Friday, October 22, 2010

That Explains It.

I hope I can keep my job forever because I think we're really going to need the health insurance coverage because the Bean may have some severe neurological problems. I think she's suffering from some sort of awful hand-eye coordination issues because she can't seem to get the right amount of toothpaste to squeeze out of the tube. See, every morning, before she heads off to school she brushes her teeth, because as a high schooler you know there's nothing more important than fresh breath. Well, at least to a teen age girl. I've been told that if you have a teen age boy fresh breath is not necessarily their top priority. Usually it's girls and football, with football taking the lead.

Anyway, I know there must be a serious problem because nobody can be so disgusting as to leave globs of toothpaste in the sink every. blasted. morning. Like this:

Gross, right? That's because it is. And yes, it's there every. blasted. morning. Not in the same spot, and sometimes more, sometimes less.  No matter how many times I send her a picture text with the caption seriously?! are you kidding me?! she still does it. (Trust me when I say texting is her primary form of communication. I have proof.) No matter how many times I force her to scrub the sink and the counter and the wall and the mirrors (hey, I had to make it count, right?) she still does it. For the life of me I can't figure out why she would do this every. blasted. morning.

And then I realized maybe she doesn't want to leave a grody gob of paste at the bottom of the sink every morning. Maybe she just can't help it. Maybe she's standing there struggling to squeeze the tube while attempting to line up the toothbrush underneath and she's so busy concentrating that she squeezes too hard and that's why a half-cup of paste gets globbed onto the bristles and there's just no way a person of her dainty mouth size can lather up with that much minty cleanser. Maybe she's got some sort of neurological issue where she can't line things up right and pushes too hard and ends up with way more paste than she plans. And a hand/eye problem would also explain the nearly 5,000 texts she sends a month because it's got to be hard trying to punch those little keys when you're fingers aren't lining up just right leaving her with a screen of garbled nonsense and so she has to send six or seven texts just to get one that makes sense.
By the way, the fact finder in me computed that in the 30 days of this particular billing cycle, the Bean sent 157.6 texts a day. Taking into account she's in school until 3pm and doesn't go to sleep until 11pm (on average) that only leaves her 8 hours for texting purposes, which equates to 19.7 texts an hour, which means every 3 minutes from 3pm until 11pm she's sending a text. No wonder she doesn't have time to wipe up the glob of toothpaste she left in the sink.

Also, she obtained her temporary driver's license today. There's no way I'm driving in a car with someone who is suffering from such health issues. Someone else will have to teach her to drive.

And also, sometimes, when I see people with their cute little girls dressed in pink with their hair all done in curls and cutesy bows, I secretly laugh with one of those bwah! ha! ha! ha! laughs because I know they'll be walking in my footsteps soon enough. And then I feel guilty and do a quick prayer that they don't ever have to deal with the gross toothpaste thing. And then I remind myself that if she's this sloppy with toothpaste I will totally catch her if she starts a meth lab.

And , yes, my mother does spend a lot of time laughing because she knows the way she survived parenting through my teen years was repeating the mantra just wait til you have your own kids and now she knows without a doubt God has her back, because I definitly deserve what I've got, even though I never actually started a meth lab.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Censury Calm

When the Census push was going on earlier this year the government hired some guy to come sit in the lobby of our building to help people who had questions on their census forms. I thought it was a ridiculous waste of money because (1) most the people around here are not full time residents, therefore were sent the form to their permanent address located somewhere far away from here where I'm sure they obediently filled it out and, (2) there were only ten questions. A couple people were sent the "long form" but that was because their life sucked and the government obviously hated them and screw the government, they don't need to know anything about the people who live here. Ever. (Not necessarily my thoughts, but heard nonetheless.) (Isn't that a great word: nonetheless? I love it and vow to use it much more frequently. "I realize you don't want to take a bath, nonetheless, I am your mother and I told you so." I can so make that work.)

Anyway, Government Guy would come into our lobby and set up shop. This included laying a couple official census questionnaires on the table and sitting on a chair. And he sat. And sat. Doing nothing. Day after blasted day. He would sit straight up in his chair, looking pleasantly in the direction of the lobby doors. And he would sit that way all day long. Always with a smile on his face. Always.

He never spoke. (No one ever came in to ask him for help.) He never looked bored. He'd never read a book, or draw fake prison tattoos on his knuckles, or make crane oragami with the census survey. He just sat there happily enjoying our lobby as if sitting in that uncomfortable chair for eight hours a day was the best thing he had ever done in his life.

A couple times I'd run past him on the way to the bathroom and see him sitting there so obviously content. Looking at the doors. Smile on his face. Not saying a word. And I'd think to myself see how pleasant the world could be with an unending supply of valium...

Monday, October 18, 2010

Overcoming Monday Blues

When I was growing up, my mother made a point of doing nothing on Sundays. It was the Lord's Day, meant for reflection and thanks and peace. We went to church. We stopped by Grandma & Grandpa's for lunch. Then we went home. And did nothing.

And I mean N-O-T-H-I-N-G.

My mom would watch television (usually a British comedy on PBS) and knit, or crochet, or maybe take up some embroidery. My dad would doze off in his chair. And we kids would be bored to tears.

There's nothing to do.... we'd whine. It's so boring!

I never understood then why my mom did nothing on Sundays.

Now I know.

She'd bore herself to tears so that she'd want to go to work on Monday. She'd ensure absolute boredom in order to trigger an excitement to look forward to work the next day. My mom did nothing fun on weekends except clean on Saturdays (and I doubt you would define cleaning as fun). Then she'd do nothing on Sunday except be forced to listen to four kids complain their life wasn't any fun. Anybody would want to go back to work after that mess of a weekend.

See, I've been doing it wrong. I've been enjoying my weekends. I've been filling my two days of freedom up with activities I want to do more of, and therefore, dreading Mondays with every fiber of my being. From now on I'm kicking it like my mom did! My kids will be beyond thrilled....