Some Pig

Oh, Silent Night

At this very moment, guess what is happening?

My husband is in the car, on his way to visit my parents.

My children are in the car, on their way to visit my parents.

My dog is in the car, on his way to visit my parents.

You know who is not in the car? 

ME.  I am not in the car!  I am not on the way to visit my parents!

And you know what?

That is just fine by me.

When my darling husband, who is too wonderful for words, mentioned that it would be nice to see my parents before the holiday rolled around, all I could think of was all the eleventy jillion chores, errands, and tasks that would get pushed off yet again, only to be added to the next weekend's already-burgeoning to-do list, and it was all I could do not to sob.  Plus, I had been invited to a coworker's party, and every time I get invited to do something social with other grownup friends, it gets pre-empted by one family-centric obligation or another.  So, feeling both guilty and truculent, I took a stand. 

"I'm not going," I announced, preparing for a - well, not a fight, really, but a prolonged negotiation session.

"That's okay," said my hubs, who is too wonderful for words, and he proceeded apace with plans to go without me.  And whole vistas of me-centric behaviors are now open to explore!  To wit:

I get to listen to Christmas music featuring original instruments from the 1700's, not the original cast of the PBS show Arthur.

I get to fall asleep, stay asleep, and wake up by myself, on my own, without anyone needing a drink of water, a cuddle, help falling asleep, or someone to close their door. 

I get to spend an entire weekend without being woken up at 4 a.m. by Murphy the Co-dependent Dog, who prefers going on his 5 a.m. walks with me at the other end of the leash.  (Thanks, mother's instincts, for gracing me with the ability to wake up on a dime as soon as I hear him shuffle down the hall, the way I used to snap awake when the baby cried.  Murphy's figured that out and uses that like a weapon against me.  Damn it.)

I get to spread out on the couch and correct papers the way I like, without having to move my stuff, answer a question, referee a fight, or worry about any interruptions other than our paper-loving cat trying to sit on the papers - the uncorrected ones, of course.

I get to watch History Boys, which I have been dying to see, instead of hiding from Breaking Bad, which Warren loves and I absolutely cannot watch. 

I get to indulge in ALL my naughty, illicit pleasures AT ONCE.  Like turning the heat up to 65 and leaving it there!  Eating cereal any time of day!  Drowning everything in Thai peanut sauce!  Reading in bed without someone assuming that "still awake at 10 pm" equals "open for business"!  Listening to music on the computer in the kitchen, where I'm working, instead of on the stereo, which requires a traverse across the room and operating three different remotes, thanks to Captain Technology.  (That last one?  Makes him bonkers.)

There's a price to all this, of course.  I promised Warren I would march through the downstairs toy room like the wrath of God, and divest ourselves of a couple metric tons of outgrown and unloved toys before Santa dumps another sh!tton of crap on us.  (And yeah, I know, I know, but when you have the only two grandkids on one side of the family, they tend to get a little overly gifted at the holidays.) I have to deal with Christmas cards now, or they will never get done.  I have to sort out the contents of the girls' closets and figure out just what the heck they still can wear, what needs to be packed away, and what can get the heave-ho to the next family of small ones. 

Having said all that, I have to admit, things around here are a little... weird.  A little TOO peaceful.  Usually we spend our Friday nights in post-long-week-meltdown mode, with a lot of sibling squabbling, some mental anguish over figuring out what's for dinner, the dog shuffling around in the background and one of us playing the NewsHour at volume 11 like Nigel Tufnel (because you can't understand what Margaret Warner's saying about the latest euro crisis unless it's blasting through your head like an air raid siren, apparently).  Most Fridays, I catch myself thinking at least once that it would be nice if Calgon would show up and take me away, or better yet, take them away.  Who knew I'd actually miss it? 

(PS Don't worry - I'll struggle through somehow.)

Turns Out Dad Was Right All Along

Many (many, many) moons ago, I remember having a number of... interesting discussions with my dad about what Crazylainetrain calls fa-SHAWN.  Now keep in mind, Yours Truly's salad days were in the mid-80's (and yes, that's the NINETEEN-eighties, smartypants), so the ensembles I chose to rock were truly stylin':  Big, blousy pants with huge pockets that pegged at the ankles.  Pinstriped jeans with a white tuxedo-style shirt.  Big dangly earrings.  Ruffly, bright, fluorescent - well, anything really.  I was particularly fond of one shirt I owned made of a gauzy white cottony fabric that had a big tiger face printed in gray and black on one side of the shirt.  After carefully assembling my duds, I would trot into the kitchen to display my fashion prowess, only to have Dear Ole Dad burst into barely-contained snorts of laughter.

"Whut?!?!" I'd grump defensively, knowing perfectly well what he was laughing at.

"What are you WEARING???"  He'd respond, face purpling with hysteria. 

And then I'd roll my eyes and heave a huge, put-upon sigh because, JEEZ, Dad, don'cha know what looks good????  At that point, my dad would launch into his I-liked-it-when-girls-dressed-like-girls soliloquy that always included something called a "shirtwaist dress."  Which, DUH, shirts aren't dresses!  But then he'd end with, "...and besides, it doesn't matter to boys anyway."

"Whaddya mean?" I'd huff, with another roll of the eye to keep the muscles loose.

"Women dress up for other women," he'd continue. "Half the time men don't even notice what women wear.  The only people who notice what women wear are other women." [NB:  This was definitely in the pre-Will and Grace era, mind you.]  Then, to prove his point, he'd yell to my mom, "Sandra!  What did you wear last Tuesday?"  From the deepest recesses of the house, she'd rattle off what she had worn almost down to the underpants.  "See?"  he responded, "I couldn't tell you what *I* wore yesterday, and your mother remembers everything she ever wore."  (He was exaggerating, but only by a bit.)

Fast forward all those moons to my classroom yesterday.  One of my little charges (and by "little" I mean, "much taller than I am") came to school gussied up in a dressy top, all the better to show off her newly-acquired vacation tan.  The girl in question happens to be born to wear clothes; willowy and tall and just beautiful.  The shirt in question was close-fitting through the bodice with open sleeves that cascaded down the sides.  The whole thing fit her like a dream. 

Shortly after I began class, I noticed her engrossed in conversation with the two young gentlemen behind her.  I oh-so-nonchalantly meandered over so I could, ahem, refocus their energies. 

"You guys need to settle down to work," I began, but the young lady interrupted.  "Mrs. S, they just said my shirt makes me look like a flying squirrel."

"It does!" protested one of the two fine lads.  "Look at the sleeves! They look like a flying squirrel!!!"  Sure enough, the sleeves were tacked to the bodice of the shirt so that the ruffles wouldn't get in the way.

"Are you kidding?"  I answered.  "Is that really the first thing that comes to mind about those sleeves?  Squirrels???"

"Yes," said Fine Young Lad #1 with finality.

"Your shirt does NOT make you look like a flying squirrel," I said to the young lady, "and the best way to take your mind off the shirt is by doing your work." Then I left Fine Young Lads 1 and 2 snickering about squirrels to check on my other malingerers scholars.

So, who knew?  After all these years, I owe my dad an apology.  He's been right all along.

Domesticity and Other Urban Myths

Having spent the weekend thus far cleaning and tidying and laundering and drying and folding and cooking and washing, how is it that my house is now messier than it was at the beginning of the day on Saturday? How does that happen?

***

I know a great deal of the blame lies squarely at the feet of those ingrates known collectively as my loving family.  Even the damn cats are incapable of eating their damn kibble without having half of it wind up outside the bowl.  If I could just somehow prevent all these creatures from existing and doing things and needing stuff, stuff like food and sleep and regular entertainment, then this housekeeping gig would be a breeze!

***

I tried to make baked beans this weekend, and they have been singularly uncooperative about this whole venture.  There is nothing quite like a pot of homemade baked beans, slow-cooked until they are juuuust on the edge of falling to pieces into a delicious, molasses-tinged mush.  Except that, even after twelve hours of boiling and simmering and slow-roasting them yesterday, the little beany bastards just Would. Not. Bake.  I cooked them for another two hours today, and they are grudgingly entering the neighborhood of edible.  Now, if I were trying to cook some kind of complicated souffle-cum-terrine thingie requiring eighteen separate stages and fifty-two ingredients, I would chalk it up to experience and be over it.  But this is baked beans we're talking here - the most complicated element of the whole recipe involves boiling.  How the effity eff did I manage to eff up BOILING?  That's discouraging.

***

There's a woman in the community with whom I have struck up a mom's friendship.  She is one of those multiply-talented, uber-organized sorts who do all the things I think I should do but can't be arsed to get off the internet long enough to do - volunteer, garden, make crafts, practice her conversational French and so on.  Add to that the fact that she has three girls, the younger of which are twins, and she does all of this with THREE sets of hands to occupy and observations to listen to, and, well, you can see why I am simultaneously in awe of her and embarrassed to let her know how poorly run and shoddily raised my family is.

Today I took the girls to church for the annual gathering-in service (We're Unitarians.  We take the summers off.).  Unfortunately for all Some Pig family members involved, it was an intergenerational service and I was outnumbered, since Warren was at home on an unavoidable conference call.  If there is one thing I have learned over the past six and one-quarter years, it's that my elder daughter does not handle forced stillness and compliance well, whether it be at grocery store or house of worship, particularly when low blood sugar is involved.  Worse yet, I had to cope with being man down in the situation, which meant that the usual divide-and-conquer tactic was unavailable.  I took the girls to a space in the back of the church where they could sulk, whine, or run about at will and proceeded to hiss at both of them to BEHAVE or we were leaving RIGHT NOW, and no, I didn't care if there was cake for social hour, JUST TRY ME; all of which was about as effective as you might imagine.  About ten minutes later, my friend plopped down on the adjacent couch with one of her younger girls, a tense expression on her face, and proceeded to inform said child that "I am THIS CLOSE to taking you home RIGHT NOW.  Is that what you want?!?" I have never seen her even come close to losing her cool ever, but her voice at that moment conveyed the exact same note of frustration and impatience that I was feeling.

I found this immeasurably cheering.

***

In one of my passages through the house, I saw that the cat's scratching post has been turned into an impromptu tiara stand without my knowledge.  Some of my puzzlement about how my house can remain so cluttered despite 24 hours of effort has been clarified.

When Leopards Try To Change Spots

My parents, as anyone in Podunkyville will tell you, are upstanding citizens and good people.   They pay their taxes, mow their lawn, recycle their trash, and volunteer in the community.  If you look up "probity" in the OED, there's a picture of Steve and Sandra - which is why, when they try to be devious, they invariably screw it up.

My father has an acquaintance who is both a voracious reader and a bit lonely.  Usually, he drops by with some books to exchange around midafternoon, stays for an hour to chat, and then leaves.  Lately, however, he's been coming by earlier and earlier and remaining until his usual leave-taking time.  As much as my father enjoys this man's company, sometimes he has other things planned and doesn't know how to extricate himself gracefully.  So he enlisted my mom in a bit of social skullduggery.  "Next time Mr. Bibliophile comes over," he asked, "give us about an hour, and then come up with something I have to do, okay?"  My mother, the white-haired Mata Hari that she is, agreed to this bit of subterfuge.

The day came when Mr. Bibliophile stopped by the house in the early afternoon, and settled in for a chat.  At the appointed time, Mom tapped Dad on the shoulder and said, "Remember, the doctor's office is waiting for you to call them back."  "Whu-?" my father answered, clearly oblivious.  "Your doctor called this morning when you were out," Mom embellished, "and you need to call them before the office closes."  At that point, Mr. Bibliophile politely took his leave and Mom retreated to the kitchen, satisfied that her job was done.

Moments later, Dad strode into the room, picked up the phone, and began dialing.  "Who are you calling?" Mom asked.  "The doctor's office," Dad said. 

"Why?"

"Because you told me they called and I had to call back."

"YOU TOLD ME TO TELL YOU SOMEONE CALLED," Mom reminded him.

"Oh!" came the answer.

And that, my friends, is why yours truly never had a shot at a glamorous career as a clandestine operative in any kind of secret service.

Back To The Future, FAQ Edition

While every other female blogger on the interwebs is at the Conference That Shall Not Be Named, yours truly was reliving her sordid past at her (gulp!) tenth fifteenth twenty-fifth high school reunion.  Twenty-fifth!  Holy crap, I didn't know people lived this long!!

I spent the night before the reunion warming up for the big event with a couple of friends who were in the area.  Then I spent the night of the reunion putting my preparation for the big night to use.  After two nights of eating and drinking and talking and drinking and laughing and drinking, I garnered a great deal of wisdom and insight that I now wish to impart to my reading public.  Here we go:

How'd everyone look?

Thanks to the "ols" (Clairol and retinol) the girls looked pretty much the same (Yeah, I said girls.  I've known these people since the days of big plastic combs and Bonnie Bell lipsmackers, so as far as I'm concerned, we are ALL girls and boys).  Many of the boys I could not have picked out of a criminal lineup.  Of course, you're talking to the person who once asked her NEXT DOOR NEIGHBOR where she knew him from, so it's not a high bar we have set here.

Did you learn anything you didn't already know?

I learned that I had a reputation for not having a filter.  Why this should be a surprise to me, I don't know.  "Do you have a filter now?  'Cuz I don't have one," my friend* Colleen asked me (which brings up another story in and of itself, which we will address later).  "Actually, yes, I do," I said.  "I built one up painfully, over a long period of time, mostly by putting my foot in my mouth.  But since I'm around all you folks and you know me already, the filter's down."

Did you lay any skeletons to rest?

Honey, my skeleton is so amply padded right now, you couldn't find it if you tried. But that DOES bring up a story I heard tell about one of our classmates who always was very skinny.  According to one source, she decided not to come to the reunion because "I don't want everyone to ask me why I'm still so skinny."  Strangely, THAT concern didn't arise when I was deciding whether or not to go!

No, really!

Well, I found out one of my nemeses (is that the plural of nemesis?) also terrorized other friends of mine, which in an odd way made me feel a little better.  I only regret that Rhonda didn't graduate with my class and thus doesn't come to these events, because if she did, there would be words.  Actually, I lie.  I'm a complete chickensh!t when it comes to confrontation, and I wouldn't want to ruin a perfectly good night away from the monsters by dredging up the sordid past.  But you knew that.

Did you gain any new insights into yourself?

Why yes, I did.  First, the friend referenced above is actually a woman I loathed heartily during high school and who loathed me equally enthusiastically in return.  The irony here is that we are basically the same person!!!  Latecomers to motherhood?  Yes.  Snarky sense of humor?  Yep.  Love of all things wine and food?  Check and check.  You'd think it would be like T.S. Eliot's mermaids calling each to each and yet we despised one another.  Part of our mutual distaste for each other came about because we had the same extended group of friends and we used to sit with one another at lunchtime (albeit unwillingly, and at opposite ends of the group if memory serves).  One day after lunch, when I was changing for square dancing in phys. ed. (ick), I opened my purse and found an apple eaten to the core IN MY PURSE.  "Oh, Colleen did that," said a mutual acquaintance who shall remain nameless.  Naturally I chose to believe this acquaintance, given my existing antipathy toward Colleen, and I held it against her until she friended me on Facebook.  After I picked myself up off the floor, I sent her an email to the effect of, "exsqueeze me, but didn't you hate me and put an apple core in my purse?"  To which she speedily replied, "yes, but I didn't do the apple core thing."  [Which leaves me to wonder, if she didn't do that, who the hell did???] So Insight #1 was, don't let stupid crap from the past burden your present. 

Next, I have a scenario for you:  I arrive at the reunion and a gregarious, friendly man approaches me and says, "Caroline, how are you?" and gives me a big hug.  Thought I to myself, "Just who the hell is this, anyway?" because I totally don't recognize him (see incident with neighbor above).  Aaaand he turns out to be one of the organizers, a guy with whom I'd exchanged maybe three sentences total throughout my four years of high school, because he was popular and athletic and self-confident, while I was an awkward girl with frizzy hair and no filter on my mouth.  So, being quick to add two plus two and get twenty-two (I never was very good at math), I presumed he had no use for me and behaved toward him accordingly.

Later that same night, I'm sitting at the bar next to another guy who used to hang in the same crowd.  He tapped me on the arm and said, "Admit it, you hated us back then," pointing to himself and the reunion organizer.  "Uuuhhhh, I think you hated me," I answered.  We played the no-you-did/no-you-did game for awhile before calling it a draw.  I left there thinking, well, I'll be dipped.  Apparently I spent four years of high school pre-emptively disliking a lot of people because somewhere in my warped little perception I had decided that they didn't like me first.  Whaddya know.  Jen Lancaster once wrote of herself, "maybe if you stop looking for a fight, you won't find one," or words to that effect.  Apparently I spent four years of my life looking for fights that weren't there in the first place.  Insight #2:  A lot of the negative perceptions of me that I attributed to my high school peers were, at least to some extent, purely self-generated.

What else did you learn?

You can't tell what other people are going through just by what you see on the outside.  We all have our own burdens to bear.  You can't judge a book by its cover.  Still waters run deep.  That which you fear you bring upon yourself. 

Did you learn anything that doesn't sound like the inside of a particularly mawkish Hallmark card with a picture of breaking waves on the front?

Hmm, apparently not.

What was the best line of the night?

One of my fellow alums works for the Centers for Disease Control in their DC-area office.  "I work in the statistics office with all Ph.D.s," she sighed.  "I'm one of ten extroverts in the whole building."

Anything else?

I'm trying to generate some kind of quippy, Algonquin-Round-Table-esque anecdote for you, but to be honest, I got nothin'.  The most notable aspect of the whole night was a sense that everyone was actually HAPPY TO BE THERE.  No one there seemed to be exorcising old demons or settling grudges (well, okay, except me).  Even those classmates who have not had an easy time of it and who would be justified in acting like sad sacks were fun to be around.  If I had to boil down the whole experience to one sentence, it would be, "I stood in a roomful of people I went to high school with, and I had a good time."  Imagine that!

Snow Foolin'

I am the only teacher in captivity who hates snow days.

Don't get me wrong; I love the idea of snow days.  When your day starts at 5:45 every blinkin' a. of m., who doesn't love getting a call that says don't bother getting up right now, and by the way, that shower you were thinking of taking?  Purely optional now! Back in my singleton and then pre-child days, snow days were a welcome reprieve from the hurly burly world.  I'd sleep for the better part of the morning, then shuffle around in my pj's, consuming enough coffee to set off caffeine-based seizures until, oh, noontime, before donning my most slovenly sweats and mmmaaaaayyyyyyyyyybe correcting a class set of papers or two.  If I'd timed my grocery runs wisely enough, I'd cook a delicious dinner to be consumed right in front of the TV before turning in for the night with a book to read and a cat or three for warmth.

Now that I've had kids, that's not so much the program anymore.  First, as soon as the kids hear the robocall, they wake up with the dawn and IMMEDIATELY start talking and talking and TALKING.  "What are we going to do today, Mommy?  Mommy?  Do we have school today, Mommy?  Is school locked, Mommy?  If we went to school, could we get in the door, Mommy, or would we have to go home?  Where is my teacher, Mommy?  Mommy, what does Denise do during snow days?"  And so on, ad infinitum, ad nauseam.  Then, if that's not bad enough, Warren's got to stick his oar in, usually by announcing in his most sprightly and wide-awake voice, "Mommy, you should take the girls sledding today at the golf course!"  This immediately triggers another round of chirpiness in the offspring, this time to the theme of, "Mommy, are we going sledding, Mommy?  Is Allyson going sledding?  When are we going sledding, Mommy?  I don't want to go on the golf course, Mommy, I want to go next to our house.  Will you sled with me, Mommy?"

And then I want to kill that rat bastard of a husband of mine 'til he falls down dead.

Things I Do That Drive Warren Out of His Tree

I peel the stickers off fruit and stick them on the side of the sink and then leave them there.  Over the day the sticker welds itself to the enamel sink and then it has to be scrubbed off.  I could put the sticker right into the trash, which would be the logical thing to do, but I continue to stick the stickers on the sink and Warren continues to scrub them off.

I'm lazy and I don't deal with stuff.  I will let the Netflix DVD that we've finished watching sit in the DVD player for days on end even though we have nothing else to watch.  I forget to put reusable shopping bags back in the car because it's all the way downstairs in the garage and then I wind up using a zillion plastic bags.  I will walk by the same mess, or live with something that needs fixing, for weeks because I can't be arsed to take the time to deal with it. 

I don't carry cash with me.  Ever.  If I do have cash on me, I wind up buying stupid stuff like take out coffee and gum and other stupid things I don't need just because, hey!  I have the money right here!  Warren totally can't understand that. "Why don't you just put it in your wallet and not spend it?" he asks.  Because I SPEND IT, that's why!  That means whenever we go somewhere that cash is required, I wind up having to ask him for money the way a kid asks her dad for her allowance.  

I spend way too much time on the interwebs. 

I don't notice when shit goes wrong with the car.  We'll be out on a rainy day and he will say to me, "When did you last change your windshield wipers?" and my answer is usually along the lines of, "Uhhhh...?"  Or he'll be in my car after a lapse of several months and he'll ask me if I noticed that the steering wheel is vibrating like a wind harp in a hurricane. (Answer: No, not really, is there something wrong?)

I get pissed off and yell when the girls pee their pants or spill full cups of milk.  In my defense, I deal with 95% of the spilled milk and urine situations chez Pig.

I complain about stuff I don't control and can't do anything about, like the 40 days and nights of friggin' rain we've had around here since mid-June, and did you know we had only EIGHT days of sunshine in all of JUNE???  WTF am I supposed to do with the kids when we can't go outside and can't go to the playground and - oh, sorry.

Re: The laziness mentioned above - I am totally lazy about what the girls eat.  A lot of their dinners consist of things I can heat up, fry up, or toast up in 25 minutes or less. I'd rather make them some kind of cheese-and-starch combo that I know they'll eat than make a "real" dinner that India and Celeste will pick at only reluctantly.  I feed them peas and baby carrots all the time because peas are easy to heat up and baby carrots come ready to eat. I don't make them try new vegetables because I don't want to listen to them bitch about it, yanno?

I cannot walk past a flat surface without piling crap on it.  I swear, even if I have nothing in my hands as I walk past the kitchen counter, sh*t spontaneously generates and jumps onto the counter!  Every day I come home from work and dump all the day's bumpf on the counter, and every night Warren comes home and asks, "Can we try to keep this counter clean?"  It's a little tradition of ours.  Stacking stuff on a flat surface also encompasses putting folded laundry on top of the girls' dressers instead of putting the laundry in the dresser drawers.

I love trashy reality TV.  I would rather watch Real Housewives of Anywhere than most PBS Frontline shows (and I like Frontline, too!).  Warren only got to watch the second half of each episode of We Shall Remain because I insisted on watching Dancing With The Stars on the good TV. 

I've decided that the secret to a good marriage isn't the stuff you like about each other; it's the stuff that you hate.  If you can look at the things that drive you absolutely batshit crazy about the inconsiderate jerk you married and still feel like you got a decent bargain, that says far more than any lovey-dovey hearts-and-flowers romantic nonsense.  Let's face it, living with a fellow human being 24/7, there's going to be lots of things to dislike.  Years ago I lived with a guy who was a really decent human being, but there were things about him I just couldn't stand and I wound up hating being with him.  If the relationship had been stronger and based more in reality than on our mutual illusions of each other, those issues could have been surmountable.  At the ripe old age of 41, I've come to realize that I'm probably not going to change all that much.  Years from now, I probably will still be lazy, prone to leaving stickers on the sink, and impatient about ridiculous things.  On the other hand, my bad habits don't include lying, gambling, stripping under a pseudonym, spending us into debt, or manufacturing crank in the basement - all of which goes back to my "good bargain" theory.  Personally, I got the much better end of the deal when I married Warren, a fact that I refuse to tell him because I don't want that going to his head (although he does insist on asking me why I didn't pay off my student loans with the signing bonus from my incredibly lucrative first teaching job).  We'll see how long it takes him to realize I said this, because he reads my blog only very infrequently (which miffs me no end, but I deal - see what I mean?).

If You Fail to Plan, You Plan to Fail

We are at my parents' house for the weekend, and their front yard is graced with a number of large lilac bushes that are in the peak of flower.  Admiring the bouquet my girls picked, I told my folks, "Don't tell Warren this, but if he pops off at an inconveniently early age or runs off with some hussy, I'm getting married during lilac season so I can carry lilacs."  My father unsuccessfully tried to stifle a snort of surprise.  "Not that I'm planning it or anything," I hastened to assure him.

"Yeah, you wouldn't want to do that," he responded.

"You should always have a plan B," I said.

"Or C or D," my mother answered.

"You always have to have a contingency plan," Warren hollered from the next room.

"Maybe I should start working on the farm team." I mused.

"Naah.  You don't want a quarterback controversy," he countered.

"You're right!" I exclaimed, "I didn't even think of that!"

I'm so glad I married someone who has my best interests at heart!

Who Says Crime Doesn't Pay? UPDATED

I love it when a blog post writes itself:

From The Podunky News, my hometown, The State Formerly Known As Home:

Mar 26 2009, Police Blotter:

 

Wednesday, Mar 18, 6:04 AM. A local store was burglarized during the night. Items reportedly taken included cigarettes, lottery tickets and beer. Police were later informed that a suspect had attempted to cash in some of the lottery tickets at a store in Neighboring Village, according to a State Lottery official. At 12:42 PM, police executed a search warrant at a local residence. Two Podunky men, aged 20 and 24, were charged with burglary and theft. Podunky Police Chief Krupke said police were able to track the suspects by following a trail of unopened beer cans, lighters, lottery tickets, and cigarette packs that had been dropped along the escape route. (emphasis mine) Police also received a report from a passer-by who reportedly saw one of the men walking along the road at 4:30 AM using his jacket as a basket to carry a large number of items, Krupke said.

Anyone want to write the concluding thought for this post?  Because I am so astounded by the level of stupidity shown here, I am actually rendered speechless.

But Wait! There's More!!!

My parents just sent me the following late-breaking news reports:

OOPS

Thursday, Mar 26, 9:13 PM - A male subject attempted to steal a 30-pack of beer from a local store, but dropped the items while running on City Road.

 

BED FRAMES DON'T KILL PEOPLE...

Sunday, Mar 29, 10:32 AM - Police checked the well being of a male subject who sustained some type of head injury. The man, who was walking along State Rd, told police that he had purposely "head-butted" a bed frame earlier in the morning because he was upset about his sister's ex-boyfriend.

The more I think about it, the happier I am that I married an out-of-towner.  At least my kids now have half a shot at not being counted among the stupidest people on earth.

From Pillow to Post

As an aside - can I have an aside if I haven't started the body of the post yet?  Damn skippy I can! - As an aside, one of my pet peeves is when people misstate common figures of speech.  I have a dear friend I love like a sister, but she has the most unfortunate tendency of using the phrase "to the tilt" instead of the more correct "to the hilt" or "full tilt".  I know exactly what she means, but I still find myself having to sit on my hands so that I don't leap up to choke the bejesus out of her while yelling, "To the HILT, dammit, the HILT!"  So now that I've titled this "From Pillow to Post" I feel compelled to point out that I'm making a clever play on words, not screwing up, mmkay?  IT'S A PLAY ON WORDS!  GET IT?!?

Being middle-aged, and a late arrival to motherhood, and the possessor of a house and cars and a job and a spouse and a cat it seems rather pointless to note that I am tired.  I'm a little self-conscious even bringing this up lest I seem to be falling into the usual mommyblogger litany of not-terribly-interesting topics (diapers, daddies, and playdates, oh my!), but my current state of exhaustion is notably different from usual thanks to the sheer depth and breadth of my tiredness.  The girls seem to delight in playing tag-team wakeup on nights when Warren is away on business and I counted a total of five wakings between the two girls last night.  Right now I am forcing myself to (mothering.com members, please avert your eyes here) make Celeste cry it out, having allowed us to fall into the bad habit of fetching her in the middle of the night.  Yes, I knew better (hangs head in shame), but in my defense Celeste was an incredibly tenacious cosleeper.  The only reason I still don't have to hit the sack with kid in tow at half-past seven is because I steeled my spine and started putting her in the crib and not caving into her demands for maternal company. I've trained her out of night wakings before and it is always a painful week of midnight sobbing sessions interspersed with pleas for "Muh-MUH ... muh-MUH" that would melt the heart of the most Draconian among us. Unfortunately, it's the only thing that seems to work, Ferber, Pantley et. al. be damned, or at least it does until the next episode of teething/tummy upset/night terrors, etc., and then it is back to square one and a lot of screaming.  I will say that Celeste does seem to be handling it much better than past efforts, when she would spend the daytime hours clinging to me like a curly-headed limpet after sobbing her little heart out for hours the night before.  This time her screams have more of a quality of annoyance rather than abject loneliness about them, so, progress!

I have become something of a martinet about bedtime a la Julia.  I've always believed in strict bedtimes, at least as a rule, but now I am a true radical convert - as if the nice Episcopalian lady down the street suddenly started frequenting the local Pentecostal church to wrastle snakes and speak in tongues.  Seeing the light is particularly necessary since we are coming up hard and fast on the "A" word (that most scarlet of letters in the teacher's alphabet standing for August, not for adultery).  I know none of you Argentinians will be crying for me, what with the enviable summer schedule we teachers enjoy, but you will just have to take my word for it that August always seems to come rushing at one with the speed and single-mindedness of the 5:27 express train. August is the time when every committee, task force and working group suddenly snaps out of its July torpor and gets down to cases, so my month is just about solidly booked already.  Add preschool orientation for India and teacher orientation for me and any number of close family members' birthdays and suddenly the lazy days of summer are looking rather more hectic than may be absolutely desirable.  So short story long, I have to get a handle on this bedtime thing if I don't want to spend my days in a state of mobile sleep deprivation and topping the list is getting and keeping the girls in their beds all night, every night.  I am resorting to the time-honored tactic of bribery with India, having procured all manner of craptastic trinkety stuff at the local dollar store for her to earn (as in, No, India, you cannot take just a little tiny peek at the Jasmine book, you have to earn five smiley faces first.), but my options with Celeste are limited to a) having her cry it out, or b) caving in and being woken up every night when she happens to roll over and wake herself up. I find everything goes much, much easier if we have a smooth bedtime at the beginning of the night, so I have started watching the clock with a gimlet eye and not varying from the routine by as much as a nanosecond.  Where I once gave the girls ten minutes here and five minutes there because they were playing well together, or because dinner was late, now I adamantly refuse to bend.  Of course I am finding that in the end, better to go to bed ten minutes too early than ten minutes too late because, well, kids need their sleep (DUH) and the line between tired and overtired is razor thin for the ankle-biting set (and for me as well). 

Sleep and rest and exhaustion have been heavily weighing on my mind, as I've taken the girls to my parents' house for several extended visits this summer.  I've seen, much to my dismay, that my parents are noticeably less energetic now than they were even four years ago when India was a newborn.  When you are the child of an older mother who then becomes an older mother herself this is something of an inevitability, but it is a bit disheartening all the same.  I can't help but envy families with grandparents who are only in their late 50's/early 60's themselves and who can take the kids for long weekends without a second thought.  My parents love the girls and us to pieces and bits, but they simply do not have the energy or the stamina to do a lot with the kids other than quiet pursuits like reading books or coloring, and certainly not for solo visits.  We also have a number of extended family members who are experiencing the vagaries of ill health that seem to come so much more frequently to older people.  We went to visit a family friend of Warren's who is having sudden and serious health issues and she looked terrible, very drawn and frail and, well, old.  She was facing something of a Hobson's choice in that the only way she and her husband could afford to retire was by taking up residence in a winterized summer camp on land the family owned on a remote hilltop (really more of a small mountain) just outside a small New England town.  Now she is in ill health and has to undergo and recover from a number of medical procedures just in time for the cold weather to set in, and did I mention that their house is heated solely by means of a wood stove?  We're not related to these folks by blood, but even still I find myself lying awake and mulling their situation over and over, wondering just how well they really planned for their older age, living in a situation that demands maintaining a certain threshhold of health and well-being that may be somewhat unrealistic for people who are middle-old and heading toward old-old.  Then I think of my own parents, who are better off than that but who are still one piece of bad luck away from having to change their entire living situation themselves and suddenly that phrase "sandwich generation" seems less like a sociologist's catchphrase and more like my reality.

Perhaps there's a reason why I'm meant to spend most of my time in an ambulatory sleep deficit.  I should consider it training for the future, when my daughters hit their teenage juvenile delinquency phase just as my parents enter their twilight years. Dang. I'm going to bed.