subject of whispers, points and giggles. The only "good" thing to come out of this situation, if one were to insist on finding one, is that he always had a seat to himself, since nobody would sit by him. I imagine he would have gladly traded the extra leg room for a new nickname and a few friends.

As for Poopy Paul, I can only imagine how that day must forever remain gashed into his psyche. Soon after, his family moved to Switzerland, where hopefully, henceforth and forever he was known simply as “Paul.” Sorry Paul.

The Ghost of Sophronia Hodgett

Once upon a time, a family of City Slickers (OK, my family... play along), moved to an ancient farmhouse, far, far away. This house stood tall and brave amidst a swirling sea of wheat, yet small and timid at the feet of the blue mountains that it was nestled against.

While the City Slickers realized that they had not technically moved into the middle of nowhere, they definitely were somewhere on the outskirts of nowhere, and aside from the thrill of watching the combine steadily pace back and forth across the fields like a worried parent, it soon became obvious that entertaining themselves would require some creativity.

Propping itself up awkwardly in an unsure manner, was a chicken coop in the brambly pasture adjacent to the house. City Slicker Mom, having no interest whatsoever in the foul business of... foul, helped City Slicker Kids, instead, outfit the structure with a disco ball, a rickety wagon wheel table & chairs found abandoned in the garage and a karaoke machine. City Slicker Mom is pretty sure she saw Combine Guy shaking his head, weary with disgust.

Keeping a watchful eye on City Slicker family from the hill just above ancient farmhouse, was the town cemetery. City Slicker family had just barely recovered from the excitement of driving 10 miles to watch a grass fire smolder (I told you they had to be creative) when they decided to make their way up to this cemetery and check it out.

Approaching the entrance, City Slicker Family was immediately intrigued by the look and feel of the place. Grave markers and obelisks jutted up from the ground at all angles like crooked teeth and melancholy angel statues gazed lovingly down as they stood watch over the dearly departed. As the kids flitted from one faded, crumbling marker to another, trying to find the oldest among them (1878 BTW), the Mom couldn't help but fixate on a section fenced off with ornate, black wrought iron, where 6 children lie buried together having died within weeks of each other, over 90 years ago and try to imagine how this came to be, and how a mother could muster the strength to go on after such tragedy.

While the mom solemnly and intently walked up and down the rows, giving each marker it's due respect, the kids excitedly scrambled from one to another, often calling out to the others, "look at this one, he died in 1895", or "look at this one, it is so pretty", and eldest City Slicker Girl sadly noted one child, who died on her own birthday decades earlier.

Suddenly... as City Slicker Baby(4years old) brushed past a dark, imposing obelisk, City Slicker Mom heard a scream and turned to see the crumbling masonry fall from it's pedestal toward her youngest child. Fortunately, the angels standing guard that day, were in no mood for another charge and the monument merely bruised and scraped City Slicker Baby on it's way down where it landed with a resounding thud against the moist grass.

As the mother quickly scooped up her child and willed her own heart to resume beating, she noticed the inscription on the stone and read it out loud, "Sophronia Hodgett, 1842-1897." City Slicker Boy, now certain that they were all cursed and therefore also doomed (DOOMED, I tell you... DOOMED!)frantically motioned toward the car, exclaiming, "I vote we leave, NOW!!" "Curse you Sophronia Hodgett... Curse You!" Proclaimed Eldest City Slicker Girl with a defiantly upraised fist, which she shook in the general direction of the fallen marker as City Slicker Family scampered quickly back to their car and peeled out of the parking lot back to their ancient farmhouse.

For the entire year that City Slicker Family resided amongst the swirling wheat field, nestled against the blue mountains under the watchful eye of the cemetary, they were aware that they were never alone... amongst the angels and sentinals on the hill above them, was Sophronia Hodgett, patiently biding her time...

New age pet-ownership

Logan is working on her "Beary Special Person" poster for first grade and under the category "pets", the poor thing, not wanting to appear the ONLY pet less child in her school (she pretty much is), wrote; squirrels and birds. We actually do have numerous squirrels and birds in the back yard and we even feed them from time to time. That technically makes them our "pets", right? Everyone else has a hamster or dog or a chinchilla, but not us. Because I am a mean mom. That and because we have managed to kill off every other pet that we have had, aside from the Border Collie that we gave away when we moved back to the burbs from the farm, although, truth be told, I wanted to kill it too on numerous occasions.

The goldfish never made it past the first water change, the hermit crabs (supposedly hard to kill... I like a challenge)stopped coming out of their shells, and Lindsey's classroom pet hamster that we were charges with for the weekend... did not live to see Sunday. The dog? Pepper had a voracious appetite for shoes (brand NEW shoes) full cases of TP from Costco, full cases of ramen, toys and pretty much anything not nailed down. If we left anything out for even a minute- he ate it. I grew weary of this game quickly. That and the poop. Oh the poop. Don't get me started.

When we moved back to the burbs, we found a kindly old farmer to adopt Pepper and train him to be a cow dog. Really, this is a Border Collie's dream come true, but try telling my kids this. Oh well, the money I save on replacing shredded shoes, I suppose I'll spend later on therapy trying to repair the emotional damage sustained by the kids by not bringing him with us.

The weird thing is, I grew up with a crazy menagerie of animals. Besides a plethora of dogs and cats, there was the hawk (for realz!), the fox, the skunk, Sweetpea (for realzz!!), pigs, chickens, a cockatoo that would call for the dog and make him crazy, the gigantic, miniature, lop eared rabbit with a temper, the guinea hen, the rat... you get the idea. You would think I'd be all over having animals. Not so much.

Our house always smelled like poo because my parents never house trained anyone (us kids excepted). I remember getting up in the morning and having to clean it up off the carpet. Nasty. Thanks but no thanks, I have 3 kids and therefore plenty of poo in my life. I remember animals dying, having to be put down, being butchered (not all were PETS, some were food), running off and, oh yeah... pooping everywhere.

I guess I am old and uptight, but I DO NOT enjoy being slobbered on (again, 3 kids, got that covered), shedded on (2 of them are girls, check), being prodded in my privates (husband, check), so a dog, which the kids desperately want, is not in my plans. We discovered last year that Logan is allergic to cats, so (yay) no cat.. which is fine, who needs that kind of rejection from a beast you feed and care for (middle schooler, check).

We live in the burbs, so city code prohibits most of my aforementioned childhood pets. So... what's left? Furby's or Tamogatchi's you say? Tried those- wanted to hurl them into oncoming traffic. You know, I am starting to grow attached to those squirrels and birds anyway. They're so, natural, and, cute, and NOT IN MY HOUSE and they hide their poop well (the squirrels anyway- when's the last time you stepped in squirrel poo?) Oh, and I'm pretty sure they're environmentally friendly... yeah, that's the ticket. Yes, maybe we'll edit the "Beary Special" poster to proclaim that we are the proud stewards to many, free range, organic and environmentally friendly squirrels and birds.

YES, THAT"S IT! Maybe I'm not such a meanie after all... MAYBE, I'm an ecofriendly, non-owner, of several, displaced, otherwise homeless, not-oppressed-by-captivity, suburban refugees- displaced by loggers and... beavers...

Future husband of the year

So have you met my son, Trey? Let me introduce you, he is the one over there at the school book fair , holding his little sisters hand (without coercion)and reading her a story to cheer her up because some meanie (me) wouldn't buy her a $4 pointy finger on a stick instead of a book.

Future husband of the year? Highly likely. Brother of the year? Most certainly.

Yesterday at Target while perusing the Halloween costumes, Logan (6yo little sister) announces that she no longer wants to dress up as an Ipod shuffle (good- cuz, they don't sell those costumes at Target, and now I won't be up until 4am Oct 31st with hot glue gun scars up and down my arms...), but rather, a witch. I asked her whether she wanted to be a beautiful or a scary witch. She answered, "Beautiful", to which Trey immediately replied, "No, be a scary witch, you're always beautiful!" Wow. Another mother in the aisle, hearing this exchange, picked her jaw up off the floor, wiped away a tear and said, "did he really just say that?". He sure did, and you know what? It is par for the course. I kid you not.

Even when he was littler, whenever he hurt himself and I would say, "I'm so sorry", he would reply, "It's not your fault!" Or now, whenever he hears me yelp from stubbing my toe on a Nerf gun, or stepping barefoot on a lego, he immediately drops what he is doing to see if I am OK. If there's a problem, YO, he'll solve it. He is helpful, loving and dang cute. What can I say? I don't just love this kid because I'm his mom... I like him- a lot.

So, yes, this is also the same brother who hid a remote control whoopie cushion under Lindsey's (11yo older sister) drum set so that it would loudly erupt just as she sat down with her kinda cute, college age drum teacher and the same brother who routinely terrorizes said same sister and best friend with showers of Nerf darts, but on the whole, especially when it comes to Logan, it is a wonder to behold.

So, future, potential daughters-in-law, I will have my eye on you... I'm not letting this little dude go so easily, even though, he'll be a big dude by then and I'll have no say what-so-ever... still.

When's your baby due?

I have very big feet. Size 10 or 11 depending upon the shoe, and through the course of my life, they have ended up in my even bigger mouth on numerous occasions. As I have matured (quit laughing, those of you who know me) over the years, I have tried to be more careful and am quite good at avoiding the mother of all unintended insults... the "when is your baby due?" to a person who is NOT pregnant. Too bad for me- others have not.

I am what you might describe as "gently rounded" or, "full figured". I have come to grips with this reality over the years, and while I always aspire to be healthier and have more energy and would love to be in better shape, I don't obsess about it or actually give it a whole lot of though at all anymore for that matter. I am pretty happy in my skin and my husband still finds me attractive. I spent the bulk of my adolescent trying to change myself and killing myself to be thinner through a variety of methods that I do not recommend (I was SKINNY back then BTW, and just didn't realize it!).

So there I was, the other day, out to lunch with some women from church that I don't know very well and as we were leaving, one of them said, "So, are you pregnant or something?" Without skipping a beat, I replied, "nope, just fat!" She was so embarrassed, she forgot to apologize. A while back, someone else asked me the same thing when she congratulated me while gesturing toward my midsection. The time before that, (yes, it has happend 5 different time, but who's counting?) I guess I was less offended because I had JUST given birth a couple of days before, and I WAS still wearing maternity clothes and buying NURSING BRAS. The fact is though, my baby weight is now 6 years old. I'm holding onto it for sentimental reasons... yeah, that's it!

So, OK, I get it, it wouldn't kill me to take the stairs now and then... but really people, let's be more careful. I have learned how to avoid doing this to others and I shall now share these methods with you all. I can handle the assumption regarding my Rubenesque curves because I am so over it... but I know a lot of other women who would be shattered and sent straight into the arms of some ill-advised dieting scam as a result of such a thoughtless comment.

Method #1 (for the woman who has no children yet):
"So, do you think you might have kids some day?" If she's preggers, she will be so flattered that you couldn't tell, and it not, it's a great way to get to know whomever, better.

Method #2 (for those who already have kiddos):
"Little Frankie is so adorable. Do you ever think about having another." Again, if she is in the family way... flattered... if not, no harm, no foul.

So my friends, now you have the tools to be nosy without sending your possibly pregnant, probably just "fluffy" friends away in tears!

BTW, has anyone else ever had this happen? If so, how did you respond? (Besides crying all the way home and eating a salad for dinner?)

Uuum- OK?

Something that makes me crazy(er)

Allowing the noisy (and possibly nonexistent) few, to run the show.

I am not talking big time politics or anything that lofty at all. Just the day to day stuff. For example: one mother's claim at a PTO meeting last year, that "people" are upset, because the kindergartners get more $ per person for their classroom parties than the older kids, so we need to slash their budget. "People"?? Really? As I sit with my jaw resting on my shoes, the PTO folds to this menacing and overwhelming crowd of "people" represented by in fact ONE lady who seems to be the only one fielding these complaints. To the PTO's credit, they realized the scam and unfolded on this issue.

Yes, those are the scenarios that get me, the anonymous and impossible to quantify "people", or "parents" who complain about something, and therefore the world must stop what it is doing, validate the complaint, without checking as to it's legitimacy, or EVER naming a complainant, and automatically accommodate the demands.

Claiming that "People" and "Parents" are concerned, or complaining about something is such a brilliant and cowardly way to inflate the urgency and seriousness of an issue without having to address it head on. The reality is, it is an attempt to make it sound like a large group of people has spoken out about a concern, when the reality might be that ONE or TWO people may or may not have complained, and even then, that anonymous one or two, might be the very people who are reporting and acting on the complaints as if they came from the angry mob, and not them, because they don't have the guts to just say what is on their mind and they prefer to pretend that they are only doing what "people" are demanding... whether or not the demand holds any credibility strangely, rarely seems to matter.

That is all.

I've been unfaithful

I kept going back, like a woman keeps returning to an abusive lover. I think,"this time it will be different", "they can't all be bad", or "THIS one is in a swanky neighborhood, how bad can it be?". Where in the name of Mike do I mean? Well, it's a place who's name I shall keep on the down low to protect the innocent, but it rhymes with Great Clips.(stolen Bossy device there)

One of the major flaws in their system is that you do not get to pick the stylist, you get whoever is available when your name comes up. Years ago, I was picked by some old guy. I hesitated, but figured, he's probably got a lot of experience??? I optimistically sat down and described in detail what I wanted done. It was not long before I realized that this cut was going very, very wrong. Only then did I notice the small sign at his station that read, "Please speak up, I am hearing impaired." Crap. I left and went straight to another stylist to try to mitigate the damage. Changing stylists isn't an issue with these places, cuz each cut is basically a follicular one night stand.

6 years ago though, I found her. We were set up through a mutual friend, so I thought I'd take a stab. The place was pretty cheesy with black, white and red 80's hair model prints on the walls and dusty silk plants and the name was no better... Classy Lady. In my experience, most things that are self-described as "classy" are, um, not. But she, SHE was the Cambodian mother I always wished I had! Kindly, honest, a little pushy, but in a good way and YES- good at styling hair! Oh, did I mention cheap? And CHEAP!

So, for 6 years now, I have faithfully gone to her time and again and brought my children to their new Cambodian grandmother for reasonably priced cuts, free advice, and yes, all the lollipops my kids can eat. While we wait, my kids take turns sweeping the hair and painting each others nails in her manicure booth. I have confidently sent many friends her way, she is too great to not share!

Then, last spring... my eye began to wander and I asked a woman at church,"who cuts YOUR hair?" This woman I am speaking of always looks AWESOME. I have admired her hair for years but... I was in a committed relationship. It turns out, her daughter is a stylists AND coincidentally, her daughter had donated a haircut certificate to a fundraising auction at church and guess who won? Where "won", means stand up, blocking every one's view and waving my paddle furiously at the auctioneer. ME!

At first, it was just one cut. When I pulled in to Classy Lady after that for my daughter's appointment, I suddenly panicked, because Kim is going to notice that I got my hair cut and she will know that SHE didn't do it! I pulled up my collar as though guiltily covering up a hickey from my parents and went in, mumbling something about a free haircut from someone at church. But, I could see it in her eyes.. she knew there was someone else.

Well, the girl from church just lives down the street and cuts in her kitchen. So, next thing I know, I am taking my daughters there (see pic of 11yo new stylish do)because it is so convenient and also CHEAP aaand, as much as I love Kim, my new hair crush is young and more up to date in her techniques and knowledge of current styles. And so it goes...until one day, I turned over Kim's business card that I keep in my wallet because I couldn't look at that black and red embossed 80's hair model embossed at the top without cringing with guilt at having strayed.

But, really, she has tons of clients... she isn't going to miss me or notice I haven't come around... it's not like we were exclusive.. right? Uh, wrong. I checked my voicemail the other day and my Cambodian mother had left me a message in her broken English. "Margie, I no see you and the kids this summer... school starting, they need cut...I miss you." I literally teared up. She MISSES me. I feel genuinely guilty. I am a haircut whore, I follicle philanderer, a stylist slut. The truth is, I miss her too, but not enough to go back. What do I do?

Yesterday was the LAST DAY OF SUMMER vacation. I seriously blinked, and those long, sunny, lazy days at the pool, driving the kids back and forth to camp and genuine giddiness of not having to be anywhere at any particular time- were gone.

I wanted that last day to last forever. We went to the state fair for the whole day. We rode overpriced rides, ate really greasy food, touched a Llama, saw a cow getting milked, stepped in some poo, ran into some good friends there and had a great day. Before I knew it, it was already 8pm... dang it! So, we all piled onto the ferris wheel, the kind where you sit in a big, round gondola and watched the sparkling lights and thinning crowd as we went around too few times on a ride that seemed so short... not unlike our summer. On the way out, kettle corn and cotton candy to sustain us on the ride home.

Sooo, if my kids have circles under their eyes today and nod off in class- I suppose I am to blame. But here I am after dropping everbody off, feeling very old and missing my kids and looking at the crumpled, half eaten bags of kettle corn and cotton candy on the table, wanting to rush back to the schools to collect them because- look!... we weren't done yet!