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!