Urban adventure

Last night, I drove into Seattle to meet a friend who was passing through on her way to Vancouver, B.C.  We hadn’t met face-to-face before–she lives in New Jersey, within spitting distance of Manhattan.  She used some highfalutin technological GPS gadget thingamajig to find us a restaurant.  We ended up in a laquered black and red Thai place and despite my utter lack of experience with Thai food (unless you count that Thai sauce from Trader Joe’s), I enjoyed the meal.  More than that, I enjoyed the conversation.  It’s always pleasant to converse with someone who is talkative and in possession of strong opinions.

My Sister’s Keeper film

I had to walk to my car alone.  She offered to walk me there (basement of a parking garage!), but I said, “no, I’m fine,” and I was.  Lucky for me, no crazed urban rapist followed me or I would have had to do some extreme mom-karate moves, killing the guy with one well-placed kick.  I say “lucky” because I’m sure I would have pulled a muscle if I’d been forced to defend myself.

I didn’t get home until almost 11:00 p.m.  By then, I had to peel my contacts off my bloodshot eyeballs. 

But it was all worth it, even my exhaustion today.

Oh, but bad news. I have recently been informed that you’re only supposed to have one space after a period. This forces me to undo a habit I have had since that typing class I took in high school. Ack. My thumb believes two spaces are necessary at the end of a sentence. I do not think my brain is strong enough to foil the unconscious space-space of my thumb. 

You didn’t ask, but here’s what I think

What have I been doing besides cursing Gmail?  Well, watching “American Idol,” of course. 

I’m also reading Peace Like a River which is hogging all my spare time.  And I’m busy fixing snacks for my daughter who asks for, but does not eat, a snack every fifteen minutes, including the meatloaf she rejected at dinnertime.  She wanted it right before bed . . . but did not eat it.  Tonight, I was reclined on my bed, reading and she came flopping in, asking me to get her water bottle downstairs.  I said, “No, I’m too tired!” and she said, “No, I’m more tired than you.”  (I won the argument, just so you know.)

By the way, I think Lisa Rinna seems like a lovely, if overly-perky woman, but whenever I see her on television (a lot lately, due to “Dancing with the Stars”), I cannot stop staring at her upper lip.  I know.  I am shallow and I should be half the beauty she is.  But still.  STOP WITH THE LIP ENHANCEMENTS, YOU HOLLYWOOD STARS!  (If her lips are natural, I extend my most sincere apologies for my judgmental attitude.)

Sometimes, I feel like the most ancient woman in the world . . . especially when I read other mothers asking “how do I make my toddler son stop hitting me?”  Really?  Seriously?  YOU JUST DO!  I fear for our society in which mothers can’t figure out how to make little ones obey.  Pick up the kid, shout “NO!”, deposit him in his room.  No fuss, no muss.  Rinse and repeat.  Or, if you are opposed to shouting, stand up, walk out of the room and ignore the little ankle-biter.  Just be consistent.  Geez.  Do not tolerate misbehavior.  Either I have turned into a curmudgeon or I am the victim of hormones.  I think it’s the former.  I’m also old and will not tolerate tomfoolery. 

That is all.  Carry on.  

Gmail Rant

I have been an avid fan of Gmail . . . I’ve had an account from the very beginning and never experienced any trouble until a few days ago.  Now, as I answer the deluge of email that continually piles up in my box, my account gets locked down for “unusual activity detected.”  I have emailed the Gmail people twice with no response. 

I cannot figure out a reason for this difficulty, other than the possibility that a demon has taken possession of my computer and if so, OUT WITH YOU!  Stupid technology is making my life difficulty.

So, if I owe you an email, be aware that my hands are handcuffed by the idiocy of my Gmail account. 

And, while I’m ranting, can I just say that the spray deodorant I bought for one of my boys smells like bug spray and I really regret purchasing it?

Truth and consequences

My 14-year old twins chose an unwise action today and their father caught them.  (I’m sparing the details in deference to their privacy.  It’s probably not as bad as you’re thinking.)  After letting them explain themselves and excusing them from the room, their father turned to me and said, “Well, what shall we do?” and I said, “How about grounding for three days, no electronics, no friends.”  He nodded.

Then he called them back in and asked them what punishment they deserved.  They both suggested grounding for a whole week . . . not from electronics, but from friends.

Apparently, I am too lenient.

It’s going to be a long week.

Non-slumber party

Tonight, I took my four children and two of their friends to see “Shrek,” which we all enjoyed.  My 9-year old son thought it was the funniest “Shrek” movie yet.  My daughter laughed like a maniac, even when she had no idea what was funny.  (I think the Super Loud Laugher sitting in our row may have encouraged her to extreme guffaws.) 

On the way home, we were stopped at a red light.  The kids all noticed two workers removing letters from a Walgreen’s sign.  My daughter wanted to know what they were doing, so we all glanced over just in time to see the lady remove the “S” from “SHIRTS” turning it into “HIRTS 2/$10.”  The kids thought this was amusing . . . “HIRTS, only FIVE DOLLARS!” they shouted and laughed.

And then–it was such a long red light–the woman put back the “S” and moved to the “R” while the older boys stammered, “Oh no, no, no . . . don’t remove the R!” and just at that moment, off came the “R,” turning SHIRTS into . . . well, SHI TS, two for ten dollars . . . and the barking laughter grew hysterical.  The light turned green, I accelerated and the kids screamed with laughter.  I was laughing, by then, at their hilarity.

I’m no longer laughing, though, because somehow I ended up hosting what amounts to a slumber party.  We returned home at nearly 8:30 p.m. . . . I ran a bath for my daughter, then changed into exercise clothes.  Then one of my 14-year old twins appeared at my bedroom door.  He looked sheepish and said, “Uh, Mom . . . we have a problem.”

And then he explained that the two boys who went to the movie with us planned to spend the night.  They’d cleared it with their mother, only no one had bothered to ask me.  “And,” he continued, “John and Joseph [*not their real names] think they are spending the night, too.  They’re downstairs.”

Now, earlier tonight, the same son asked me if John [*still not his real name] could spend the night.  I went a little berserk at his request and explained that “I DO NOT WANT ANYONE TO SPEND THE NIGHT!  I’VE SPENT TEN MILLION YEARS THIS WEEK WITH FOUR HUNDRED CHILDREN IN AND OUT OF MY HOUSE AND NO NO NO NO NO!”  I was very coherent and eloquent.  Ha.  And he didn’t say another word. 

And yet . . . and yet . . . I couldn’t say “no” to these four kids who’d already asked their parents and gained permission and WHY DO THEY WANT TO SPEND THE NIGHT?  (Could it be the ice cream they all ate at 10:30 p.m.?)  I had earlier raved to my son, “WHAT IS THE POINT?”  When I just informed the younger three kids that at 11:00 p.m. I expected them to go to sleep, Joseph [*still not a real name] protested and began to tell me about how things are done at his house and I said, “Uh, at my house, kids do not stay awake past 11:00 p.m.”  (And yet, at the moment, seven boys are awake and it’s 11:16 p.m.)

I haven’t even met the parents of John and Joseph [*uh, fake names].  Seriously, who sends their kids down the street to spend the night at someone’s house without meeting the host-mother (aka the INSANE LADY WHO LETS HALF THE NEIGHBORHOOD SPEND THE NIGHT)?

Well.  Okay then.  It is what it is.  Did I mention that my husband’s out of town for two days?  Boy, what fun I’m having in his absence. 

(The three youngest boys have created an elaborate “fort” in the family room using an assortment of quilts and couch pillows and heavy blocks and . . . oh, a bunch of stuff.  They are sleeping in this haphazard shanty-town.  Well, “sleeping” might be overstating what’s happening at the moment.)

Oh, I hope we sleep tonight.  I hope they sleep.  I want to sleep. 

*  *  * 

Update:  The three youngest (all about 9 year old, I think) slept–as far as I can tell–from 12:30 or 1:00 A.M. until 6:00 A.M.  The oldest four?  Well, I came down at midnight and told them to turn off the lights and be quiet and go to sleep.  They were ever so cooperative.  Why?  Because as soon as I went upstairs, they turned on the computer and resumed playing Runescape.  (All sites on their computer have to be approved by me–everything’s password-protected–so I am not worried about them accessing other things.)  Oh yes, they did–as I slept, confident in their obedience.  And then, at 3:40 a.m., my daughter woke and crawled into bed with me.  Then at 6:00 A.M., she woke up, whining.  I told her to go back to sleep and then the DOOR SLAMMING woke me at 7:30 A.M.  All the boys were awake and the younger boys were attempting to “prank” the older boys.  Thus, much door-slamming ensued.  I came down in my purple bathrobe and reprimanded everyone . . . I am so not the cool mom, not the fun mom, the ha-ha-ha, isn’t-this-fun?-mom.  I’m the irritated mom who got roped into a non-slumber party and now I’m weary.

By 9:00 A.M., I was ordering everyone to clean up the messes they’d made.  (One kid brought peanuts in the shell and so shells were everywhere.)  By 9:30 A.M., I was sending them home.  By 10:00 A.M., my 14-year olds were falling asleep.  I demanded the truth . . . and that’s when they confessed to playing games all night long–well, they did sleep an hour.  I think they were just too tired to lie.  Huh.  I have now blocked access to their favorite computer game as a little demonstration of the consequences of disobedience and lying.  And the best thing is that they had to choose between going to the beach with me (to explore the low-tide) or going with their friend (who spent the night) to an activity on the military base.  They chose the military base . . . so they are staggering from booth to booth, display to display, activity to activity on an hour’s worth of sleep.  So, there!  Take that!  Now whose laughing?  

My 9-year old got about six hours of sleep.  He’s at a birthday party right now.  My 4-year old and I are going to explore the exposed shore.  I shall return with pictures.  Maybe.

Now where did I put that?

I had an actual thought today, the kind of thought that made me say to myself, oh, I need to blog about that.  I think I even composed the first sentence in my head.  And now it’s gone.  If you happen to find it, will you please return it to me?  Thanks.

Meanwhile, how about this picture I took a few weeks ago?  I adjusted the light a little so the foreground was more of a shadow.  This is Mt. Rainier and the moon.  See the moon?

100_0474.jpg

The puzzling appearance of Tina the Pug

UPDATE:  12/4/15 

Dear Readers – especially those of you who arrived here via a search engine in search of “pug service dogs”:

This has been a popular post throughout the years.  (Weird, but true.)

I would like to sincerely offer my apology for this post.  When I wrote it eight years ago, I thought I was merely describing an amusing situation I encountered at the grocery store while shopping with my 4-year old.  I had never seen a pug who was a service dog and due to the circumstances, assumed that Tina the Pug’s owner brought her with him because he loved her dearly, not because she was an actual service dog.  I had no idea that pugs could be service dogs.  I thought she was a fake.  I admit it.  I did.  I had never met a pug who was a service dog.  (And, I’d like to note that I have never met one since.)

Listen.  I’m not the only one who is curious about the plethora of service animals.  Here’s a whole article in The New Yorker:  Pets Allowed:  Why are so many animals now in places where they shouldn’t be? 

But I said it first, way back in 2007 and ever since, very upset pug owners have written to me and left unhappy comments and read this blog post and become furious with my ignorance.  I’ve been the recipient of a lot of venom from hostile pug owners.

So, I’d like to say, I am sorry.  I’m sorry I didn’t understand that Tina the Pug was a real service dog.  I’m sorry I expected service dogs to wear official vests.  I’m sorry that I made light of the fact that I encountered a pug wearing a pink shirt who was actually a service dog.  I really am terribly sorry.

And not just because I received the following message to my personal Facebook page.  (I took the liberty of including it here in its entirety without censoring it, though I omitted the author’s name for obvious reasons.)  I am deeply sorry for the loss of Tina the Pug and I send my sympathy to her owner, even though he hates my guts for posting this silly blog post so many years ago.  I meant no disrespect in the first place.  I like dogs!  I like service dogs!

So, once and for all, I apologize for my post and for my lack of knowledge about pugs as service dogs.  I know better now.  (If you’re curious, you can read government rules about service dogs here.)

Nov 20th, 11:59pm

I just want you to know that you are an absolute CUNT for accusing me of having a fake service dog that was a pug. You’re a total incompetent bitch and my physical therapist made my female pug a service dog because she saved my life during a staph infection. Your comments are vile. This was in Washington State in 2006/2007. Her name was Tina. She wore lots of pink clothing. Pugs can’t wear a vest. So they give us an ID tag with her picture on it. She was allowed to go everywhere with me. She died 7 weeks ago of cancer. And I am dumbfounded by your ignorance. This was in Lakewood/Tacoma. If this isn’t you please forgive me. After her death I decided to google her and she showed up on your blog or FB. Whomever it was needs to know they are evil.

Still, this was a pretty mean message to send a stranger on the Internet, don’t you think?

And now, for the original post from May 16, 2007: 

My 4-year old daughter and I dropped off the boys at the YMCA for P.E. this morning and then drove to the grocery store.  I had a page of coupons from the Sunday paper and an intention to shop quickly so my little girl couldn’t ask for too much junk food.  I added to my grocery cart the following extraneous items:  yogurt fruit snacks, Sponge Bob crackers, a handful of yogurt pretzels from the bulk food bins, a candy bar.  Ridiculous, I know.

We’re standing in line, then.  By some miracle, she’s sitting in the cart rather than wandering like a free-range chicken.  And then a man walks by with a dog on a leash.  Seeing a service dog is not unusual at this store–I’ve seen a service dog tethered to a wheelchair on a semi-regular basis.  But today?  Today, the dog walking by on the leash is a Pug.  A Pug in a pink shirt, as a matter of fact.

My daughter leaned over and said to me, “Can I pet the dog?” and I hemmed and hawed and the man heard her and so I said, “Can she pet your dog?” and he said, “SURE!” and picked up that bug-eyed Pug so she could reach it.  Then he said, “Her name’s Tina.”

That man stood too close to me with his Pug.  My daughter petted Tina’s back and asked about the harness.  The man answered eagerly and I thought, okay, enough, put down the Pug!

While I unloaded my items onto the conveyor belt, I could hear the man talking to a woman in the adjacent line.  I couldn’t hear her, but I could hear him explaining about Tina and how she doesn’t usually wear her vest that indicates she’s a service dog.  He went on to explain that Tina loves to go places, and that her favorite destination is IKEA.

Okay, first of all, a PUG?  As a service dog?  Seriously?

Secondly, everyone and their five-year old knows that service dogs are not pets (they don’t wear pink shirts, I’m guessing) and no one is allowed to pet them.  Unlike Tina.

Yet, if Tina hadn’t strolled through the store in her pink shirt, I’d have nothing to blog about today.  So, thanks, Tina!  Who knew pugs could be service dogs?!

* * *

January 10, 2010

Nearly three years later, I still get comments on this post and some of them are vicious!  Apparently, Pug owners are a feisty bunch and they do not appreciate my comments about Pug service dogs.  Relax, Pug Service Dog Owners!  I’m not personally insulting you, nor am I saying that your particular Pug (who is adorable, I’m sure) isn’t a valid, Real Service Dog.

All I’m saying is that I seriously doubt that Tina the Pug was a service dog.  I am familiar with service dogs and I know that no one is allowed to pet a service dog while it is working.  And furthermore, if the dog isn’t working, it shouldn’t be in a grocery store.  I’m not saying Pugs can’t be service dogs.  I’m not saying your service dog didn’t save your life and discover the cure for cancer.  Far be it from me!

So, simmer down.

UPDATE AGAIN (February 26, 2014):

People continue to visit this post through Internet searches pretty frequently.  And today I heard the guys on the radio talking about service animals.  I can’t find the specific story they were talking about, but it was similar to this:  “Fake service dogs a growing problem . . .”

Dusty emptiness

If I were a house, I’d be waiting for tenants to move in.

If I were a lot, I’d be vacant.

If I were an Easter bunny, I’d be hollow.

If I were a milk carton, I’d be empty in the fridge.

If I were a marker, I’d be dried out.

Lucky for us both, I’m none of the above.  And despite the echoes in my head, I managed to post a little something over at the Larger Families blog.  We were supposed to do a photoblog of our Mother’s Day and somehow I missed those directions.  I had nothing.  You’ll see.

Meanwhile, I’m still trying to get over this stupid cold.  And I keep falling asleep while reading The Power and the Glory by Graham Greene . . . which I love . . . I just can’t stay awake.

Distraction

The veins in my hands are like silky cords of blue-green.  I still can’t get used to these aged hands dangling on my wrists.  Between my fingers the skin is raspy, dried out from chemicals I use to wash clothes and clean dishes.  I’d slather my hands with lotion but what is the point when I will scrub them clean again in a few minutes?

My fingernails are short, practical, ragged around the cuticles.  They suffer from neglect, from dishwater and digging weeds and idle picking while I’m watching television.  My skin is loosening, bunching at the knuckles, criss-crossed with lines like a crazy map showing where I’ve been.

My hands show signs of overuse.  They’re getting old, which seems impossible since I am still the same inside.  My ragged hands betray my age and make me wonder why women abandoned the fashion of wearing dainty gloves in public.  I have no time for manicures, nor would the gloss of painted nails survive the ravages of my daily life.

Two of my grandfather were each missing fingers.  My Grandpa Johnson cut his index finger off with a saw while he was building a church.  I have no idea how my Grandpa Martin lost his finger . . . he fought in World War II, but I suspect that his missing digit cannot be attributed to that historical event.  I need to ask, to settle the mystery of his missing finger.  (I used to think that grandfathers all had one finger missing, as if it were a requirement.)

(Seriously, I have no point to these rambling post about my hands . . . but I had to write it because I am so distracted by the prominent veins on my right hand.  When did my hands get this old?)