Tag Archives: how we do it in the suburbs

Apology, Pet Peeve and Two Horses’ Asses

Dear Internet,

I miss you.

Yes, in these past two weeks, you still see me coming around once in a while, reading articles online, sharing random pictures on Facebook and Twitter, and flirting with my lady friends with my witty one-liner tweets. It has been still only Drive-by Interneting, which in my book does not count as taking care of my second life, my Social Media life.

I have been a bad blogger friend. I am very sorry.

I had to get on the plane for a business trip the day after I got my root canal, which I later realized was only Part 1. The 3-day trip turned into a 4 day trip when I was assigned to a new project. I got home on Friday night, unpacked and then immediately packed for our trip to the Wisconsin Dells. In case you don’t know, Wisconsin Dells is where Kitsch is defined.

“Kitsch is the inability to admit that shit exists.” Milan Kundera

A visit to one of the giant indoor waterpark complexes, actually Ginormous would be the right word used to describe these monsters, is a definite renouncement of hipsterdom, of coolness. Something that declares, “Resistance is futile. The middle America will get you.” A surrender to suburban, bourgeois, parenthood.

There ain’t no shame in that. I guess…

“No matter how much we scorn it, kitsch is an integral part of the human condition.” Again, Milan Kundera

Onward, suburban soldiers!

I enjoyed an hour under Novocaine and laughing gas this Monday to finish my root canal, and as a consequence, for the next couple of days I was keenly aware of the existence of my tooth that’s supposed to be now nerveless (Is that NOT the point of root canal?) while I did the road warrior thing again. On Wednesday night, my flight home was delayed and I have not slept in my own bed for a full night for almost two weeks by now. But of course. I found mouse poo in our pantry. All over. Even on the top shelf. WTF? Flying mice? I spent two hours cleaning and throwing half of the stuff in the pantry away. I set up a trap and yes, I have blood on my hand. Figuratively. The Horror. The Horror. Still, I took a picture, but of course. Maybe soon I will write a post about how I felt like the Mafia this morning and a serial killer by night fall. For now though, before I go upstairs to be with my bed for (oh shit now only) 5 hours, could I just share a pet peeve of mine with you?

This has been bugging me forever... Is it just me?

As for the two horses’ asses in the title… I should not have fact checked. Because I did, I now cannot in good conscience post this interesting FACT about railroad gauges, wagons, wheel ruts, Roman Chariots, horses’ asses, and then back to train tracks and space shuttles. SNOPES.com ruins all the spamming fun… FACTS are sometimes quite inconvenient indeed. Sheesh. I am going to bed.

Affectionately yours,

Signed The Third Horse’s Ass

The Cuckoo and The Choo Choo

28 Replies

I am at the train station again. The one with the Starbucks.

I come here almost every Saturday morning when the kids are in Religious Ed. Free babysitting provided by the Catholic Church. That’s the least they could do for me really.

When I was waiting for my non-fat Venti latte, I heard “Hi, Mrs. Absence!” and barely recognized A, a boy who lives in the house across the street from us. I was pleasantly surprised for surely most kids his age (13, the same as my oldest) would have preferred to slip by without having to say hello to a neighbor lady whom his family does not socialize with other than “Hello!” when we chance to see each other outside. When I walked into the train station with my coffee, my oatmeal, my laptop and my iPhod, I realized that he was with a group of a good size, comprised of fathers and children. One of the fathers whom I have never met before explained that A’s grandfather organizes such a group outing for the dads every year around Valentine’s Day so their wives could have a grand day off.

[A’s mother does not work outside of the house. Both kids are old enough to take care of themselves and are away from school between 8:30 am and 3 pm. They have house cleaners that come every other week. What will she be doing today that is going to be different from her Monday through Friday? I cannot help but be curious…]

The stranger dad asked, “So are you going downtown today?”

I wondered what he made of me: me in my Aerosmith t-shirt, jeans, black boots, thick black eyeliners, and a choker necklace at 9 o’clock on a Saturday morning, oh, and I just noticed now, no wedding ring. (I often leave my ring at home together with my bracelet and watch. I get allergic reactions from metal easily…)

“To the Auto Show?” He added. Perhaps that’s somewhere he would rather go instead of the show they are taking the kids to?

“No.” I had not realized yet that it might have sounded odd to people that I come and hang out at the train station. I joked, “I am not going downtown. I am trying to get away from the kids,” taking for granted that he would know what it was like, what I meant.

Of course he did not. He looked downright uncomfortable, not knowing how to respond to my impromptu confession. Laughing awkwardly, he said, making a sweeping gesture towards the kids in his group, “Getting away from the kids? Sorry about that then.”

I laughed. “No, no. I am not getting on the train. I am not going anywhere. I am just here.”

He looked puzzled. “Here? The train station?” His eyebrows arched. Was that a cloud of horror passing through his eyes?

“Yes, I am here for the Starbucks. You know.”

Judging from his quizzical eyebrows, I doubted that he did.

I was baffled. What’s wrong with being at the train station? I thought.

At this moment A’s dad made his way across the train station and spotted me. “Hey! What are you doing here?” I gave him a hug and told him in mid-hug, “Well, I am coming with you guys!” Feeling sorry for the confusion visible in his face when I released him, I quickly added, “Just kidding. I am just here at the train station.”

“The… the train station?” He looked so confounded as if I had told him that I had been there for, oh I don’t know, a rally for the democratic party. Actually, he would probably have been able to understand that. It is this “hanging out at a train station with no specific purpose by myself” that caught him off guard I suspect.

“You know. They have a Starbucks here,” I added with an emphasis, “The ONLY Starbucks in town.”

“Surely there is a Starbucks closer to our houses, no?” He insisted, unconsciously attempting to steer me away from the train station perhaps.

After I rattled off the alternative locations, he concurred that this is indeed the closest Starbucks we’ve got.

“But…” He still could not let it go, “The train station?”

“Well, you see, when the train leaves, there will be nobody here. It is quiet and very nice. The Starbucks is here. And there is free Wi-Fi.” I could tell that he was not convinced that this was the most logical choice, or a logical choice at all, so I shrugged, “Well, I am strange this way in case you haven’t figured that out after more than 10 years…”

Now it’s his turn to reassure me my normal-ness. “Nah. Nah. You are fine. You are fine.” We both chuckled.

Fortunately the bell started ringing to announce the arrival of the commuter train.

“Have a nice day downtown!”

“Enjoy the train station!” He said, and I thought I detected a tinge of the kind of tone that people use to someone who insists on, say, rummaging through a junk yard. “Have fun at the junk yard even though I cannot for the life of me understand WHY but hey this is a free country so go for it!”

I did. For another hour until I had to pick the kids up. But I could not shake my own puzzlement over how they were so befuddled and possibly, amused.

So my dear Soren Lorensens, do you know, what is so strange about hanging out at a Starbucks inside an empty train station?

Saturday Smörgåsbord

43 Replies

I have been watching SpongeBob with Mr. Monk this whole day except when I am being the Chauffeur. (And I know I am not the only Weekend Chauffeur around here…) You know what I admire SpongeBob the most? He does not seem to understand the concept of Envy and Jealousy, and therefore he is always genuinely over-the-top happy for other’s good fortune, accomplishment and success.

He is, in fact, always happy.

For this rare virtue, he comes off as insane. Unaware. Unhinged.

(Ok, fine. For you anti-random-theorizing folks out there, SpongeBob comes off as insane mostly because he understands spoken words literally…)

It is cold. As in…

I half expected to see a polar bear floating by on one of these pieces of ice

Breaking the ice. Literally.

My husband complained about me not responding to his email or just in general, plainly ignoring him while he travels abroad on business. What can I say? I am the Champion in Compartmentalizing. Guilty as charged. So I sent him this picture above and wrote, “Wish you were here!”

Completely unrelated. Really. I swear. Girl Scout Honor. I just saw this on our fridge and I am proud of our family motto, so I took a picture of it. That’s it. Really. Not trying to say anything. Not a comment at all.

The Unnecessary Saga of the Travelling Jacket

21 Replies

I have no idea what’s been going on with me as a mother. The fact that I am away from home on a business trip while leaving mu children to the care of a babysitter does not bode well for my chance of winning Mother of the Year anyway. But I did figure out why I am loving people over the Internet so much better in real life.

You do not witness my suckiness up close and personal.

You do not get to witness my parenting fails.

You do not get to be rubbed the wrong ways by my mere presence. My smugness. My suburban privileged life. My undeserved whining. My coy yet relentless pursuit of youthful appearances.

For that, I am grateful.

Mr. Monk my recently-turned-8 younger child came home with the wrong jacket last Tuesday. It was size XL, way too big for him. When I finally noticed it on Wednesday afternoon, I rushed over to the care facility where he had to stay that Monday and Tuesday because school was out and I had to work on those days.

I made the director at the center check the coat hooks. The cubbies. Different classrooms. I made her call the “suspects” aka kids who were also there on Monday and Tuesday and were BIG enough to be wearing a size XL jacket.

No dice.

I became more and more indignant.

What kind of parents would not notice that their son had gone home with a jacket that’s too SMALL for him?! Wouldn’t they have noticed by now since it is freezing?! Are they keeping our better and brand new (!) jacket on purpose?! Jerks!

I was also mad, unfairly, at my child for coming home with the wrong jacket and for not noticing it till Wednesday afternoon, the day before Thanksgiving, with the entire weekend forecast to be cold cold cold. And on top of that, I had to rush to get everything ready for Thanksgiving. It was hugely inconvenient to say the least. [Oh how I sound like a spoiled brat inside my own head!]

I had purchased the jacket from Gap when there was a 35% off sale. I did not want to pay full retail price. Mr. Monk did not want anything else but his old jacket back because he had been wearing the same style for several years. And if you ever wonder why I am calling him Mr. Monk in this blog: Extremely dislike of changes or disruption to routines and sensory sensitivities.

It was my personal, trivial, perfect storm.

Oh it was a saga alright. Albeit a perfectly unnecessary one. And if I really think about it, quite embarrassing and I really should not be writing about it for the world to know… (i.e. of course I absolutely need to blog about it…)

There have been quite a few coupons floating around in the Cyber space for Gap but none of them could be used for in-store purchase AND the online store did not have the jacket any more. There was ONE left in our local store and I do have a 35% off coupon for in-store but that did not become effective until this Friday. So on Wednesday, after much whining from Mr. Monk and everybody else that had to help him zip up the hand-me-down-too-big-and-a-bit-tattered-with-a-non-working-zipper jacket, I broke down. I called the store in the morning and asked for the jacket to be held for me till the end of day. I drove over there at night and lo and behold, the road to the mall was closed. No problem. I would take the detour. When I finally got there, with 10 minutes till closing time, LOOK! Best parking space ever! Why? Because the entire mall was shut down due to power outage!

I went back again the next day, clearly agitated, and paid for the jacket in full price, fully aware that if I had waited one more day, I could have got the jacket at 35% off. But I did not want to risk the possibility that someone could have walked in the store on Friday morning and snatched that stupid prized jacket away from me.

I hate paying full price. I absolutely hate paying full price for clothing items. I really really do. I hate it. Hate it. HATE IT!

I came home with the jacket and guess what? The zipper did not work!

By then Mr. Monk was so defeated and had come to terms with the fact that he simply had to live without his jacket. [Oh the Horror!] It was like Morgan Freeman telling me to give up on this stupid prized jacket and hop over to Lands’ End to order a jacket with their 40% off +Free Shipping promotion. I bit the bullet and ordered a damned jacket and by doing this, I triggered some Cosmic Law about lost clothing items:

Guess what? The jacket, the original one, came back.

When I picked up Mr. Monk from the weekly Chinese school on Sunday, he presented me with the beloved jacket.

I was horrified.

For this meant many things:

1. I did not notice that he had come home with the wrong jacket for an entire weekend PLUS the Monday AND Tuesday AND Wednesday Morning.

2. I had shown my indignation by mistake.

3. I now need to track down the too-large-jacket that he had come home with [Are you still with me?!] that I had shoved into the hands of the childcare facility director, mind you, with great, visible, indignation and annoyance.

4. I need to go over and pick up the jacket from the childcare facility director with my newfound humility and embarrassment, offering up apologies for causing her so much unnecessary trouble.

5. Then I need to bring the jacket back to the mother of the jacket’s owner who asked incredulously, “You mean, you did not notice it was the wrong jacket when you picked up your child last time?!”

She proceeded to tell me how she had made her son wait with her when the school ended.

“I told him that for sure the mother would notice that the jacket does not belong to her child and she would bring it back right away! How can you not notice that the jacket is too big?!” She laughed jocusingly (Joking + Accusing). And then she said it again for good measure, “You mean you really did not notice it until later that day?”

I did not tell her that not only did I NOT notice it that Sunday, I did not notice it until the following Wednesday afternoon…

As I was leaving the Chinese school with my boys in tow, crestfallen, embarrassed (Did I ever tell you that “fear of embarrassment” is one of the two driving forces in my life?), I was accosted by another mother who made an effort to traverse all the moving and converging children in the hallway to deliver her assessment of my appearance that day,

“You really do look cute in that age.” She delivered her line with a smug expression, indicating the hat I am wearing, pointing it out to the young girls surrounding us (who probably are in the right demographics to be sporting this hat…)

Bah Hum Bug! The hat I am sporting this winter season...

Did I ever tell you that I hate Other Mothers even though in a different telling of this story, I am probably That Mom?

I am on the down cycle (i.e. Y < 0 ). Catch you all when I come up from below the X axis…

Opening up a can of whupass

30 Replies

I am fuming. Ok, what’s new, right? But this time it is something personal. It may be trivial but it has consumed me ever since I had the following exchange with my son this past Friday. After a whole weekend of thinking it over and calming down, my anger and indignation has been only stewing and seething… Oh my dear friends, the Mama Bear inside me has reared her ugly head. Hold me down please before I get ourselves run out of town with pitchforks and torches…

In a casual conversation last Friday, my 7th grader brought up that he was reprimanded by the lady of the house at the bottom of our street to “Get off of my driveway!” He in passing mentioned something else the woman said to him which got my attention. I did not think that I heard it correctly or that he had remembered accurately so before he went to bed, I interrogated him. Hit them when they are groggy and sleepy.

Me: Can you tell me what happened at Mrs. S’ house today?

Son: Me and N (another 7th grader from the same block) were racing and he was on his motorbike and I was on my scooter. He said that he won, and I said that I won. And then he said the F word. [F _ g] Then E [Mrs. S’ daughter who is also a 7th grader] came out and she’s like, “Hi Guys.” Then she said, “Don’t say that. My mom is here.” We kept talking and then Mrs. S came out and said,

“Hey, get off of my driveway. I don’t want you here, especially you, [First Name of my son] [Last name]. One of these days we’re going to look in the newspaper and see that you are in jail.”

Me [taking a deep breath]: And you are very sure you are not the one that said the F word?

Son [looking me in the eyes]: I am sure.

Me [taking another deep breath]: And do you think she said that because she thought you were the one who said the F word?

Son: I have no idea. At first I thought she was sarcastic. She said, “One of these days you are going to get into big trouble, mister!” But I don’t know. She did the sarcastic thing wrong because she was not smiling. I didn’t say anything bad though.

I really thought long and hard about how this could have happened and what to do about it. I of course tweeted about this already and several of you have offered to put a foot (or two feet) in her ass, beat her with a shovel and a riding crop. (Thank you m’ladies for getting my back!)

It’s possible that she was upset because she heard some kid using the F word and she totally went berserk? If she is such a strong proponent for LGBT rights that she has such a strong reaction from hearing this word spoken right outside her house, perhaps I should give her the benefit of a doubt? I tried to put myself in her shoes but still I can’t see myself saying anything like that to anybody’s child. I would have admonished the kids, told them to not use such hurtful languages and possibly threatened to have a talk with their parents.

What do you think?

And I’ll own up, yes, I want to open up a can of whupass on this woman who will not know that I am opening up a can of woopass on her right here.

cartoon from nataliedee.com

Hey, it’s making me feel better already so it works, and that’s all that matters, right? Sigh. Parenting sucks. Parenting sucks ass when you are forced to see other parents as adversaries.

p.s. Although children do lie to save their own behind and my son is definitely not a saint, he knows to not use the F word or even the word “gay” in the “wrong” way. I monitor all his email communications, IM and Facebook, and although he’s constantly surrounded by kids using the word “gay”, he has never used it even when other kids use the word to diminish him and his possessions. It is possible that he does after all take my “death by wrath” threat to heart. As for the other kid, N? Oh he knew he was in trouble. Or he thought he would have been in trouble since he told my son before he ran home, “Ok, I said ‘Fatty’, ok? That’s all I said!”