Does a new laptop come with that?

May 22, 2005

I forgot the best part of the story below.  So, I am the Person In Charge of putting together the Memory Books for the kids.  Basically, the memory book consists of each 5th grader’s picture and then a series of questions like “best memory…” and “when I grow up I want to be a…”.  You get the picture.

I started off with a $150 budget.  For 80 memory books.  Well, not one to do things half-assed, I decided to rearrange the budget and got it bumped up to $250.  (GO me!)

If you know me at all or have learned anything from reading this blog, you know that I pretty much live by the motto “Everything in excess!” This would be no exception!

Black and white photos?  Pah!  We are going COLOR!

Two students per page?  Please!  We are going “one per” on this project.

Card stock covers?  I think not!  We’re having slick covers, baby.

(And these people allowed ME to be in charge?  Seriously?  I laugh at their lack of judgement!)

Remember that $250 budget I was so very proud of?  Imagine the horror…the sheer horror I felt upon getting this claim check when I was trying to get the books made.

Imagine if you will a frantic and freaked out woman at 11:00pm, crying and becoming hysterical when seeing this figure.  I believe I even fainted for a moment or two.

Again, I ask… Why did these people leave me in charge?  They KNOW me!  They know my general disregard for the rules, especially PTfreakinA rules.  Come on people.  Puh-leez!

It all worked out in the end.  I mean, I owe my husband in ways that are not even fit to put into type for saving my ass on this.  But, the kids got their memory books.  The PTfreakinA didn’t have to fork over $2,758.40. (Don’t forget the 40 cents, people.  It all counts!) And I got all of the credit.  Which we all know I am a credit whore who wants all of the praise and adoration. 

When it came time to turn in receipts and get checks cut for reimbursements, I totally wanted to submit this claim check.  I thought it would be pretty damn hysterical to watch the PTfreakinA president and treasurer freak the hell out when they saw it.  I mean, worst case scenario, I get a great laugh at their expense.  Best case, I get that check cut and can go back to Fry’s and buy my own lickable laptop.

Come on, admit it.  You would be tempted to turn that receipt in, too.  Wouldn’t you?

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All this and cake too?

I don’t know if I mentioned that I would be MIA due to the 5th grade graduation.

Fifth Grade.  Graduation.  (I shall pause here while you all vomit in your mouths and get fresh water.)

Remember when I was outted to a PTAer earlier in the year?  And when that person put my name on a list to “help” with the end of the year graduation program?  Remember that?  Well, we can TOTALLY blame her for my absence as of late. (Do you want her email address?  I will totally give it to you!)

I mean, they really do make a big deal out of the fact that these kids made it through elementary school.  Here is a brief breakdown of a few of the things involved that I was in charge of seeing completed.

80 Memory Books………$302

80 Slide Show DVDs…..$197

Excess Drinking by Volunteers…………$78

Listening to the friend who is responsible for getting me over-involved scream like a little girl who is seeing her own death flash before her eyes after she got me sucked back into the PTA…….Priceless

I am seriously surprised at all that the school does for the 5th graders when they graduate. They had a graduation ceremony. (No caps and gowns, but very dressed up kiddos.) They all got a memory book (you’re welcome) and a copy of the DVD slide show that was shown at graduation (again, you’re welcome) and a reception. 

Now, don’t get me wrong.  The kids love it.  The parents get to ooooh and ahhhh over their little spawns.  It’s just that it is FIFTH GRADE. 

*blank stare*

Want to know what I got for graduating 5th grade?

The opportunity to go to 6th grade.

Is this something that is particular to this area (aka Snotty, Tx) or is this something everyone does?  I really need to know this information because I am shocked at what a big deal it was.  I, therefore, feel like the Grinch Who Stole Graduation because I think it is so over the top for 5th graders.  I need to know what other areas of the country do.  How did/does your elementary school handle the end of elementary school? 

Because, seriously, if this is something that is just particular to Snotty, Tx, I am so going to move to PiddlePiss, Tx so that I can avoid this in the future.

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SNAKE!

May 21, 2005

When I am stressed, my sympathy level for other human beings goes pretty low.

Broke both of your arms?  So sorry.  Can you pass me that disc with your toes, please?

Dog ran away?  So sorry.  While you’re out looking can you pick up another printer cartridge for me?

Snake loose in your house?  So sorry.  But thanks for the laugh!

Seriously.  Sympathy was way low for others this week.  I was buried in end-of-the-year activities for the boys.  And by that of course I mean, PTA stuff.  Yes, you heard me right.  PTfreakinA stuff. Well, I guess you could say that it was for my son Brandon and his 5th grade class because it totally was!  But I had to report and go through the PTfreakinA.

And there is *one woman I blame for all of it. Ironically, she just so happens to be a very good friend of mine– even if she is a Stepford.  (You SO know who you are, too!) In fact, when she called me this week, I answered the phone every time with, “I hate you.  What do you want?”

Nice, huh.

She thought so, too.

So, while I am at her house either dropping something off, picking something up or just stopping by to say, “I hate you” I noticed her precious children outside with a large bucket.  Whatever was in the bucket had them entranced.  Her daughter sees me, leaps up and shoves the bucket at me.

“Wanna see my SNAKE?!”

Ummm, I’ll go with NO, not so much.

Fast forward to later that night.  Her husband and daughter (also a 5th grader like Brandon) decided it is a good idea to keep the SNAKE in the house. Inside the house.  INSIDE.  THE HOUSE.  Much to the sheer horror of her mother, the snake was invited to slumber within the cozy comfort of her home.  You must understand, this woman is NOT a fan of snakes.  At all.  None.

(You totally see where this is going, don’t you.)

The next morning I get a call.  Of course I answer it, “I hate you.  What do you want?”

“The SNAKE is out of the aquarium.  IT’S IN MY HOUSE!”

Yes, I laughed.  So sue me.  Then I tried the reassuring crap like “He is more afraid of you than you are of him” and of course “He probably found his way out already.  I am sure he is gone.”

All the while thinking, “He is SO going to end up in your bed tonight.”

Later that night I get a call.  (At least I think that is when it was.  Time blurs after the week I had.)

“I hate you.  What do you want?”

“Blah blah PTfreakinA blah blah blah”

And then…

“SNAKE SNAKE OH MY GOD SNAKESNAKESNAKESNAKE!” and then much yelling of her daughter’s name.  The sounds become more frantic but further away.  I think she dropped the phone.  Then I hear, “SNAKE. GOTTA GO!” *click*

I am not at all ashamed to admit that I totally peed my pants laughing at her.

I didn’t even answer the phone with “I hate you” when she called again.

I did however answer with, “That was the best laugh I have had in years. Thank you ever so much!”

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The one where I am banned from Fry’s

May 15, 2005

Clint says I am never allowed to go to Fry’s with him again.  Ever.  I totally think he is over reacting to our experience there.

I am not big into appliances and computer products.  However, I agreed to go and check things out with him.  It all started because of my laptop.  You see, I have this love/hate relationship with my laptop.  I love to hate it.  Yet, I love having it when I need it.  It’s just that it is so old and slow and weighs about 57 pounds (give or take).  To put it into perspective, we bought it before Gabriella was even an idea, let alone a living breathing person.  In computer years, that makes it about 47 years old.  So, it is only natural that I would long for a new laptop.  A shiny, pretty, fast one that won’t throw my back out whenever I carry it to lovely little coffee shops when I write. 

How does he expect me to act when it takes me to a store that has ROWS of shiny, skinny laptops?

Apparently he did not expect me to run up and down the aisles licking them all and grabbing up the most lucsious ones to rub up and down all over my body.  Hey, it’s not like they bolt those laptops down or anything!  They have those great retractable chords attached to them for just this reason. They expect people to do that!  They understand that people like me will shove them down their blouses and rub them against their flesh! 

He thinks I acted inappropriately.  He thinks that I exhibited an inappropriate public display of affection towards an electronic device.  (As if!)

After I was forced away from the rows and rows of glorious laptops, I managed to regain some control of myself and my behavior.

Until we came upon the washer and dryer that were sent from the god of all things laundry.  That washing machine will wash 16 (SIXTEEN) pairs of jeans in one load.  SIXTEEN!  And that dryer?  Look at the gloriousness of that dryer!  I did what any laundry hating woman who finds her salvation sitting right there in front of her would do.

He seems to think that it was completely out of line for me to strip off all of my clothes and climb into the washing machine (front loading washing machine, I might add) screaming, “SIXTEEN PAIRS OF JEANS, PEOPLE! SIXTEEN!” Personally, I think he was just embarrassed that he didn’t think to do it first.

I just don’t get it.  It’s not like I stole anything.  Some people just really overreact, if you ask me.

So, who wants to go back to Fry’s with me next weekend?

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There’s no problem purple flip flops can’t solve

May 14, 2005

Hello.  My name is Jennifer and I am a shoe addict.  It has been 93 minutes since my last shoe fix.  But it totally was not my fault.

Summer will soon be upon us.  Unless of course you live in Texas where it has already bitch-slapped you more than once.  My children rudely decided that they would outgrow last year’s summer shoes, so I was forced to take them shoe shopping.  For the kids.  Really.  Shopping for the kids to buy summer shoes.

So I am sitting on the floor of the store amidst rows and rows of shoes trying various sandals on Gabriella (Pink, Mom!  They MUST be PINK!) when I hear this faint whisper.

“Psssst…psst…Jenn.  Over here.”

I glance around and don’t see anyone.  I shrug it off and continue trying to convince Gabriella that shoes that have colors other than pink are not of the devil.

“Psssst…JENN.  Over here.  OVER. HERE.”

I look over my left shoulder and see them.  In all of their 50% off purple glory.  My breath catches in my throat.  I mean, I have dress sandals, fun sandals, jeans sandals, casual sandals, thongs, strappy and toe-torture sandals.  But, the perfect pair of beach/pool/sport flip-flops?  (And I quote:  “While out and about, you’ll love how soft, lightweight and flexible this sandal’s outsole is. Made of injected EVA, a rubber-like foam that’s lighter than most sandals. The comfort continues with an anatomically molded footbed, which means feet will feel at home instantly. Padded thong strap for slip-on ease. All finished off with a sporty look you’ll love.”) I SO don’t have those.  I mean, a gal could search for years and come close, but finding the perfect pair just before summer fun times begin?  Unheard of.  My heart began to race.

“Come on, Jenn.  You know you want us.”

“No.  Come on guys!  You know I can’t do the shoe thing right now.  Why are you tormenting me?”

“We didn’t say you had to buy us.  Just come get a closer look.  Come on.  No one has to know.”

I look around to make sure no one is watching me.  I send Gabriella over to her brothers.  (Some things you just don’t want to subject your young children to before they are ready.  Such as a drooling shoe addicted mom lusting after a fix.)

I pick up the lone “sample-shoe” and run my fingers over the softness of it.  I forcefully slam it back down. 

“NO.”

“Jenn, really.  Just one.  You know you want to see how they feel on your feet.  Just try it for a second.”

I stammer.  “I can’t.  You know I am not strong enough to put them on and stop.  What if I like the feel?  What if “trying” is not enough?” I fondle the shoe some more.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right.  Just your right foot then.  Seriously.  We both know your right foot is the strong one.  It will resist.”

I quickly do the math in my head trying to figure out how long I have been without a shoe fix and figure I am safe.

So, I slide my right foot into the gloriousness of this perfect shoe.  YES.  I quickly rip the left shoe out of the box and slide my foot into it’s cushy goodness.  YES. YES.  Oh for the love of flip-flop shoe loving goodness, YES.

I am now the proud owner of my first pair of perfect purple flip-flops.

I may be standing at the beach wedding naked because I couldn’t find a dress, but by all that is shoe yummy goodness, I will have comfortable purple flip-flops on.

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I cried because I had no blogroll, then I met someone with no blog

May 13, 2005

I admit it.  I am lost without my blogroll.  But, being the cheapskate, penny pinching, budget following wench that I am, I decided to not renew my blogrolling GOLD (they make it all shiny and pretty when they shout it at you.  I just make it BIG).  I did not, however, realize that they would kidnap and hold all of my links hostage. 

Is that even legal?  Can they do that?  Isn’t forcing me to pay money to get my links back a form of blackmail?  I am sure it must be!  Where is the FBI or CIA or NSA when you need them??

On a more urgent and tragic note, I fear I will never find a cute sun dress that will (a) look good on a body that has given birth 4 times, breastfed and has has things that have…well..shifted and (b) will not require taking out a second mortgage on the house to be able to afford it.  (Remember…I am a cheapskate, penny pinching, budget following wench.)

You see this summer, my cousin is getting married.  On the beach.  Oh wait, did I say this summer?  I meant IN A MONTH.  I am pretty sure I cannot lose the weight I want to or sew the perfect dress.  (I cannot believe I was able to type that whole “sew” thing without passing out from the laughter.) I will not give up though.  I want a casual, fun and beach-y dress (but not tacky or formal or overdone).  Now I have to decide how to go about it.  Do I shop online in the privacy of my office where I can drool, laugh or weep over the perfect dress?  Or do I face the horrors of the nightmare lighting in a dressing room but ensure that what I choose fits?

See?  I have big issues in my life.  BIG.  ISSUES. 

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Get yourself a late mother’s day present

May 10, 2005

Since we are talking about Moms, I want to tell you about a fantastic book I have recently received.  I even got a very sweet handwritten note from Marg herself.  (Hi, Marg!) It’s Marg Stark’s book What No One Tells The Mom: Surviving the early years of parenthood with your sanity, your sex life and your sense of humor intact.

I have read many books that will talk about the “less than popular” sides of motherhood.  I have read books that show the humor in the “less than popular” sides of motherhood.  I have read books that give practical advice from real life moms (not a man with “years of experience” that make him qualified–as if– tell you just how to survive the first years of motherhood) about motherhood.  This is the first book that I have read that has all of that. 

Moms who are worn out and been there done that “experienced” will enjoy the frank honesty as they nod their heads in agreement.  Moms who have no idea what they are getting into are “new moms” will appreciate the honest talk about the issues few people tell them about before becoming moms.  They will really appreciate the practical advice.

One of my favorite experts says:

“Recognize, too, that the more we push others away, insisting we can mother alone, the more susceptible we are to burnout and breakdowns.  The more we allow our husbands to dismiss themselves from baby care, the longer we delay their being able to handle it.  The more we insist on doing it alone, the more that gets permanently assigned to us.”

Where were you 11 years ago, Marg?  I would have saved myself years of exhaustion and burnout had I actually understood this concept.  The beauty of the book is that gems like that are not just thrown out there.  They are followed up with real examples from moms and real solutions for moms.

Even “experienced” moms will find part of this book strikes a cord with them.  It really hit home for me when I read this:

”…the happiest moms I know have learned to temper the stresses of marathon motherhood by sanctifying their experiences, sharing with others the absurd circumstances they find ourselves in, harking back to their past, and winnowing from everyday life little moments of transcendence. 

Like them, I am bolstered knowing that my mom felt the same way, and that nearly every mother in recorded history has resented a lopsided share of grunt work and the mixed blessings of loving her children and family so deeply.”

Do you trust me?

Do you?

Then get your hands on this book.  It really is a gem.

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Verbal vomit and whiney bile spewed here!

May 1, 2005

Clint has been out of town.  See?  You didn’t know that because I didn’t whine about it.  I’m not big into broadcasting when he leaves town for a while.  It used to be because I didn’t want anyone to know that I was alone with the kids.  Of course, now that I have a Doberman who will eat your face off if you come near any of us, I feel much safer.  (I think he made the pizza delivery dude soil his pants on Thursday night.  I tried not to laugh, but it was seriously funny.) This time I didn’t say anything about it because I have been too busy and too damn tired to post ANYTHING. Murphy and his friggin law have been all over us the past few days.  For those of you who are thinking that I have matured enough to not whine about it, get real.  You know I am going to spew my whiney bile all over you!

Shall we start with Friday.  (Thursday was just the possible law suit waiting to happen from the pizza dude who crossed himself as he left my house.  It’s not like he was bitten.  Just really, really scared.  And it didn’t help that I had an extra kid in the house for 3 days.  I mean, why wouldn’t they laugh at him?  Like I said…seriously funny.) So on Friday I plan on having a casual lunch with a friend I haven’t seen in ages and then pick up Clint’s pay check.  Across town.  Driving on 2 tollways and a freeway to get there.  Major sacrifice, but I can totally be bought.  Access to his check when he is out of town and he works adjacent to A MALL?  Oh, hell, yes, honey I will pick up your check.

Except the check was no where to be found.  Which I discovered as I got there.  I turn around and go back home on my freeway and 2 tollways.  Just in time to hear my sister’s panic phone call to me asking me why Brandon was calling my parent’s house asking for me.  My son Brandon.  In Plano.  Calling Houston.  Wha-huh?  It was a child asking for me.  By name.  By my married name, not my maiden name.  A huge and very strange mystery. Was it you? Tell me.  Obsessive compulsive people don’t like these kinds of mysteries.

But never fear, Clint’s boss called back and they found the check.  I was so very happy to be able to jump back in my car, race down the 2 tollways and freeway to pick it up. Only this time it was too late to go shopping.  There was SOCCER to be played.

Did I mention my car was trying to die on me this whole entire time?  Sputtering and acting like an old man with emphysema.  What’s a girl to do?  I cannot have 3 kids on a soccer tournament weekend without a car.  So I did what I always do when there is problem with the car and Clint is not around.  I added fluids to the car.  Gas.  Transmission fluid. Oil. Windshield wiper fluid.  (One cannot be too careful.) It totally worked.

Until I started the car and tried to drive it.  Still acting up, but if I turn the radio up and don’t drive between 40-45 or 60-65, it sputters less.  Works for me until I can go without a car long enough to have someone look at it.  (Car-men, quit slapping your forehead.  Just be happy I am not yours to take care of.)

But wait!  It gets so much better!  Remember that soccer tournament.  The one where they play a gazillion games all crammed into one weekend of tournament hell?  I got to do that with all the kids, too.  I actually love soccer, so that part of it wasn’t so bad.  The game after game after game back and forth crap got old, but you do what you have to do, right?  But you see, when it comes to the game itself, I am not a calm “sit-in-your-chair-and-watch-the-game” mom.  I am a pacing, cheering, “don’t-talk-smack-or-I’ll-show-you-smack” kind of mom.  Hey!  I am the goalie’s mom.  It is in our genes to be freaks.  Especially when an idiot official makes an awful call (SO BAD I KNEW IT WAS BAD!) which results in a hard kick to my goalie which caused him GREAT PAIN.  Do I really need to explain my level of freaktitude when a bad call resulted in my kid getting hurt?  There are no FCC censors on the sidelines, people.

But trooper that he is, Zarek would not come out of the game.  He wanted to see it through.  We won.  (Go team!) But his thumb hurt.  Not so much that he wouldn’t play that night.  Through the tears.  And the swelling.  Let’s just say we celebrated our loss with a trip to the e.r. 

Zarek is now a walking “Gig ‘em Aggies” ad. Poor guy.  Of course, when I called Clint to tell him we are going to the e.r., he asked me how the CAR was doing.  THE. CAR.  Let me see.  On the way to the e.r. with his son.  How is the car?  On the way to the E.R…..car okay?  He did not get hung up on, but he did get some serious attitude.  (Yes, I understand what he was saying and why he asked etc.  Shut up.  It made me mad and I am spewing my whiney bile, remember?)

But all’s well that ends well.  Meaning, he had another soccer game this morning that we could all drag our sorry, exhausted “at the e.r. too late to be dealing with this crap” butts to at 9:30am.  (No soccer for Zarek, but we were still there.  Go team.  Rah rah blah!)

We still have one more obligation to attend tonight.  Just one more.  But don’t worry.  There will be alcohol served, so I will be just fine.  (In case you were worried.)

So, after all of that verbal vomit, let me ask you a question.

Raise your hand if you wish YOU were in Clint’s shoes when he gets home this afternoon. 

*crickets*

Yeah.  Smart move.

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Hi! I don’t do small talk. You’ll probably hate me. Nice meeting you.

April 26, 2005

Today was Gabriella’s first school field trip. Because of their age and the seat belt laws, the parent(s) need to drive their children.  So, of course, I was there.  I wanted to be there.  This is the first child that I can do this with and not have to worry about setting up childcare for a little one or find out if siblings can go.  Freedom!

But I came to a conclusion.  I think I must be a social bitch.

At one point, I am standing there alone holding Gabrie and just sort of watching all of the other moms in their little groups talking and laughing and completely enjoying being together.  I have never felt like a bigger loser (as an adult) in my life.

Drop me down in a group of people I don’t know and I have no problems chatting anyone up.  I can join them and have no feelings of panic.  Put me in front of a huge audience to give a speech or whatever, no nerves at all.  However, if you put me in a group of women that I have been trying to get to know or “fit in with” and I go all Forrest Gump on them and say intelligent Gumpisms like “I have to peee.” I truly become socially retarded and an outcast.

Why? I mean, really…why?  I must give off a bitch vibe in a big way.  I just must reek of loserdom after you get to know me.  And yes, it is usually with women.  Once we get past the initial getting to know you talks at the beginning of a relationship, I become tongue tied and completely incapable of small talk.  I don’t do small talk well.  It feel so damn phony.  So, I guess that makes me seem bitchy.

Sometimes I blame it on where I live.  That makes it so much easier than blaming it on myself.  At least out loud it is easier.  I always internally blame myself.  But seriously, I am NOT cut out to live where I do.  Have you seen the new show on TLC named Sheer Dallas? It could SO be filmed within a stones throw from where I live.  They are filming in Dallas itself, but they will probably move a bit north and get some damn good footage here in Plano, too. 

Please don’t misunderstand me.  Not all women who live here are this way.  I mean, I have met amazing women here.  But truthfully, I can count on one hand the number of women I feel I can be myself around.  The real me.  How pathetic is that?  Do you know how much I HATE crying because I feel like such an outsider in my own hometown?  Let me tell you, I would rather give up coffee and chocolate than cry over something like this. 

I know there are books for men about “Understanding Women.” Are there any books for women on understanding other women?  I could SO use one.  Maybe that can be my next book.  “How To Not Be Loser:  Or At Least Learn How To Fake It Better.” I should totally call my agent and pitch that one.

The bottom line and most important thing is Gabriella had a great time today.  I am so glad she did.  (I will post pictures if I can find any WITHOUT other kids in them.  I am not too proud to learn lessons from my friends when it comes to internet picture postings and upset moms.) But honestly, I am glad I did not drive my own car.  I was just that tempted to leave because I felt so awkward.  There are times I see Gabriella get shy in situations like that and it breaks my heart.  Oh, please, don’t let her ever feel the “loser outsider” feeling that I felt today.  I encouraged her to hang out with her friends.  And I tried to get rid of my bitch vibe.  I was successful in getting her to leave my side and have fun with her friends.  As for losing the bitch vibe, I have no idea.

[Editor’s note:  See!  Out of 44,000 results, I was number 10 in a Google search for “anti-social bitch.” That does it!]

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This totally rocks for something that sucks!

April 18, 2005

Clint has totally been holding out on me.  For like years.  He has had this amazing thing hidden from me (in plain site I might add) and never once shared with me the glorious goodness that is his shop*vac.

I was in a cleaning frenzy today.  If it stood still, I cleaned it.  Even the fireplace, people.  I did the whole scoop out, dump in a bag, scoop, dump etc that you do when you are cleaning out a fire place.  It didn’t look too bad.

And there in the corner of the room, stood his shop*vac. What the hell? I thought.  It can’t hurt.

Oh for the love of sucking goodness everywhere, this thing rocked my world, people.  I have never had a cleaner fireplace in my life. 

I raced around to all of the baseboards in my house with the amazing shop*vac. I listened to the sound of it sucking up the tiny little particles that have made my baseboards their home for years.  I laughed.  I cried.  I think I had an orgasm it made me so happy.

Oh, who I am kidding?  It was a complete When Harry Met Sally coffee shop moment complete with screaming, writhing, whipping my hair around in excited bliss and even some slamming of my hands onto the walls. 

I heart Clint’s shop*vac.

I’m just saying….

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