Revenge is a dish best served cold.

January 2009 I lost my job. In brief, it wasn’t necessarily an amicable parting. I actually went to the website that promotes hair plugs and clicked on the “send me more info!” button and keyed in my ex-boss’s name and work address.

I chickened out and didn’t submit. There are days, many, many days, I’m still tempted.

Yeah. I’m still really angry.

So yesterday when I got a letter in the mail from my employer’s fundraising committee thanking me for my contribution (the one I gave just weeks before the untimely torching of my employment) to the new addition being constructed, and as part of that thank you, each contributing employee will have their name added to a brick and displayed on a wall in the addition. The letter gave me the option to decline, accept the offer with the name indicated, or to edit the name. You know, in case you got divorced or married or you want your full name or not full name, etc.

Sparring Partner was reading the letter over my shoulder. What are you going to do, he asked? I said, do you know how tempting it would be to return the form with my name changed to “F. U. Formremplyr”??

He then said I should blog it and see what great names you all might recommend if you were me. I’ve also ruled out “Faith Sukkit”, a dig based the company name.

Ramp those thongs up and give it your best shot: what would be a great “name” given the situation? Oh, and don’t worry, I won’t actually do it, but hearing your ideas will distract me from going to the website for the little blue pill and submitting a request for more information and a free sample.

Halo or Horns

I’m a whiner, complainer, Negative Nellie, belly-acher. I bitch, piss and moan. About everything and anything. 90% of the time, I do all of it on-line.

Let’s call it Literary Farts, shall we? Not so silent and OH so deadly.

It’s then quite fascinating to read the updates of some of my friends, whether it’s through their blog, Facebook or Twitter, who are shiny happy people. Yes, they fart shafts of sunshine. So much so, I squint.

(say SQUINT several times…it doesn’t even look or sound like a real word, does it)

So, which one are you? A Whiner or a Wonderer? A Negative Nellie or a Sunshine Sally? Why do you think you are one over the other?

No, you cannot say you’re a little of both. If you’re waffling, pick what you are today.

Latecomers

Sparring Partner and I are what some would refer to Latecomers as it applies to starting a family. He was over 35 when our oldest was born. I was over 40 with the youngest.

The situation is not all that unfamiliar to either of us since my mom was in her late 30s when she had me and Sparring Partner’s mother was 40. And while not unfamiliar, it has created a bit of fission within my husband’s family. My in-laws have great-grandchildren OLDER than Aitch, who is their youngest grandchild. Their second-to-youngest grandchild? That honor is bestowed yet again on our family as that would be Doodicus.

To put it another way, out of the 11 grandchildren, only two are under the voting age. Obviously they are our two.

Sparring Partner has a couple of siblings who seem to think that since he lives the closest to his parents that he should be at their side at a moment’s notice. They don’t understand when they come in from out of town, why we don’t want to go out to dinner every night they are here, which means getting home from work in time to put everyone back into one vehicle and getting home later that night just in time to put everyone to bed. Forget about baths or homework or laundry or cleaning up.

Just this past week Thursday we went out; Friday they all came to our house for supper; Saturday night we went out. Last night? They were going to do supper at the SIL’s home. We told them thanks, but no thanks. I’m sure that by declining the invitation, we were criticized our seeming ungratefulness.

I have to give props to Sparring Partner, who when on the receiving end of an eye-roll from one of his siblings after a similar incident, responded, “You had your turn to raise your children. It’s my turn now.” I think they forget that while he’s the youngest in the family, he most certainly isn’t their boot-scraper and going to take their shit anymore.

We both love our families, extended and otherwise, but right now our priorities lie with who we tuck into OUR beds under OUR roof. And if we feel we are being spread a bit thin in trying to make EVERY one happy, we know that while there’s other family around to take care of our parents, no one else is there except Sparring Partner and me to PARENT our children.

Set the table, please.

Well. I guess this means that as long as Aitch (My daughter’s blogname from now on. I’m sorry if you think I’m blatantly ripping off another “H”‘s nickname, but I’m not. I’ve been calling my daughter Aitch long enough now that sometimes it’s the only thing she’ll respond to.) is awake, I can’t be hiding away tap-tapping on my laptop’s keyboard.

Don’t you love how ambivalent Doodicus is to it all? “A baby crawling on the table? Where? Oh that…that goes on ALL the time around here…”

2009 034s

2009 035s

2009 036s

2009 037s

2009 038s

There are times when it really is OK to turn your back on your kid.

My husband, Sparring Partner, is an easy mark for door-to-door salesmen. Before we got married, an Electrolux salesman came to our tiny 900 sqft house, which had nothing but refinished hardwood floors, and sold him a horribly expensive canister vacuum (which we do still have as a matter of fact, and prefer to the more recently purchased Kirby – again via a door-to-door salesman).

Stick a lollie on that man’s forehead, please, and lick. When you get to the center, you’ll probably find yourself a gooey blob of a tootsie roll.

So I wasn’t surprised, albeit a bit pissed, when he bought into The Total Transformation. You know, the one that advertises with, “Are you struggling with a child who is disrespectful, obnoxious, or even abusive towards you?”

Do children actually come in other flavor but disrespectful and obnoxious once they reach a certain age?

One of the discs we got was 5 different ways to stop an argument.

First, let me interject, I’m not trying to sell you on anything, OK? Don’t click the red “X” yet.

Doodicus is a master argurer. It’s exasperating! Some of the things he says would be cute if he were still three, but now? He’s a flippin’ know-it-all. For example, he asked me this morning what time was it in China. Hell if I know, so I said that would be a good question to ask his teacher. However, he might want to look at the globe in his room for the name of a city in China since China is a large country, as big as the US, I told him.

No, he said, it’s larger.

How do you know, I ask.

I just do.

*silent screaming in my head*

Maybe you’re still thinking, that’s kinda’ cute. It’s not when this is the type of crap he pulls on us allllllll dayyyyyy.

Or how about this one. You’ll love it since it’s a return of the bath-argument.

Me: “It’s getting late, you need to get in the bath.”

Him: “I’m going to take a shower,” as he heads to our bathroom.

Me: “Dad’s in the shower, you need to use your bathroom.”

Him: “I don’t want to use my bathroom. I’ll just use your tub.”

Me: “No. You will use YOUR bathroom,” and I turned my back on him.

Him: I don’t want to! I’m going to use YOUR bathroom, not mine!”

*silence* *back still turned*

Him: “OK…I’ll use mine…*”

(*Hand to God, that’s what he said.)

See what I did there? I turned my back on him, or “escaped”, the term the CD uses. Doodicus isn’t stupid. I was clear about what he needed to do and where. I could have let him continue to drag me into an argument, and thus giving him the upper hand in it since he was clearly leading me deeper into his nonsense.

It’s a simple tip I’m sharing with you. I know some of you have your own little Caesar Doodicus on your hands. Give this a try (tell him/her what their responsibility is at that moment and walk away – escape. Do NOT re-engage!), and see what happens.

So far, it’s been one sales pitch that Sparring Partner has bought into that hasn’t bitten us squarely right on the ass. That’s not to say I don’t have a lovely story to tell you about a more recent purchase that I will hold over his head for at least the next 30 years, since it clearly has been one of his worst.

Gun Shy

(My son’s name here on out on this blog will be “Doodicus”, the second half of his nickname at home of which the first half is Maximus (actually, it should be Dudicus, but that looks like Dud- instead of Dude-.))

After last year’s encounters with Doodicus’s 1st grade teacher, we have become pretty gun-shy. “What were we going to find out THIS time…?” we would ask ourselves before the appointed time of the witch hunt. Especially fun when we hear how he shanked a girl in his class with a safety pin. Ah, the memories.

We had our first PTC this week with his 2nd grade teacher, Mrs. Pied Piper. I sat down on the tiny chair at the tiny desk , my knees snuggled into my boobs, and watched as she brought up Doodicus’s marks on her tiny laptop, and waited.

“He has shown tremendous interest in the Butterfly Project.”

“We have a veteran come in and read to the class, and Doodicus always has the best questions to ask him. You know that when the veteran goes back to the Veteran’s Home and talks about Doodicus, he’s made quite a positive impression.”

“He shares songs that he makes up on the piano with the music class.”

“He’s a wonderful singer, did you know?”

“Of all my boys, he easily has the neatest handwriting.”

She continues on, but I’m looking at the screen of the laptop. Yep, it says Doodicus right there and there’s only one Doodicus in 2nd grade. Maybe her notes got mixed up with the kid scheduled before us? Or after us? I peek at her notes: “Doodicus.”

Just then Doodicus comes in the room after playing with a couple of classmates in the commons area.

“We were just talking about you!” his teacher exclaims excitedly, “…and what a good job you are doing in participation in the class. However,…”

Oh. Heeere we go.

“…when he doesn’t like the hot lunch, he won’t eat since he doesn’t like the PB&Js we offer as an option. He once indicated he brought his own lunch when they were serving something he didn’t like, but I changed it back to a hot lunch. I’ve told him that there has to be something on the tray that he’ll eat.”

There it was. THE Bomb. My son is a picky eater.

Considering that last year we were talking expulsion, this is a bit of an improvement, wouldn’t you say?

Shelli

One (of many) reasons I decided to take up blogging again was so I can be a better blogger. No, not “better” as in improved literary skills, because that would just end up being a comical waste of not only my time, but yours; but better as in not being so self-absorbed.

In that vein, would you please make sure to stop over and see my friend Shelli over at Bag Momma to wish her a pinchless frozen donor-egg transfer coming up on Tuesday.

Every time I read about someone doing a FET, I think of meat-on-a-stick. No link, but if you know OvaGirl, you know Meat-on-a-Stick.

(Good luck, Shelli. Much love, my Lady-in-Waiting!)