Conversation number one, about the glasses,  was followed almost immediately by conversation number two… about Velma’s birthday presents or lack thereof.

She piped up after we established that The Egg Donor (ED) was not an Optometrist, Opthalmologist, or any other kind of doctor, and informed me that her weekend had been pretty rotten. I think the initial plan, though I try not to ask any questions really, was that they were all going swimming at ED’s apartment complex. It sounded like a good thing. It was officially so hot you could fry an egg on the sidewalk this weekend and I would have been thrilled to go for a cool swim. They were all looking forward to it when I dropped them off on Saturday morning.

So it was suprising to me that they hadn’t gone. It was even more surprising when Daphne interrupted Velma’s tale of disappointment over not swimming to throw Velma under the bus.

“Yeah, we didn’t get to go because you threw a fit in Wal-Mart.”

One eyebrow raised, I turned back to Velma and said, “You did?”

She shook her head vehemently in denial, and proceeded to relate the rest of the story.

Velma’s birthday was at the beginning of the month. Remember the big deal over the supposed “party” that ED needed to take her to?  The one that required her to pick the kids up early? The one that never actually materialized? Yeah, that one. The kids did go up to their grandmother’s house on the afternoon of Velma’s actual birthday, for a few hours while ED was at work. Hardly even a true family birthday party, given that her mother wasn’t even present. And the day that the party was supposed to occur was filled with that dangerously sun-drenched festival. But no party.

On the day of the trip to grandma’s house, Velma got some Harry Potter jellybeans (you know, the kind with flavors like vomit, grass, dirty diaper, etc.) and a promise from grandma to buy her a book at Target. ED? Nothing. Not even a card. Now before we get off on a tangent of how much money was actually spent on Velma’s birthday, that’s not really the issue here. It’s not about money. I repeat, this is NOT about money. It IS about forethought, a little planning, at least a facade that anyone at all in ED’s family thought Velma’s birthday was important. Didn’t happen. She was disappointed.

Disappointment faded fast when ED explained to Velma, over the phone, that her gift to her was letting her pick out something special at the festival that weekend. Excellent. That’s a pretty good deal, and Velma’s spirits were high. When they actually went to the festival, ED bought Velma a $5 ticket to spin some wheel and get a prize. The prize she got was worth $25, not really something that Velma even wanted or picked out for herself, and ED announced that the prize was Velma’s gift. Alrighty then.

Velma was disappointed again. Let me say one more time that this isn’t about money. Although I have some strong opinions about the fact that ED is driving a car that costs her $680/month and not paying a penny of the $1K/month in child support she’s ordered, or any of the children’s medical expenses, but can only afford $5 to spend on her daughter’s birthday, it’s not about that. It’s about the fact that Velma is eleven years old and gave us at least 15,000 different ideas of things she really wanted… ranging from $2 to $200. We made it clear that the $200 was far outside of the budget, but couldn’t ED have at least come up with something for $2 that she wanted? Anything?

Anyway, to assuage Velma’s hurt feelings, ED told her that she HAD actually ordered her a gift, that it had come but was broken, and that she had to return it. It would be there in a couple of weeks. Well, that was a a couple of weeks ago now. Evidently ED got a case of the guilties when Velma pushed her on the subject of this mysterious broken item that was supposed to be on its way and ED offered to take her to Wal-Mart to purchase something there by way of replacement. Velma, being a smart cookie, opined at this point in the story that she had some suspicions about whether there actually WAS an item on order, and continued with her story.

Once at Wal-Mart, she beelined for the toy aisle. Because no eleven year old is NOT going to beeline for the toy aisle when they’ve been told they get to pick out a gift. ED told her that it needed to be something not terribly expensive, and Velma picked out a $10 doll. This is where things went downhill. ED had in mind that $5 was not terribly expensive and Velma really thought $10 was pretty thrifty. After all, $10 is exactly half of what we usually spend on gifts for Velma’s friends when they have a birthday. So when ED told her that it was too expensive, she got tears in her eyes. I imagine that the disappointment of the much-hyped party that never happened, and then the $5/$25 “gift” that ED got her at the festival, piled on top of the “$10 is too expensive” conversation was just too much for poor Velma to take.

Once the tears started rolling, she evidently couldn’t stop them and ED began to yell at her, right there in the aisle. I don’t know how much of what she related after that was exaggerated by her 11-year-old mind, but if her past history is any indicator, it was probably pretty accurate. She’s the LAST child in our family to be deceitful, or to even stretch the truth. She’s a factual kid… tells it like it is. She went on to describe ED’s diatribe in some detail, repeating the words she had spoken with the venom in her voice I’m sure ED was using at the time.

“I can’t believe you’re so selfish that you are crying in Wal-Mart over $10 rather than taking into account the possibility of making me angry.”

Grown up words. All of them. Velma went on to say that she offered to put the doll back, that if ED was too broke to purchase it she understood. She said that while she was trying to “pull it together”, ED threw the doll into the cart with such force that she dented the packaging, causing Velma to feel horribly guilty and beg, new tears coming, for her to put it back. ED refused. I can see poor Velma, in my mind’s eye, running after ED, begging her to put it back, feeling absolutely terrible that she’d caused her mother such grief, while ED just stalked away with the cart. She ended up buying her the doll, but managed to suck all of the joy right out of what should have been a happy occasion. And now? Every playtime with that doll will just be a reminder of that awful exchange.

When they arrived back at the apartment, ED notified the entire household that Velma had “thrown a total fit at Wal-Mart” and that, as punishment, none of them would be going to the pool. To add insult to injury, she turned to Velma and said, at the top of her lungs, “Thank Velma. She’s selfish.”

Nice.

I didn’t have words ready for that one. I wanted to head right on over to the apartment and give her an earful but, you know, it wouldn’t do any good with her. Instead, I just hugged Velma and said, “I’m so sorry.”

What else could I do?

***Update (since a couple have mentioned it):  We did do a birthday party for Velma at the beginning of the month.  We went to a local restaurant that specializes in entertainment for young ones–her request for the third year running–we brought friends, and had a giggle-filled sleepover afterwards.  She got showered with gifts from us, from her friends, and from my parents.  In fact, she might have come close to getting 14,999 of the things she asked for.   Thank God for normalcy in at least one household.

Today’s that day. You know, the one where the kids come back from their two-day trip down the rabbit hole with the Countess of Cuckoo. It never ceases to amaze me the stories they tell when they return. This morning, I picked them up from the local “neutral dropoff and pickup location” and they actually didn’t look too worn by their weekend.

But as they piled into the car, the very first conversation we had centered around Shaggy’s glasses… the glasses that he’s supposed to wear all the time… because he’s very far-sighted (the worst in our family, as a matter of fact)… and he gets terrible headaches when he doesn’t wear them. So you can imagine my surprise when he got out of her broken-down $680/month SUV this morning without them on. He had to run back to her vehicle–smashed front-end, broken out headlight, buckled hood, and all–and retrieve his glasses from her purse.

A little history lesson here…

Remember when Daphne lost her glasses?   We, of course, ended up shelling out the smack-a-roos to purchase replacement glasses because The Egg Donor (ED), the Pillar of Parenting, not only refused to assist with the purchase of new ones or even look for the pair that was lost, but actually told her attorney that we failed to send them with Daphne, therefore we were completely financially responsible for their replacement. Uh huh.

Not long after that e-mail from her attorney, and a rather heated phone conversation during which I determined that her attorney was actually Satan with a blond hippy wig, we had a little “Come to Jesus” meeting with the kids over this whole fiasco and, without beating them over the head, placed the responsibility for the loss of things at their mother’s home squarely on their shoulders. We revoked their privilege of taking things from our home to hers that weren’t absolutely necessary–toys, GameBoys, etc.–until we saw a drastic improvement in the return of things that WERE necessary–glasses, jackets, shoes, and the like.

During that lovely few minutes, it came to light that ED tells them to take their glasses off when they arrive at her house, and that… get this… no, really… hang onto your hats for this one… as long as they can actually SEE without them on, they don’t really need to wear them all the time. So they take them off shortly after they arrive, and then spend the whole weekend without them.

I had a little temper tantrum the first time I heard those words fall from their lips, mumbled some words I’m not proud of but that they couldn’t hear, and requested that they recount their mother’s lengthy training in the optical field. I asked where she had gone to school for it, where her degree was issued, if she had some sort of certificate allowing her to practice Optometry in our fair state, if they had any idea how long the degree had actually taken. They, of course, had no response.

I went on from there to explain that the Optometrist actually went to school to get a degree, a certificate, and a LICENSE to practice… that he was very knowledgeable in his field, that they had all three sat directly in front of him and listened to him explain why they needed to wear glasses, how often, and what would happen if they didn’t. I asked Daphne if she remembered coming home from school crying because of the headaches, if she could recall how hard she struggled with reading initially because she couldn’t focus on the page. I was not happy that ED was actually irresponsible enough to tell them such nonsense, but I was equally unhappy that they had not used their brains to actually test what was real. I know it’s tough, but they’re old enough to not make bad choices because they believe whatever ridiculous poppycock their ED sells them.

I thought we had made headway during that conversation when we discussed that they knew right from wrong and needed to start making decisions based on what they KNEW was right, not just on what ED said. So I have to admit, I was a little grouchy when Shaggy ambled over to the car without his specs on his face, like it was no big deal.

When he further told me, head hung low, that he had not worn them all weekend, I lost my patience. We had a long discussion, at higher than normal decibels, about understanding right from wrong, testing the things we hear for validity, thinking things through to see if they make sense, etc. I asked a couple of very pointed questions like, “If your Mom said you should take drugs, would you do it?” and “If she told you to drive in the car without wearing your seatbelt because the risk of having an accident was low, would you do it?” He responded with a negative to both questions, and I think my point penetrated his little brain.

Gah.

Why do I even have to HAVE these kinds of discussions?

It seriously gives me hives.

I woke up this morning, prior to the alarm going off, to the sound of knocking on my bedroom door. I am a sleep craver, so I’m not so much excited about the knocking, particularly because I know what the outcome of the knocking will look like. Inevitably, the little voice on the other side of the door will tell me at length about some transgression visited on the owner of the voice by one of three other parties living in our home. It will be a serious transgression, one that requires instantaneous action on my part, and typically one that requires a remedy of some sort to make the injured party feel like all is right with the world again.

In the past, we’ve had knocking over what kind of sandwiches must be packed for lunch, whose turn it is to wear (insert important shared item of clothing here), who should get in the shower first, whose responsibility it is this particular morning to put the milk away since all four of them used it, and other earth-shattering and life-altering decision-making opportunities. We’ve also had knocking for bloody noses, tripping, high-sticking, goalie interference, and other sibling issues that really do end with someone in the penalty box.

After a groan and a sigh, and a peek at the clock through one mostly closed eyelid, I answered in my most patient, kind, good morning voice…

“WHAT?!?”

“We’re having an argument about underwear,” came the rather timid voice of Shaggy through the door.

“What?” I threw back, wondering if I heard him correctly. “Underwear?!? Are you aware of what time it is?”

“Yes,” he said, almost in a whisper, which is also a pet peeve of mine. If you’re going to knock on the door, loudly enough to wake me from a sound sleep, then for the love of GOD and ALL THAT IS HOLY, at least speak so I can actually hear you. My bionic ears are just not awake enough to catch everything the way they normally do… at a reasonable hour of the day… say 10 or so… after caffeine. “But we can’t agree on whose turn it is to wear the crappy underwear. I wanted to do Rock, Paper, Scissors but Freddy wouldn’t do it.”

By this point I’m shaking off the sleep and I’m valiantly trying to process this issue. Did he really just say that my involvement is required to mediate who needs to wear the crappy underwear? At 6 in the morning? Am I dreaming this? Nah, couldn’t be. I couldn’t MAKE this up.

“The crappy underwear?” I replied, feeling a little like there was an echo in our household.

“Yes,” he said again, a little more forcefully. “There’s only one pair of good underwear left and we can’t decide who should have to wear the crappy ones.”

Now let me give you a little background on this fascinating underwear issue. Shaggy and Freddy are 8 and 9 years old, respectively. They grew out of character underwear a couple of years ago. No more Scooby-Doo, Spiderman, or Spongebob for them. They became too “grown up” for that kind of nonsense. Nope, they wanted plain old solid-colored underwear. And not briefs, mind you. In fact, any color but white, and definitely not briefs. During our outing to Target to replace that “little kid” underwear with something much more mature, I was informed, in indignant tones, that tightie-whities were just not for them.

So we didn’t buy tightie-whities. And we didn’t buy any with Spongebob, superheros of any nature, or any other cartoon characters. We bought boxer briefs… in young man colors like olive green, dark blue, and black.

No white.

No briefs.

Mature colors.

I thought we had it goin’ on. So I bought, like, 752,000 packages of boxer briefs. Because two boys can wear some serious underwear. I don’t know if it’s like the disappearing socks in the dryer, or what, but it never fails that it’s Wednesday morning, we’ve done 75 loads of laundry in the past two days, and no one can find clean underwear. The obvious solution to that problem is to, you know, buy a lot more. And that’s what I did.

As they grew over the past year? I bought even more. Their drawer was practically brimming with underwear. And it seemed that I had solved the case of the missing underwear. No more knocking, early in the morning, complaining that the drawer was empty. Either they had plenty, or they learned the art of inside-out reuse… and either way really, I was fine with that. Things went along swimmingly, right up until a couple of weeks ago when a trip to Wal-Mart netted a new kind of underwear that THEY. MUST. HAVE.

Those boxer briefs? The 752,00 packages that I bought? Out. For little kids. Completely unhip and uncool. Boxers… those were the ticket. I had concerns. Boxer briefs are soft and not, uh… floppy. You know, they keep everything where it’s supposed to be, not just out there… freewheeling, for lack of a better term. Anyway, I agreed to let them try one package–three pair.

“Try them. See what you think,” I said, like any good mother would. “And then we’ll see if we want to buy more.”

I heard nothing. Not one word. Not a peep. Two full weeks have gone by and I’ve been blissfully floating through life thinking those old boxer briefs were doing the trick, thinking I’d saved myself tons of grief by not just going off half cocked and buying 752,000 packages of plain old, scratchy, floaty boxers. I was pretty proud of myself, truth be told, for not being swayed by the Wal-Mart conversation. You know the one… “I NEED TO HAVE (insert impulse buy here).” Saved lots of green… the whole deal.

We… he… hell…..

Little did I know that behind closed doors, those boxers were causing quite the issue…

Quite the issue that resulted in the knocking on my door this morning at some ungodly hour.

Back to groggy, sleepy, grouchy me. “Seriously? Are we fighting about underwear at this hour? Really? Because you couldn’t find something better to argue about, like who to vote for in the next election, the best way to solve world hunger, or something? Anything? Besides underwear?”

I wracked my brain for a workable solution to this problem. I could force the Rock, Paper, Scissors issue. I could cut the non-crappy underwear in half and make each boy wear one side. I could make them flip a coin. I could try to figure out why there were no more pairs of non-crappy underwear available when laundry had just been done. I could make them search the dryer…

As my grouchiness increased, my husband, never one to mince words, and the King of Sibling Rivalry, solved the whole thing for me. He rolled over, magically awakened from sleep (since he could sleep through all manner of craziness–loud parties, the ransacking of our home and the theft of every item in it save the bed, a complete house fire, you know the drill), and yelled…

“Both of you wear the crappy underwear! Problem solved!”

And he rolled right over and went back to sleep.

Next, I think I’ll have him tackle that world hunger thing.

We spent lunchtime in the tiny town of Story, at a quaint little restaurant called the Waldorf A’Story, nestled inside the Piney Creek General Store. The store front boasts a large sign that reads “The Story Real Escape Co.” and looks a lot like the Alamo would look it it were made from river rock instead of adobe. The grocery side was about 1200 square feet, packed full of treasures and sundries. The area around the single checkout counter was filled with freezers full of ice cream and directly across from the ice cream were shelves jammed with toys of all shapes and sizes.

Further down, one aisle was all specialty Asian cuisine–I guess there’s a market for it there. Another was full of tin signs, rusted horseshoes and mismatched weathervanes–I bought one for my husband, the Green Thumb, that says “Experimental Dandelion Farm - Do Not Disturb Weeds”–and in the back was a small room filled to the gills with wine from all over the world. None of the aisles were large enough for more than one person to walk down at a time, but even the chaotic shelves (packed with gourmet food items and dog food in the same area) seemed to jive with the overall feeling that this place had it all–with no worries.

The “Restrunt,” as it’s called, was tucked into the corner of the store, separated from customers making their purchases by a double doorway. The interior was all rough-hewn log walls and ceilings, keeping corrugated aluminum in place, the logs reminiscent of the fort we had just visited. One giant log–split in half and polished to a sheen so clear I could see my face reflected in it–served as the long bench in front of the bar.

On the walls were chotchkies of every shape and size–a lifesize mannequin of a hockey player, complete with helmet and an open mouth that contained a bottle opener; hurricane lanterns; an old sled; a giant carved Indian; hot sauce labelled “Smack my Ass and Call me Sally”; and in one corner a giant buffet–deep brown mahogany, ornate and mirrored, glass figurines covering every square inch. The bathroom was far back in one corner and was the type that you had to step in, suck it in, and shut the door before you could even sit down. The kids each took a turn and each one came out laughing. It was completely charming.

The menu was just like the rest– laid-back , friendly, unhurried… like you might be having lunch at your long-lost friend’s house instead of someone’s “establishment.” Some of the culinary options were the Yullno-u-ata hoagie; The Piney Creek Soup Fer Shur (cuppa or bowla); Nuthin Butta Haffa Samich; the Mother of All Salads; and the kids’ choice… the plain, ol’ BLT. I had the Alaskan Creamery, a grown-up version of the PB&J, stuffed with smoked salmon and the cremiest Cream Cheese I’ve ever had.

We spent an hour relaxing in the tiny eatery. I let the kids drink their fill of soda, which I rarely do, while we chatted. When everyone was finally sated, we left the red and white checkered tablecloth behind and moved out front to the rocking chairs and picnic tables.

We sat for awhile in the sun, feeling full and happy, and watched the kids play in Piney Creek (that’s Piney Crick, if you’re from there). There was just enough cool breeze to make it a heavenly afternoon and the kids came back from the banks of the creek with handfuls of wildflowers–red, yellow, deep blue, purple, and white. I threaded the tiny white flowers through the braids in the girls’ hair and we sat awhile longer, listening to the sounds of the creek babbling by, and the wind whispering through the treetops.

We laughed with my Grandad and drank in the amazing scenery around us. It was good to just be with him, out in the warm afternoon sunlight. It was good to hear him laugh, that laugh that I remember from when I was a child. I wondered why I hadn’t done more of this with him over the years and vowed to get back up that way before too much more time passed.

If you missed the prior pieces, they’re here:  Part One, Part Two, and Part Three…

We spent the next day visiting local historical sights.

Wyoming’s history is rich with locales and lore that jog the imagination. Not so very long ago, it was a major thoroughfare for folks hoping to strike it rich in the gold fields of Montana and it was also home to many different Indian tribes–Lakota, Cheyenne, Arapaho, Shoshone, and Crow. The Bozeman Trail, named for trailblazer John Bozeman, cut through the middle of the Powder River Basin, hunting grounds of the Northern Plains Indians. Skirmishes between the Indians and those trying to find their dreams in Montana led to military occupation at several locations along the Bozeman Trail, including our first stop–Fort Phil Kearny.

There isn’t much remaining at the Fort itself. A dusty parking lot sits at the top of a hill just outside Story, Wyoming. A small museum, filled with artifacts, pictures, and maps serves as the Welcome Center. We stopped there and the kids roamed through each room, fascinated by an authentic headdress–its feathered resplendence still like new with deep golds and reds, and the tomahawks, spears, and knives used as weapons by the Indians. Velma was particularly taken with a ceremonial item called a Crow, worn on the back, fastened by a belt around the waist. This one was also made of feathers, fastened together in the middle and radiating out, red and yellow feathers at the ends, as bright as if they’d just been dyed yesterday.

Shaggy was fascinated by a Howitzer, and a military uniform–a castoff from the Civil War that was standard fare for military personnel at that time. Just inside the door was also a replica of a covered wagon. Inside the wagon were the supplies a family might take with them if they were to travel along the Bozeman Trail. It was sparse. A couple of changes of clothes, a bolt of fabric for sewing new ones, a small assortment of dishes, a washtub, a butter churn, flour, dried fruit, beans, rice, sugar and coffee, dishes, and a washtub–all squashed into a 4 foot by 10 ten foot space. Add to that all of your family members, jostling along in the wagon box, feeling every bump and rut, terrified of an impending Indian attack at any second, and it must have made tough characters out of anyone who made the journey.

We watched a short movie that described the history of the Fort in some detail. I wondered what it must have been like for the inhabitants of the Fort. It wasn’t very large, only 600 by 800 feet, and it contained enlisted, cavalry, and officer’s quarters, a hospital, a Sutler’s store, a guardhouse, a laundress’ quarters, a schoolhouse, a quartermaster and commissary supply, commander’s quarters, and a magazine. What stands there today is a large, grassy field… no remnants of the buildings that once stood or the people that once lived within the walls of the Fort, nothing that might indicate it was once a bustling center of activity, or the centerpiece of a horrible massacre. If the museum weren’t there, if they had not painstakingly walked the grounds and laid out boundaries and signage to point the way, it would just be another grassy bluff, like all of the others.

The view from the bluff where the Fort once stood as a bastion of safety for travelers and military folks alike was spectacular. It was warm, but not too warm, a gentle breeze stirring the air just enough that it wasn’t cloying. There were more of the fluffy, cottony clouds we saw on the drive up, dotting the sky and casting shadows over the neighboring hills.

The clouds were moving swiftly, and the shadows lengthened and stretched across the hills, moving from one to another like a wagon train fleeing from Indian attack. The kids spent time running along the newly built front walls of the Fort, giant freshly sharpened pencils standing at attention, shoulder to shoulder against each other. They peeked through the windows cut into the sides, hung on fresh hinges, and over the top, scrambling up onto the wooden planks, similar to the planks the guards would have used to see over.

Too soon it was time to go. On the way into town for lunch, we stopped by a monument built to Portugee Phillips. It was a small monument, built from smooth, rounded river rocks, caked together with cement, that reached up towards the heavens like a miniature pyramid. The inscription read:

In Honor Of
John (Portugee) Phillips
Who Dec. 22-24, 1866, rode 236 miles
in sub-zero weather through
Indian infested country to Fort
Laramie to summon and for the
Garrison of Fort Phil Kearny
beleaguered by Indians follow-
ing the Fetterman Massacre

The story goes that a Sioux leader, Red Cloud, staged a decoy strike on a wood train running near the Fort. Captain Fetterman, at the command of Colonel Henry Carrington, rounded up 79 men–the number he had previously said he would use to massacre the entire Sioux nation–and set out for victory. As they approached the attacking Indians, the Indians began to run away and the soldiers gave chase. As the soldiers reached the crest of the hill, they realized that the fleeing Indians had been decoys. There, on the other side of the ridge, were 2000 Sioux warriors. Fetterman’s meager 79 didn’t stand a chance. Within 20 minutes, Fetterman and all of his men were dead.

When news of the massacre reached the Fort, Portugee Phillips volunteered to ride for help. As the sign reads, so goes the legend. They say that he rode 236 miles on horseback, in a raging blizzard, to get to Fort Laramie for help. He rode so hard, and so fast, and so far, that the horse he was riding died just after their arrival at Fort Laramie.

The kids were awestruck by the idea. As I explained what that distance would be by car, their eyes widened. It was a great history lesson, fun to reminisce, fun to picture the whole thing in my mind’s eye. I was glad the kids got to be a part of it, to see this, and to think about what life might have been like before the Wii, before CDs, before cable TV.

I don’t know if they’ll remember it forever. My Dad tells me that I was there as a kid, too, and I don’t remember a moment of it. But I do know that the rich history of places like this was planted somewhere deep down in my soul–an appreciation for those that went before us, for the struggles, the achievements, the love, and the laughter that went into making today what it is.

As I stood watching them run around the monument and feel the stones with their hands, I tilted my head toward the sky, closed my eyes against the sun, and thought for a second I could hear the gunshots, the war cries, the pounding of horses hooves.

I hoped, even if for just a moment, that my kids could hear it too.

It’s Friday, and I’m thrilled about that!

In honor of the break I will get over the weekend from the rigors of corporate life (read: time-wasting, blame-shifting, and name-dropping), I am posting the top ten most annoying things I have dealt with at work or en route.

They are:

10. I generally run late in the mornings. I’m not sure if has something to do with the fact that:

• getting myself ready
• getting four kids dressed in the correct outfit for the day (e.g., in their neon daycare shirt if it’s required because they’re going somewhere where they need to keep track of all of the little munchkins)
• getting lunches made for the aforementioned four kids who could argue over the number of possible shades of the color pink and therefore argue about all manner of silliness, up to and including who got Cheetos yesterday even though there are 57,000 bags of Cheetos left for today
• getting the dog fed and corralled so that we can get her outside before she chews up my newest pair of slippers
• and turning off all of the lights in the house because my husband has “an issue” with lights being left on during the day (a leftover childhood trauma, I’m pretty sure)

…takes so long that I have to get up 4.3 minutes after I went to bed, but I am… usually late.

And I always end up behind the person who doesn’t have a care in the world, is likely unemployed, thinks it might be Sunday, and is therefore driving 3 miles per hour.

9. Once that person who was driving 3 miles per hour turns off, I end up behind someone who might be driving 4 miles per hour, but suddenly needs to turn and slams on the brakes directly in front of me, causing my blood pressure to go through the roof because I’m usually less than the safe following distance behind him (um, ok, maybe 3 inches IS a safe following distance) and I have to lock ‘em up in order to avoid a “fender bender”.  Then that person slows to .00000002 miles per hour before whipping over into the TURN LANE THAT HAS BEEN THERE FOR THE PAST 50 YARDS.

8. I am addicted to Diet Dr. Pepper… or Diet Coke if DDP isn’t available. That means that I’ve already sucked down about a 2-liter before I actually get to work (yes, I know–soda is bad for me, but remember how early I have to get up? I’m not operating on a lot of sleep and if caffeine keeps me rollin’, then so be it–lay OFF already). While my bladder has been learning for years and years how to manage this sizable fluid intake, I really have to go by the time I arrive at work. When I roll into the bathroom at full tilt, dropping my purse, my laptop bag, and my keys on the floor because I’m busy trying to get in there before anything embarrassing happens (because, you know, I’ve had a baby and all), I don’t generally pay attention to the position of the seat… in the women’s restroom…

Really? Why on earth is the seat UP? At home I can cope with that little problem. I expect it.  I live in a household with three males.  At work? No guys allowed in there.

Clearly, I need to have a conversation with the cleaning folks.

7. Also in relation to the restroom, I’m not sure who sets up those little automatic flush dealie-bobbers, but they should absolutely NOT recognize that I have leaned forward. THEY. SHOULD. NOT. Because really? I took a shower before I left the house for the day and I don’t need another one. Could it not possibly wait until I’ve actually stood up? Or left the stall entirely? Nothing’s better than a shower RIGHT THERE to start my workday off right. Seriously. Who’s the practical joker?

I think that person needs a spanking.

6. By the time I actually get to my desk, I’m already in a great mood (see numbers 10, 9, 8 and 7 if you have any questions about why I’m in such a great mood), and I’m just grateful to have my little corner of the universe. However, I’d like to find out whose idea it was to create cubicles. Because I? Am seriously over cubeland. I’m not really interested, especially after my recent shower, in hearing about someone’s problems with the in-laws, new medication requirements, bodily function issues, or kids. It’s not because I don’t genuinely like my co-workers and want to hear about their lives, but the folks on the conference call I’m trying to have? In New Jersey? Really don’t care about how well Immodium-AD works.

5. That conference call? Scheduled by those folks in New Jersey? Is at the crack of dawn. Because the whole notion of time zones is really lost on them, evidently. And why would they think that little old me wouldn’t be able to just bump my schedule ahead by hours and hours in the morning to accomodate their every need? Really, that’s why I exist. Just to please them.

4. That conference call? Lasts 2 hours. And we accomplish the big nothing–the goose egg, zero, zilch-a-rooskie, nada, nothing, nyet. Why? Because we spend the entire conference call blame-shifting (for things that really don’t matter, might I add) rather than attempting to figure out a solution to anything on earth. I don’t know about you, but I personally love to blame-shift. I would so much rather spend 2 fruitless hours at work, pointing the finger at someone else for all of my own personal failures, with my neck cranked over in that unnatural position so I can hold onto the phone while I actually DO WORK on my keyboard, than do anything else… like make progress, finish the 87 billion other tasks on my to-do list or, I don’t know, just go home and tackle the Mount Everest of laundry in the middle of my laundry room floor.

3. That conference call? Is followed by another meeting… during which we discuss the fact that no one can get anything done… BECAUSE WE HAVE SO MANY FREAKIN’ MEETINGS.

I wonder whose deep, abiding wisdom came up with that concept?

2. The person who came up with that concept? Probably makes at least six times the cashola I make… and he has an office… with a door… that closes.

And the number one most annoying thing about work?

It seriously cuts into my blogging time.

HAPPY WEEKEND!

After the bizarro “can’t be in the sun but went to the festival in a costume on a blazing hot day” discussion, my favorite topic surfaced…

Illness and Allergies.

We all know that The Egg Donor (ED) has had some serious health issues. It’s true. It is also true that she uses those previous health issues to her full advantage whenever it suits her. Whatever. It’s her life. If she wants to be the world’s biggest cry-baby and live at the hospital, because someone takes care of her there 24/7 and she doesn’t have to lift one tiny, pinkie fingernail to do anything for herself, then more power to her. But it makes my teeth clench when she teaches the kids to do it.

We’ve had scads of conversations in the past, required to set them straight about Mom’s terrible illness, about how she thinks it’s probably hereditary and they should be watched closely by the doctor for the minutest sign of anything wrong, how every rash, low-grade fever, and tummy ache is cause for an ER run (although she never takes them to the doctor, she believes that we should do it… and pay for it… because they could be in GRAVE danger), how allergy shots are dangerous and cause lumps on their arms the size of a grapefruit, etc., etc., etc.

She’s the High Priestess of Hypochondria. I’m convinced that there’s no one out there better. And she’s a master at manipulating their little minds into believing whatever malarky she has to sell.

This weekend was no different. Just like we’ve been through illness discussions until I could throw up, we’ve been through the allergy argument until I actually did (ok, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but it’s been a LOT). At different points in their lives, according to the Duchess of Daffy they’ve been allergic to shellfish, all seafood, olives, milk, soy, tree nuts, peanuts, tomato soup, cheese, eggs, and now the latest fad allergy — lamb. Because really? Lamb is such a big deal in allergy circles. So many kids are having really severe reactions. It’s a huge cause for alarm. (Insert eye roll here)

It’s important to note here that not one, single, solitary child in our household has ANY food allergies whatsoever, except Freddy who is the only child NOT biologically related to the Queen of Psychosis. How do we know this? Because every child in the household has been skin tested extensively. They are NOT, and I am underlining NOT just to emphasize it more dramatically, allergic to shellfish… or any kind of seafood… or milk… or soy… or tree nuts… or peanuts… or tomato soup… or cheese… or eggs… or lamb.

This all came about because Daphne was telling me about the gyros they had at the festival (yes, the very same one that was such a problem because of the SUN) and how yummy it was. Velma interjected that she had to go without because she’s allergic to lamb.

If my head had spun around in the car any faster it would have come clean off my head, I’m pretty sure. I was already grouchy because pickups are just painful, period, and I had already dealt with the whole “sun” discussion, and I was already wondering why it is that people like her are still allowed to walk the earth, let alone bear children, and the “I’m allergic to lamb” comment just sent me right on over the edge.

“Seriously?” I barked at poor Velma. “Lamb? And you know this because…?”

She looked me dead in the eye and said, like it had been rehearsed several times, “I had it at Mom’s and I got pink spots.”

“Pink spots like what?” I demanded. “Like giant, blotches all over your body? Like little tiny spots? Itchy? Welty? What? What kind of pink spots?!?”

“Just little pink spots,” she replied. “On my arms.”

“On your arms… hmmm. Like the pink spots you got on your arms while we were in Wyoming?”

“Yep, exactly like those.”

“Oh, good,” I said. “Then maybe you can tell me what it was you ate that you were allergic to that time.”

She looked confused for a second. “I don’t know.”

“Yeah, me neither,” I agreed. “But I do remember that it was probably a reaction to the chlorine in the pool because you hadn’t had ANYTHING to eat prior to getting those little pink spots. It’s called sensitive skin and it has nothing whatsoever to do with food allergies.”

“Oh,” she said.

“So,” I continued, “Does it make sense to you that you’ve had your skin break out in that same way on several occasions from lotion, chlorine, bug spray, whatever else; you’ve never, ever had an allergic reaction to food at our house; you’ve never been allergic to any of the things your Mom has said you were allergic to; and in fact you’ve had a doctor TELL you you’re not allergic to ANY foods; but your Mom thinks it was the lamb?”

The lightbulb went on. She shook her head no.

“Doesn’t make sense to me, either,” I said.

End of conversation.

Ugh.