dailydiatribes

So here I am, a week after the funeral hulaballoo and I am left to ponder white bread and tea.  It is still so hard to believe Jenny is gone; it's not quite real yet.  I keep thinking I can just pick up the phone and call her, especially when there are so many deep topics to be covered, such as Anna Nicole's son and who killed him. 

Ok, I do have a theory about that.  I think the son was the father of the baby, the lawyer was in love with the son, and so he killed him in a fit of jealous rage in the hospital by smothering him with KY jelly.  Stranger things have happened.  I just can't wrap myself around the fact that Anna Nicole, the son and the lawyer were all sleeping in the room together.  Of course the family that plays together.....

Anyway, I have strep throat this week, because I needed to help Renee make the rent on the office this month, so I have been housebound.  This has given me ample opportunity to ponder the social mores of death in our culture.  Wow, that sociology class I took as a freshman paid off....that sounded highly intellectual!!

Seriously, when someone dies, it creates a void and others fill that void with food.  And I cannot tell you enough how much I appreciated all the food.  All I had to do was keep the house clean, and the food rained in like so much manna from heaven (some of it more manna like than others....)  It was a little scary when the white van pulled up and started unloading pans the size of a Mini Cooper and I had to run in the house and make room for it all, but it was worth it.  After all, those Italians are a ravenous bunch!

We got the full lasagna treatment, with enough variations to keep everyone happy.  My older kids are horrified by lasagna and will not touch it; it came in great quantities after Anna was born!  She is the only who will touch the stuff now!  We got lots of casseroles, another food the children will not eat.  Something about combining more than two food groups disturbs them mightily.  Oh well, more for me! 

But what I found interesting was the influx of white bread and jugs of tea.  We are talking about eight loaves of white bread!  I guess people are thinking of sandwiches as therapy, and there is some merit to that theory.  After all, the people in Subway, unlike those postal workers, never seem unhappy.  Obviously sandwich making is a zen art and it allows them to become one with the great god Pastrami.  Actually, it's kind of freaky when you think about it; they are so serene, asking you what toppings you want and placing each topping just so on top of the meat and cheese.  Maybe I need to investigate this further.

In my house, I do not buy white bread at all.  For ten years, I bought wheat bread religiously, trying to improve my family's fiber intake and trying to maintain my June Cleaver status.  I fell prey to the guilt machine of the What to Expect When You're Expecting series, which basically outlines how your children will get leukemia and die  if you don't feed them whole wheat bread and organic vegetables.  But one day, I had enough, and I faced reality:  I loathe wheat bread.  It tastes nasty, like the way dried leaves maybe taste.  So I switched us over to whole grain white, which costs more, but has as much fiber as wheat, thereby satisfying the nutrition requirement for the June Cleaver thing.  So bite me What To Expect people!!!!

Now I am surrounded with all this white bread and I am not sure what to do with it.  Feed the ducks?  Make french toast for all the neighbors?  Have a Grilled Cheese sandwich-a-thon??  Because you can only make a good grilled cheese on white bread, everyone knows that!  Maybe I can make papier mache out of it and build a monument to Jenny and place it at her final resting place.  Or perhaps I could let it air dry and erect a tower to her memory.  Maybe I could use it to lure the fire ants away from her headstone!  Now that would be a good use!  A trail of bread crumbs from my bed to the bathroom so I don't get lost at night?

And what about all this stupid tea?  I guess in the South, people express their sorrow with Milo's sweet tea.  If this is true, Jenny Gardino was feeling the love, because we have gallons of tea EVERYWHERE!!  Upstairs, downstairs, outside, in the ice chests, it's everywhere man!!  Maybe we can have a Cahaba Tea Party and pour all of the Milo's in the Cahaba River to protest the ruination of the habitat of the yellow bellied dung beetle through excessive development.  Or maybe I will host a kick ass party and serve Long Island Iced Teas and we will drink to Jenny's memory.  Ok, fine, I know tea is not actually in those drinks, but whatever, I'll invent a recipe!!

I guess before I do any of those things, I will have to get over this strep throat.  I think maybe I'll make a poultice out of white bread and tea and see if that helps.... 

I am trapped at Tim's office, performing various acts of servitude, like answering the phones and....ewww...setting up fecal samples.  And don't even get me started on the fact that he has DIAL UP INTERNET!!  For the love of God, someone help me here!!!

On the plus side, I got to hear my husband use the phrase....."13 pounds of luuuuuuuvvvv" to a client, referring to the clients cat.  If this was not a G rated blog, I could really take off with that one, but I believe I'll just let it go.  Although, the next time we are getting amorous, I may refer to him as 200 pounds of luuuvvvvvvvvvv....

I have had a flash of inspiration.  I am going to abandon the bodice ripper and write a self help book.  I am going to call it It's My Hangnail and I'll Cry if I Want To.  It is based on the parable of the hangnail, which is really similar to the Sermon on The Mount, only different.  The parable of the hangnail is my own philosophic creation and I have used it successfully in my illegal counseling practice many times.

Basically, the parable is as follows:  A woman is complaining about her life.  Her husband is a jerk, her kids are smart alecks, she doesn't have enough money to support her Target shopping habit, and to top it all off, she has one heck of a hangnail.  The she stops in mid complaint and says "but I shouldn't complain, many people are much worse off than me."  A wise friend then said "but it's still your hangnail grasshopper."  Do you see how simple and beautiful that is?  You can look at your friend who has been diagnosed with leptospirotichemmorrhagic diarrhea and has been given three hours to live and say "wow that sucks, but look at this hangnail."  And you are perfectly within your rights to say it, according to my philosophy.

I mean come on, we all have our crosses to bear, and depending on where you are in your life, the simplest cross may weigh 2000 lbs.  So I am sorry your entire family was wiped out in a tragic cornflake explosion, but my life sucks too.  Don't forget about my pain.  I got a bad haircut yesterday and then my Hummer wouldn't start because I couldn't afford to gas it up last week and the housekeeper quit, so now I have to clean my own bathrooms. 

I am thinking this philosophy, once I refine it and publish it, will make Dr. Phil look like a chump.  We are in the "Me" era and people don't want to deal with guilt at all.  It's too messy.  So I remove the guilt from the equation by empowering people to feel sorry for themselves.  Because, by God we are Americans and we have that right!!  I am sure this was actually one of the parables Jesus used and the early church kicked it out so they could sell more indulgences.  I mean come on, you all read The DaVinci Code and you know the Church has been covering things up for centuries.  The Jesus/Mary Magdalene love affair is nothing compared to the church removing a parable that enables mankind to complain about his life with impunity.  So the next time someone comes up to you and starts complaining about how his/her wife's mother's cousin's daughter has been diagnosed with terminal lupus, just smile serenely and let them know about your hangnail.

On to bigger and better things.  I started this blog earlier in the day, when I was still in bondage at Tim's office.  After an hour of me stomping around and complaining, he sent me to the bank again and told me I could leave after that.  This is a great strategy and I highly recommend it as an effective way to get out of anything you don't want to do.

So I immediately went off to the Middle School to perform my unpaid volunteer work.  I got to use the die cut machine, which was fun and then I got use the paper cutter.  They had moved it to the middle of the library, which was great because the choir students were out there watching The Sound of Music.  Now, personally, I hate that movie.  I have never actually made it through the whole thing.  I have a real aversion to singing nuns, and I always found Christopher Plummer frightening.  But still, it passed the time, although I had to struggle against an almost overwhelming urge to stand up on a library table and belt out "Climb Every Mountain" along with Julie Andrews. 

So part of working in the library is delivering completed die cut or laminating projects to the proper classrooms.  God was smiling upon me today, because one of the projects was to be delivered to Abby's science class.  Furthermore, Abby was in that class. 

BRIGHT ORANGE HALLOWEEN SHIRT EMBROIDERED WITH WITCHES AND GHOSTS $19.99

BLACK AND ORANGE STRIPED HALLOWEEN SOCKS FULLY VISIBLE WHEN YOU WEAR CLOGS  $2.99

DANGLY HALLOWEEN BRACELET DRIPPING WITH GHOSTS AND PUMPKINS $5.99

BANANA CLIP THAT DOES NOT QUITE HOLD HAIR BACK NEATLY  $1.99

CHANCE TO THOROUGHLY HUMILIATE MY 6TH GRADE DAUGHTER BY APPEARING SUDDENLY IN HER SCIENCE CLASSROOM IN ABOVE OUTFIT......PRICELESS!!!

FOR EVERYTHING ELSE, THERE'S THERAPY!!

So needless to say, I am having a great day!  I weasled out of work, embarassed Abby, and I still have an hour of silence to enjoy before the bus gets home.  So I am off to play Pogo.  I will keep y'all posted on the progress of the new book!

Ok, first the blog system was down, so I typed my blog in Word, with the idea that I would come back and paste it into a new post.  Unfortunately, the stupid system will not let me do that.  So gentle readers, I love you so much I am going to type it again!!!  You better appreciate me!

Today has already been an eventful day. It was strange getting the kids up and off to school, after last weeks excitement, but they went pretty willingly.  Then I had to get ready for work.  Yes, it's true, Tim forced me to come in and play receptionist today.  It was ok, though, because I took my time getting ready and I didn't get there until almost 9:00 a.m.  By then all the work was done, so I sat there and sulked and talked on my cell phone and rolled my eyes at him.

By 9:30, he'd had enough, so he sent me on errands.  I decided to go by the cemetery first and see how Jenny was settling into her new digs (pun intended....I have a grave sense of humor...ouch someone stop me now!!!)  I was very proud of myself, because I was almost certain I knew exactly how to get to her plot.  Enter the cemetery, turn right, go past the mausoleums, past the green tent, up the hill and to the left.  I parked, got out of my car and immediately stepped on a rusty wire, which became embedded in my shoe.  There I am, jumping up and down in platform flip flops, trying to get the wire out of my shoe because I was afraid it would go all the way through my foot and I'd get tetanus.  Although I see a pattern here....laryngitis, lockjaw...maybe God is subtly trying to tell me to shut up!!!  Anyway, I nearly lost my balance and rolled down the hill.  Needless to say, my mood was deteriorating fast. 

I carefully made my was down the hill to her grave.  Except there's no headstone yet, so I'm not really sure I was actually at her grave.  I might have been at the grave of Manuel Ortega from Nicaragua, spilling my heart, but hey, it's the thought that counts, right?  Anyway, I was walking around, trying to look at the flowers to see if I recognized any of them from the funeral, when I realized there were fire ants swarming up my foot.  Fortunately, I was wearing those flip flops, which gave the fire ants easy access to my flesh!  More hopping and cursing ensued and I was working up a pretty good sweat.  Maybe I should start a class called cemetery aerobics. 

I killed the fire ants, beat my shoes, out, and decided it was time to leave since I was not feeling particularly somber or mournful at the time.  It was hard to leave, even though I felt like a target for all creatures that sting and bite.  When I got in my car, I realized something had eaten its way up my arms as well, leaving numerous little welts.  Jenny must be buried in the vampire section of the cemetery.

I turned out of the cemetery and headed to the bank to make a deposit.  I decided to run through McDonald's on my way for a diet coke since I had worked up quite a thirst with my graveyard antics.  All I had was change, so I was praying I had enough to cover the cost of my coke.  The total was $1.70, so I grabbed my coins and began sorting.  Imagine my horror when I realized that my husband, the coin collector, had left serveral pesos or rubles or euros or some sort of coins that were not American, in my coin holder.  So what I thought were quarters were actually not legal tender in the US.  Thanks honey!!  Fortunately, I was able to scrape enough pennies out of the mix and I had EXACTLY $1.70.  I figure that was Jenny's way of apologizing for the fire ants!  I got my coke, pulled forward, and then stopped because the chick in front of me decided that the area just ahead of the drive through would make an excellent place to organize her purse.  I waited a sec, then pulled around her and realized I could only make a right turn out fo the parking lot.  Great.  So I had to go all the way up to the next light to make a U turn.

So my next destination was the post office.  Now here is a little secret about me.  I don't mail things.  Ever.  If you actually get something in the mail from me with a real stamp on it, you need to mark it down as a significant moment in history.  I tell you this so you will know why I don't know where the post office actually is.  I kind of knew it was somewhere around the Galleria, but I wasn't sure exactly where.  So I was cruising around, and I called Roseanna to tell her about a "Finding Nemo" moon bounce I had passed.  While we were talking, I realize I am not seeing the post office and sure enough, I come to the highway and completely missed the turn for the post office.  And I can't make a left turn. Fabulous.  So I have to turn right, go up to the next light and turn right, then go all the way back down to the next light and turn right again.  Auuuuugggggghhhhhh!!!!!!!  Oh well, I guess it beats working.

I found the post office on my second pass and tried to mentally prepare myself for the visit.  I think post offices are scary places.  Let's face it, people die there.  A lot.  I realize I am probably being unfair to many postal workers who may have never killed anyone, but I can't help it.  No one at the post office looks happy.  It pays way more than McDonald's, but when you go to McDonald's the cashier smiles at you, gives you food, and doesn't ever look at you like you have a bull's eye on your head.  No one at the post office EVER says:  Hi Welcome to the post office, may I take your package please?  Oh no, all you ever get is "NEXT"!

I stood in the line, feeling very apprehensive, trying to keep an eye out for weapons so I could hit the ground and play possum if necessary.  When the teller/clerk/worker/sharpshooter or whatever they call them there said "NEXT", I scurried forward fearfully and showed her my little postcard for the registered letter I needed to retrieve.  "All you need to do is pick something up?" she snarled at me.  "Yes ma'am," I stuttered, trying not to wet myself.  "Well you need to go stand in that line over there and ring the bell."

I immediately scurried away before she became annoyed and shot me.  I thought she was joking about the door, because all I saw was a wall with a bunch of Disney merchandise on it.  Then I realized there was a door right next to the Disney tote bags (yes it's true, Disney has its tentacles EVERYWHERE!!!!)  It had a doorbell to one side and an eyehole right in the middle.  Probably so they can sight you before they shoot you.  The door was unmarked except for a sign right in the center that read:  CELL PHONE CONVERSATIONS WILL NOT BE TOLERATED DURING OFFICIAL POST OFFICE TRANSACTIONS.  I am not kidding, that's what it said.  I wanted to scribble in OR WE WILL SHOOT YOU WITH A SEMI AUTOMATIC WEAPON but I figured the note was federal property and I would end up in Guantanamo.  So I meekly rang the bell.

I waited a minute and then the top half of the door opened.  "Yes?" the post man inquired.  I handed him my note, he looked at it and then slammed the door shut.  I felt like Dorothy in the Emerald City, waiting to see the Great and Terrible Oz.  I wouldn't be surprised if they shut the door so patrons could not see the trained chimpanzees the government uses to cut down on its number of civil service employees.  There had to be something back there they didn't want me to see, because he was not going to let me take a peek.  He returned with my letter, I signed for it, and got the heck out of Dodge before the shooting started.  And I am NEVER going back!!!

All this before lunchtime...I wonder what the afternoon will hold? 

This was the first (and hopefully only) eulogy I have ever delivered.  I am going to post it here, complete, with the entire paragraph I left out because I was crying and I couldn't focus on the page.  Jenny was an amazing woman, a special friend, and I will miss her every day.  But she always left me laughing and I hope she is laughing in heaven right now.

Good Morning.

Anyone who has talked to me in the last three days knows I lost my voice this week.  Jenny would have had a field day with the fact that her death rendered me speechless.  I’m not sure if that’s true cause and effect, but she would have run with it.

I am here to remind you of the Jenny we all loved.  She was an extremely complex person.  Like Shrek’s onion, she had many “layers”.  The first layer was a wife and a mother, a normal suburban sort of person.  You  only had to peel off one layer of that and find the outrageous Jenny Gardino.

I met Jenny when our children started kindergarten together.  We met on the playground here at OLV.  It became quickly evident that we both shared an appreciation of the absurd and a truly twisted sense of humor.  I told the nurses in ICU they missed out; Jenny Gardino was like Robin Williams on speed.

Jenny always said what she was thinking.  It didn’t matter if she was in church, at the movies, or in a PTO meeting, if something popped into her head, it came out of her mouth!  This was unfortunately not always appropriate.  Many times, I would find myself laughing hysterically and simultaneously telling her to shut up before she got us both in trouble.  She was absolutely the funniest person I have ever known. 

There are so many stories to share, so many moments that were exclusively Jenny.  For starters, she had an obsession with Spanky’s Bar and Grill in Pelham.  As a matter of fact, we went there for her birthday one year, with another couple.  It was all she dreamed it could be, complete with women in pleather pants and spandex tops and men with no teeth bumping and grinding.  When she and Don left, we stayed on; imagine our surprise when we went out to our cars and found she had painted “Spanky’s or Bust” on the back with shaving cream.  It’s amazing how long it takes for shaving cream to wear off….

When Spanky’s burned down, she was devastated.  So much so, that for my husband’s birthday that year, she violated the crime scene and removed some of the “cremains” for Tim as a gift.  Tim, handy guy that he is, happened to have an urn, which Jenny proceeded to decorate with a likeness of Spanky (who looked an awful lot like Alfred E. Neuman) and the inscription RIP.  I wanted to send Spanky off to the great beyond with Jenny, but I guess I’ll just have to keep him to remember her by. 

One of the funniest things about Jenny was how she would misunderstand what people were saying.  For example, when a neighbor was moving, he came down and asked Jenny if she needed a hamper.  Jenny said, sure why not, she could use it for the girls.  Imagine her surprise when he showed up with, not a hamper, but a panther.  It was about 2 feet tall, black porcelain and just scary ugly.  Jenny loved it so much, she decided to leave it on my doorstep one night.  I stepped out, saw it and nearly had a heart attack.  It took me a couple of days to figure out who had left it, but it didn’t surprise me when Jenny ‘fessed up!  I decided to leave it on someone else’s doorstep and she in turn gifted someone else with it, and pretty soon “you’ve been panthered” became a part of the OLV school lexicon.  Jenny was tickled that she had been the initiator of that joke.

Jenny could be cruel when it came to pointing out other’s shortcomings, but she was just as quick to turn it around on herself.  Six years ago, a massive infection nearly took her life.  In order to save her, the doctors had to remove a good portion of her right leg.  Even with grafts, it was not a pretty sight, although it was beautiful to those of us who had feared for her life.  Though she was extremely sensitive about it, she never shied away from wearing shorts.  People would frequently gape and many times, curious children would ask questions.  “It was a shark attack,” she would snarl.  “Stay out of the water kid!” 

Jenny was one of the smartest, sharpest, most observant people I have ever known.  She had a knack for seeing things other people missed.  She would read the newspaper obsessively, combing through it for bits of weirdness she could share.  My phone would ring almost daily, with Jenny on the line saying “have you read your paper yet?”  and then directing me to whatever story had captured her interest.  I distinctly remember one earlier this year, whereby an elderly woman was trapped for three days in her backyard by a honeysuckle vine.  Jenny was positively giddy about it; the lady was fine, just a little dehydrated. 

Another newspaper game was the “Bride from that place that is opposite of heaven that I am not going to say in church although that’s what Jenny called it”.  This involved the Sunday paper, and Jenny picking out the worst bridal picture based on dress, veil, nose, etc.  The honeymoon was always fair game; the funniest one we ever saw was a couple who honeymooned in Opelika.  Wow, there’s a destination!! 

I could go on and on because I want every one of you sitting here to remember Jenny Gardino for her humor.  She was a wife, she was a mother, she was a sister, a daughter a friend, but first and foremost, she was funny!!!  She had what can only be called “stage presence” and the moment she entered your space, she was on stage.  Within minutes, she would have everyone in the room gasping for breath and begging her to stop before they laughed themselves senseless.  That’s how I will remember Jenny.  Even as I look around, I can hear her whispering in my ear, critiquing the flowers, making fun of everyone for crying, and basically cutting up.  Even church could not tame her rampant wit!  The worst part of this funeral for me is that I will not be able to call her on the phone and share my observations about it.  I really think when the cell phone rang last night during the rosary, the chirping birds were really Jenny reminding us that even from heaven, she can still appreciate a good joke.  I can imagine her here with us, outwardly sarcastic and caustic, but inwardly, pleased and a little surprised and even bewildered by the outpouring of love from her friends and family.

There is a hole in our lives that can never be filled.  A void so great and empty, it aches to contemplate it.  But I will be able to bear it by simply imagining Jenny, sitting cross-legged on my floor, reading a People magazine and making fun of Tom Cruise and Katie Holme’s and baby Suri.  I will remember her ability to take the simplest event and turn it into a routine worthy of George Carlin or Steve Martin.

Jenny was a fragile person.  The simplest things, things that would only be a tiny blip on our radar, would send her into a tailspin of frustration and despair.  I prefer to imagine that God gave her time to make her peace on earth and then called her home.  The last few months were some of the happiest in her life.  She truly loved Dothan and was making a place for herself there.  It was a blank slate, a new beginning and she was embracing it. 

I will see Jenny every time I look in the faces of her four beautiful daughters.  But I will also see her every time I see a man with a mullet hairstyle, every time I see a clown or a porcelain doll, every time I see any kind of school mascot and certainly, I will remember her every time I hear a good joke.  Jenny loved to laugh and that’s how I will always remember her….laughing.

Well, I have just helped bury my dear friend, Jenny Gardino, who died after a terrible car accident. It's so hard to believe she's not here anymore, mostly because she would have loved every second of the hullabaloo that ensued after her death.

I have seen the Big Fat Greek Wedding movie and I understand it was pretty accurate in its representation of the family.  I am going to make my own movie with the above title.  Although Jenny was not Italian, she married into it and I am only sorry we didn't know each other when she got married because I would have loved to have seen that wedding!

Here are my observations on Italians:

There are lots of them.  They travel in huge packs of twenty or thirty and they are nearly always hungry.  They respond well to love and they can hold their liquor.  They all look like each other, which is extremely confusing when you are hosting them.  You can't remember if you are talking to Vinnie or his cousin Spike or it could even be cousin Theresa if she hasn't waxed her mustache in a couple of weeks.  Italians are very emotional and they either wear their hearts on their sleeves or threaten to hit you with cooking utensils. 

After the wake on Thursday night, we put the food out and a hush fell over the house.  All you could hear was the sound of chewing.  It was as if a plague of grasshoppers had descended, mowing through chicken and rice and lasagna and garlic bread.  The buffet table was totally decimated.  I actually thought for a few minutes we were missing some of the children and I was afraid they had been consumed in the rush, but they turned up safe and sound.  Only one of them had bite marks.

The next night, after the funeral, Donnie got pizza.  He only ordered six.  When he told me this, I immediately told him to order more.  "But they're eighteen inches," he told me.  "That's 80 slices."  

"Donnie, I've seen what your family can do to casseroles," I told him.  "You have to order more."  Typical man, he ignored me.  

As soon as the car door slammed, Italian cousins started pouring out of every crevice in the house.  It was like someone had set off a giant oregano bomb and they were all pouring out of their holes to consume pizza.  He came up the walk, bearing the pizzas aloft, with grown uncles hanging on to his arms, trying to reach the pizzas.  By the time he actually staggered into the house, it looked like a feeding frenzy from an episode of Shark Week.

Donnie's mother, wise Italian grandmother she is, called for a pizza cutter so she could cut the slices in half.  The relatives were snapping and biting at each other, crazed by the aromas of garlic and pepperoni.  She couldn't get the slices on plates fast enough.  In ten minutes, five of those six giant pizzas were devoured down to the grease stains on the cardboard and the relatives were mournfully looking for more. 

Tim takes the cake for craft and stealth.  Italians eat a lot, but Germans never miss a meal.  As soon as the pizzas came in, he deftly removed one from the stack and motioned for Donnie's brothers to follow him downstairs.  I go down five minutes later and there they are, the three of them, savoring a whole pizza bite by bite, with no slobbering relatives hanging over their shoulders.  Donnie's sister in law had followed them down as well and she was contentedly munching away on a full slice.  Needless to say, I sat down and joined her.

The other interesting sideline of the day was Don's Uncle Mike selling handbags out of the back of his truck.  Yes, it's true, as we pulled out of the church parking lot, he was opening the back of his truck to display a huge assortment of imitation designer handbags to a crowd of adoring women.  He continued the "trunk sale" at my house and the entire day was punctuated by various women of various ages asking various male relatives (fathers, brothers, husbands, etc.) for money so she could buy a purse in my driveway.  Tell me this wouldn't make a great movie!!  

Uncle Mike also apparently deals in novelties, so he gave all the children mouth guards that blinked red and blue.  One of the little munchkins would pass by and grin up at you and you would be temporarily blinded by the flashing lights.  Cute.  I'm glad no one at the house was prone to seizures.  These were accessorized by giant pixie sticks, full of sugar and colored with red dye number 237.  The Gardino kids are going to be crapping fluorescent green for a week!

Anyway, I miss Jenny, but the whole weekend would have given her material for years to come.  I really feel we gave her the best possible send off to the great beyond.  I'm just sorry she missed out on the pizza.  Donnie is blessed to have such a wonderful, caring family, and while his children may be lacking a mother, they will never lack an abundance of love.

Well, this marks the end of a big week of volunteering for me.  Which is a good thing since my evil, tyrant husband is forcing me to work for him for the next two weeks.  I have already told him I will only work if it does not interfere with any of my previously scheduled lunch engagements, shopping trips, or volunteer days.  I swear, I don't know how women find time to work.  I have a hard time squeezing it in myself.

My volunteering began on Wedensday, when I arrived at Berry Middle School, bright and early at 9 a.m., fully clothed and ready to work.  I volunteer in the library every other week, which is a brutal, exhausting job.  I guess maybe being a garbage collector might be a tiny bit harder, but I'm not sure.  I guess at least the library is inside and doesn't stink, but that's about the only difference.

The first time I volunteered there, Josh came bounding in, gave me a big hug, and introduced me to all of his friends. He fawned over me so much I was embarrassed, but secrectly pleased.  (How many "r"s in embarrass Margie???)  Abby, saw me in the office and kept walking, and I heard her tell one of her friends "that's my mom in there."  Her teacher overheard her and told her she was allowed to come in and say hello.  Needless to say, she did not appear.  But on to the library...

For starters, you have to shelve books.  Yes, it's true, the books do not magically float onto the shelves and arrange themselves in Dewey Decimal order.  Some poor slob has to schlep up and down the rows, searching out 557.32794 to make sure The Great Big Book of Nose Picking gets replaced in exactly the correct spot, so it will be readily available for the next child to borrow.  On Wednesdays, that poor slob is me.

Oh, you say, how hard can shelving books be?  Well my friends, I am old and fat and have bad knees.  Invariably, all the books are from one of the rows midway up the unit; too high to sit and shelve and too low to bend and shelve.  So I have to squat.  The first time I squatted, the entire school went into lockdown mode because they thought it was gunshots, but it was just my knees popping as I went down!  Up down, up down, it's like being in a Catholic church for crying out loud!!  And I am not kidding when I say the Dewey Decimal System is not user friendly.  It takes a looooonnnnnngggggggg time to get those books in just the right spot. 

After shelving all the books, I hobbled back over to the desk for my next assignment.  This involved using the die cut machine to cut out letters.  I was a little intimidated, not being the mechanical type, but the librarian assured me the children could use it.

It actually turned out to be pretty easy.  You put the paper over the picture cut into foam on the back of a block, then you put the block under this thingy and press the lever down and voila...perfect letters.  It was fun for a few minutes.  But after an hour of pushing the lever back and forth, I was ready to scream.  If I didn't push down hard enough, the razor blade wouldn't go all the way through, so then I had to get scissors and painstakingly cut around the tiny lines to free the letter.  Using the die cut machine makes the BowFlex look like a sissy work out!  It was great fun. 

The bad thing is the librarians commented on how much work I got done while I was there.  Evidently Buffy from Greystone can only do so much without mussing her manicure, while Shelby county white trash like me digs in and gets the job done.  Which means now they know I am competent and they will assign me even more to do next time!

Today I went to Anna's elementary school to sit with her class for an hour so her teacher could go and scarf up the $10 meatball appetizer I made.  I was a little apprehensive about going, since Anna and I have a somewhat difficult relationship.  I signed in and went to the classroom and it was empty.  I immediately panicked, thinking I had gotten there too late, so I rushed up the hall toward the lunchroom.

On my way, I met Anna's teacher.  "I'm so sorry," I panted (I was rushing, remember??) "am I too late?  The classroom is empty."

"Oh no," she assured me.  "As a matter of fact, I don't know where the class is and I am looking for them."  Well I immediately felt better, because she lost them and she gets paid to watch them so I figured if I lost them, it wouldn't be a big deal.  A lady poked her head out of the closet and told us they were in the gym.  We went down to retrieve them and the fun began.

We lined them up and started down the hall, Anna clinging to me like kudzu on a hilltop.  We were at the back of the line, and one of the little boys stopped to try and fix the door.  Another boy bopped him on the head and told him to stop, we were being left.  Sure enough, the class was nowhere in sight. I was off to a great start.

We rushed out into the hall, trying to find the class but there were other classes in our way.  We finally caught up with them by the bathroom, where they were taking their before lunch potty break.  It was there that I discovered Anna is not a racist.  The kids were all wearing name tags from the assembly, so I was able to identify them easily.  Turns out Sarah Beth is Caucasian, not Asian!!!  Which then led me to wonder what on earth was so creepy about her eyes.... they were perfectly normal, round eyes as far as I could tell.  Who knows what kids will fixate on.

After the bathroom break, the teacher took off, leaving me in charge of 18 5 year olds.  I slipped out the bottle of valium I had stolen and gave each one of them their special "vitamin" before lunch...no just kidding.  Not a bad idea though!!  We started off toward the lunchroom and I failed miserably at keeping them in a line. I have never been able to make children walk in a line.  I simply do not possess that special ability to keep them all together.  Some were far ahead, some were far behind and Anna was stuck on me like white on rice.  She had already had one tantrum, because the teacher made her get in line, but happily, it was the only one she had while I was there.

We got to the lunchroom and got into the line.  Have you ever watched that many five year olds go through a line?  It was a hoot.  Today's menu was spaghetti and the lunch lady served it in scoops, so a perfect mound of spaghetti landed on each tray.  Needless to say, I passed on the lunch.  It took fifteen minutes for them all to get through the line and get their food.  Their lunch time is only thirty minutes, so I was stressing out about how they were going to finish eating.

That turned out not to be a worry, because none of them ate.  One little girl didn't touch so much as one thing on her plate.  Several kids ate the jello and a few ate the garlic toast.  Only two girls (out of 15) ate any of the spaghetti.  What a waste; I am so glad it's only $1.75!

After lunch, we straggled back to the classroom, where I was told to show them a movie. I had also brought candy (thanks for the tip Nancy!!) so I figured I could sugar them up for the teacher and get the heck out of Dodge!  I put the movie in and turned out the lights. 

Well those little suckers WOULD NOT SHUT UP!!!  There was one little girl that I seriously wanted to harm who tried every tactic on me possible.  She got up; she sat down; she got her coat; she got her blanket; she wanted to sit on the floor; she needed a drink; she wanted a book; she wanted to take her shoes off; she wanted to die young!!!!!  Every request was punctuated with "Ms. Sparks always lets us".  Like I was born yesterday!

Anna's friend Koron (I was close on the spelling!) kept tipping his chair back.  Finally I walked over to him, squatted down (knees popping like firecrackers) and told him quietly "I know a kid who kept tipping his chair back like that and one day he fell back and cracked his head open and his brain fell out and they couldn't get it back in his head.  Do you want that to happen to you?"  I am so good with kids!!!  He kept his chair on the floor the rest of the time I was there.

I was only in the room with them for fifteen minutes, but it was the longest fifteen minutes of my life.  The only blessing is there was absolutely no nose picking as far as I could tell.  Little Terrance kept trying to steal Diego's candy and I caught him, and he sat back down.  Diego looked up, smiled at me, then handed a candy to Terrance.  It was the sweetest thing I have ever seen. 

I nearly collapsed on Ms. Sparks when she walked in the room, but I kept my composure and told her they were no problem.  "Any time you need me," I chirped brightly as I headed for the door, before Anna could spot me leaving.  However, next time they call, I am going to make sure I am in traction!!  Stay tuned for further adventures of the Valiant Volunteer!!

I had an appointment with my therapist today.  I try to go at least once a week, if not more often.  The therapist is the cashier at Kohl's and she specializes in the discipline known as "retail therapy."  I am always trying to get in touch with my inner shopper and today was one of those days where I succeeded.

It's amazing how liberating it is to give yourself permission to run up your charge card.  I just paid it off, so now I feel obligated to charge more merchandise on it.  And besides, when you use the card, you get 15% off your entire purchase.  Never mind that the establishment is going to charge you 23% interest on your purchase if you don't pay it off, because you saved 15% to begin with so it's really like only paying 8% interest which is still less than my Visa charges me.  So it makes perfect sense to shop this way.

So I went into Kohl's full speed ahead, with torpedoes manned, screaming "Charge It!!!!!!!!!!!!!" in the manner of Wilma Flintstone and Betty Rubble.  Those girls sure knew what they were doing! 

Of course I had to buy clothes for the children first.  It's so frustrating how they continue to grow and stretch year after year.  If they could only stay in one size for longer than six months, our budget would not take such a hit.  But demons do grow, and so I was specifically searching out clothing to cover the demon's elongating legs.  I found lots of great deals and got that part of my shopping out of the way quickly. 

Then I went to look for me.  Tim is making me work at the clinic for two weeks, so I have to have a wardrobe, right?  I got some nice things and then I decided to head over to lingerie to look.  I am not good at buying bras.  My mother did not instruct me in the finer art of making a brassiere (spelling Margie???) purchase.  So I am clueless.  There are racks and racks of the dumb things and they are all specialized.

There are minimizers and maximizers and underwire and no underwire.  There are bras called "Barely There" and bras called "Nearly B" and bras called "damn your hooters are so big we have to charge extra for all this fabric."  How in the world do you decide which one to buy?  Ecru or midnight?  Satin or silk?  Leather or lace?  I couldn't decide.  Besides, I hate underwire.  Every time I buy one of those, within minutes of putting it on, the underwear pokes through the fabric and impales me.  So I decided to skip the bra purchase.

When I went to check out, there was a huge line.  I waited a few minutes, then went to the other side.  There are only two cashiers working at Kohl's....ever.  One on each side, but most people tend to clump up one side.  Sure enough, there was only one other person in the other line, so I scored. 

But there was something wrong with the cashier, which is the same as having a long line.  She had a voice like a munchkin huffing helium....high, squeaky and grating.  So right away, I was already on edge.  Plus she talked through her nose, so she sounded like a congested, high munchkin.  Earplugs would have been a plus here.

When it was finally my turn, she asked me if I wanted to open a Kohl's charge account and save 30% today.  I asked her if I could close my account and reopen it and she looked at me like I was insane.  "No, but you save 15% using your card," she squeaked.

I meekly handed her my card and shut up.  She started ringing up my many purchases, talking away about each of them.  I was nodding and listening and contributing occasionally, but only paying half attention.  Suddenly it happened....she passed gas.

It was only me and only her and I know it wasn't me, so it had to have been her.  All I know is one minute I was breathing fine, and the next minute, my lungs were clogging up, my eyes were crossing and glazing over as a truly ferocious stench washed over me.  I started taking shallow breaths, trying not to inhale the noxious odor.  I am not exaggerating...she smelled like she had eaten three bean burritos at a truck stop and they were now making their way through her digestive tract.

I actually felt my knees buckle and I grabbed at the counter, trying to remain conscious until Squeaky finished ringing up my clothes.  Gradually the air cleared, and I was able to see again, so I handed her my card to finish the transaction and then rushed out to the crisp, hydrocarbon laden air of the parking lot.  I was just glad to get out alive.

Now I have to work for Tim to pay off my Kohl's charge and from now on, I am ordering from Kohl's online.  Stay away from squeaky voiced cashiers in the store; their stench is lethal!!

I know I shared this story with a few folks, but I have to put the whole thing down in print.  It seems Anna is not adjusting to the multi cultural environment of public school as well as I thought she would.  I am just about the most tolerant person I know; when you grow up in the military, you learn folks come in all different shapes, sizes, and colors.  When you live in the white bread suburbs, it's a little harder to assimilate!

At her first desk assignment, Anna was enthralled with her seat mate, Diego.  "He looks just like Dora's cousin Diego," she told me happily.  For those of you fortunate enough not to be in the know, Dora the Explorer is a little Hispanic girl with her own cartoon and Diego is her cousin.  Anna could wrap herself around that.

The next week, she told me the class had gotten a new student named Jack O' Lantern.  "Whaaaattt?" I asked her.  "Her name is Jack O' Lantern and she doesn't talk like us,"Anna told me.  "Are you sure it's not Jacqueline?" says I.  "Oh no, Mommy, it's Jack O' Lantern," she assured me.  I thought it was a nice touch to get a student with that name just in time for Halloween.  I did not think to ask Anna if she was orange.  Apparently they all call her Jackie, so I guess it's not all that relevant.

But the racism appeared last week when Anna came home and announced she had been moved.  It appeared some of the kids were acting up, so everyone had to change seats.  Her new seatmates were Koran (sp?...I honestly don't know), Cole, Casey, and Sarah Beth.  Anna sits next to Sarah Beth.

"Is Sarah Beth nice?" I asked Anna, thinking it would be great if she made a little friend.  Sarah Beth was the only obviously female name of the whole grouping.  She wrinkled up her nose and said "No, I don't like her at all."  "Really, why?"  I asked, figuring she was a pincher or a nose picker or just plain gross.

"Her eyes are all slitty and I don't like them," she told me.  I immediately realized Sarah Beth was probably of Asian descent.  "Anna that's not nice," I told her parentally.  "Well, I don't care, I don't like her," she sniffed.  What am I going to do with Baby Hitler??
So today, on the way home from dance, I asked her how it was going, who she talked to, that sort of thing.  She said she didn't talk to anyone at her table except Koran (Allah be praised...sorry, couldn't resist!!)  So, because I am just kind of sick this way, I asked about Sarah Beth again.  "Well, how's it going with Sarah Beth?  Do you like her?"
"Eeeewww no," Anna answered promptly.  "Her eyes are creepy."

"Anna, you don't make friends because of their eyes," I told her parentally.  "She probably thinks your eyes are creepy too."

"Well, I don't care.  I don't like her.  Her eyes are creepy."

Hmmm, I am not sure what else to tell her.  We are all entitled to our opinion, even if it doesn't make sense.  And at five, it's certainly all about looks.  Anyone who looks even the slightest bit out of the ordinary is questionable.

Still it bothers me she is so intolerant.  I hope this does not mean she is going to shave her head, pierce her eyebrow and get a swastika tatooed on her arm.  Or join a motorcycle gang and tour the country handing out leaflets decrying the Holocaust.  I guess she only has problems with this one little girl, because she has had Asian American friends before. 

Well anyway, I am going to have to work on increasing her tolerance for those children in the world who do not have perfectly round eyes like Anna the demon goddess.  Maybe we can write a children' book together:  Sarah Beth Has Slitty Eyes But I Like Her Anyways Except For When She Picks Her Nose and Then I Don't Want To Be Her Friend and I Will Only Talk to Koran That Day.  I am working on getting a publisher right now!!

First of all, let me refer you to my 9/01 blog.  I actually published it yesterday, but it came up in history as 9/01.  It is the sixth installment of the adventures of Carmichael and Chrysanthemum, so those of you following their adventures may want to check it out.  I am very excited because I believe I know where I am going with the story.  Look out Danielle Steele, here I come!!!!

I just got done leading Anna's first Daisy Scout meeting.  Yes it's true:  she slices, she dices, she julienne fries, she room moms, scout leads and in her spare time knits booties for premature babies in Bolivia.  There is nothing Super Mom can't do!!!

Well, I kind of like girl scouts. It's fun to dress up in the uniforms.  And I like all the cool patches and stuff.  I am a pretty good girl scout leader, although I am challenged in some critical areas.

For example, I do not create crafts AT ALL!  In fact, I am proud to say I do not own a hot glue gun, nor do I know how to operate one.  I am not actually capable of cutting a straight line.  This was true before I lost the use of the Loser sign with my left hand.  I hate painting, I loathe sewing and I think Michael's is a circle of hell.  So I am not the most qualified person to lead the crafts.

I also do not sing well.  Now I will sing karaoke with the worst of them, and believe me, I am the top of the worst, but singing a capella??  I have been trying to catch the tune to "I'm a Little Teapot" with absolutely no success.  I simply cannot carry a tune.  So all of my little Daisy Scouts had better be tone deaf.  Certainly, they will be by the time I am done with them.

There is also the tiny, insignifcant matter of my potty mouth.  I actually swear like a sailor with no self control whatsoever.  What's going to happen the first time I accidentally drop the F-bomb?  Or if I even use a simple "damn"?  Are they going to take my merit badges away?  Or will I be excommunicated from the Girl Scouts forever?  One can only hope....

And let's face it, my relationship with Anna is not exactly stellar.  As Abby's girl scout leader, there have been many occasions when I have had to physically remove her from the room for being disrespectful.  On a couple of occasions I actually considered strangling her and getting the girls to help me dismember her and dissolve the body to earn the "True Crime" badge, but I kept forgetting to bring my hacksaw to the meetings. 

I am deeply afraid I am going to face similar problems with Anna.  She is not exactly what I would consider a "compliant" child.  In fact, many of you are already familiar with her demon heritage and know my fears are probably well founded.  Perhaps we can earn the "Exorcism" try-it by flinging holy water on Anna and chanting in Latin while we draw a pentagram around her.  Or maybe we can earn the "Mental Health" try-it and use the home electro shock therapy machine to try and improver her behavior.  Or maybe I will just drink heavily before each meeting and just ignore her in my drunken stupor.

The bad part is my co leader has one of those daughters who is perfectly behaved.  I think Elizabeth and I are going to get along well and we will be a great complement to each other, but I am not sure how she will react to Anna's first screaming meltdown.  I guess I need to explain to her in advance that Anna is completely spoiled, used to getting her way in all things and generally rules the world.  She needs to be prepared to look the other way the first time I drag Anna out into the hall.  The hell with time out...I'm gonna beat the hell out of her.  If such a thing is actually possible; I'll have to look that up in the Great Big Book of Exorcisms:  What Every Parent Should Know. 

Anyway, maybe she won't be too bad and maybe I'll learn how to color in the lines, but I'll never learn how to carry a tune.  So look out Girl Scouts, here I come!!!

Today was the first soccer day of the fall season.  I really do enjoy watching my kids play, especially Abby, who has a passion for the game.  It's fun to watch your child performing an activity you know she truly loves.

After the game (tied 2-2, not bad since they've never played together...and yes, Abby did score!!!) we went to McDonald's to kill some time before Anna's game.  We decided to hit the one on Acton Road.  As soon as we pulled into the parking lot, I realized it was a bad idea.  The place was swarming with Bama fans, grabbing that last egg Mcmuffin to soak up the alcohol before they got to Tuscaloosa.  But foolish me, I ignored that inner voice that told me to drive away and instead, I parked.

When we got in, there were only three other people in line.  "Hmm," thinks I, "this will not take long at all."  Oh how foolish I am.  Although there were roughly 17 people behind the counter, only one register was open.  And the guy running it seemed to be the only employee who actually had an IQ that registered on the Richter scale.

Now before I get into this, don't think I am a snob.  I have a tremendous admiration for anyone that does what it takes to feed a family or pay for college or whatever.  I have done some pretty nasty jobs myself, including kennel work during the five years I worked for Tim.  So I am not an elitist.

But the fact is, this McDonald's was not staffed with the best and the brightest.  The cashier was great at taking orders, but it kind of broke down after that.  Pretty soon, there were five of us standing there, waiting for our food.  The cashier had an assistant, a cute little girl, with her hair twisted in two little Princess Leia ponytails and tied off with red bows. 

Unfortunately, the bows must have been a little too tight, because they were evidently impeding the flow of blood to her brain.  She sort of stood there, mouth half open, reading the screen and trying to figure out what to do next.  I waited and waited, amusing myself by checking out the wardrobe on the Bama fan behind me.

I have a dear friend once who spoke contemptuously of Auburn's color choices.  I am thinking this dude really didn't look any better in his maroon pants and his red and white striped shirt.  He looked like an escapee from the candy cane factory.   

Anyway, ponytail girl was just not getting the order together.  She was reading the screen, kind of standing there, watching everyone else work, and once in awhile she would kind of finger a biscuit, like maybe she was going to put it in a bag, but then she would turn and do something else.  My blood pressure was beginning to elevate.

Aside:  Jennifer Stringer ordered a Southern Style Chicken biscuit, which led me to ponder what would happen if I ordered a northern style chicken biscuit?  What kind of commotion would ensue as the highly trained staff dealt with a question that had not been covered during their training sessions at McDonald's U? 

Anyway, the manager finally came up to help out and she was asking the ponytail girl what was happening and she was kind of pointing at the screen like she could read it but couldn't quite translate it into action.  So the manager took over and started stuffing things in bags for the drive thru people.  The ponytail girl, inspired, finally started piling biscuits on my tray.

By now, I had been standing there for about ten minutes, waiting for three biscuits and some drinks.  I was starting to feel that tightening in the chest that occurs right before you snap and start bashing people with chicken mcnuggets.  She put three hash browns on the tray and said something unintelligible.  I smiled at her tightly and managed to say very nicely "I need my happy meal toy please."

Because let's be honest.  Our children do not actually enjoy the food served at McDonald's.  Truthfully, they would probably rather be at home eating broccoli and brussels sprouts.  But there is something magical about the packaged toy with the Happy Meal that elevates a plain cheeseburger into a magical feast for the tummy and the senses.  So you cannot leave without the toy; that's the whole point of the trip.  Never mind that it's going to be pitched in the garbage can three days later, WE MUST HAVE THE TOY!!!

So she gives me a look and then gives me the toy.  I grab my tray and rush outside, because now we are truly pressed for time, only to discover they have given me the wrong biscuit.  My eyes actually rolled back into my head briefly as I contemplated having to go back in and duke it out with Princess Leia.  But my desire to eat and get the hell out of there won out and I went back in for the confrontation.

I marched right up to the counter, elbowing other customers out of my way, slammed it down on the counter (ok, very gently laid it, but slammed is a more effective verb) and snarled "I ordered a bacon egg and cheese biscuit, not an egg mcmuffin!!!"  She looked at me blankly, like she had no idea who I was, even though I had been in her line 2 minutes and 37 seconds before.  I never snarl, I am the nicest person I know, but Princess Leia honestly brought out the raging beast in me.  I really could envision the release I would feel at reaching across the counter and snatching those ponytails right out of her head!

The manager looked at me, looked at the screen and said "oh he rang it up wrong," and handed me a new one.  Problem solved.  Princess Leia did not seem to quite comprehend what had just transpired.  I stalked out with my biscuit and went back to sit down so I could swallow it in three bites because now we were out of time and had to leave.

Then, just because this story has to end dramtically, on the way out of the restaurant, Anna dropped the plastic Happy Meal ball we had worked so hard to get and it rolled out in the parking lot.  She started to dart after it and very nearly met her end on the hood of a Chevy Silverado work truck.  Why me?  I grabbed her by the collar, yanked her up on the curb and snarled at her (again the snarling!!!) to "STAY PUT!!!!"  She's crying hysterically like this is the only plastic ball in existence in the universe, I am trying to stare down the truck driver so I can retrieve the ball from under his tire, and thinking longinly of that bus ride to Mexico.  Luckily, I got the ball back, so peace was restored and at this writing, Anna is still alive and unblemished, although I did have a major urge to blemish her for scaring me like that!

I'm not sure what the moral of the story is; maybe it's a cautionary tale about keeping pigtails loose to allow adequate brain cell circulation.  Maybe it's about staying away from McDonald's on game day.  Maybe it's a plea to all those who are thinking about having children to consider increasing their birth control!!  Take it however you want, but feel sorry for me because this was only the first week; seven weeks of hell to go!!!!