Feeds:
Posts
Comments

A mother’s confessional

Is it wrong that I am counting down the days until school starts again? I am teaching three online classes so I can be home with the kids every day during the summer.

And that was a mistake.

I am not cut out to be a stay-at-home mom. I admire women who are. And those women who homeschool have my ultimate respect.

Let me assure you that I love my children with all my heart. I think they are funny, interesting little people. I would take a bullet for them. I adore them. However, my amount of patience is inversely proportional to the amount of time spent alone with the boys during the summer when they have extra energy and less self-control. And the days are longer.

Women don’t like to admit stuff like this. They pretend they are always so Zen with their kids. And maybe some are. But I’m not, and I want to talk about it because I know I’m not alone. This sounds like some kind of addiction meeting: “Hello. My name is Beth, and my kids drive me crazy.”

Every day, I say one of the following sentences. (See this related post for sentences I never thought I’d say.)

1. Leave the dog alone.

2. Stop standing on the furniture.

3. Please stop yelling.

4. Keep your hands to yourself (and its corollary: Leave your brother alone).

5. If you don’t put those toys away, I’m getting a trash bag and I’ll put them away for you.

This week, I’ve also been saying this every day: “No, we can’t watch ‘Land of the Lost.'”

Loss of patience can lead to mother rage. That concept is addressed in a hilarious manner by Anne Lamott in this post that is rather old, but still apropos.

Can I get a “Holla” here? Anyone?

Redneck missionary work

When Trish and I were getting in my car after the Redneck Games, I noticed something stuck under my windshield. I just grabbed it and threw it in the car without looking at it. Much later, when I was about to throw it away, I actually looked at it.

The headline: “Rednecks can be Christians too!”

Oh boy.

Let me share with you some “wisdom” from the pamphlet.

If I had to stand before a dozen terrorists who threaten my life, I’d choose a half dozen or so rednecks to back me up. Tire irons, squirrel guns and grit — that’s what rednecks are made of.

Wow. Somehow I don’t think a tire iron is a match for an AK47. But maybe a squirrel gun is equal to an IED made by a weak terrorist in training. Grit, as in gumption, might be equal, although grit, as in particles, probably is not: Sand tends to get in crannies a little more obnoxiously than Georgia red clay does.

I’ve scanned the brochure for your enjoyment.

Sometimes I love (LOVE!) living in the South.

One reason: The annual Redneck Games in East Dublin.

They began in 1996 in response to the jokes about Rednecks hosting the official Olympic Games in Atlanta. They feature stellar events such as Redneck Horseshoes (with toilet seats), Armpit Serenade, Bobbin’ for Pigs’ Feet, Watermelon Seed Spitting and the Mudpit Belly Flop.

I’ve wanted to go for years, but something always happens to ruin my plans.

This year, I was determined to go. I started badgering Trish two months ago to go with me. I finally got her to commit yesterday. Yesterday! She’s from Iowa, and I think Rednecks scare her.

I almost couldn’t sleep last night. It was like Christmas.

Let me share this magical day with you via a photo essay. Come on the amazing journey, and learn all you should know. (TH=Trish took the photo, BC=I took it)

It began with gator kabobs. (TH)

All dressed up with somewhere to go. (TH)

No festival in the South is complete without the General Lee. (BC)

The band knew their Skynyrd. (TH)

And we knew how to fit in. (BC)

I found a replacement for Eddie. (BC)

And Eddie can have her. (BC)

Or maybe we could join this family. (BC)

Let the games begin with the Watermelon Seed Spitting Contest. (TH)

Overheard: "Where'd she spit it?" "She swallowed." (TH)

Nothin' like bobbin' for pigs' feet. (BC)

This girl could hold her own. (BC)

But this guy was the clear winner. (TH)

How could this lady be napping? And is that underwear on her face? (TH)

Soon it was time for the Mudpit Belly Flop. (TH)

Competitors displayed many techniques. (TH)

The couple that flops together stays together. (TH)

The odds on favorite was the "Redneck Granny." (TH)

Though she clearly isn't as agile as she used to be. (TH)

Redneck Granny still took the top prize. (TH)

And then it degenerated into a mêlée. (TH)

Pretty Princesses of the Pit. (TH)

And their handsome princes. (TH)

We went to the event, and all you get is a look at this lousy T-shirt. (TH)

And a gander at this guy's very chic, very permanent tattoo. (BC)

Stay classy, Dublin!

Dan Gilbert needs help

Despite the fact that I don’t give a rat’s ass where LeBron James ends up, I have not been able to escape the news (Miami). Apparently, there are some folks in the Buckeye State who are pretty pissed off — folks like Cleveland Cavaliers owner Dan Gilbert, who wrote an open letter to fans of the Cavs.

I don’t really care about the letter, except to point out that someone should have proofread it with an eye toward unnecessary quotation marks. Take a look at this excerpt:

To make matters worse, that font is Comic Sans.

Somebody’s watching me

I haven’t posted about the chickens, Shelly and Jeanne, for a while.

It’s because I hate them.

They started it. They hated me first.

It doesn’t help that they are so much stinkier and messier than Trish was.

But they do seem more interested in me lately. They haven’t run quite as fast when I come out to give them food and water. And they’ve been peering in the window of the playroom, almost as if they are interested in what’s going on inside the house.

Jeanne and Shelly, Peeping Hens

But as they are looking in, certain someones are looking out.

Dinner!

This does not bode well.

Brokeback wrap

It is Tuesday, July 6, and the last of the house guests just pulled out of the driveway. Almost one whole week of multiple comings and goings of great, longtime friends. Whew!

Guests in the house included the following (most at the same time):

Eggy, Sophia, Ava, Alex, Ida, Billy, Miwa, Niina, Felipe, Mana, Brenon, Janet, Brian, Joel, James R., Patrick, Petra, Ryder, Mia, James G., Deb, Bear, Cassie, David, Cissy, Salua, Aisha and Sasha.

That’s a grand total of 28 unique visitors. And then add the four of us. And three dogs.

There were two tents in the back yard, filled with four guys one night (with surround-sound snoring provided by Alex and Billy), and five the next. (“Ennis, quit yer hammerin’ and get in here!”) Note: Pat bailed at the last minute. I was like Goldilocks in my own home. My room was too loud because it contained Brannens. Sophia’s room had an early-rising Baby Ava. So Ida and her air mattress became just right. Cozy!

The distance award could go to Billy and his family, as they flew in from Abu Dhabi. But they were coming anyway. So the award should go to Brian, who flew in from Santa Monica.

Injuries were minimal. Eddie has a pressure-washing slash thanks to Eggy, and the trampoline only claimed two victims: Billy and me. I did not break my toe (it was just bruised) and Billy’s strawberry (see below) is almost gone now. Brenon did not get injured. It’s a miracle!

Eddie says the injuries were limited because we didn’t put out the Slip ‘n’ Slide. He’s probably right.

There were numerous dogfights, but not the illegal gambling kind. Maggie and Pearl did not bond, and Maggie kicked her ass a couple of times. Then Maggie kicked Mona’s ass for good measure. Pearl also has a small singe mark from the fireworks (her own fault).

Facilities crew reunion: (left to right) Pat, Brenon, Alex, Bear, Eggy, Eddie, David, James, Billy, Brian, Joel and James. And there's Sophia horning in on the right. Holla!

There were lots of laughs, and that’s the whole reason Eddie wanted to stage this whole shebang. Maybe next time the ladies should buy plane tickets and send them out of town …

Oh the humanity!

Eddie and his friend Eggy are in outdoor clean-up mode in preparation for Brokeback Weekend. The kids were driving me batty inside, so Sophia (Eggy’s wife) and I decided to take Ava, their daughter, and Dominic and Gideon on an adventure: We went with the McKinnons and their two kids to the water park in Statesboro.

Splash in the Boro. Oh my. Where do I begin?

There’s clearly no shortage of food within a 50-mile radius. Or tattoo ink. Or Lycra. The kids had a lovely time in the splash pool while I dodged pale lady flanks. The boys and I did enjoy the “lazy river,” even though I felt like a Cheerio in a crowded cereal bowl.

We went early, but there were still WAY too many people in one place. The good thing is that if I had any body image issues, they’re all gone now. Next time, I’m wearing a bikini too!

For weeks now, I have given a pass to Savannah Morning News and the consistent inability to be consistent in spelling a particular word.

No more.

I just can’t take another day of opening the paper and seeing this:

Every time someone at the paper writes about the incident on Tybee, the editors use “Tazed” in the headline, but allow “Tased” in the body copy. (Here’s the link to today’s article.)

The proper name of the electroshock weapon is “Taser.” So if the weapon was used on someone, the proper verb form would be “Tased.”

However, AP Style — which is apparently foreign to folks at the SMN — does not approve of verb forms at all.

Better to say, “Tybee police used a Taser on an autistic teenager May 21.”

Or if you are going to ignore AP Style, at least be consistent in spelling.

Oh happy day!

Eddie walked in the kitchen and said, “There was a box for you on the porch.”

This can only mean one thing: My Microbrewed Beer of the Month Club shipment arrived!

I sprinted to the door with scissors (yes, I just admitted to running with scissors) because this shipment is extra special.

I am the Member of the Month for June (read this post for the write-up of the day I found out). In addition to getting a month of membership free, I’m featured in the newsletter:

It is a very good day indeed.

A letter to me

A former student, Elyse, suggested that I take on a particular challenge: Write a letter to my 20-something self. (She got the idea from blogger Cassie Boorn.)

OK.

The only thing is, I’m not much for regrets. All experiences — especially the bad ones — shape us and make us the people we are. I have a decent self-esteem, so I’m fine with how I turned out. If anything in my history changed, I might now be living alone in a van down by the river.

But anyway, here goes the exercise:

Dear Self:

First, the good news: You are going to turn out fine, and you’ll end up having a great job, fun husband, smart kids and good friends. Now the bad news: It won’t be an easy path to get there.

Here’s some advice:

1. Send tapes — VHS, not Betamax — out everywhere, not just stations within a four-hour radius of your boyfriend.

2. Speaking of the boyfriend, break up with him soon. Yes, he’s hilarious and treats you well, but he’s not “the one.” Make an effort to keep him as a friend. If you let the relationship limp along to the end, he’ll be hurt and never want to speak to you again. And you’ll miss his friendship.

3. Don’t date the guy who comes next. Just don’t. And because you are stubborn and won’t listen to that advice, at least listen to this: Break up after your first argument. That really is the real him and that really is how he feels. Save yourself pages and pages of journal angst.

4. Thanks for trying to be a good girl (and thank you so much for not loading us up with STDs or an unplanned pregnancy), but you really should date more people. Don’t be in a hurry to settle down into monogamy. You’ll have plenty of that later. But don’t date the stick figure or the rodeo clown. Stick figure causes more journal angst, and the rodeo clown will make you fear for your life.

5. Only have one credit card and pay off the balance each month. For the love of God, please do this. You’ll add years to our life.

6. Stop going to antique stores. You really don’t need freaky old-lady doilies, mismatched china, and costume jewelry that leaves a greenish tinge on you when you wear it. Save your money for important stuff like traveling.

7. Travel extensively. Take the summer off after college and go to Europe or Botswana or wherever. Just go. You will never be that unencumbered again. And then, when you are older and in that great job, you will try desperately to make a student named Travis heed this advice. He will look at you skeptically, and then squander his own opportunity.

8. Don’t cut your hair short. Or if you do, go to someone who knows what he/she is doing. Otherwise, you’ll look like you are wearing a wig, and you’ll want to burn every picture from this period. The only palatable one looks like this (and that hair is still really bad):

9. Wear clothes that fit. Stop wearing men’s shorts, fat-girl tunic shirts, and anything with pleats. Walk around naked more and stop being so self-conscious. You will miss that body later when you have kids and more closely resemble the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.

10. Forget French. Learn Spanish.

11. Don’t let the lack of outdoor space and the two fixer-upper basement apartments scare you away from buying that townhouse on Jones Street. It’s a steal. Trust me.

12. Spend more time with your parents.

13. Practice saying “no” to people who want you to adopt strays. If you don’t, you’ll end up with four cats and four dogs, and everyone thinking you are weird/deranged/stinky.

14. Don’t mix beer with all those Wet Willie’s drinks on St. Patrick’s Day 1993. Seriously.

15. Pay more attention to the cute Puerto Rican in facilities. You’ll be happy you did.

Sincerely,

Self Plus 20