Which is to say...we are tired...

Dad: Um...hey...

Me: Didn't you just leave here?

Dad: Yeah. Well, no. I'm still here. Just not there.

Time passes. Things evolve. Humans acquire ESP, but Dad's never been much for adaptation and I'm not feeling like naturally selecting him out of the population given that his genes are pretty much already in the pool and done with in so many ways.

Dad: Listen, I forgot to give you the truck keys.

Me: So?

I can't think of where I'd go since my job is to stay with grandma in the hospital. The whole point of the truck was to get me here so the use of the Civic as the house to hospital shuttle could begin. So?

Dad: Ok, well, then I think I'll just leave them here in the Civic so they're with us wherever we are when we're there.

Me: (I forfeited my turn here. That last statement pretty much covered, well, everything. Everything and so much more.)

Dad: I'm going home.

Me: Oh, good.

After all, that was the whole point. If he's too tired to ride the elevator up a floor to give me the keys or carry on a coherent conversation, then he doesn't really need to be driving. I didn't argue that point since I was in that same car driving here under the same conditions just fifteen minutes earlier.

Dear God, get him home.
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Did you know?

Spiders lay eggs in their brains!! Says Squib...

Really? I'm definitely looking this one up. He's been obsessed with spiders of late. However, I know better than to doubt the short one. He has a nasty habit of being freakishly right. Frankly, if any species of spider does this, then good riddance regardless of beneficial effects of spiders in the biosphere. Sorry. Spider-haters here. There are enough spiders I've had to pay detailed attention to, though, for me to believe this is part of the life cycle of ALL spiders. They lay a gadzillion eggs, so even if it's true, what's one dead spider if it's laying a bazillion eggs in its brain? Pardon my counting measures.

Thing #2: Do not bother with those widgets that plug into the wall sockets and emit high frequencies to eliminate the influx of bugs, spiders, and whatnot. At least out here in the boonies, all that happens is this:

Device: SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE (ad nauseum) EEEEEEE!

Bug/Spider I: What the hell is that racket? This is just going to make crawling in there to bite the kid that much worse. I think I'll bite him twice.

Bug/Spider II: I think I'll go with you. He's juicy. Besides, we have to listen to that ever-flipping screeching no matter where we are around this place. We should recruit the ants.

Bug/Spider I: Perfect idea!

Thing #3:

Today we stood in Radio Shack for two hours upgrading Buddy's phone. He didn't want to do it because he "wasn't sure he would get it right." Granted, there were a few details they needed to keep up with, but seriously, he's smart. Former telecom executive, etc. Not sure he was going to get it right?

I took Squib with me to Radio Shack thinking this would be a thirty minute thing and--hey!--we'd be in Radio Shack! The store with so much electronic goodness that it's hard to focus your eyes until you've been there for almost thirty minutes. We'd explore the bits-n-pieces section of the store and talk about how to "make stuff" and maybe talk about a radio or a speaker set.

No.

It was a knock down, drag out session with smart phones, the AT&T rep, the store manager, and one of the lesser store peons trying to get the deal done. I simply stood there stewing in my juices and taking deep, relaxing breaths. Squib, however, complained--out loud, legit complaints--whenever he thought he had an audience. When he reached one hour, thirty minutes and screamed, "My mom stole this other phone!" well...I don't have to tell you I was ready to clobber him.

He ran away from home at least twice, decided he was going to go live "with the people in that blue car" once, pledged to duct tape himself to a store employee named "Daniel," accused me of shoplifting several times, tortured the staff for a minute-to-minute ETA, and generally tyrannized Radio Shack. This was after his usual forty minutes to an hour of good behavior. And he was still very, very good. Just a total ham.

Tomorrow, we aren't going anywhere for anyone else who isn't sure they'd get something the least bit wrong. Nope, sorry. It's a lazy Memorial Day weekend. Church, flowers for grave, lunch, nap, and...well that's it.

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My New Weekend's Resolutions

Don't hate. Some of us can only plan for, like, an hour. I can actually dream of what a one-year plan nested inside a five-year plan would be like. But, seriously, at Green Acres it's like running triage and trauma surgery 24-7. Yes, that does include actual medical crapola or else I'd not use the analogy. Chickens don't have emergencies. We've gone from 5 to 4 adults, 2 to 1 child, 2 to 5 cancers, and I'm not even going to total inflammatory diseases, and two chromosomal abnormalities. NOT S****ING YOU.

And by S***, I mean SNARF. Squib asked, so there you go. **ahem**

So, when you make plans to have dinner with friends who are going to be in town on any given day, you probably put it in your calendar and look forward to said event and find a babysitter, etc. I put my events in my calendar--laugh hysterically--ask Buddy to babysit--laugh hysterically--wait and see. There's a 10% chance I'll go. There's a 5% chance I'll be rested enough to stay awake. srsly.

1. Clean the office and my bedroom. Because...dang, woman.

2. The bathtub. All the paint peelies from the handy dandy tub refinishing kit are, well, peeling. So sterilize it within an inch of its life. It just looks nasty. Peace of mind. All that.

3. Sort out the laptop situation. Data transfers etc. blah blah blah.

4. Try not to fall asleep during the movie. This is the little Mr.'s request. I will need toothpicks.

Scat

Bathroom Monitor

I think I got it on me.

Seriously. Someone went in and judging from what came out I'm pretty sure he's in a bad way. I'm surprised he's not leaving a slime trail...somewhere. Holy mother of all stench. My job today is bathroom patrol for state testing. So, I'm three feet from the bathroom door. Actually, there is no door. Just a cement block opening from which emanates...

This isn't going to just wash out of my clothes.

Scat

And the sign says...

...long haired freaky people need not apply.

So, I cut my hair. Short haired freaky people are still getting in under the wire. Barely.

You would think that after a while the household in general wouldn't be surprise, shocked or amazed at the fact that on occasion I brandish my dull shears and prune my head. This is a rare occurrence, but it happens enough to make make me appear unstable or just plain crazy.

Of course, the shearing met with high complement from the elder family members. The shorter it gets, they happier they are. If we apply this rule over time from now to infinity, then I should just shave my head bald to make them as happy as they can be until they croak. Squib has a thing for my hair being pulled back and up into a top knot or bun or something like that. However, it took him two days to realize that I hadn't, in fact, just pulled it back for eternity...I had actually maimed a good french twist. Tragedy, I tell you.

Forget hair for a moment. I'm trying to remember a song. One I really, really like. I can remember the main strain that is part of the chorus and I'm working it over in my head, but I can't come up with a title or anything at all! I've tried to sing things into the musicID app on my iPhone, but that piece of junk doesn't know good singing from a hole in the ground. Right? Fronk...it's gone.

Migraine today. When I looked outside, I understood why. We were totally socked in. I drove through the migrainous fog. Soupy, hazy yuck muffins. I half expected to find Whitey dripping with gray slime when I exited the car. Do note: I turned the headlights OFF when I exited the car. And thank Frank I did. We managed to go a whole day without jumping a car. Between the mower, the van, and my truck, we have a circle jerk of car jumping going on.(the mower is a vehicle...rawr). A veritable gang..I'll stop. You see my point. Batteries are expensive and we are going to drain these suckers dry before we are forced to replace them.

I managed to escape without subbing. (HALLLELUJAH!!! **angels**) However, I had to get calculators counted out into boxes to give to the teachers giving tests today. Simple, right?

No.

Short version is that we didn't have enough. So I stomped around chasing some we seem to be missing. After my tour of the campus (helpful, actually), I decided this was not the best use of my time. I accosted  one of our teachers who has some of these sacred items by intercepting his path from his off-period hidey hole on his way to his classroom. He probably thought I was the library mafia.

I ended up with packing boxes full of calculators heaped up on my desk and the COW (Computers On Wheels) next to me. So....

...I put a box on my head and lay it down on the only empty spot left and disappeared.
Scat

Just Stop It, Already!!!

wor·ry

  [wur-ee, wuhr-ee]  to torment oneself with cares, anxieties, etc. troubles; plagues.

I never do this. Nope. Never. At all. I mean never ever never would I over concern myself about anything at all.

In the spring of 2009, my ancient Thinkpad died in a spectacular and nauseating way. As a result--and since "we" had the money at the time--"we" bought my ASUS who I affectionately call Ella. Ella has lasted four years. She's not dead yet, but her battery won't charge, her mouse buttons don't work. She's got some issues with components that just stop working. A good restart sets her right, but you can't always convince her to do that. So...

I worried.

I don't do brain surgery or rocket science or rocket surgery. I just love to write and use my computer to do everything I do, practically, and I am without phone ever since my iPhone 4S's LCD decided to fade into a very comfortably numb place...

**sucking in my breath**

So, I was floored when my brother was sitting here next to me and just asked if I wanted a laptop. I thought *clunker, battered, limpie* but what I was handed is nicer than what anyone in our household has. That may not say much, but it means tons to me!!

I feel like I'm flying an SR-71 (probably not a relevant comparison to most people, but to me it's pretty darn slick)! I've even petted it several times because the slight scoring--decorative only--makes it feel neat.

It was just a momentary thought in my head, though! A concern I had last week about the fact my computer was giving up the ghost slowly and there wouldn't be anything to do about it! And I never gave it another thought. There wasn't a thought to give...

How much more so would he also with him freely give us all things? So just stop it already. The worry, that is.

Scat

The Small Things

Whatever happened to perforation? If you're paying the bills for a giant household of people--ok, sick people for lack of a better category--you pay a ton of bills. Now, though, you are told to "detach this section for best delivery" or some such rot and get a little scissor icon. Puh.

I love perforation! It's the bubble wrap of the bill paying world! It makes me happy. Heck, it's the only good part of bill paying at all. A little "zip" sound and you've got the stub in your hand. No struggling with whatever pair of scissors your seven year old has decided you are capable of using safely.

Back to the grind.
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An Alternative Theory

Sometimes the pressure really is too much. Human psyches, like the bodies that house them, can only take so much before they start doing...things. You know, "stuff." I'm not talking about daydreaming or a fit of the giggles, either. Those are 'normal' responses to being tired or overstimulated or just, plain human. I'm talking about a dulling of the senses. Like, the ability to sleep next to a freight train or with a crying infant or through the honking of an alarm clock. Also, a dulling of feelings and emotions. Suddenly you don't know how you feel or how things are. The "feelings and emotions" portion of your brain has been stripped so completely that you look at anyone asking you how you are or how your day is going--especially if they have any emotional uptick to their step at all--like you've been stricken dumb. You have. Not so much because you are as because the answers to questions suddenly became too tricky.

"Is your little boy sick?" Innocent question.

Technically, yes, compared to some but they're doing well at this very second, so maybe no? Which one is he asking about? I mean, really, there's a spectrum here. Technically Beanstalk is winning. Winning? Or is it losing? I don't know. We were all fine until someone asked. They're at school and have no broken bones. And now even Squib is going for the orthopedic gold. I'm relatively certain they both are walking mostly. But, I don't know that either after this past Monday. Does that mean they're good/fine/well? Forget it. Incoming nebulous answer.

"He has been, yes." Half smile. It's confusing to people because I must look like I'm very unsure of what they're expecting. Or I must look lost or devoid of a home planet. Raise antennae. Uncover pointy ears.

"Oh, well I had read on thus-and-such about this-or-that and wanted to check in on him." Oooooooh that.

"Yes he's doing better with that." Pat answer ensues. Smile like you have answered the question. Phew.

I could, if I wanted, play another conversational game of "Exactly How Bad Is It?" but really, who needs that? Even more, who wants that? Not I. You can see whole people vanish before your eyes as the story spills out before you. Health issues and concomitant financial ruin. They slowly start circling the drain and right before they go down, they ask, "How do you do it?" I simply say, "I don't." Then, they lose their grip and slide into the darkness. And that's why we don't talk about it completely. You know, the whole enchilada. "It" doesn't get better. Until gene therapy gets SO GOOD that whole extra chromosomes can be zapped and hunks (visible to the naked eye through a microscope hunks) moved and/or removed. Then there are all those body parts to...um...yeah...and brains maybe or some kinda something we....hummmm."

Oh and by the way, I can juggle money like a freaking Cirque de Soleil center ring act. 

Between the money issues, health issues, unemployment...you know I can see why some of these students might be disenchanted already. Other than substituting, I was very close to getting a job--or trying--that some of them would probably steal right out from under me. Or out from over me. They'd be my boss. At the end of the day I understand completely why a parent like myself might see a note from a teacher and think, "good grief already! What on earth is so bad about talking out loud during class? He made it! Clothed! In the clean clothes! Screw it, he talked! Out loud! Hallelujah! And we slept at our own house last night, etc. etc. blah. blah. blah." It's not right, but I can see it from here.

And that dead in the eyes look? It comes from two things. Either you follow a path that robs you of your soul. OR--life wears you down. Way, way, way down.

For a child to be that far down is a tragedy. But, I'll be honest. I see a lot of tragedies around here.
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I Keep Reaching For My Drink...

...and it isn't there.

I'm not drinking in the sense that there is anything alcoholic in there, but maybe I should be. I've done three loads of laundry, taken out a jillion loads of trash (you would NOT believe what Squib can generate in a single weekend), ejected a giant box of chicks (HALLELUJAH!), and ironed my outfit for tomorrow. I keep reaching for my cherry Dr. Pepper and every time I do that it isn't there.

I'm trying to enforce consistency and all that rot. I always reach for it in it's usual spot on my blue and white tile table whereupon many drinks have been placed over the last years. So, where is the hiccup? It's possible my brain missed a step or two. Perhaps it erased a memory or two it thought to be insignificant.

Friday was to be the day I went to K Elementary to watch Squib throw his body on the fields of Field Day with all the verve of the runt of the litter chick. And thus he did. After last Monday's scary brush with leg breakage he certainly bounced back and had a great time. I didn't make it as I had to take the icky migraine meds and rendered myself unfit to drive heavy machinery. Buddy had too much to juggle so we had to wave off. Fortunately, Squid could go and all was right with the world. I have pics and will insert them once I transfer them from one device to another device to my email to here.

Because...my phone's LCD croaked. **sigh** If it's not one thing, then it truly is another. Or fifty others. Monday certainly was the Monday of all Mondays. HOLY SHEESH.  And there was much moaning and gnashing of teeth. Even the holy hot tub of wonderfulness could not wash away all these ills. I tried. It didn't work.

There isn't much to say about the week that I haven't covered already except that there is a lot of work cut out for teachers in this school system. Anyone teaching in this school system needs cajones the size of soccer balls. Due to the level of cheating, all assignments need to be done written or verbally. Do I want to do that? It's something to ponder. At length. I'm a good teacher, but are there good students? I argue yes. But then, I always argue yes.

As for the weekend, my entire purpose was basic R&R in addition to a return to normal things. However, I got sucked into some serious bed gravity a couple times and very nearly didn't make it out. Friday, Squib and I started watching The Odd Life of Timothy Green-very good movie-and had to finish it after our visit after we saw Beanstalk on Saturday.

Beanstalk was on a roll, as is usual. He waltzed in demanding "memouse" which is Fantasia. The original version. So, we started and got from Tocatta and Fugue which he directs and sings through Sorcerer's Apprentice which he mostly just directs. Then he demanded "Andre the SINGER!!!!" Andrea Bocceli's Sacred Aria's DVD has been a favorite for years, now. He sang along to Andrea until we went outside and then picked it up right after we came back in.

He was fiesty this weekend! He wanted cookies, of course. So I asked for him to use three words to ask me for a cookie. He was being a ham on vacation and strung me out. "Cookie..." "Pleeeeease..." "Mooooom...." The only thing he'd say all together was "Cookie, cookie, cookie?" He was so funny.

By Saturday night, Squib and I were laying around here like bumps on a pickle. We sacked out in plenty of time to get up and do our thing on Sunday morning, but at 6:45a, there was a heavy, thumping knock on the door and Buddy shoved two Sumatriptan shot packs through the door at me and said something about Ben. I blinked at least once. I went right back to bed and Squib asked, "who was that?" I said, "It was Buddy." And I promptly went back to sleep with a warm little Squib snuggled up to me. I dreamed about Sumatriptan shots, even.

Then the pounding again and a blearly-eyed Squib sat up asking indignantly, "What IS IT?"

It was 8:00am, that's what it was. Well....hell-o. Too late for me. Just enough time for Squiblet. Holy Mackerel we were slammed. When everyone came home, we ate, and went right on sleeping again like we were made to that one thing and that only. Maybe it's the lack of cheeping, pecking, and general mayhem from the other room? Will I be unable to get up in the a.m.?

Good Lord, I hope so.
Scat