Method in the Madness

I do believe that we are all in need of a little light relief from the fifth circle of HELL that is soccer tryout season. So ... remember two years ago, dear faithful readers, when my daughter made a coffee-tin Daniel Boone for a school biography project?

Here I am again with another 3rd grade masterpiece, this time from my son. Presenting (drum roll, please) Mr. William Shakespeare!

Let Rome in Tiber melt!

Is There a Doctor in the House?

In sixth grade I spent countless hours on the phone with my best friend.  I called her so many times that, to this day, I still remember her telephone number.  I also remember her cold-as-ice father answering the phone sometimes....

 "Hi Mr. Bestfriend!" I would chirp politely, "This is [Snark], may I please speak with Bestie?"

"Dr. Bestfriend," he would correct me.  He was an opthalmalogist.

Even at 11, I knew he was a ridiculous pompous ass and was kind of embarrassed for him that he was so proud of his title that he couldn't let the occasional "Mister" go.

We are currently negotiating the sale of our house.  The potential buyers just sent us, through their broker, an infuriating letter presenting and justifying their final, painfully low offer.

My husband keeps reminding me not to take it personally and I'm doing my best.  But I refuse to overlook the extreme lameness of their signing their letter "Doctors X and Y Smith."

Are you kidding me?  Assuming we proceed with this deal and it goes smoothly (fingers crossed!), it will take every ounce of self-restraint I have to make it through the closing without referencing and ripping them for that. 

All the best,

Weaselsnark, Esquire

Be Careful What You Wish For

Last post, when I was sort of complaining about having a quiet week and writer's block ... what an idiot. After posting, I went upstairs to take a shower and heard weird buzzing sounds coming from my daughter's room. I poked my heard around her door looking for the source and found 179 bees frantically making themselves at home. I know the exact number because I counted them the next day when I vaccuumed their dead corpses (are their any other kind of corpses?) off her curtains and rug. I don't know why I counted. I was just curious I guess.

But, wait, there's more! Rewind. I saw the bees, shut her door, went to take a shower, then gathered my things to make a quick drive into town to pick up bee traps and a nest-destroying chemical flame-thrower. Just as I was closing the door, I heard the phone ring. It was the school nurse to say that my son had suffered a minor concussion at school. Apparently, while standing and attempting to retain a pencil moustache on his upper lip, he leaned backwards and sat down, missing his chair, and hitting his head on the chair then the floor.

Fortunately, he was fine. In fact, when I picked him up from the nurse's station he's was flirting outrageously with a fourth grade girl. Still, a concussion is a concussion, meaning no physical activities for a week AFTER the last headache. He missed all the soccer try-outs and I had to add faxing them the dr's report to my to-do list. He missed the state-mandated hearing tests because of the the almost constant ringing in his ears.

Do bad things happen in threes? I really hope not. Maybe I can count the general state of my hair as my third giant disaster.

I will NEVER again complain about life's quiter moments.

Cut it Out

On our street there are ten kids in elementary school and each morning-- at the bus stop-- they attempt to jam two hours' worth of activities and mini-dramas into ten minutes.

I am often the only parent at the bus stop in the morning (don't get me started).  So, usually, my role is equal parts referee, town crier ("CAR!"), and volume modulator.

Yesterday morning, the kids were playing some hybrid of tag and sheer physical intimidation that had my daughter using me and our dog as cover/base.  I was talking to another parent but took a moment to point out the leash to my daughter and how she couldn't run through it.  Can you see where this is going?

Sure enough, her brother came running at her and she took off-- tripping over that same leash and hurtling herself face first (or so I feared) onto our bumpy road.

After helping her up and ascertaining that the worst of her injuries was a scraped up knee, I lit into her for not listening to me.  Didn't I just say not to run through there?  That the leash would trip you?

Nice, huh?  And I couldn't let it go.  It was like there were two of me:  the chastiser, finding 50 different ways to say "I told you so" to a crying seven year old; and the loving, soothing mom shooting the chastiser the death glare.

When I went into the school at 9:30 for a meeting, I stopped in at the nurse's office to make sure my daughter had gone in to have her cut cleaned up.  I'm fairly friendly with the nurse so, while I was there, I confessed to her my shame over my reaction at the bus stop.

To my surprise she commended me for how nice I was before yelling.  With her kids, she said, she always jumps immediately to "What were you thinking?!!!" without even stopping to brush off the dirt.

She said the yelling is the release after the fear for their safety and that it actually shows how much we really care.  It comes from love.

That's her story and I'm sticking to it.

Much Ado About Nothing

I've had writer's block for several weeks now. Nothing very extraordinary has happened is why. So seeking stimuli, I decided to get my soccer mom butt to the gym this morning but the only thing of note there was a man who grunted loudly wth every sit-up he eked out (and he eked out quite a few, I can tell you). I could hear it even through my headphones - I won't tell you what I was listening to ... oh, all right, it was James Taylor ... hey, I was winding down, ok?! It was Monica-Seles-at-Wimbledon awkward and everyone was staring at him.

So, nothing to really write about there. My soccer drama continues of course. My older daughter is trying out for a couple of different teams for next year, one of which will mean a huge family commitment in terms of traveling across state lines to games and tourneys. That's the team she most wants to join, natch. My son has tryouts for our town team this weekend and may get bumped down to team B, which will probably mean he won't want to play anymore. And Minx is on the fence about a private club vs. AYSO but do we really need a private club at age 6, and for someone who, granted LOVES soccer, but still cartwheels on the pitch during games?

I haven't even scratched the surface. There is baseball, t-ball and basketball to contend with as well as piano recitals, end of year teacher's gifts, the drama of state testing and making a coffee-can Will Shakespeare (remember Daniel Boon?).

Other than being spread too thinly and driving too much, though, I have to say that life is pretty good. Summer is most definitely in the air, laundry loads are getting lighter, I can pick flowers from my own garden and BBQ to my heart's delight. Aaaaaaaaah.

Now, if I could just figure out how to rid myself of a wasp infestation ...

Take THAT, writer's block!

Soccer Coach, Stoned

Sorry to bore you with another soccer story but such is my life right now. So, for my oldest daughter's team we carpool with 2 other families. Without going into too many details, the girls' coach is mercurial and often cruel. She trains them at the intensity of a professional team, including having them carry each other on their backs for sprints and jumping side-to-side over a cowering fellow teammate wearing cleats (yes, ouch). Every time I drive (and presumably with other parents, too), our three little girls concoct ways to kill their coach without getting caught. Sometimes, after a particularly vicious drubbing, they don't even care about serving time and just want immediate results. While cast as a big joke, their ideas are quite elaborate and absolutely cold-blooded.

What made me laugh/cringe this week was that three OTHER girls from the team arrived in THEIR carpool with their soccer shorts full of pebbles to throw at the coach if she was too mean to them! I pictured a scene from biblical times (or modern day Afghanistan?) peppered with a dash of Monty Python. She's a witch!! Stone her!!!!!

Time to shop around for a new team??? I think so.

Spell Check in Aisle Three!

Who ticked off the nuts?


Exhibiting great self-restraint (for me), I managed not to pose that question-- or any of the 15 variations on that theme bouncing around in my head-- to the checkout lady.

A Real No Know

One of my most cringe-worthy memories is from high school (natch).  I decided, mid-assembly, that the candidates running for senior class president were too clique-specific and lame and that I would be a far more universally liked and desirable choice.  Unfortunately, I didn't consider that by volunteering to run for office I would be forced to stand up and present a platform.  Right then.  On stage.

Yeah, I had nothing.  It was a rambling speech that stressed only my ability to straddle the line(s) between all the different generically Breakfast Club-like factions of our grade.  Think Sally Field's "You Like Me!" only less earnest and more deer-in-headlights.  Not quite enough to win an election.  My grade was wiser, evidently, than the "who would you rather have a beer with?" population of America: they chose the smartest kid with the best ideas (even though he was a founding member of the Existentialist Club.  I am not making that up.  Yes, it was private school.).  Imagine that!

My political career may have been short-lived but it was honest: I did get along with most of my senior class (minus one obligatory blood-feud-of-forgotten-seventh-grade-origin frenemy). There was, however, one girl who drove me insane.  She was a super-eager, sugary sweet hanger-on who was desperate to be popular.  She laughed too much.  She talked too much.  She inserted herself (inanely) into conversations.  And, while I tried to tolerate her, one day she pushed me over the edge.

We were all just hanging out during a free period or after lunch or something and she was blabbering on about some nonsense when she said (to me):  "Omigod, I was so crazy this morning that I ran out of the house with two different color socks on.  I felt like you!  Isn't that such a you thing to do?!"

Record scratch.  What???  I was no Rachel Zoe back then (still not).  But I had never, would never leave the house with two different color socks on.  By accident or on purpose.  I wasn't wacky or zany or absent-minded or anything like that.

Coming from anyone else I probably would have just let it roll off of me but, man, I tore that poor girl apart.......

Flash-forward to yesterday morning.  Standing at the bus stop, I realized that I had forgotten to write a "bus note" for my son to go home with a friend after school.  I quickly borrowed a pen from one boy and found a scrap of paper in my son's bag to scribble on.

A fourth grade neighbor girl said (to me): "You always forget to write your notes for school."

Simultaneous record scratch and flashback.  What???  This was, I think, the absolute first time I had ever forgotten to write a note.  And for sure it was the first time I had ever written one at the bus stop.

I reined in my inner, indignant 17 year old and calmly told the little girl that, in fact, she was mistaken.

And that she must have me confused with her mother.  

Girls Will Be Boys

Overheard in my car on the way down to U11 soccer practice:

Girl 1: I like your shorts!

Girl 2: Thanks! I got them from the Boys' department. In fact, I get all my clothes from the Boys' department.

Girl 1: Me too! My mom says I should at least set foot in the Girls' section at Target so I literally put one foot in the Girls' section than head straight over to Boys'.

My daughter: I hate girl clothes.

Girl 2: I don't have ANY girl clothes.

Girl 1: Me neither ... Oh yes I do!!! My soccer uniform!!!!!

All: (hysterical laughter)

Me: (note to self: marketing opportunity in boy-fit girls' clothes)

Yum(my) Mum(my)

Easily the best effort-to-outcome ratio to date.  Happy spring!