Random acts of blondness, part the second

This really was a funny story. I swear. I just hope I can do it justice because ... um ... it requires so much setup and explanation that I fear for its life.

OK, so here we go. There is a theory that if you put an infinite number of monkeys in a room with an infinite number of typewriters, then sooner or later the monks will type out the entire works of Shakespeare.

Well, that's the way I heard it. When I went to write up this little piece of blondeness, I found that Wikipedia heard it different: that ONE monkey, given an infinite amount of time, will almost surely type a particular chosen text, such as the complete works of William Shakespeare.

I don't like this interpretation. Neither does Wonderhubby, as evidenced by his comments in this scenario. So we're throwing that one away.

Wonderhubby: So these guys at the hardware store were talking about fourth dimension and infinite space. It was pretty whacked. I wanted to walk over there and tell them "Ya know, if you have an infinite number of monkeys ..."

Evil Wife/Mother: *snickering*

The Roo-girl: Wait. An infinite number of monkeys ... I think that's impossible, but ... um ... wait ... I know how you could get that ...

EW/M: Uh, yeah?

TRG: Yeah, I mean, there aren't really an infinite number of monkeys in the world. So the monkeys would just start pooping out other monkeys and throwing 'em over there ...

EW/M: *concerned tone* Honey, I think we need to talk.

TRG: *laughing* Mom, I know where babies come from! But we wouldn't have time to wait nine months for a new monkey, so pooping them out seemed like the best idea.

I think I need to lie down now.

Haiku Friday: the opposite sex -- loved and lost -- edition

In the interest of writing haiku as "the opposite sex," as per Jennifer and Christina's instructions ...

If I were a man,
I would tell me to buck up
and to get a grip.

If I were a man,
I would tell me to listen
to logic and hush.

But I'm not a man --
this loss cuts me to the heart.
I've been deserted.

Please say it's not gone ...
my diet cherry choc'late
Dr. Pepper -- noooooooooooooooooo!

OK. It's time to grow up. Seriously

I had a totally different Drama King post prepared for today -- all about the overthrowing of the same-sex marriage ban, blah blah blah.

It was sweet and treacly and full of rainbows and unicorns.

And then he opened his mouth (well, his keyboard, really) and reminded me a little of why I threw him out of my house more than two years ago. 'Tude much?

Wonderhubby has been working at a brand-new, not-yet-opened restaurant close to DK's boyfriend's apartment.

Which, no surprise, is where DK has been living most of the time. But his job (waiter) is at a chain restaurant closer to HIS apartment -- which is about 30 miles away. The official move-in-and-give-up-his-apartment date is July 1. Gas is more than $4 a gallon and climbing.

Needed: new job in the new neighborhood.

Enter Wonderhubby, who always is thinking about my kids and their well-being and who provides dates, times, locations and names for the open-call interview process.

DK sounded jazzed about it all -- the location, the high-endedness (better tips), blah blah, la la la.

Fast forward to Wednesday, the day of the open call. Wonderhubby was working at the unopened restaurant and sent me a text to say there were LOTS of people at the restaurant filling out apps.

So I get on instant messenger:

Evil Mother: drama king .... wonderhubby says there are LOTS of people putting applications in at that restaurant.

Evil Mother: are you going there soon?

Drama King: I don't have a resume

Evil Mother: dk..... jeeezus

Evil Mother: GO THERE and fill out an app

Evil Mother: seriously

Evil Mother: wait staff doesnt need a resume. fill out an application

*insert radio silence here*

Evil Mother: answer me

Drama King: I'm going. Sheesh

Evil Mother: either you try to better yourself or you DONT

Evil Mother: and i'm really tired of the bitching and moaning

Evil Mother: w/out the ACTION

Drama King: What bitching? I don't say boo to you

Evil Mother: whatever. you need medical insurance. you need dental. you need to stop having (car loan company) call my house. it's about 2 or 3 times a day.

Drama King: Oh. Right. I forgot. You haven't told me how worthless I am lately.

Evil Mother: knock that shit off.

Evil Mother: wonderhubby found you an opportunity and you weren't going to go.

Evil Mother: meanwhile, when you dont make your car payment, i get multiple messages a day from (car loan company).

Evil Mother: WHICH i do NOT generally bother you about. until you get pissy about trying to better yourself

Evil Mother: there were 2 on my answering machine yesterday. one male, one female

Evil Mother: so. if you want a job close to (Rocky's city), here is an opportunity at a high-end restaurant where the tips will be bigger

Evil Mother: you're welcome.

I then closed my AIM and went out to lunch. Grrrrrr. I was mad mad mad.

Apparently he was, too.

Because when I came back, I found this away message on his account:

Parenthood means never having to say you're sorry.

Oh, bite me.

Dum-de-dum-dum-DUH *edited*

< freakout >

My brain is mush.

I'm seriously overwhelmed. There aren't enough hours in the day, and my work life is getting in the way of my personal life.

I'm more than a little concerned about Z-man, who seems to have lost his appetite since his return from college and has taken to sleeping on the couch downstairs at night instead of in his room.

The Roo-girl has about a zillion places to be between now and graduation, and I have no real way to get her there (working full-time SUCKS).

*Edited to add: Thank you for your suggestion of having Z-man take Roo to her various "places." Unfortunately, his Z-ness does not drive. He has visual issues that make him scary on the road, and we haven't solved it yet.*

I should have made an appointment to see my eye doctor to reorder my contacts about TWO MONTHS AGO.

I am having an attack of ostrichism.

Can I go back to bed now?

< /freakout >

Just kill me now. It's so much kinder in the long run ...

My feet are bloody stumps.

That's because I spent Monday from 10 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. doing something that gives me the head-shakes.

S.H.O.P.P.I.N.G.

Now, I do like shopping. Really. I do. I swear.

But I do draw the line at six-hour-plus marathons at the mall with my daughter and my friend J and her daughter (and Roo's friend) A.

We have shopped marathonishly before. And that time, we literally had to buy shoes because all of us had rubbed our feet raw in the shoes we were wearing. (Oh, sure, we could have just gone home -- killjoy!)

Anyway.

So yeah. I should tell you that Roo has been on a mission. We have made at least two previous -- highly unsuccessful -- expeditions to other area malls with no luck.

She has been on the hunt for a dress. Oh but puh-lease. Not just any dress.

THE dress.

The dress for the eighth-grade graduation dance.

She has a definite vision in mind. She does not want to wear black. She does not want to wear white. She, in fact, wants a brightly colored dress. Not floor-length (FLOOR LENGTH?????). Not as long as to the knees -- after all she does have her dignity and reputation to think of.

You know the dress I mean. The perfect one.

The one that exists only in her vivid imagination.

And makes my eyes roll violently around in their sockets.

First, you need to understand that this very important graduation dance is exactly 1 1/2 hours long. Period.

AND I recently bought her a party dress for A's bat mitzvah next month. A goes to a different middle school, is in the seventh grade, has few to no mutual friends with Roo and not a single one of those kids would be at Roo's dance.

Anyone else see a problem here? Anyone else see a problem with the sobbing teen I drove home from the previous mall excursions because the perfect dress from her imagination does. not. exist?

Ah yes. Moving on.

So J, always one for a shopping excursion, suggested that we go looking for Roo's dress together ... at yet a THIRD mall.

Six and a half hours later, we were home.

We had a pair of Abercrombie shorts and a denim skirt. (On sale, please. I NEVER pay full price at Abercrombie -- it's against my religion.)

We had two new bras.

We had some Lancome makeup and an accompanying free tote (compliments of J, for Roo-girl's graduation).

We had a yellow zebra-print top. (Please don't ask.)

We had one pair of underwear (which happened to be in the high school's colors).

And.

We had a dress.

Thank the Lord. There now is a dress for the 90-minute graduation dance.

It's short enough (but not so short that I get the gags).

It's colorful enough (hot pink).

It gives her a shape (please hold me).

I am a slightly poorer mommy.

But Monday, we had success. She did not cry. There was lots of fun and laughter.

She is a happy Roo-girl.

And isn't that what friends are for?

Fun Monday: the let's get out of Dodge edition

Alison at RDH Mom is our charming travel-agent-slash-hostess for Fun Monday today.

She wants to know about other lands -- or at least other counties (yes, counties, not countries), because this is her challenge for us today:

Vacations...this is the time of year when most of us go on vacations. Show us and/or tell us about your favorite vacation - where you went, what you did, etc. Pictures would be great. Let's all take a trip around the world via our FM friends!!

Well, she said, well.

I really have two things to offer here.

The first was for my parents' 55th anniversary. We took a phenomenal trip to Hawaii -- 19 of us. All children, spouses and grandchildren, except for grandson who was still in school and couldn't make it.

It was a most amazing time, filled with memories of sun, surf, good food and the renewing of my parents' wedding vows.

Wow.

Here we are, all dressed alike in our Hawaii Five-5 shirts and hats. (Get it? Book 'em, Danno!) You will see faces you recognize and some semi-identical blobs. I didn't want to post photos of my sibs and kids without their permission, and since they do not (and WILL not) know about my blog ... well. You know.



That vacation was truly cool and wonderful and relaxing, even. But the one that rocked my world was last spring, when I went to Japan.

Wonderhubby and I went with a big group and, yes, I'm being deliberately vague. It was 10 days of exploration, excitement and entertainment, with stays in Tokyo, Kyoto and the mineral springs at Hakone.

We did many amazing things, but one of the most fun was being turned into a geisha.

Watch the transformation ...





























The finishing touches involved a "formal" photo session:



And there we are. From sweet little American girl to geisha on the streets of Kyoto, in 45 minutes!

Now go see where the other Fun Monday'ers are taking us. Bon voyage, y'all!

Weekly Winners: May 18-24

Blender bonding:


Aren't they cute together?


An oxymoron, doncha think?

Feel my pain. And the day after I took this shot, it went up another 10 cents. No lie.


Birthday cake (so we don't end on a downer):


For other Weekly Winners participants, go here.

iPhonin'

Don't bother me. I'm busy making out with my phone.

Haiku Friday: the I totally score edition

I'm a happy girl.
So very happy happy!
Look what came today ...



Yes, I hinted at this here, but it was a looooooooong time actually getting the real deal in my hands.

First, I had to convince Wonderhubby that this, indeed, was my heart's desire for Mother's Day.

Then, we had to find one.

It seems that a new fancy-shmancy version is coming (with more bells and whistles than I require), so the Apple stores have conveniently ceased to have the "old" ones on hand. And the AT&T stores "only" had the bigger, more expensive, not-in-the-budget version.

Unhappiness, thy name is Janet.

Meanwhile, Wonderhubby took off for middle America to attend an elevator installation training school (yes, it had its ups and downs). While he was gone, he found the phone at an Apple store in the Midwest, where apparently the demand hasn't been nearly as strong.

Also while he was gone, I found it online at the wireless carrier store with free two-day shipping, and we agreed I should go ahead and order it, rather than WH worrying about transporting it home on airplanes and such.

And so I made it so.

AT&T, in its infinite wisdom, slightly neglected to actually SHIP the damned thing for ... wait for it ... a week!

So I waited.

And tracked it by website and email.

And waited.

And watched while they sent it in one direction and then in another completely opposite way.

And waited.

And tracked its very, very slow progress across my fair city.

And yesterday?

IT FINALLY CAME!!!

I have been petting it ever since.

Can't live with 'em, can't take 'em out and shoot 'em

Oh lordy ... my boys.

I have no words.

*edited to add: Ok I just reread this post, and I think I should stop blaming my boys. My participation in this is NOT pristine!!!*

Saturday night we went out to dinner to celebrate J-bear's birthday. Z-man is home from college for the summer, and I should know what the combination of Z and the Drama King would bring.

Drummer was missing. He and the lovely girlfriend were going to a concert. That, of course, made him the prime target of brotherly -- uh -- love. Rocky was also MIA, having left town for a family wedding.

However, we had picked up a stray for dinner. One of J-bear's girlfriends from work. Poor, poor dear. She had no idea what she was getting into.

Evil Mother: It's too bad Drummer Man isn't going to be here.

Z-man: Oh, he's not?

Evil Mother: No.

*instant commencement of imitations (not the sincerest form of flattery in this case) of D Man's not-so-stellar moments*

Evil Mother: Poor J-friend. You didn't know what you were getting into, did you? You guys are really MEAN! Drummer Man is the perfect straight man.

Drama King: So ... that makes me the GAY MAN ... hello?????

*unison bwahahahaha'ing*

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Drama King: I don't remember what side dish I wanted.

Evil Mother: *very very very quietly* Corn?

Drama King: Oh, yeah. That's right. Co-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-orn ... Bring LOTS of butter, please!

Evil Mother: When is Rocky coming home again???

My inner geek

I must admit that in my head, I am still 8 years old, with glasses and braces at the same time.

Even as a mature (*snort*) woman with grown children, I look in the mirror and I still see the me that geeked her way through elementary school and most of high school.

Admittedly, I came into my own in college, and I have since learned to be more (although sometimes it's less) comfortable in my own skin.

But I was a goober.

Pale and freckle-faced. Unmanageable hair (not quite curly, not quite wavy, usually with the little halo of frizz visible in the sunlight).

Severe overbite (leading to nearly four years of braces).

Scrawny (at least 10 to 15 pounds behind my peers).

Glasses. You know the kind. The hideous cat-eye things. I had a pair in pink and a pair in blue. *shudder*

Short -- although the ONE TIME that short was supposed to be my advantage (playing Madeline in the third-grade play), I came up a quarter-inch too tall, and some other short girl beat me out for the part.

Put me in a room full of strangers and that 8-year-old with the glasses and braces peeks out. I have learned to push her aside and replace her with the "behave as if" version of a confident, witty, sarcastic, reasonably charming woman.

But sometimes ...

I actually have a name for this syndrome of mine. I can't use it on the internet, because it actually is the real name of a real person who tormented me by her mere presence in junior high and high school. So for the sake of her anonymity (yes, I googled her before I started writing this!), I will call it the Sally Smith syndrome.

(If your name is really Sally Smith, I apologize for maligning you. But at least your name isn't really Sarah Marshall and you had to face those bus signs and billboards every day!)

I know you will know the girl I'm talking about. I think we all must have had one in our lives -- unless, of course, YOU were the Sally Smith in your world.

So, my Sally Smith was a girl who started out drop-dead gorgeous while the rest of us were geeking out. She had long, blond perfect hair. She had chiseled perfect features, a perfect perky nose and perfect blue eyes. She had that perfect sexy head toss to move those luxurious flowing locks off of her face (and the correlating head duck to bring them back).

And if she looked at you, you were immediately transformed into a cockroach that she squished under her perfect shoe.

She tormented me -- either in fact or in my head -- throughout my pre-adolescent and adolescent years.

And occasionally she comes back to haunt me in my old age.

She was back with a vengeance last week.

I found myself in the vortex of my worst nightmare -- at the parents meeting for the high school cheerleading team.

Sixty-five versions of Ms. Smith -- lean, beautiful, perky, mostly blond incarnations of my high school tormentress -- bounced around the room, while parents filled out paperwork and wrote a check that could support some third-world nations for years.

And yes, for the record, I count my own daughter among the Sally Smiths of the world. Not because she has that nasty bug-crushing habit -- because she doesn't -- but because she totally fits the physical stereotype of cheerleader.

Only shorter.

I don't know where she came from, my little girl. Correction: I mean, my young lady. She is graceful (where I am decidedly NOT). She has the blond, straight hair of my dreams (see above for description of my childhood hair). She has large, clear blue-green eyes that pop right out of her face.

You've all seen her picture ...

She is Sally Smith, birthed from my loins and living in my house.

Anyway, there I sat.

Surrounded.

But I will say that I got a certain amount of jollies by looking at the parents of these little Sallies.

Some were grownup versions of their daughters -- cheer moms with perfect hair, hard bodies and (ahem) a little too much "work" done.

And some were just like me.

Embracing their inner geek and living a little vicariously through their Sally Smith'ish daughters.

Random acts of blondness

The Roo-girl and I frequently stop at the local market on the way to school. There's a Starbucks inside, and I'm an indulgent mom where this kind of thing is concerned.

The manager of the S'bucks there knows us pretty well and can have my drink ready before I get to the front of the line usually. (Except when I change things up and confuse the holy heck out of her.)

Anyway, all y'all know what a funny creature I am. I'll go for the joke more than not. So when Roo and I order something -- from the 'Bucks or Jamba Juice or wherever -- I will frequently say, "I'll have a (whatever), and then whatever my mother is having ..."

Roo finds this funny -- not.

(Just for the record, I do it to Wonderhubby, too: "I'll have a (blank), plus whatever my father is having." He's equally amused.)

But it has turned into a standing joke with our Starbucks manager. She has taken to calling Roo "Mom." When Roo invented a cold drink combo that she loved (passion tea with lemonade and six -- gag -- pumps of sweetener), the manager started calling it "The Mother."

We hadn't been in for a week or so, and yesterday, it came as a big surprise to the 'Bucks manager lady that Roo's arm was cast-free.

"Mom! You got your cast off," she exclaimed.

"Yep!" Roo burbled, raising her left arm to show it off.

Only problem here?

It was the right arm that was broken.

Oy. Just oy.

Fun Monday: the collectibles edition

The oh-so-lovely Mariposa is our oh-so-lovely hostess for today's journey into the fun'ness that is Monday in these here parts.

Here is what she is a-hankerin' to see (and no, I DON'T know why I went all cowboy on you here!):

I want to see your collection. If you don't have or don't want or CAN'T (wink) show us a picture, then tell us what the collection is in 10 words or less. Then tell us why you started collecting it.

I don't really have a collection of much of anything, but there is one thing that collects here.


Yes, that is lint. Dryer lint, to be exact. For reasons that escape me, there is a waste basket right by the dryer that hardly EVER gets emptied.

And therefore, lint collects.

Oh, I jest, of course.

But there are really no other collections in our house.

Outside, however, we have this collection:



And this one:



Now go see the other Fun Monday'ers who have REAL collectibles! *grin*

Weekly Winners: May 11-17

For my contribution to Lotus' Weekly Winners meme today, we have an eclectic mix -- a little pie, a little dance, a little seltzer down your pants.

Oh heck, not really, but I wasn't kidding about the pie.

Now you see it:



Now you don't:



The blender of looooooooooooooove:



Play it for me, D Man:



Mommy, I'm afraid:



What? No Roo-girl photos? Nope, she's on photographic strike!

Whassa matter you?

I am completely incoherent today.

Totally.

So I'm going with bullets because coherent and cohesive prolonged thought is not possible.

* How in the hell did I live without Bloglines before? Google reader confounded me, but Holly MADE me try Bloglines, and I must admit that blog reading has never been easier. (Yes, I clicked ... and clicked ... and clicked ... hoping that all y'all had updated. What was I thinking?) Anyway, Holly, if you and Burgh Baby Mom ever decide on a cyber divorce, I'll be waiting in the wings for you!

* Z-man has returned home after his first year away at college/culinary school. He finished up in a blaze of glory and is now officially a sophomore. His homecoming has been highly anticipated by me and by him. On the whole, it was an expensive experience. It is not getting cheaper either. He's worth it, but sometimes I gag on it.

* I witness an honest-to-God miracle this week. I threw a pair of my jeans into the washer and -- too late -- realized there was a money order in the back pocket.

Crrrrrrrrrap. So much for THAT! Guess I must be wealthy beyond measure if I can just wash $25 away so easily.

Anyway, I put those jeans on this morning and felt a bulge in the back pocket. I pulled out a wad of receipts and other papers and, folded up inside -- IN PERFECT CONDITION -- was the money order.

I took it straight to the bank.

Amen.

Haiku Friday: the touch you with my song edition

A song can bring tears
when it touches someone's heart.
You just never know.

There were many amazing moments from Mother's Day this year. Here, of course, was one that was -- ahem -- more astonishing than amazing, but I digress (and so soon, too!).

Anyway.

Twice a year -- at Easter and Mother's Day -- Wonderhubby and I join up with two other guys for a standing restaurant gig. I mentioned this briefly here. It's really a lot of fun, we get paid (real actual cash dollars) and we get to eat the faborama brunch when we're done.

You never know how people are going to respond, though. Sometimes we captivate the crowd; sometimes they're too busy eating to care about the four dorks crooning in the room. Sometimes we mess around with the kids at the tables; sometimes the old folks get a sentimental kick out of our oldy-moldy songs.

So at this one table, we were playing to the kids at the table. When we had finished, one of our guys (who gets these brilliant ideas sometimes) told the parents we would sing one for them, so HE should look into HER eyes.

And he did.

And we began to sing:

"Heart of my heart, I love you ...
Life would be naught without you.
Light of my life, my darling,
I love you ... I love you ..."

And the look between them deepened, and her eyes welled up with tears.

We continued to sing.

And he looked even deeper, his own eyes moistening.

The tears rolled down her cheeks. Her lips moved. "I love you," she said soundlessly.

As the last notes of the song faded away, the love at the table was absolutely palpable, and my own eyes were damp.

If I had not sung another note that day, I would have felt that my job was complete.

And then there was pie ... and cooters with bite!

Mother's Day was quite amazing this year. I know I cranked about it last week. But it really did rock.

For starters, I have been promised an iPhone!!!! (More on that later.)

Our brunch singing gig was freakin' AWESOME. We made people cry (in a good way, so shut up!). (More on THAT later.)

My girls showed up for the brunch with flowers, a card and balloons.

And the Drama King baked a pie.

The pie arrived Sunday night in the hot little hands of Drama King and his boyfriend Rocky, made with love in their very own kitchen. A chocolate pudding'ish affair with an Oreo crust.


Be still, my chocoholic heart.

Anyway, I couldn't figure out how to talk about all these things in one post, so I feel the need to split it up.

For today, my internet pretties, I offer up one of our patented Planet of Janet cringeworthy conversations. (And before you call Child Protective Services, please be advised that Roo-girl was already in bed before this took place!)

The scene: Our kitchen table, strewn with the remnants of yummy yummy pie.

The participants: J-bear, Drama King, Rocky and Drummer Man. Oh, and me, Evil Mother.

J-bear: *random thought* You know those bows you put on cars that are a present? Those are, like, $20!

Drama King: Oooh, I want one of those.

Rocky: What would you do with it?

Drama King: *smirks*

Rocky: Oh, I KNEW I shouldn't have asked.

Evil Mother: Well, you know, it's kinda like that Saturday Night Live sketch.

Drama King: *curls up in a ball, whimpering, in Rocky's lap*

Evil Mother: Oh, sure, like you didn't start it ...

Drama King: *whispers fearfully* Vagina dentata?

Evil Mother: Oh. My. GAWD.

Drama King: There was a movie about that ...

*and then another voice entered the madness*

Drummer Man: Oh, yeah, that got pretty good reviews.

*Unison gasps from the others*

Drummer Man: You know, like at film festivals and stuff. I wanted to see it, but it never was around here.

Rocky: La la la la la la ... anyone want more pie?

To J-bear on your 18th birthday

To my J-bear:

I really thought it would be easy to write your birthday post. I thought the words would flow like water onto my keyboard.

I thought I would have no trouble finding a way to tell you what you mean to me.

To tell you what an amazing thing it has been for me to be your stepmother.

To tell you how proud I am of how you've grown from the scared little bunny you were when I first met you almost eight years ago to the beautiful woman you are today.

To tell you how the flash of your smile lights up a room.

But I find that the words are not coming quite as easily as I thought.

What I hear in my head instead is a collection of little phrases:

"Can you braid my hair, Janet?"

"Here -- I made this for you."

"Will you take me shopping?"


"Do you want to see my art project?"

"I knew you would like this ..."

"You are coming to karate belt testing, aren't you?"

"I couldn't wait to tell you ..."

"Will you help me study for my vocab test?"

"I should have come to you first."

"Thank you."

So, no, J-Bear. In honor of your 18th birthday, the words that come most easily are: "Thank YOU."

Thank you for coming to live with us and giving Roo-girl the real sister she craved.

Thank you for the good-night hugs. Every single time.

Thank you for the giggles.

Thank you for putting up with the woman who made you share your daddy.

Thank you for being the one to comfort me when I cried over having to give up our dog Dusty.

Thank you for giving me a chance to give you a chance.

Thank you for your earnestness and your refusal to give up.

Thank you for the Mother's Day flowers.

Thank you for your incredible heart.

Today you are officially an adult. A grown woman.

But I want to say thank you for being my J-bear.


All my love,
Janet

R.I.P. Carpool Girl

Well, it finally happened.

After eight months of aggravation, being stood up and lack of gratitude and grace -- and incredible patience on my part -- Carpool Girl stepped over the line.

We had set up a pretty doable protocol. Roo-girl calls between 8:15 and 8:35 a.m. to say we are on our way. The 20-minute window allows for days when she has to be at school early for pep squad practice or some other event. It also gives both of us leeway to run a smidge late in our morning ablutions. (I am trying to improve my vocabulary -- and yours! Take THAT, Kelley!)

If CPG does not answer the phone during that period of time, Roo leaves her a voicemail saying we have left without her. We do not pass her house, we do not collect $200.

Thursday, Roo makes the call and gets voicemail. Three times. The third time, she leaves the message.

Ten minutes later, as we pull onto the school property, the phone rings. It's CPG asking where we are.

"You didn't pick up," Roo informs her. "We are already at school."

Next day, her phone is OFF. Goes direct to voicemail. I have a moment of conscience (silly me), and we agree to drive by CPG's house and knock on the door.

No one answers.

Well, that's not strictly correct. CPG's sister eventually comes to the door -- and has NO CLUE where the girl is. She tells us to leave her.

I have a mild hissy in the car and tell Roo that we will not be taking CPG to school anymore. She has her own crisis of conscience (she does have to live with the girl at school, ya know), and we agree to do nothing and sleep on it over the weekend.

Apparently, though, Roo saw fit to read CPG the riot act at school on Friday, saying that I was mondo pissed-o (Kelley?) and that we probably won't take her to school anymore.

"Whatever," CPG told her in her usual graceless fashion. "I don't care."

Fast forward to this morning.

Roo-girl calls CPG and says we're on our way. CPG evidently snarks back. I don't hear what she says, but here is Roo-girl's half of the phone conversation:

"Whatever, CPG."

*inaudible*

"Yes, but look at it from OUR point of view ..."

*inaudible*

"Jeez, you don't have to be such a brat about it ... Fine, then."

She then turns to me and announces, "We're not taking her to school anymore. I think she was walking."

My answer?

Whatever.

I tried. I went out of my way. I gave her the benefit of the doubt. I tried to teach by example. I tried to pay it forward for the times that my children were offered transportational favors without any ability on my part to return them.

But the CPG apple apparently didn't fall all that far from the tree.

And it is done.

Coming this week: Interplanetary children gather for Mother's Day. High-larity ensues. Film at 11.

Fun Monday: What a jerk! edition

Sauntering Soul is our lovely hostess for this week's odyssey into FunMondayosity (I am trying to compete with Kelley to see who can make up the best words).

Anyway, SS is feeling a little insecure about her inner jerk because she wants company in arsehatland (take that, Kelley!) by asking this:

I know we all try to be sweet and kind to people the majority of the time. But let's face it....we also know that sometimes we can be a big jerk. It could be that you experience road rage from time to time. Perhaps you empty the coffee pot at work some mornings and don't feel like taking the time to start a new pot for the next person. Or maybe you don't return phone calls on a timely basis when you know someone needs a response from you. Have you ever "accidentally" ruined a favorite shirt of your spouse just because you didn't care for it? Come on - it's confession time! List the small things you do that make you a jerk and elaborate just a bit on each one. Please tell me I'm not the only jerk around here!

Huh. I. Would. Never.

Well, I would too.

I admit to intentionally speeding up on the freeway so that someone who is trying to snoid into my lane can't do it (but only when that someone has been obnoxious first). And I am potty-mouth'ish about the whole thing, too. Road rage, anyone?

I admit to failing to push the "door open" button when a last-minute person is trying to get into the elevator. Ha! Gotcha!

I admit to a little passive-aggressive behavior at work with my boss. Because she. is. a. witch.

I admit to screening my phone calls (and not answering if I don't want to talk to you).

I also admit to making "blah-blah-blah" or "you really are a moron" faces while I'm on the phone if you really are being a moron. I would never make it if I had to use a videophone.

Sometimes, I am unintentionally a jerk. This was a prime example.

I hope you all feel better now, knowing what a total jerk I am.

So go visit the other Fun Mondayites and see what jerks they are. It would totally make me feel better about myself.

Weekly Winners: May 4-10

For my contribution to Lotus' Weekly Winners meme today, we present a couple from the softball field, a symbol of love and a rerun.

The windup and the pitch ...

The cool part about high school softball is the color of the ball. Easy to find.

Father and daughter on senior day:



They are in love:



And I close out my collection today with a repeat photo that is my Mother's Day tribute to me ...

Labors of love:



Happy Mother's Day to all my mom friends out in blogoland.

A period piece, or how we keep Aunt Flo at bay

When I hang out with Roo-girl on the weekends, there are always those moments when I think, "Omigod, this is the best blog fodder ever."

And then I come home and ... uh ... what was that she said again?

This one, though? This one I remember.

If you're male, this would be a good time to put your hands over your ears and eyes, and sing along with me: "La la la la la la la la la la."

Either that, or go hang out here. We'll let you know when it's safe to come back.

So, girls. Are we alone? Good. Here's the scoop.

Miss Roo-tini is, as we have discussed previously, quite petite -- and a late bloomer to boot. At going-on-14, she has not yet had the pleasure of becoming a "woman."

In plainspeak, she hasn't gotten her period yet, and for reasons that totally escape me, she is NOT PLEASED.

Especially when she found out that I was not 14, as she believed, but actually 15 when I "bloomed."

"Fifteen?????" she shrieked at me. "FIFTEEEEEEEEN??????"

Yes, dear. And you should be happy about that.

But she is clearly not.

"Everyone I know ..." she harumphed.

Dudette, I told her, don't be in such a hurry. It's an inconvenience and a pain in the butt that you will be dealing with for-freaking-ever. Long after you care about having babies and she has any use to you at all, Aunt Flo will be around to annoy you.

That doesn't matter to her, though. She feels deprived somehow.

"What about your friends?" I asked. "Don't they tell you the same thing?"

Roo looked at me and rolled her eyes.

"Yeah," she said. "They all walk by me and scream in my face: 'I HATE YOU!' "

I could not speak for 15 minutes due to excessive laughter.

Haiku Friday: It's a baby shower! edition

This week, I'm combining Haiku Friday with Swampy's virtual baby shower for Karmyn, whose baby boy is due in just two weeks, give or take whatever.

Karmyn's unborn child
gives me vicarious thrills
but I'm glad it's HERS!

Heee! No, I do NOT have aching ovaries at the thought of babies anymore. Although I wouldn't mind grandchildren (Drummer? Are you listening? Marry that girl already!)

But I digress. This is Karmyn's party, so I can't cry if I want to.

Anyway, everyone always gives things for the baby at showers. But I remember what it felt like when baby no. 3 (and ... ahem ... no. 4) arrived. So here are the things I would have liked and therefore give to Karmyn:

Someone to do the cleaning:



Someone to do the cooking:



A jacuzzi with a view when you need an escape from the crazies:



And, of course, something to identify the baby for what he truly is:



Check out Swampy's place for more shower partygoers.

And for more traditional (?) Haiku Friday stuff, see her and her.