On Rick Springfield, barbed wire necklaces, goldfish, and school fundraisers.

One day a couple months ago, RJ's dad called him.

"Hey, how would you guys like front row seats and meet and greet passes to see Rick Springfield?"

Ummm, lemme think about it for like .675 seconds.

"Yes!"

At this point, I was already humming "Jesse's Girl" under my breath and planning what to wear with my hot hooker boots and secretly hoping that Ricky might fall in love with me, just a little, and maybe write a song about me and I was already thinking that "Bobby's Girl" had a nice ring to it when I heard RJ, who was still on the phone with his dad, say "Oh, well I guess we can't go then.  That's the same date as zj's school's Fall Festival."

Well, damn.

RJ and I don't always agree on much everything, but the one thing we always agree on, so much that we don't even have to discuss it, is that the kids come first.  Always.  Even if it means I don't get to become the next ex-Mrs. Springfield.

Since I couldn't, ya know, have a life-changing experience with Ricky that night, I did what any other crazy Mama with aspirations of taking over the PTO would do.  I signed up to volunteer at one of the booths.

My assignment came, and I was scheduled to work the sand art booth from 6-7pm.  Piece of cake, surely.

The night of the Fall Festival arrived, and after a quick moment for me to mourn the loss of meeting my Ricky, the entire J family piled into the car and took off.

To give you a little background here, let me just say that zj's school would be considered a rural school.  And that's on a really, really good day.   Most days, I think, it would be considered a redneck haven or possible a white trash mecca.  As a girl with a little, ok a LOT of redneck experience, this doesn't concern me at all, but RJ is usually a bit taken aback at first whenever we walk into these situations.  Plus, since I've gotten away from the redneck lifestyle a bit over the years, so it usually takes me a few minutes to re-acclimate.   It had been a LONG time since I'd seen that many wallets on chains, Confederate flag shirts and people openly chewing tobacco in one place.  Well, since my last family reunion, anyway.

We checked things out, let zj play a few games, and then RJ agreed to take the boys to get something to eat while I worked my stint at the booth.  As I was walking away, I turned around and joked "No blue hairspray and no goldfish, please."

This is what is known to you literary types as FORESHADOWING.


I got to my assigned station a couple minutes early.  It was one little round table, a shitload of colored sand, some funnels, and it was piled three deep with kids.

"Um, I'm here to work?"  I said to one of the two people who was working the booth.

"Oh, thank god.  Here's the extra sand, here are some funnels, and here are the things they can choose from to fill.  It costs four tickets.  Have fun!"

And with that, she took off toward parts unknown.

The other grown-up there, presumably a teacher, said, "I have to leave in a few minutes too, but I'll be right back."


Famous last words.

She also took off, never to be seen again, leaving me with hundreds of kids who all needed help getting their funnels into the little openings of their necklaces or bracelets or whatever so they could overfill them with colored sand - "Why isn't there any more pink?  I WAAANNNNTTT pink!"  "Suck it up kid.  Life's full of disappointments.  You'll get used to it.  Just look around." -  and then unsuccessfully close the tops so the sand spilled out all over the cafeteria floor, making the whole area look like some sort of weird psychedelic acid-trippy beach.

THIS is why I'm not a teacher.

At 7 on the dot, my replacement showed up, and I gave her some basic instructions, but because I'm THAT person I couldn't just abandon her, so I stuck around for another 45 minutes just to make sure she could handle it.

When I finally walked away - "Are you SURE you can do this last 15 minutes by yourself? The teacher promised she would be RIGHT back.  She should be here ANY minute now."  - to look for my family, this is what I found:

One with rainbow-colored hair.

One with blue hair.

Some lovely prizes - because nothing says school fundraiser like neon orange barbed wire jewelry and four wheel drive tattoos.

Oh, and one more thing.  

Well, actually, there are TWO of them.

One for each kid, or course.

A girl and her pony - a love story.

Once upon a time there was a Girl:

And that Girl loved a car:

The Girl loved the car when she was 8 years old.

She loved it when she was 10 years old.

When she was 12 years old, the Girl asked for the car for her birthday.

Instead, she got $20, a homemade cake, and a sleepover with 3 of her closest friend.

When she was 16, the Girl asked for the car again for her birthday.

Instead, she go this:

And the Girl was happy.

And the Girl loved that car, too, and drove it and drove it and drove it for thousands and thousands of miles, until one day, on a road that was slippery with rain, the Girl and the car flipped over and over and the car was no more.

But that was ok, mostly, because the Girl walked away unhurt from something that could have and probably should have killed her.

She always thought the car saved her that day.

Later, the Girl got a truck (she was a country girl, after all), and went away to college, where she met a Boy.

The Boy and the Girl fell in love and got married, and even though the Boy didn't share the Girl's love for her special car, he knew all about it.  Probably because the Girl talked about it all the time.

After the Girl and the Boy were established in their chosen professions, married, young, and somewhat stupid, the Boy got the Girl this:

And the Girl was happy.

And the Girl drove it and drove it and drove it until the Boy and the Girl had a baby, and then another, and the car was not practical for a family.  And the Girl was ALWAYS practical.

So the Girl sold the car, and she was sad, but she was busy with other things, like raising the babies, and running in races and writing and cooking and cleaning and laughing and living.

Sometimes the Boy and the Girl would play the "What If" game, and the Boy always asked the Girl the same question:

"What if you could have any car you wanted?  What would it be?"

And the Girl would always answer, 

"Why this one:

of course."

And then the Girl and the Boy would laugh and smile and dream and go on with their lives.

Until one day, when the Girl was in the middle of raising the babies and running in races and writing and cooking and cleaning and laughing and living, she opened an envelope that came in the mail, and saw that the Boy had done something.

She sent him a text.

"Ummm... did you buy a car?"

The Boy answered:

"Why would you ask something like that?"

Which clearly wasn't a "NO" and meant only one thing.

And the Girl, the Girl who always wanted to control everything and know everything, didn't ask "How much?" or  "Can we afford it?" or "Is it practical?" or "How much will insurance cost?" or any of the million and two other PRACTICAL questions in her head.  Instead, she asked the Boy:

"Why?"

And the Boy answered:

"Because you deserve it and I wanted you to have it."

 And the Girl, the Girl who clips coupons and shops at yard sales and dyes her own hair and scrimps and saves and is altogether cheap and PRACTICAL, said:

"It's beautiful."

and

"I love it."

and 

"Thank you."

And the Girl was happy.

Very, very happy.

My liquor store.

I live in a wet county that is surrounded by several dry counties.

This has absolutely nothing to do with the weather.

For you people who actually live in the world and haven't heard of this concept, this is what it means.

The county I live in sells liquor.  There are liquor stores.  You can buy a case of beer at the gas station.  You know, it's like... civilization.

In the dry counties around me, this is not the case.

There are no liquor stores.

You can't buy beer.  Or wine.  Or vodka.  Or gin.  Or tequila.

Bootlegging still exists.

When a wet county exists in the middle of several dry counties, there are usually a plethora of liquor stores.  This is certainly true in my situation.  Directions to my house include the phrase "Go over the bridge and past all the liquor stores," and everybody knows exactly where I'm talking about.

It's high class out here in the boonies, y'all.

Anyhoo, I picked MY liquor store early on, based on a couple things.  1) It was on the side of the road that prevented me from crossing the street and/or making a left turn - because I HATE to make left turns - and 2) It has a drive-thru.  As the Mama of two very active little boys who could do a shitload of damage in a place full of glass bottles, I appreciated the option of pulling up to a window and placing my order.  Also, they always had suckers there for the kiddos, because who would go through a liquor store drive-thru unless you had a carload of kids, right?

What I didn't count on was was the fact that the lady who is ALWAYS on drive-thru duty, 24 hours a day, six days a week (liquor stores are still closed on Sundays out here in the wild, ya know, because of God) would stay drunk at work and would be largely unable to fill any order that was more complicated than "a case of Bud Light, please."

I occasionally get a wild hair and try different tactics to see if she will be able to do something crazy like, I don't know, sell me a bottle of wine.  Last week, I thought that if maybe, just maybe, I went early enough in the morning, right at opening time, that she perhaps wouldn't be too drunk to help me buy wine without getting out of the car and dragging my kids inside the place.

Lazy and entitled.  That's me.

I pulled up to the drive-thru and waited patiently for her to come to the window.  Minutes pass, and she finally woke up and opened the window.  Uh-oh.  She had recently moved into Hangover City, from the looks of her.

"Good Morning," I said cheerfully.  "I'd like a 12 pack of Bud Light Lime in the bottle and two bottles of Oliver Soft Red wine."

Blank stare.

"A 12 Pack of Bud Light Lime in bottles and two Oliver Soft Reds, please."

Blank stare.

"A 12 PACK OF BUD LIGHT LIME IN BOTTLES AND TWO BOTTLES OF OLIVER SOFT RED WINE!" I screamed.

"PLEASE!"

Something switched on in her alcohol-soaked brain, and she started moving around.  First up, she pulled out a handful of suckers, which she thrust at me, then she turned and wandered off in the direction of the beer.

She came back toward me with a case of beer, clearly cans, and no wine.  She then put it on the counter, grabbed a second handful of suckers which she passed out the window to me, and started to ring my sale.

"Um, excuse me?  I'm sorry (I really wasn't.  I don't know why I always feel compelled to apologize to  other people when I tell them they're wrong.) but that looks like cans.  I asked for bottles.  And also, my wine?  The Oliver Soft Red?"

She reached down under the counter and I saw my life flash before my eyes as I envisioned a gun coming up and pointing at my face and OH MY GOD I'M TOO YOUNG TO DIE!  I DON'T EVEN HAVE A TATTOO YET!  handed me a bunch of doggie treats.  Um, ok?  Thanks?  My kid will love these?  I guess pet owners use the drive-thru, too.  Then, once again without saying a word, she turned and wandered off toward the beer.

She was back relatively quickly with what appeared to be the correct beer.  And still no wine.  As she started ringing it up, I prompted gently, "Um, my wine?'  Her response once again was to wander away without looking up.  She came back with two bottles of wine that she immediately put into a paper bag.   We finished our transaction smoothly, I declined more suckers, and I was on my way.

When I got home, I put my beer in the fridge and took the wine out of the bags.  It was Oliver Soft White.  Whatever.  Close enough.  Also, and somewhat inexplicably in my bag I found several Slim Jims which I had not paid for.

So here I sit, drinking my white wine, eating a free Slim Jim and tossing doggie treats up in the air for the boys to catch in their mouths and bring back to me.

Tomorrow, I'm planning to go back through the drive-thru to get some rum.

I can't wait to see what I come home with this time.

A sense of urgency.

Back when I was a high powered bookstore manager with oodles of people working for me, I was often in the position to coach, counsel and/or otherwise flog people for poor performance.

One of the very vague, yet very real things that showed up with certain people time and time again was "lacks a sense of urgency."

What this means, in layman's terms, is:

Slower than Christmas.
Slower than dirt.
Slower than dial-up.
Slower than speaking French with a phrase book.

It also means easily distracted or unable to complete simple tasks quickly.

I have a lot of experience with people who lack a sense of urgency.

I have coached and trained them for years.  And years.  And years.

But nothing, and I do mean NOTHING, could have prepared me for getting zj ready for school and out the door every morning.

For years, I silently mocked couldn't relate to parents who would talk about looking forward to weekends so they could sleep in, how sending kids to school was a full-time job, etc.

Oh, now I get it.

Do I ever get it.

Here's how a typical morning goes:

5:30 am:  I jump out of bed just before the alarm goes off (every time, of course), shower, dress and head downstairs.
6:00 am:  Coffee is made, breakfast for the boys is ready, I check email, maybe throw in a load of laundry, pay some bills, putter online...
6:30 am: I head upstairs to wake zj.

Me: "Z, honey, time to get up."
"Z, honey, wake up."
"Z, time for school!  Wake up!"
"Z, are you awake?"
"Breakfast time, baby.  Get up please."
"Z, get up, please.  Honey?"
"Z. Get. Up."
"Z. Time. To. Get. Up."
"GET. UP. NOW."
"NOW!"

Zj: "Mama, don't wanna.  I'm too tiiiiirrrrrreeeeeddddd."

Me: "You don't want to miss school today do you?  Today is library day!!!"

Zj: "My legs are too tiiiiiirrrrrreeeeeeddddd.  I can't get uuuuuppppp."

6:40 am: Zj is up and sitting in front of his breakfast, but only because I physically picked him up, slung his body over my shoulder, and carried him downstairs.

Me: "Zj, I need you to eat."
"Eat please."
"Zj, we don't have a lot of time.  Please eat your breakfast."
"Sit up straight and eat please."
"Zj, stop trying to lay down.  You need to eat."
"Eat. Your. Breakfast."
"EAT!"
"NOW!"

6:47 am:  Zj sits up straight, suddenly wide awake, and jumps back into the middle of a conversation we had several days ago.

Zj:  "And I think that Ironman could beat Spider-Man in a fight, if they got mad at each other because Spider-Man only has webs as weapons and Ironman has blasters in his hands and Mama, did you know yesterday at recess, two girls in my class were trying to RIP ME TO PIECES?  They were.  Really.  One got one hand and one got the other hand and they tried to pull me apart and today we might get to have a popsicle party at school..."

Me:  "Stop talking and eat."
"Stop talking and eat."
"Stop talking and eat."
"Stop talking and eat."
"Stop talking and eat."
"Stop talking and eat."

7:02 am (TWO MINUTES OFF SCHEDULE, I MIGHT ADD):

Me: "Zj, time to go upstairs and get ready.  Here's what I need you to do.  Go upstairs, brush your teeth, go pee, wash your hands - WITH SOAP - and change into your school clothes.  They're already out for you.  Can you handle it while I clean up breakfast?"

Zj: "I know, Mama, I KNOW."

7:05 am:

Me: "Zj, are you brushing your teeth?"

Zj: "I'm just getting ready to!  Really!"

7:08 am: I head upstairs, and see zj, still in his pajamas, sitting in his floor playing with a Batman figure.

Me: "BRUSH YOUR TEETH!" in my best possessed-by-demons voice.

Zj jumps up, runs into the bathroom and I hear water splashing.  I pick up the toys, then round the corner to the bathroom, where I see zj sitting on the edge of the FULL sink, splashing water up on the mirror and making boat noises.

Me: "OH MY GAWD BRUSH YOUR TEETH AND THEN GO PEE THEN WASH YOUR HANDS WITH SOAP DO IT AND DO IT NOW OR REALLY REALLY BAD THINGS THAT I CANNOT EVEN THINK OF RIGHT NOW WILL HAPPEN TO YOU DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?"

Zj: "Ok, Mama, I was just getting ready to."

Me: *Head blows completely off.*

7:23 am: Zj is combed, dressed, brushed, and otherwise groomed.   Mostly.

Me: "Zj, head downstairs and get your shoes on.  Mama needs a nip of gin just a minute, ok?"

7:27 am: I head downstairs, where I see zj, sitting in the couch, fidgeting and swinging his still bare feet.

Me: "RJ! GET DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW AND GET THIS CHILD READY FOR SCHOOL BEFORE I DO BODILY HARM TO HIM AND HE HAS BEEN TOO DAMN MUCH TROUBLE TO WASTE ALL THE EFFORT ON SO YOU'D BETTER GET DOWN HERE RIGHT THIS MINUTE BEFORE CJ IS AN ONLY CHILD AND WHY CAN'T HE JUST GET FREAKIN' READY FOR SCHOOL ONE TIME WITHOUT MY YELLING AT HIM AND OH GREAT LOOK AT THAT NOW CJ IS AWAKE AND ALL I WANT IS FOR THIS CHILD TO HAVE HIS SHOES ON FOR CRYING OUT LOUD IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK FOR ONCE?"

RJ: "Z, buddy, put your shoes on, ok?"

Zj: "Ok, Daddy."

Me: *Full blown explosion of head, complete with wailing, gnashing of teeth, speaking in tongues and twitching of eyelids.*

7:30 am: Zj and I are out the door to catch the bus, and the hardest hour of my day is officially over.

Well, till the next day, anyway, when we get to do it all over again.

THOSE neighbors.

In the small rural subdivision we live in, there is one main street and several little side streets.

We live on one of the little side streets.

This is fabulous for things like, say, letting your kids play in the middle of the street on a regular basis, but for some reason, when the school bus gods mapped the route through our neighborhood, it was determined that the bus would only run on the main street.

So basically, if you live down one of the little side streets like we do, you are screwed.

Well, not screwed, exactly, but it's not like you can just shove the kids out the front door in your pajamas.  You have to actually get up, get dressed, and WALK the kid the whole tenth of a mile to the end of the street, where you wait with other parents who are also grumpily waiting with their kids for the bus to come.

Good times.

When zj and I showed up at the bus stop on the first day of school almost an hour early, because that's how I roll I wasn't sure exactly how many kids would get on the bus there.  Until this year, I had absolutely no reason the pay attention to those kinds of things.

After a while, another kid who was several years older than zj showed up, and we nodded and smiled and did the polite things that strangers who are forced to wait together do.

And then, at approximately one minute before the bus was due to arrive,  it happened.

THEY showed up.

A gray car of indeterminate origin and age pulled up like a bat out of hell, slammed on the brakes, and three of the four doors opened and children began to fall out.  LOTS of children.  There was much confusion and yelling coming from the direction of the car.  It sounded something like this:

"Dammit, I forgot my backpack." 
"Dammit, why did you do that? We don't have time to go back for it.  Well, shit."
"Dammit, stop pushing me."
"Mom!!! So-and-so's pushing me!  I'm going to kick his ass!"
"Dammit, leave me alone, you asshole."
"Mom!!!  So-and-so won't give me my notebook, the cocksucker."
"Hey! *gesturing to the other kid at the bus stop* Ain't that the kid who kicked you in the nuts last year?"

And on. And on. And on.

The mom, who never left the car and never glanced up from the phone she was madly texting on, was somehow able to block it all.

Zj just looked on it awe at such a train wreck going on all around him, then kept looking at me, expecting me to do something about it, because he had already heard about 40 things that would have gotten him sent to his room so quick his head would be spinning.

I turned him around to face the other direction and whispered, "MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS," all the while trying to watch the drama unfold.

I determined that there were only really four kids, they just moved around a lot and made enough noise that it seemed like more.

There were three boys, ranging in age from maybe five to ten, and one little girl who was preschool age.

And they were ROWDY.

I stood there in all my self-righteous glory with my one kid who was behaving, silently feeling superior and judge-y, but benevolent, too.  It must be SO hard to have FOUR of them, right?

Then the bus came, all the kids piled on, and I forgot all about the rowdy neighbors.  Until time for bus stop pick-up.

It was like a train wreck again, but in reverse order of the morning session.

As the days passed and we continued to share a spot, I made a few small friendly overtures, which were largely ignored.  Whatever.  It's not like I wanted to be friends with THOSE people, anyway.

The days passed, and the chaos surrounding THAT family continued.

I watched them drive off with three of the four kids hanging out open car doors, yelling at the top of their lungs.

I watched the oldest kid forge his parents' signatures on an important school bus form that he dug out of the back seat of the car, where it had presumably sat all weekend.  Ours was filled out Friday afternoon and placed in a folder for safekeeping over the weekend, of course.  The mom completely ignored that, too, of course.

I saw the kids come and go out of school dress code, and with uncombed hair and dirty faces.

And then it happened.

One day last week, it was Wednesday, I believe, zj woke up grumpy and got grumpier and grumpier throughout our morning routine.  Eating breakfast: grumpy.  Brushing teeth: grumpy.  Getting dressed: super grumpy.

By the time we left for the school bus stop, he was in total, full-blown meltdown mode.

The crying, kicking and screaming, and digging in of the heels was at a level I had never witnessed.

I finally picked him up and carried him the rest of the way to the bus stop.

When we got there, THAT family was there, the Mom in the car, smiling and waving at her boys as they stood patiently in line waiting for the bus.  Their hair was neatly combed, their backpacks firmly in place.

After I shoved my screaming, wailing banshee of a child on the bus and turned around, panting from the effort, to walk back to my house, the Mom in the gray car sorta smiled and waved at me.

Yeah.

I guess it is hard to be THOSE neighbors.