Adopt A Highway

Today, on the way home, we passed a sign for the Adopt-A-Highway campaign. The program itself is a good one--albeit expensive, as the organization must pay for the signage to be placed, and then periodically provide the people to clean up the crap that accumulates along their assigned stretch of highway.

This particular area includes a very busy intersection.

The KEYSTONE BLIND ASSOCIATION has paid for this sign, in this location.

Does that seem right to you? Blind people out along the highway, including this busy intersection, collecting litter and garbage to keep America beautiful?

How would they find the garbage? It's not like litterbugs are going to put beepers on their trash. How would they know if they were along the highway, or in it? Other than the blaring horns and swish of passing vehicles, I mean. I would be very nervous walking along this road--and I can see. How fair is it to ask the blind to go out there and do this?

It's funny--at first. But if you think about it, it's just assinine to think that the blind association is really a good match for this beautification program.

It's Happened!

Last night, the Toad had his final high school Christmas Concert.

I sat there, watching my boy sing (and rap. OMG! He's too white for that!), and all I could think was, "OMG! Look at that girl's hair. And that one's. Do they really think that's attractive? And those clothes! Could she show any more skin and not get arrested? His mother let him out of the house in THAT?"

Those were my thoughts during the concert. Each thought lasted seconds as the next moved up to take it's place...until the final blow: This sounds so familiar (the voice in my head, not the Christmas music).

OMG! It's happened! I sound just like my mother.

*sigh*

I had been doing so well.

The Christmas Dress

The Howler goes to preschool. The preschool is included in the Christmas Concert program. I find out on Friday before the Tuesday concert. I have to get my schedule at work changed, and I have to find the Howler a Christmas dress.

Of course, the Howler announces to me, that Friday, "I need the prettiest dress, Mommy. I can't be wearing just any old thing--I'll be embarrassed."

So, the Howler and I go on the hunt Sunday. We hit, I kid you not, 5 stores--trying on at least 6 dresses--before I find dresses that are not too long, and fit her little overfed puppy belly--and, most importantly, that aren't sleazy. Yes, dresses in 6-6X are SLEAZY these days.

I find 3 that are cute, but I can't make the decision. A red one, a green one, and a purple one. The red one just doesn't do justice to the Howler. The more I looked at it, the less I liked it. The green one is big girl looking, without being sleazy like some of what I've looked at today. The purple one is cute, but I don't like it as much. It's got a bigger collar in cream with purple and cream rosettes, and while it's cut way looser, I just like the green one best.

She and I agree that Daddy can have final say.

Daddy chose the green. We did, however, decide that since the Howler adores the purple dress so very much, we will give that to her for Christmas from us. We haven't bought her any dresses since last year, and so 2 new, fancier dresses for church this winter will not be a terrible thing.

My mother, however, decided that the green dress is too long, the red one is nicer, and that the Howler should wear the red one. I told her how much EACH dress cost (and while I do not begrudge the cost, as she will get that much wear out of the 2 we are going to keep), and that my aunt is going to pay for one dress, my mother still is insisting, Tuesday afternoon, that the red dress is THE DRESS the Howler will wear. She even tries to incite the Howler to riot over it. (Luckily, the Howler knows ME well enough to know that if I say she'll wear the green one, no amount of fit pitching will get her into any other dress).

As for "too long" I took a tape measure and measured from the shoulder, at the collar, on each dress. The red dress, deemed "shorter", was actually 32" long to the hem, and the green dress, deemed "too long", was 31.5" inches, including the crocheted hem. My mother, when informed, told me I measured wrong.

So, my mother, at this time, also decides that she will come down and put rollers in the Howler's hair. Fine. The concert is at 7pm. My mother is here to roll the Howler's hair at 2pm. At 4pm, when there are no rollers or curls in the Howler's hair, my mother is peeved.

How hard is it to figure out that the Howler is an exorbitantly active child, excited about the concert, has a slight cold, AND is opposed to ANYTHING that is put IN her hair--the rollers will NOT be long lived? It's not like this is a surprise. I put the rollers BACK in her hair at 4pm.

My mother, at the concert, actually walked past me, barely acknowledging that I was there. She sat, ignoring me, until the preschoolers came out and onto the stage.

The Howler had curls in her hair, and the GREEN dress on. On a stage full of little girls in red, red & black, and red & white, the green was outstanding!

By the end of the concert, my mother was fine. By yesterday at 5pm, my mother was absolutely fine. She learned the hard way, 2 years ago, that if a tough, angry old bird wants to pitch tantrums at me, she will sit, by herself, and stew until she tenderizes.

The red dress, btw, was returned, unworn, yesterday morning, and my mother is happier today than she was yesterday.

"Who the hell do you think I am?"

Early this week, I was given a priviledge I do not often receive.

I got to be at the Customer Service desk. In the 6+ years of working at this store, I am allowed to be at Returns, on register at the front of the store, in lumber and outside lawn & garden. I am rarely allowed to be at customer service. (I believe it has something to do with not playing well with others.)

But, I got to spend my day there.

With the Head Cheese sitting in the office, near the end of my shift, this woman motors up in one of the courtesy carts. Sitting down, she is about as tall as the cart itself. I want to refer to her as a midget, but I think it would give midgets a bad name.

Me: Can I help you?

Woman: I have an order I need to pay for. {slaps credit card on counter}

M: Can I have your phone number please?

W: {rattles off phone number}

M: {I read her name from the screen; I hit the total key; I read her the total}

W: {shoves card across counter}

M: {looks at back of unsigned card} Do you have your ID with you today?

W: Jesus Christ. I need this shit from you today. {slamming purse on counter; pulls out ID, slams it down on counter} JUST WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK I AM?

M: {quietly} I don't know, ma'am. Your card isn't signed, that's why I asked for your ID.

W: {continues on rant} This is bullshit. Like it matters if I have my ID. I hate these computers and I hate this place. I wish you'd just go back to doing everything on paper.

M: {completes sale; hands her the card and her receipt} Thank your for shopping at *******. Have a nice day.

She motors away, still muttering and ranting.

The guy sitting behind me laughs. I laugh.

The Head Cheese calls me into the office and wants to know why I'm laughing.

Geez.

I wanted to ask "Do you think she was that mean because she was that short, that fat, or because she came past the mirrors and realized she paid someone to do that to her hair?"

The Beast

There's a reason I do not like that car.

First, it was Kevin's car. He drove it, so it was totally his choice. Fine. I can live with that, as long as I don't have to drive it much.

So I don't.

Then, Kevin buys a truck (before you get all excited thinking that I have lots of money, we've had the car 3 years, and it's paid off). We decide that since the Toad is getting his driver's license, and we said we'd buy him a car, we'll give him this car instead. Toadwort likes that idea--he wanted that car anyway, and any other car we attempt to buy him will cost us what this one is worth... either the car itself will cost that much, or keeping the new heap on the road will.

I continue to happily drive my van, except for a few occasions, the most memorable of which I've already reported here.

So, in a continuing effort to give the Toad driving time, I take him to work in *his* car, so he can drive. Joy. I am slowly coming to hate the Beast.

Why?

We've been keeping in my neighbor's garage. She doesn't have a car and doesn't drive, so she's totally fine with that.

So, Toad goes to work. I drive home.

The problem? The garage is situated such that it's best to back in to park.

I hate backing the Beast up more than I hate driving it. I voice my concerns to Kevin, and he, being the epitome of quick thought and correct memory, tells me, "Back it up. Don't be a sissy."

I pull into the driveway. I pull ahead, then commence backing up procedures.

I hit the freaking house! (Did I mention that it's an attached garage?) Luckily, I didn't damage the house.

Toad driving: $45 permit
Toad car: $3500
Mom backing Toad car into house: $45 damage
Kevin having a good laugh at my expense: PRICELESS

The Fish Slayer

First let me begin by saying that from the beginning of the Toad's childhood, fish seem to have extremely limited lifespans when in my house.

He won a goldfish at the fair. It died within days. Not really a big shock, but we purchased a replacement fish. It died within days, spawning a new childhood rhyme:

One fish
New fish
Dead fish
No fish

If my mother is in charge of feeding the fish, there's a good chance we'll come home to a cloudy fishtank and dead fish. The Fish Slayer gene is apparently hereditary.

Kevin, the Howler, and I left on a Wednesday evening. The Toad was given specific instructions: feed and water the cats, feed the fish. The cats are easy--if the bowls are empty, fill them. Feeding the fish, however, seems to be akin to doing brain surgery--how much is a pinch? What do you mean by "Twice a day"? Too hard....must kill fish.

We get home on the following Sunday afternoon, and the fish tank is not only cloudy and populated with half-and-half fish. Half are dead, and the rest look like they are dying.

Kevin cleans the tank, all the while muttering about Theo the Fish Slayer. He fishes (HAH!) out the dead ones and we hope for the best. More fish die.

Kevin is now singing along with cartoon theme songs, changing the words to reflect the Toad's new title: Fish Slayer.

Squirrel Bait

There was an article in our local paper this week about a mail carrier in the Oil City, PA, area who was attacked by a squirrel.

It made me wonder why there are not more attacks on people by squirrels, at least in the tri-county area I live in.

My mother has the uncanny ability to attract crazy people. I call 'em "Squirrel Bait." These women are nuts.

Their sense of entitlement is surpassed only by their warped sense of reality. Their children, in jail and out, are, small wonder, nutcases themselves--at least from what I hear in the endless parade of stories featuring these people.

One lives on the same street I do. Her adult son, and his preschooler daughter, live with her, in a cramped two bedroom house. She's currently angry because the only *daycare* in the area that provides free busing does not have openings. She refuses to believe that this *daycare* is Head Start, because Wes, her son, told her it's not--even though when Head Start called and left messages for him regarding this, they identified themselves as Head Start.

Wes, apparently, only lies to the police, girlfriends (current and exes), work, and credit card companies. He does not lie to her--even though, in her stories about Life With Wes, there are contradictions galore.

The stories are mind-numbingly the same, and numerous.

Squirrel Bait 1, has lifted off and left town for a while. She is apparently spending time at the home colony in Florida.

There is no rest for the wicked....Enter Squirrel Bait 2.

It's like being forced to watch reruns of really really bad CBS sitcoms--or what I'm getting now, a whole brand new season of SSDT (same stupid, different twit). Of course, it all seems so familiar somehow.

Much like a wild animal caught in a trap, I'm considering chewing my own foot off.