Dear Meijer Cashier Lady

I know you are busy, underpaid, overworked, and probably a little warm in this heat but would it have killed you to acknowledge my daughter today? She might be on the shorter side but not so short that you couldn't see her over the conveyor. The conveyor on which she placed the two Barbie items (apparently she didn't get enough Barbie for her birthday) that she wanted to purchase with the Meijer gift card she received for her birthday. She stood there patiently and politely with her pink Hello Kitty purse waiting for you to ring up her items, which you did without so much as glancing at her. After you processed her gift card you turned to me to tell me there was a balance left and tried to hand ME the receipt and card. I looked you in the eye and told you to tell my daughter, that it was her purchase. I would have liked to stuff you in the Barbie box and tossed you on the clearance rack with the rest of the rejects.

You see, she is only 8 and still learning lots about our world. I try to teach her to be polite and to acknowledge other people when she is interacting with them. What you did negated her presence and importance as a CUSTOMER. You couldn't even take a moment to pull her Barbie treasures from the damn spinning contraption that held her bag, you just spun it further along so that you could begin ringing up MY items. I've never been down your lane before (and believe me I would have remembered, there are some of you I avoid like relatives) and just so you know I'm one of those customers that spends plenty at this store, the same store that pays you to do your job, the same store that claims Higher Standards, Lower Prices. There were no high standards in your lane, only bad examples.

Is it really about the tool?

There is nothing wrong with going to bed with someone of your own sex. People should be very free with sex, they should draw the line at goats. ~Elton John

I don't understand the adults in my generation, you would think an issue like homosexulity would be a non-issue but for some reason these people are so hung up on which "tool" is being used and where. Who cares! What they don't get is that "being gay" is not all about what happens under the sheets. It is about feeling a strong emotional/sexual/social connection to another person of the same sex. I thought I was all over feeling frustrated by closed-minded individuals when I donated And Tango Makes Three (two penquins father a baby penquin, very cute and sweet) to our local library (due to some comments by some ignornant and scared people). Well, I knew I wasn't over it but geez did it have to crop up again so soon?

Fuck You Florida Uncle Ted is gone but now I have another Florida sibling to deal with, that would be Clueless Aunt Beck. I won't go into detail about her clueless behavior but believe that she generously deserves the title. She finally made it over to our place yesterday with her two boys, 6 and almost 9 (almost 9!). Somehow we got into a discussion about another sister that also has 2 boys, 11 and almost 13, and how the younger boy said something was "So gay". As in something was stupid. Clueless Aunt Beck didn't like him using this term around her boys because she didn't want to explain what "gay" (the real homosexual meaning) was. She explained this to the mom, Mean Aunt Melonie (very deserving also), who responded that her boys "Know all about that stuff".

Well Clueless Aunt Beck went on to tell me that her oldest (almost 9!) knows "That it takes a mommy cat and a daddy cat to get a kitty, but not much beyond that." This same kid was telling us about protons, neutrons, and electrons while we roasted marshmallows but doesn't know about sperm and egg?! Yes, I have a problem with that. He probably thinks his penis is a whoozit too. She in no way wanted to explain the "gay" mechanics of sex because she is one of those many people that equates homosexuality only with the mechanics of intercourse.

The very ironic thing is that neither of Clueless Aunt Beck's boys live with their father. Boy number one was conceived by a one night stand because a guy missed his airplane flight and boy number two was conceived by a guy she was dating but would never marry (no job, no life, no brains-you know the type). Now both boys live with dude number three that they call "dad" but is not their real "dad". So really it doesn't take a mommy cat and a daddy cat to make a baby, it takes a sperm and an egg. I guess her fear really revolves around having to tell her boys how they were conceived-the right tool, right hole, wrong dude.

Guess Tango needs to make another guest appearance...

Fuck You Florida Uncle Ted

I am so tired of having to explain to my kids in a nice way, without sounding bitter, why their relatives on their dad's side are such assholes. I don't really like to use the nasty language either but I am bitter because everytime they visit I give them the benefit of the doubt. Why? I guess because I'm an idiot. Really, why else would I believe that "this time" our family won't be used as a doormat or be an after-thought? And here we are once again with this being Florida Uncle Ted's last night at our house and the kids are heading to bed without seeing him for but 10 minutes this morning before he left to aimlessly wander the countryside with a beer tucked between his legs in the red farmin' truck (which we so generously provide for him to drive). He specifically told Vinnie he would be back by 5 or 6 to hang out, it is now 10:30. He won't be able to play with us tomorrow night because him and his sister are taking their dad (Um yeah, Vinnie's dad too, but they didn't invite ANY of us. Try explaining THAT to the 7 year old who wants to go to a Tiger game.) to a Tiger baseball game and that same dear sister (who is just as inconsiderate and undependable) will take him to the airport the next morning.

So, fuck you Florida Uncle Ted, I'm glad I won't wake up in the morning to find your hung-over body on my couch anymore. That I won't have to sort your socks from Vinnie's in the laudry one more time. That you won't look up with that blank expression on your face and say "huh" when I ask you something. That I won't have to clear the last beer bottle off the table in the morning or out of my garden in the afternoon. That I won't have to wonder which freakin' towel in the bathroom is mine and why there are so many of them hanging on the bathroom door! That I won't have to hear you stick up for your spoiled half-sister during any more conversations. That I won't have to hear about "grandpa" Bill and how much help he needs (grandpa fucking who?). Off to south Florida you go. Adios asshole

Daddy didn't drink no beers!

Gibby went to his first concert on Saturday. He went to see Hinder, Buck Cherry, and Papa Roach in the canoe with his dad and Florida Uncle Ted. He got home around midnight and flopped in the bed very tired even though he slept for a least an hour in the canoe. In the morning I asked him how his first concert was and he replied, "We didn't go to any concert." I tried to explain to him that when you go see bands sing it is called "being at a concert." He was having none of that because "We weren't on the stage mom!" *exasperated sigh* (from him not me!)

Instead I asked how he liked drinking beers in the canoe with dad and Florida Uncle Ted. Once again, exasperated by his mother's stupidity he said, "Daddy didn't drink no beers. He drinked orange juice. This many of them (holding up two fingers)." The ah-ha moment, no wonder the dear husband recently switched to vodka and OJ, the kids think he is being all good with his glass of Florida Sunshine. Cause when he sticks to his regular booze we can call him out on stuff too easily and the kids think he is "drunked".

My Drug of Choice

I guess I should have written this yesterday while I still had "the high". The high that you get from running an exhilarating yet scary 20 miles. Where you are dehydrated and have salt crystals up and down your arms and legs when you finally stop. The long slow distance (LSD) training of any runner is a jumbled mess of uncertainty, pride, worry and elation. The uncertainty that at any moment (or so it seems) something could go wrong and you won't finish. The pride of doing something you love while others look at you in awe and think you are crazy (they just need a taste of the endorphins!). The worry that you don't have enough liquid and caloric support along with you or spread on your route to support the whole distance. The elation that comes off and on during the run when you feel good and when you meet your goal (tired, sore, thirsty and hungry).

My route takes me back and forth through town and out into the country. I pass people that only know me as "that runner" and we have what I call a waving relationship. This weekend I got to see the aftermath of the sold-out Hinder, Buck Cherry (huh? is that right?) and Papa Roach concert down in the park. Maybe some of them had their own LSD going on? It seemed like all the guys were still sleeping while the women were walking around with little wads of toilet paper trying to find a suitable or available place. Part of my LSD is seeing what is going on, noticing the things that you don't have time for while driving 4 happy kids (see how it affects my mind!) around in a mini-van. Not to mention I usually run quite early on Sundays and most people aren't even up as I start my run. I see the fast-food bags tossed out next to the beverages of choice along the roadside, I have red-winged black birds attack me because they think I am a threat, I see the moon getting ready to disappear and the sun making a vibrant appearance. Nothing beats a little LSD

My friend Bifidus

It is very odd to me that on all the special little categories available on all these "spaces" there is nothing about food. We Americans LOVE food! 2/3's of us are overweight and the rest of us are trying not become overweight as we scarf down our cake after running a few miles. I'm so bad about the cake addiction that my husband frequently comes home from weddings with a whole layer in the trunk of his car (they GIVE it to him, he doesn't walk into random wedding celebrations and steal it, although if he were rewarded properly by me *wink-wink* he might start doing that). So why on earth is there not "space" for what we like to eat or what we don't like to eat for that matter. Hum, I wonder which category would be easier to fill.

For days now I have been denied my friend Bifidus because Meijer didn't deem him important enough to keep around in my non-flavor and brand. Meijer brand is fine for some things but over my dead body will I buy whole-milk plain yogurt from anybody but Stonyfield Farm! They have 6 live active cultures in that stuff for pete's sake. Not to mention you actually have to stir it to mix in all the creamy yum on top. Shhhhhh, but my special secret is to add Dora the Explorer cereal to my daily cup.

Bifidus and I have been reunited thanks to Kroger-the store that knows how to get you in the door with their wide selection of over-priced organic healthfood. They got me and I'll be back once I finish up these two cartons.

I had no idea!

I thought I was a good mom. I supply mammoth amounts of educational supplies for the kiddies and leave them out in the open so they can explore them as they want. We have an "art table" in the "play room" and I have even learned to ignore messes that are not in my direct working space. After having 4 kids I had it down pat. I was there for them, but not too much. I provided the tools, but didn't push them on the kids. Apparently I have been a little too hands off.

The big kids (6 and 7) have math and reading books to stimulate their brains this summer and my 4 year old decided excitedly that he wanted "homework" too. So I gave him a purple crayon and a "learning your alphabet" type of book. He was thrilled! I was thrilled! I showed him how to do "G", the first letter of his name, and off he went. The next day he was right back at it working on "P" and "I". He was sitting at the table working with a little metal lunch box next to him and says, "I put some of these in there," while pointing at his lunch box. I asked what it was that he put there and he says, "Some of these," pointing at his purple crayon. What are those called, I asked him. He says, "Oh, let me show you," and opens the box which is full of crayons. I asked if he knew what those were called and he said "No".

Huh? How can he be four, with two older siblings and not know what a crayon is called?!