Toxophilite??

Perhaps it’s the optimist in me, but I live by the mantra that everything happens for a reason.  I don’t just say it, I believe it.  I lie awake at night Dr. Phil-ing to death events in my life and attempting to make rhyme of the reasoning.  It’s been over 20 years since I traversed the drafty 100-year-old halls of my catholic elementary school.  My 30 something nostalgic memories and gratitude for the education and experience are a complete 180 from the mind-set I had walking into that brick edifice on a daily basis in the 1980′s. Back then I hated it, with every freezing cold cell of my body.  Yes cold.  I grew up in New England.  The school building was old, and had really high ceilings and windows that were taller than me. Old drafty windows with metal pulleys and exposed rope that lined 2 walls of each classroom.  We wore uniforms. Green plaid ones, with yellow blouses, little ties that crossed above our collar bones and snapped in the center with a snap that looked like mother of pearl.  We wore green knee socks, and we were allowed to wear a green cardigan sweater.  I’d go to school in the mornings bundled up and with sweat pants on beneath my jumper.  I’d get to school and we’d have to shed our warm clothes and leave them in the coat room. I used to shiver and look out the windows at the sunshine that looked deceivingly warm, and wish I were in Florida or Hawaii.

The radiators were tall and metal and lined the walls beneath the windows.  They would click and clank and bang noisily as if griping and  groaning at the arduous task that lay before them, warming the cavernous space that was our home away from home.  If it weren’t for my severe Myopia I would have gladly sat at the back of the class closer to the warmth they noisily provided.  No amount of heat could compensate for the icy chill in the air that hung like a dark snow cloud above my desk.  I was the kid who was teased mercilessly.  I hated the experience of looking around a room and seeing everyone laugh at me, and not because I had just channeled my witty inner Tina Fey, but because I was me, and because I was weak, and because I gave them the luxury of getting a rise out of me, even though my parents and teachers consistently told me not to.  At the time it was a miserable experience.  I hated school, and I hated the select few who were the ring-leaders of mean.

Fast forward 20 something years. If my 30 something self had the opportunity to speak with those now 30 something ring leaders of mean I would say thank you.  Really.  Going back to my everything happens for a reason mantra, I now know the reason I was the chosen target of childhood cruelty.  My adolescent immature me learned through years of torturous training how to dodge arrows, multiple arrows at once, coming at me from varying marksmen.  They prepared me for the harsh realities of the real world long before it was my time to enter the said real world.  Had I been one of the popular girls I so pined to be back then, the professional culture would have been a severe shock to the system.  As I rise in the ranks professionally, which I can proudly and honestly say is a direct result of my merit, there is naturally some resistance from those around me, which have resulted in some unmerited arrows flying at me at warp speed. The good news is, I’ve had lots of practice dodging arrows, in fact I’m really good at it.  And the mature 30 something me can recognize that those wielding the bow, and spraying me with the arrows, are not anyone worthy of pining over.  Ironically enough my inner Dr. Phil and snarky Tina Fey tell me that they are the ones pining, and the arrows are a direct result of their insecurities.  Yes blogosphere apparently, I am just that awesome!!

I’ve made peace with my adolescent self, and turned the contempt I felt for the ring leaders of mean into gratitude.  It helps knowing that professionally I have a leg up on them, and they are probably hiding behind their office doors weeping into their Starbucks, wondering when the world became such a harsh and judgemental place.  Me, I sit at my desk and chuckle, instinctively leaning to my right as the arrow whizzes past my ear and think to myself, bring it.

The firing squad….Duck!
Image courtesy of Wikipedia

Until next time…Peace Out! KP

Paint and Pictures

Last night when I arrived at E’s daycare to pick her up I was greeted by the usual wide faced grin as she ran toward me carelessly, willing to knock down anything or anyone in her path. Fortunately yesterday there were no flying bodies, though it has happened.  Regardless of how tired or how frazzled I am feeling still trying to mentally decompress after a long day at the office, seeing that grin run towards me always makes my heart soar.  After quickly hugging my leg the grin turned into a serious and authoritative look. “Mama you have to put your hands in the paint and make prints” she tells me matter of factly motioning to another mother in the room who was in the process of doing the same, “like her” she finishes.  “Ohh I do?” I asked looking to the teacher who nodded and smiled in confirmation.

As is often our routine when I put on lotion, I took off my rings as E held her pudgy little fingers up over her head, I slipped my rings onto her hand telling her to make a fist and hold them tight.  The smile returned as she looked down at her shiny fisted hand.  I dipped my hands in the pink paint and left my prints on the poster board as instructed.  I was then told that after I cleaned my hands that I would need to have my photo taken with E.  We walked over to the designated picture-taking spot. I bent over and lifted E up settling her comfortably on my hip as I have done countless times over the years.  It was in this moment as the teacher raised the camera squinting to get us in focus and telling us to smile and say cheese that E put her arm firmly around the back of my neck pulling me to her so that we were cheek to cheek and smiled broadly, moments later she casually tossed her other arm around my neck hugging me tight.  I could feel as well as see out of the corner of my eye that she was smiling as largely as her little cheeks and mouth would allow.  It was in this moment, a time span that lasted no more than maybe 15 seconds that I was overcome with emotion. It was a gesture silent in words, yet screamed the pride and the love that she felt for me in that instant.  With every cell of my body I could feel the unconditional love of this child that I had carried felt for me.  So overcome by the physical response that my body felt coursing through its every cell I squeezed her back and kissed her cheek and thought to myself if only she could understand the power of the moment.  As quickly as it had evolved, the moment was gone, as she scrambled down my body as if she were descending a trees trunk, running to collect her Woof Woof and her thermos.

When you are pregnant with your first child you have these day dreams where you romanticized the parenting experience, and then the baby is born and reality sets in.  The daily grind of caring for this tiny being who is helpless and naive to the world in which it now inhabits takes over.  There are moments of joy, moments of pride, but they are not as numerous as I had daydreamed they might be.  Sure, I get gooey hugs and sticky kisses daily, and I cherish every one of them.  There was just something different about yesterday however.  Something that I can not fully articulate. My mother always told me that actions speak louder than words.  Perhaps it was the silent display of her actions that struck me in that instant as better than any I love you Mommy that she has ever spoken.  It made all of the temper tantrums, potty training struggles and sleepless nights completely and totally worth it.  Hugs have the ability to seem so generic, we hug friends, family, co-workers, loved ones, sometimes we hug those we’ve just met.  Until yesterday I never experienced just how powerful a hug could be.  Here I am trying to teach her something every day, and she just taught me something far beyond her years.

As we drove home I gushed about what a nice hug that was, how much it meant to me, and how much I loved her.  She smiled, and seemed pleased with herself for having pleased me, but I know that she didn’t truly grasp the joy of our moment.  Instead she explained how Valentines for Mommies was coming….”You mean mothers day?” I corrected her.  “Yes it’s like a valentine for Mommies” she told me.  “Oh that’s a good way to put it.” “That’s why you painted your hands, to make a present” she said proudly. “Ohh” I say trying to sound surprised.  That “valentine” is one I will cherish always, because it will always bring me back to that moment. Our painting and pictures moment.

Til Next time….Peace Out! KP

Eggscuse me??

Tonight we dyed Easter eggs. The holiday has E a little over excited to say the least.  As the eggs soaked in their colorful cups I figured we would multitask, so I got her bathed and in her jammies.  As we went about the routine of getting her dried off and dressed, we sang I’m a little teapot complete with all of the appropriate body motions.  As we sang and tipped I managed to get her into her pull-up and pajama pants.

The song ended and after a jubilant “Again!” I started…”I’m a little tea-pot short and stout….” I had the shirt gathered hem to collar in my hands ready to pull it over her head when she jerked back and said “No Mommy, Stop!” “What?” I stop singing and ask confused. “It hurts my belly.” she says “hurts your belly?” “Yes, it makes my belly sick.” “What makes your belly sick? the shirt?” “No Mommy not the shirt, your singing.”

fortunately my craft skills are better than my singing skills

E's eggcellent creations

Til next time….Peace out! KP

S.O.Ssssssss

I had a near death experience the other day.  Fine, maybe I am exaggerating just a little, but once my story is complete I have no doubt that you will all appreciate my sophistry.  It was a morning like any other.  I was buzzing about the house going about my normal routine.  When I leave the house in the mornings I resemble a pack mule, weighed down by a laptop bag, a purse, my lunch, E’s bag for daycare, E’s lunch, my cup o’ tea, car keys, and cell phone, the last item is my sunglasses which I perch atop my head.  This particular morning the load was a little lighter than normal.  I realized that my purse was missing.  I am a creature of habit, and my purse gets hung on the same rung of the same bar stool every time I return home.  I have been known on occasion to place it elsewhere if distracted or diverted on my ingress, so began the mad dash about the house in search of the said bag.  I looked high and low and could not find it.  I checked the car, and every room of the house.  When I ran out of rooms I began to get nervous.

First off, I am not what you would call a morning person.  I don’t leave myself a lot of extra time in the morning.  Sleep is too sacred to me.  So I nervously glanced at my watch cursing myself for not being the morning person I wish I could be, worried that I would be late to work.  I shuffle E to the jeep and in a last-ditch effort I decide to check a place where I knew it was not, but where I had been known to drop things like keys, sunglasses or cups before.  The shelf just inside the garage door.  I left E in the jeep with instructions to climb into her car seat and pull her straps over herself, and walked up to the shelf (steps away from the jeep and in plain sight, for those of you who may have gasped that I left my child unattended in a car) to look for the purse that I was certain was not there.

As I half heartedly moved something on the shelf I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. I looked down, and can now tell you that I understand the term frozen with fear.  For several rapid heartbeats I stood unable to move, or speak. I was inches away from a snake that was standing tall looking ready to strike.  I don’t know if it was motherly instinct, had it just been me I might have screamed and yelled like a sissy, instead I slowly backed away from the snake distancing myself the full width of the 2 car garage, keeping an eye on the unwelcome house guest.  I called out to E in a tone that indicated I wasn’t messing around to stay in the jeep.  I said a silent prayer of thanks for the recent smart phone upgrade that now gives me zoom capability.  I was shaking so bad the first photo is a blur. The 2nd photo got what I needed.  I then called CJ.

“Two things” I start in skipping any kind of greeting. “One, have you seen my purse by chance?” Even in fear of my life, the possibly lost new Coach bag was gnawig at me.  “No why would I have seen your purse” he responds. “I don’t know. I can’t find it though. Two,” I continue changing the subject “there is a snake in the garage and it doesn’t look friendly.”  Sounding unmoved he says “oh yeah” “Yeah” “What color is it?” (In FL you learn quickly that black snakes are harmless) “It’s orange and black with a white underbelly” I spit out quite calmly if I do say so myself.  “Really” he says, still sounding a little too blase for my liking,  as if I am making a marlin out of a minnow. “I took a picture” I tell him. “Good send it to me.” So I send the picture, and call out to E again to stay in the jeep deciding now that I am going to strap her in making sure she can’t get out and try to make friends with the serpent.  “What are you taking a picture of Mommy?” “Mommmy what is it?” Just then my phone rings and I am told in a tone that indicated he wasn’t messing around to “stay away from it, get in the jeep and keep an eye on it, I am on my way home. It might be a copperhead”  Oh Shit!

The first attempt with shaky hands at full zoom didn't work.

The unwelcome guest.

Like a 911 operator he kept me on the line while he made his way home, and I sat in the safety of the jeep, snake sitting.  It was mostly inside the garage, but partly outside of the garage.  Our fear was that E who is a huge Go Diego Go fan, and thinks animals are her friends might happen upon the said serpent…. I don’t even want to discuss the magnitude of what a venomous snake bite could be on a 30 lb. child.  The snake needed to be dispatched.  STAT.  I was not the person for that job. No siree. I’m mouthy, and not one to back down from a fight, so long as it’s a verbal one.  Taking down a fat, colorful, creepy, crawly, snake…not a chance in hell.

So there I sat watching the snake, in the event it retreated, mainly back into the garage in entirety we needed to know that.  As we chatted I gave CJ clear directions on where it was. I told him that I thought it would be best if he parked in the street, I was afraid that an approaching car would spook it and it would scatter.  007 style my knight in shining armor…..I mean, husband, appears out of nowhere from behind the house wielding a shovel.  He pauses then lunges forward placing the shovel smack down just below the snake’s head and applies firm steady pressure.  It was at this point my job was done, and watching the hunter and the still squirming hunted that I was suddenly overcome with the heebie jeebies and let out a guttural “ughhhh iccccckkkk ohhhhhhmyyyyyy ewwwwww!!”

Satisfied that danger was no longer imminent I hopped out of the jeep and began to fumble with my phone to document.  No one would believe how big this was if I didn’t have proof. It was then that CJ having further inspected the intruder showed remorse. “It’s a corn snake” he sighed.  “Yeah, so?” I said. “They are not poisonous, I shouldn’t have killed it. In fact they are good to have around”  “Shouldn’t have killed it??” I yelp. “No snake is good to have around. It’s a big, fat snake!!! in our house. You’re not a snake expert, of course you should kill it, it’s a snake!!!” I ramble.  Clearly I have no esteem for the life of the reptile. With no remorse I tell him to stretch the snake that is now folded up in the shovel back out across the driveway so that I can take a picture and show people at work.  I got a look, so quickly snapped a picture before he could walk off to dispose of it in the neighboring wooded area, knowing that was the best I would get. 

This would have made a nice belt don't ya think?

The drama was over.  I still get the shivers re-living the scene of looking down to see a snake head mere inches from my calf.  I sleep with a clear conscience.  My house is not big enough for CJ, E, the snake and I.  So it wasn’t a Copperhead, and I didn’t almost die, but it needed to go, and that is a privilege that I as a human at the top of the food chain, possessor of arms and shovels gets to enjoy. Sorry snake, human trumps. 

Until Next time…..Peace Out! KP

Friday night not-so-fun

The things that we do for our kids.  This is a phrase you hear often once you join the not so exclusive Club Parenthood.  Usually upon hearing it you smirk and nod your head in agreement, and if you are anything like me you are silently asking yourself….WHY???

On a whim CJ thought it would be a great idea to partake in a fun family outing. To coin a phrase a good friend uses, it turned out to be a complete and utter ”s#it show” At 10 a.m. it seemed like a good idea when he text me;

him: I can get tickets to tonight’s hockey game, you interested?

me: sure, ya got one for E?

him; Yeah.

Me: Ok cool, that’ll be fun.

The downhill slope of a good idea gone bad began at 6pm when while still at the office, having just wrapped up what turned out to be a marathon meeting I returned to my desk to find that my phone had nearly imploded with activity, I had missed texts, missed calls, and a pile of emails.  Without even looking at any of them I picked up the phone and called CJ.  I was met with a testy “hello” I explained why I’d been MIA, and he griped that the game started in an hour and it would take me 45 minutes just to get home.  I was quick to tell him hoping it would improve his sour mood that I was actually in the office that is just a hop skip and a jump from our house so I’d be home in 10, I just needed to pack up.  He grumbled something I didn’t catch, which was probably just as well.  I raced home and pull into the driveway to see him perched on the lawnmower with E on his lap making circles around the house.  E was not dressed for an ice hockey game in a strappy sun dress and sandals, and he was still in his work clothes.  I thought he was in a rush.  Hmmph.  I run inside, change into jeans and a sweater, and run to E’s room to grab her some warm clothes.  A few minutes later in they trudge.

As we are gathering our stuff to leave, CJ turns to me and says “you got cash” “Not much” I reply. “It’s only $5 to park we’ll be fine” he says.  “Well we are going to need more than that, I skipped lunch and am starving.” As we make our way to the car I had to explain how my lunch was sitting in the fridge at the office downtown.  Being the kind soul and big spender that he is, he pulls into McDonald’s which is right before the entrance ramp onto the highway.  At that point I’d of eaten just about anything. I said a silent prayer that my stomach would not declare a civil war on my digestive tract, and inhaled the food as we made our way to the arena.  As we are getting off the exit CJ remarks how the traffic is awful light, and reaching for the tickets says “the game is tonight right?”  A quick check and yes the date was right, but the game actually started at 7:30 not 7:00.  It was 6:45.  Keeping a squirmy 3-year-old occupied and in her seat for 3 full periods and 2 intermissions is tough enough, now add 45 minutes of staring at a blank sheet of ice.  Normally at this point my filter would have malfunctioned and I would have mentioned this hiccup to CJ, but miraculously the lacks-a-filter seemed to have been in remission for the moment, and I smartly say nothing.  Must be the grease from the burgers and fries I’d just inhaled lubed up the filter, allowing it to function normally.

The team we were watching is a minor league team who is part of the ECHL.  The arena is intimate, it seats less than 10k fans.  I tell you this because killing 45 minutes is a challenge, there is not much to do or see.  We walked several laps before looking at each other and silently agreeing to head to our seats.  It was during this time that I am texting my girlfriend who is a season ticket holder and die-hard hockey fanatic.  Her daughter S and E are two weeks apart in age.  Unlike me AL left the baby’s sex a surprise, needless to say, when she had a girl I was thrilled, and we have done our best to get the girls together as often as possible.  They love each other and E refers to S as her best friend.  I had a feeling they would be in attendance, and sure enough they were.  AL however, smartly arrived with just a few minutes to spare before they dropped the puck.  Knowing where they sit, I was watching for their arrival.  Once they got there I made what in hindsight was the mistake of telling E that S was there.  Trying to direct a 3 year olds eye to a certain spot in a crowd is challenging.  Anything that was worthy of a landmark would require her ability to read, or fully grasp direction, like to the left of the Comcast sign.  After what felt like forever somehow we muddled through it and she saw S standing frantically waving at her.  Finally the buzzer buzzed the puck was dropped and the game began.  Sadly, we didn’t see much of the game.  We were involved too heavily in the game of entertain an over excited 3-year-old who wants to go see S, and asks to do so over and over and over again.  That first 20 minutes felt like 2 hours.

With a little over a minute before the intermission I caved to E’s millionth “can we go see S now” and made our way down to the concession area where we met our friends.  After 15 minutes of small talk in a high traffic area, and 2 over excited playmates I’d had enough of the annoyed glances of passerby’s who’d been unfortunate enough to step into S and E’s tag zone, and get hit head on in the thigh by E or S who had been told at least twenty times to quit chasing each other.  AL announced that there were empty seats next to her and we could sit with them.  Perfect I thought! We can watch the game, and the girls can entertain each other.

Well I was half right. Entertain each other they did.  Watch the game….. there wasn’t much of that going on. S had to go to the bathroom.  Suddenly E had to go too. So off AL marched with the girls in tow.  She returned a few minutes later with two smiley girls.  Clappers and a mini cow bell made an appearance.  E was waving it frantically with a wide grin. As she turned to say Mommy look she nearly clobbered me in the face with it.  I gently reminded her she needed to be careful.  You’d of thought the girls had ants in their pants.  It was up and down, down and up.  At one point, E got the stiff leg stance that for me is the tell-tale sign that she has to poop.  We were in big girl panties so I scooped her up and rushed her to the bathroom.  We are making progress in the pooping on the potty, but it is an event.  She is like a man.  She has to get comfortable on the top of her throne.  The pants must be around the ankles.  And she must have the use of a smart phone with access to angry birds and fruit ninja.  Without those creature comforts there is no poopage happening.  I made sure I had my phone, so we had the angry birds portion covered.  I didn’t spend too much time freaking out with the toilet paper on the seat, I have never heard of anyone dying from sitting on a dirty toilet seat.  Maybe if she licked it that would pose a problem, but sitting on one, I was willing to take my chances.  I think we were on the way to poopage when suddenly in the stall beside us arrive AL and S.  E being the nosy Nelly that she is doesn’t miss a beat, and the arrival of her pal meant the end of any potential poopage.

We wash our hands which is a production in and of itself, and back to our seats we go.  This time E informs me she is thirsty.  In an effort to avoid taking out a second mortgage to cover the cost of overpriced stadium treats I had packed several snacks in my purse.  These she had mown through in the first period.  In our haste to leave the house, I had neglected to grab the sippy cup of juice that I had filled with every intention of bringing.  Not wanting to make another trip I nodded and said we’ll get something soon.  It was only a matter of minutes and the stiff-legged pose was back, and off to the bathroom we went again.  This time I got the drink on the way back.  There was a final bathroom trip this time overseen by CJ.  When he returned he said “I’m ready to go, this is painful.” Agreeing I nodded, we said rushed goodbyes and just as the 2nd period was completed, we departed.

We exited into the parking lot full with a sea of cars.  At least we are beating the rush of the mass exodus I thought.  We headed in the direction of our car.  Only we’d headed in the wrong direction, we stood and spun several complete 360′s before debating on which direction the car was in.  CJ was jamming on the lock button of the key fob over and over and there we stood like idiots looking and listening for the tell-tale beep beep and flashing lights.  Nothing. So we walked around, CJ holding the key high in the air as if holding it up was going to improve its signal.  Still nothing.  I don’t know how long we spent walking in circles, it felt like forever. At some point I wandered with E in tow leaving CJ to look in the other direction.  We met back in the middle, still carless. I really began wondering if we were on some Punk’d or Candid Camera like show, or maybe our car had been stolen.  I had to laugh at that though, they wouldn’t steal my 7-year-old Jeep in a parking lot full of foreign luxury cars, no it wasn’t stolen and no, we weren’t on a tv show.  We were just two overworked, over tired parents who thought a spur of the moment family function would be a good thing to do.  Make memories, and expose our daughter to new life experiences.  In reality at 3 she won’t remember a minute of anything that happened.  We likely won’t forget it, not because it was an enjoyable evening that went off without a hitch, but because it was just the opposite, and I am ok with that.  Though I may ask myself why, I know the answer, because that’s what we do for our kids.  By the way the Jeep was eventually found, right where we left it. Imagine that!

Til next time……peace out! KP

Things

Everyone has habits. Some prefer to call them quirks. Often it is these quirks that define a person and make them…well them. I think that is why I have found myself seriously over analyzing my daughters disgusting and borderline bizarre behaviors.  At 3 she has no real concept of bacteria or germs.  This is exemplified by her recent obsession with nose picking.  Her fingers are almost constantly in her nose.  She declares “Boogie” raising her finger high for me to see.  This is her way of rationalizing that picking her nose is completely warranted as clearly the nasal passage was blocked, and I am absurd for suggesting that she was in the wrong for clearing it with her God-given boogie clearer in the first place.

The nose is not the only body part that she likes to pick at.  She also picks at her bum.  She will stick her hands down her pants and scratch her butt Al Bundy style, practically moaning in pleasure.  I find this especially disgusting, and usually am quick to admonish the act of bum picking.  I’m not sure when the last time you tried rationalizing with a three-year old was? but the kid has an argument for everything.  I tried explaining it was dirty. It’s not dirty mommy” she said inspecting her hands as if she’d just had a manicure.  I said” NO E, not dirty like dirt, dirty like bacteria. It is germy.” “I don’t see any germs” she snorted as if I was an idiot.  I was annoyed that I was getting no where and was arguing with a three-year old.  So in an effort to end the conversation I said, “E your bum is stinky and you shouldn’t put your fingers in it.”  I didn’t really have the patience to give that statement a whole lot of foresight, which is unfortunate, because when she then brought her fingers to her nose and inhaled deeply I couldn’t help but shriek “Nooooo grooooossss” which scared her and caused her to jump a little.  I picked her up and carried her to the bathroom where I scrubbed her hands with soap, and then used some diaper cream to hydrate the bum region hoping to keep any future bum picking at bay.

Her quirks don’t all involve body cavities.  Some are just weird.  She is a collector.  We have these mahogany trees that are in the process of shedding.  The trees bear these nuts and the shells crack open and fall to the ground.  Her preschool playground is surrounded by these trees and the edges of the playground are now lined with these shells.  She has taken to picking them up by the handfuls filling the basket of a preschool trike that you’d think had her name on it.  When we pick her up in the evening she has to empty the contents of the overfull basket into her bag and take them home.  As soon as we get home she stashes her “things” in her bedroom.  She has got them everywhere, on her bookshelves, in her drawers, in her stacking boxes, under her dresser.  These “things” have no real purpose, and she doesn’t really play with them, yet the suggestion of leaving the playground sans the shells is cause for a nuclear melt-down.  It’s not a battle I’m willing to pick so I crouch down and help empty the basket in an effort to speed up the process.

Her nightstand drawer is filled with the shells, that she calls "things"

I can’t help but wonder is this the early sign of a Hoarder?  Taking objects with no real value and stashing them.  Taking delight not in the object itself, but rather  in the possession of the object.  Then I let my mind wander and 20 minutes later I have convinced myself that she is going to grow up to be a chronic nose picking, bum scratching hoarder.  She’ll probably lead a life of loneliness and have 30 cats that she will share a 6 foot by 4 foot open space in a home piled high with mahogany shells and boogies!!

Just as I am considering googling local therapists who specialize in hoarding my eye lands on another collection.  This isn’t a collection of E’s. No this is a collection all my own.  Whenever I vacation on the rocky shores of Maine, I walk the beach with my head down scanning the rocky piles along the length of sand before me.  Anytime I find one that is heart-shaped I pick it up as if I have just found a rare gem and put it in my pocket.  When I return home I place them in a jar.  As I look at these stones I calm down and realize she is not going to become the Cat Woman, nose picking, bum scratching hoarder I have envisioned.  She’s just going to be quirky, like her mom.

A sampling of my heart shaped rock collection. The heart is in the eye of the beholder. This is what I have told my husband who gets pleasure out of picking up my latest find and critiquing the authenticity of its heart shape. Clearly he doesn't share my vision or quirks.

Til next time…Peace Out! KP

 

Balls (C-WoW)

Anyone who knows me well knows that I am competitive by nature.  This past weekend I attended the company bowling outing.  It was a casual evening where we got to mingle in rented shoes that made us all look like we had clown feet, and dine on really  bad for you, yet really tasty grub.  When the boss man assembled teams and announced there were going to be prizes the natural competitor in me came out.  Too bad this wasn’t a spelling bee I thought silently, I’d clean house! I knew before I began that the chances of my winning were about as likely as my ability to successfully perform brain surgery.  The last time I bowled I had the misfortune of throwing the ball behind me instead of down the lane. In my defense, those balls are greasy, and I lost my grip, I didn’t really throw it behind me. After far too many gutter balls I’d mentally thrown in the towel. At this point I was throwing the ball simply to not look like a poor sport, and give away the fact that internally I was pouting and would have been just as happy to quit.  It’s funny because when I gave it no real effort, suddenly I was knocking down multiple pins at a time. The last 4 frames of the night I knocked down 9 pins per frame, what is even crazier is, because time had run out and the 4 frames were all any of us would play, I ended up winning! No one was more surprised than me.  Ok so that’s not entirely true, just about everyone who’d actually watched me bowl that night was equally surprised.

My prize? 4 tickets to a Red Sox spring training game, at their brand new mini Fenway (complete with green monstah) spring training facility.  So in celebration of my win, this weeks C-WoW is going to be baseball themed. Swing! Battah! Battah! Swing!

knuckle ball

baseball  a slow pitch without spin thrown with the first knuckles, or the nails, of the middle two or three fingers pressed against the ball: also called knuckler

ex. CJ is a fan of Tim Wakefield a notable knuckler who just retired from his beloved Red Sox, I however am partial to Jim Bouton a knuckler of the 60′s who played for my New YorkYankees.

All in a days work

If I am being candid, I didn’t always have the highest esteem for Realtors.  I categorized them somewhere between a used car salesman, the kind with the greasy slicked backed hair, who wears a stained jacket and tie that is circa 1978, and whose not so smooth talking talk is as transparent as a window pane, and an ambulance chaser whose constant radio and television commercials alert you that you might be at risk for Mesothelioma and you need to pick up your phone and call them. Quick.  Before you die.

This is not a guy I want to do business with!

Then I became a Realtor and had to shift my views. The old adage, do not judge a man until you’ve walked a day in his shoes….’tis true. Sure there are a lot of slimy Realtors, but there are slimy teachers, and bankers, and doctors too.  Working on commission automatically gives the impression that they are not trustworthy, they are just trying to make a buck. Yes they are trying to make a buck, aren’t we all. They however have a reputation on the line, and a license with a strict set of standards and ethics codes attached to it. If they lose that license they risk losing it all with no unemployment to fall back on mind you.  There is also a lot more to it than showing pretty houses and sticking some signs in the yard.  A transaction of sale is a legal transaction and as such the paperwork is cumbersome, and sometimes complicated. 

I was licensed just over a year ago and have spent the last year working to build my business. It was in this process that I gained respect for those agents who have built a successful business, because I now have firsthand knowledge of how challenging it is.  Ironically as I type these words, I am sitting in my office for what is to be my last day, as tomorrow I will be embarking on a new chapter in life.  Wooed by the stability of a salaried position, with regular hours, benefits, and an enormous potential for opportunity and growth within the company, it was a fairly easy decision for me.  I will still be in the real estate industry, and still utilizing my license, but you will no longer see me stabbing signs into the earth or touring groups of people through pretty houses. 

Because I’m me, and being me seems to come with the burden of,  if it can happen it will happen to me it seems only fitting that yesterday as my time as a general Realtor was drawing to a close, I should encounter what could what will be ranked as the most awkward encounter of my tenure, maybe my life. 

I was scheduled to show a home that I have listed for sale.  I showed up 15 minutes early to open the house up, and turn on the lights.  It is customary to knock on the door, even if you think it is vacant, just in case. Since I knew that my owner was in another state working, in court all day my knock was more out of habit than consideration.  With no answer, and no sign of life on the premise I inserted my key into the lock and opened the front door completely as it was my intent to have the door wide open in welcome for my prospects. As I stepped up into the foyer I looked up and immediately took notice of the nude octogenarian man standing before me.   Yes nude, as in buck ass naked.  In a state of shock and horror I couldn’t get the door closed fast enough.  I put my key in, and re-locked it quickly with the hope that maybe he didn’t see me see him. 

I stood on the stoop for several moments attempting to collect myself, as my brain spun a mile a minute deciding what I would do next. My prospects were due to arrive very soon…….This just beyond the kitchen is the formal dining room which leads into the formal sunken living room with expansive views of the pool, don’t mind the naked geriatric he doesn’t bite, and I should note that he unfortunately doesn’t come with the house……No, I could not show a house with a naked old guy. I needed to get to the bottom of this. Just who is this man? and what is he doing here? Maybe he lives in the ‘hood and has dementia and happened upon the wrong pool.  So I did what any normal person would do, I knocked incessantly on the big brass knocker before me. After several minutes of no answer frustration began to set in, “answer the door ya old bat” I muttered to myself “I know you are there” and I also know that you have a birthmark shaped like a skull on your thigh, or was that a tattoo? Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock…finally I could hear the sounds of the door being unlocked and opened and I was greeted by a very unhappy crotchety old man now thankfully wrapped in a beach towel who barked “You took me away from my pool time, what do you want!?!?!” I want to know why you don’t wear swim trunks lets start there. Instead I stood there saying nothing. Clearly impatient he snarled looking down at me, making my 5’10″ self feel very small in his presence. “Who are you?” he barked again, Cujo like.   Finally finding my voice I learned that he was a relative of the owner and that he and his moles and skull shaped birthmark would be departing first thing in the morning. Good riddens I think, but instead smile and say “Safe travels, ’twas a pleasure.” waving my hand over my shoulder, as I made my way back to my car.

Easy Cujo, you've had 20 years to adjust to your aging body, I've only just been introduced! Though I can see why you might be a touch angry...

It is on that bizarre note that my illustrious real estate career shall come to an end.  Tomorrow it is a new chapter, one I hope is devoid of future run ins with Cujo and brass knockers.  I assume the new office has a clothing required policy, I’ve had more than enough mole and birth spot sightings than I can take to last the week, and beyond. 

Til Next time….Peace Out! KP

My bookstore pickle

You should all know that I take this C-WoW  pretty seriously.  As such, I decided that as the self-appointed Grand Pooh-Bah of the wordies unite movement that I should probably actually own a dictionary.  So off to the bookstore I marched. (Ok I drove, it’s a long walk.)  I was completely unprepared for the plethora of choices there were in the dictionary section.  There is the Oxford dictionary, that was easy to eliminate, I’m not a Brit, and I don’t need to add superfluous letters to words like color, or as the Brits write, colour.  So that narrowed it down to about 108 (American) English versions.

There is the Merriam-Websters New Edition, how can I be sure this is the newest edition though? the Merriam-Websters Collegiate Dictionary, The M-W Rhyming dictionary which could be fun but probably not a contender for this application, There is the Websters New Explorer College Dictionary, notice the absence of Merriam, did ol’ Webster and Merriam have a falling out? and what exactly does new explorer mean? are these words Webster made up in an effort to screw Merriam and sell a whole slew of new books?  There is the American Heritage dic-tion-ar-y, that must be a dictionary that places a lot of em-pha-sis on syllables, I’ll pass.  Then there was the Collins English Dictionary. Sorry Collins, I’ve never heard of you, you’re out.  There were a number of others that upon closer inspection were easy to eliminate, like the Curious George Dictionary, E would have liked that one, or the Blacks Law Dictionary, or the Smiths Bible Dictionary, The Lovers dictionary, seriously? and the Dreams from A-Z dictionary which claims to interpret your dreams and unlock their secrets, I’m lucky if I can remember to brush my teeth in the mornings, let alone remember my dreams and be so engrossed by the said dream that I’d need to reference a dictionary to unlock its secrets. 

Aside from the different editions offered there were other factors to be weighed.  Did I want a large hard covered book? There are paperbacks in multiple sizes. There are pocket editions that fit snugly into the palm of your hand and naturally in your pocket should you feel the need to never leave home without it, of course you’ll need a magnifying glass to actually read the text.  Then there is the 3 ring binder version that comes complete with holes to snugly fit into your binder, but I haven’t carried a 3 ring binder on my person since high school so that was easy to eliminate. 

Completely overwhelmed I made a choice, I went with the paperback Merriam-Webster New Edition. I had barely left the parking lot and worried that I’d made the wrong choice, perhaps I should have done my homework. After a week with the book, and some time spent leafing through its pages I’d made my decision, after a trip back to the store, and several more minutes studying the options this is what I ended up with….

Sorry Merriam, it’s nothing personal.

I exchanged the paperback for this hard covered book, complete with the little finger indents just like the one I grew up with.  I am happy with my purchase, and hope that it will aid me in providing my readers with words that will provoke your inner wordie.

Notice the finger indents. Maybe it's just a marketing ploy, but I think the indents make it superior to its rivals.

 

 

So without further delay, I chose this word because it seemed very apropos;

 

excogitate /eks kaj’ e tat’/

1. to think out carefully 

2. to contrive, devise or invent by such thought

excogitation n.   excogitative adj.

The next time I visit Barnes and Noble I will excogitate my purchase before hand.

What if?

If I walk into E’s pre-school and get odd looks from the administrators it likely won’t be because I only was able to apply make up to one eye as I was distracted by the sound of silence causing red flags to pop up as I made my way through the house attempting to locate the suspiciously quiet perp.  It probably won’t be because of the time it took for me to fish an entire roll of unrolled, now wet and soggy toilet paper out of the toilet with a wooden spoon handle upon locating the said suspiciously quiet perp that caused me to be late and run through the house buttoning my shirt and sliding my feet into two different shoes, snatching bags and making my way to the car like a pack mule with a stick of dynamite shoved in my rear…no that probably wouldn’t be the reason either.  In fact it’s likely to be because my sweet cherub told her teacher something Mommy said, only like the telephone game, by the time it was repeated to the teacher, it was so twisted it resembled nothing of the actual phrase spoken by me. 

This is not the cause of the odd looks

That was the day-mare (you know the dreams that go through your head while completely awake and conscious, and in 30 seconds you’ve envisioned an entire scene play out as though you were watching yourself in slow motion on a big projector screen) that I had last night after once again threatening my daughter.  I have yet to learn that threatening my 3-year-old doesn’t work.  Remember my cheeky post about procrastination paying and threats working?? It was B.S.  That very night E got up and climbed into my bed…twice.  That’s what I get for proclaiming victory after 3 mere nights of uninterrupted sleep.  Damn me and my big mouth!  As I was saying, last night I threatened E that I was going to lock my bedroom door so that she couldn’t get in.  Her instant reply, “you’re going to lock my door?” that was when the day-mare hit me like a Mack truck.  Imagine her going into school telling her teacher that mommy locks her in her room? KP come-on watch what you say!! In this over-cautious world where one can never be too careful they’d call DCS in to evaluate, I’d be humiliated, my asinine move would not only elicit the silent stare, but I’d get an earful too from you know who, the husband. ”Nooo E, you silly goose” I say with a little too much exaggeration, “of course I wouldn’t lock your door, that wouldn’t be nice.” I’m going to lock my door so that you can’t get into my room. That way you sleep in your big girl bed, and I sleep in my big girl bed.” I said enunciating the MY as well as I could, in clarification. ”And Daddy will sleep in his big girl bed too?” she interjects, “Uh, yeah sure, something like that.” 

As if I, as a mother don’t already have a plate full of crazy fears, now I have one more to toss on the pile.  I think I need a bigger plate!  There are so many what if’s that come with the job of motherhood.  What if my kid gets cancer? What if my kid has over active sweat glands and can’t shake people’s hands?  What if my kid becomes a druggie? What if my kid gets assaulted? or kidnapped? or is a rotten student? or like me, can’t carry a tune in a bucket and insists on trying out for American Idol and embarrasses herself on national television? What if I fail her? What if she thinks I failed her?  What if she wants to play soccer and I have to stand on the South Florida sidelines with no shade sweating and re-apply my 75 spf 15 times in the course of a game pretending to be enjoying myself when really all I am doing is wishing for some air conditioning and checking my watch every 30 seconds hoping the parental torture they call youth soccer is almost over.  What if she twists something perfectly innocent and relays it to a teacher, and CJ and I are now sitting in the administrators office feeling like high school kids who skipped class and got caught, on the defensive, trying to explain ourselves??   What if, what if, what if…….

The reality is, there is an endless supply of what if’s. If I spent every waking hour worrying about them then I wouldn’t be able to enjoy the now.  Having a few of those what if’s creep into the mind on a regular basis probably isn’t a bad thing, it keeps you sharp, aware that danger does lurk.  As long as you can bury them in the depths of your mind, and do not allow yourself to be consumed by the worry of what if’s than you need not seek the counsel of a psychiatric professional.  Of course there are a slew of other things that I could seek psychiatric help for, but then what-if he put me on meds and E got into my purse and thought they were candy? Next thing you know we’re at the ER having her stomach pumped, and I’m being questioned as to how she had access to the meds in the first place!!  Yeah…. I’ll skip the psychiatrist thank you very much.

Til Next time….Peace out! KP