Culinary Artist

A long while ago I had had a conversation about "what I wanted to be when I grew up" with Farrah.  I told her I'd wanted to be a Flight Attendant and it's a good thing that didn't work out since I'm afraid of flying now.  Back when I had this conversation, Farrah told me she wanted to be a chef (I'd never told her that was what I went to school for) and a singer.  She said, "But mom, what if I don't get to be a chef or a singer?!!"  No worries, I told her.  I explained that I went to school to be a chef and "look at me now!"  This didn't  make her feel very good at all but she did say, "I want to go to the chef school you went to!"
No.
And I proceeded to tell her a story...

My Chef instructor was, well, a douche bag.  Mind you, I revised my story to tell to a child.  Continuing...
Picture Chef Ramsey, but 6' 6" tall with grey hair and a grey goatee and a tall Chef's hat making him a straight 7' tall.  And me?  I was 18 years old and 5' 4" in a man's (if you can believe it) industry.

Anyway, the importance of the two stories here is one was my first time swearing at an "adult" or someone older than me, and once when I stuck up for myself.  They were VERY important moments in my life that helped mold me into a person that can, when needed, stick up for themselves when necessary.  But also, I am a pro at swearing now.

One day, I was responsible for the "Sauce Station" with the rest of my crew.  There were 4 of us (The 'A Team').  We named ourselves...because we'd get As.  So, I was working my station and Chef came up and saw that I didn't have the right size pot to boil water.  I'd gone through several and it was the only one I could find.  He started shouting at me, telling me how dumb I was, swearing, screaming, and finally throwing the pot across the room.  My face was red.  But not red with embarrassment. I was shaking mad.
He finally said, "I think you and I need to step outside."
"I agree."
We stepped out in the hall and he asked me if there was something that I wanted to say to him.  The whole time I was standing out there I didn't realize I was punching my fist into my palm.  Hard.  Finally, I said, "You're such a...you're such a... YOU'RE SUCH A FUCKING ASSHOLE!!!"  I couldn't believe what I'd said.  I had been raised to "respect your elders" even if the person was only a month older than you.  Surely this guy was going to go find a pot and break my skull open with it!  Instead, he laughed.  I think he was testing if I could take his shit.  I could.  To a point.  I was still a pretty sensitive girl.

My final run in with him was my final year.  I had dealt with his verbal abuse and constant outbursts for almost 2 years and survived.  Mind you, they weren't all toward me.  They were toward everyone.  I'd even tell him when he was watching over my shoulder to go away because I couldn't work with someone hovering.  He asked how he was supposed to know I was doing it right, and I told him he'd find out when my product was finished and perfect like always.  It worked and he'd walk away.
But there was a time that it went too far.  We had been preparing for a holiday banquet and so the whole class of 30 students had been busy for weeks.  Well, Chef came up to me one day and told me he had failed me in a rotation.  A rotation is 2 weeks long and the same price as a typical quarter class.  It was because I had spaced turning in paperwork.  I had spaced it to prepare for the stupid banquet.  But an "F" for me was like someone shot my dog...and my whole family.  I'd received all As until this moment.  And I didn't have an extra $450 to take the class again THE NEXT YEAR!!!

I panicked and started to cry.  That's what I do when I freak out.  I cry.  It was uncontrollable crying and I was pretty sure I was heading home for the day and screw whatever I was responsible for in the kitchen.  I went out and called my dad on the school pay phone (no cell phones yet), so people could see me crying.  It was humiliating because not only was I crying (more like sobbing with difficulty breathing followed by hiccups), but I was dressed in my whites (chef clothes with my stupid hat - there's just no way of making that entire mess to look remotely attractive or cute.  Not a hot mess….just a mess.).  I spoke to my dad about what had happened and he asked if I wanted him to come over to my school and deal with it.  I KNEW if dad came there, he WOULD take care of it and I'd come out smelling like roses, but I actually refused his assistance.  I wanted and needed to do this on my own.  I was 19 now, and it was time for me to start behaving like someone who was getting ready to graduate and enter the real world.

I took a couple deep breaths and my friends from class had asked me if I was okay and if I needed a ride home and all that crap.  Nope.  I just needed a moment alone with Chef.  I pulled myself together, checked the mirror to make sure I didn't have a bright red nose and glossy eyes or any aftershocks that I'd always get after a hard cry.  No, I was in perfect condition to confront this situation head on.  I walked into his office and asked to have a private word with him with a smug look on my face.  He said okay and I closed the door which wasn't what he'd expected, but I wasn't planning on being an asshole in front of any passer-byers.  I've never forgotten what I said:

"Let's get something straight.  YOU work for ME.  Not the other way around.  I pay YOUR salary!  This is NOT the god damn military and you can treat me with some fucking respect because I've always treated you with it.  Also, this is a community college, not a university.  You have 30 students, not 300.  So, you can get off your ass the moment you notice that I've fucked up and tell me because you KNOW I will take care of it, instead of waiting 3 weeks after the fact when there is absolutely nothing I can do about it.  You need to do something to help make this right!"  At this time, his face was now red and he was shaking in anger.  I knew I had him by the balls whether I had to do the rotation over again or not.  The fact was, I had just said to him what every student had always said under their breath or amongst each other at lunch.  I made a mental note that there was a bottle of blood pressure medicine on his desk and as I walked out and closed the door behind me, I hoped I didn't just give the man a heart attack.

Well, I packed up my stuff and made an excellent exit, headed home and prayed I hadn't just made it so my year and a half spent working my ass off just got it kicked out of the program.  I showed up the next day and all seemed normal until we were all sent off to our stations and he pulled me aside.  He told me I could double up on my rotation in one rotation, but the highest grade he was allowed to give me was a C.  I doubled up on my rotation and aced them both, but one had to be a C.  Fine with me because I didn't have to pay the extra $450.

Fast forward 10 years...

I had contacted the college to ask them about my certificate of completion or diploma because I'd never received one.  It just wasn't that type of school.  I wanted something to frame and hang in my kitchen.  Why?  Because I'd earned the damn thing.  The lady on the phone said, "Oh, we don't have anything to give you because we show there was one rotation that still needed to be completed."  WHAT?  And which rotation wasn't completed?  The one I bitched about and received a C that was never recorded.

Touche Chef B.  Touche.

P.S.  Leaving out his full name because people would know who he is because it's an usual name.  Also, he'd known he won.
He can never know.

My Immaturity Knows No Limits

The other night I went out with James, Farrah, and my parents to Leavenworth for dinner to celebrate my birthday.  We went to one of the very nice restaurants that serves amazing authentic German cuisine in a lovely atmosphere.  Candles were lit at every table, Mozart was playing in the background, and everyone was dressed nice.  Cocktails were ordered, presents were opened, and we were enjoying fun conversations about mine and James's upcoming trip to Cabo.

And while my father discussed golfing at the golf course next to our hotel with James, the speaker playing the music above us went suddenly quiet and then made a fairly loud scratch noise.

That's when the one thing that I found completely appropriate to say in this beautiful restaurant around strangers and my family was, "Excuse me."

While yes, I received a slight chuckle from my boyfriend and father, my mother laughed a little and then gave me a fake scolding…it was my 9 year old daughter's reaction and my own that was the best.  Farrah laughed.  I, on the other hand, lost my shit.  Mind you, I did this silently but uncontrollably.  I was laughing so hard and so quietly, I couldn't breathe and I started to cry.  And no one seemed to notice!!  Farrah left her seat to come stand next to me and she wanted to be sure we were in fact laughing at the same thing.  All I managed to get out was, "Oh my god.  I'm so funny." and continued my silent hysterics.

Farrah informed me that when I said, "Excuse me." a man at the other table looked up at me and laughed to himself.  This made me laugh harder.  The best part?  No one knew I was losing my mind laughing so hard.  How did I manage to hide it?  Why did I think it was so freaking funny?  I honestly believe it's because it was so out of place and unexpected that something like that would be said in a place like that but seriously, at the absolute perfect moment…I couldn't pass up the opportunity.  Even if it really was only for my pure entertainment and enjoyment.

Because I really thought I was the funniest person alive in that moment. It's true.

Funny Things Happen At My Work

I work with the elderly.  I love this job and I have fun with it every single day.  But the best part, besides the fact that I have 100 grandparents…are the stories I get to walk away with from time to time.

You might think the stories I would come across would be those that are shared by the fascinating individuals I have the privilege to work with every single day…but no.  Those who know me well, know that it's not in my nature to simply look at all the "normal" good things in the people around me, but rather all the funny things.  Little by little, I'll share some stories of what I encounter.

But yesterday was one of my favorites…

There is an old man that doesn't "live" in this community, but he lives OFF of the community.  Eating our food, staying all day and night, bumping into our walls while driving his wife's electric scooter that she needs but he's always using.  He also loves the ladies…not just his wife…but ALL the ladies he encounters.  I don't care about his personal life and the fact that his wife also doesn't care, but I don't like that he hits on every single old lady in the place (including one a week after her husband's death).
The thing is, this man is very, very, very old. Do you remember the movie Poltergeist 2?  Remember the actor that scared the shit out of you?  Well, um, that dude is at my work!!

Let's call this man "Kane" (you, know…like in Poltergeist 2).  Kane rolled into my boss's office in his wife's scooter yesterday to talk about some white noise, until she just interrupted him and said, "You know, Kane? It's time we get you in here and classify you as a resident because the state basically says you are and you can't just keep on coming in here and saying you're visiting your wife when you're actually living here.  By law, we have to have you pay for your stay and put you in our system."  Kane's best way of getting out of being put on the spot was to say, "Well, I guess I'll get my information together for you tomorrow." and proceeded to make his exit.  Badly.

You know when someone says something to you and your response is, "Pshh. Whatever."  That was what he was saying.  But when we say it, we usually walk off with an exit that leaves the person who we left behind bewildered and a little dumbfounded.  

Kane left us bewildered, that's for sure.

He started to back up with the scooter and bumped into the wall.  Went forward and bumped into a chair.  Back to the wall.  To the desk.  Then the door.  This whole time, mind you, we aren't a bunch of assholes just watching and letting it happen…we were moving things and telling him, "Oops! Almost, Kane." But we needed to allow him the dignity to leave on his own terms, however that ended up happening.  So just ease up on thinking how evil we are…you don't know.  Did you see that picture?  Yeah…Kane from Poltergeist, okay?  

Also, the reason this was funny to me when it all went down and still is when I type this is because there was another movie that came to mind.  "Austin Powers:  International Man of Mystery".  Remember the scene when Austin Powers was in the Underground Layer and he's in that cart stuck in the hall and trying to turn around and went one inch at a time back and forth?  Yeah…that's pretty much what was happening with Kane.  All the way down to him switching the button over to reverse, back to forward, back to reverse again.  Over and over and over. 

Again, those who know me and who don't even need to know me all that well…know I am not an asshole.  But shit like this makes me laugh and makes my day.  We watched him struggle to get out and we tried to do more, but he was having his quiet temper tantrum about not getting to mooch off of every person who lives and works there…so we let him make his awkward exit.

Don't feel bad.  This will probably be said to us when we go back into work next week:

'Tis the Season…To Be Awful (or Awesome, Depending On Who You Ask)

I know I've written about this before, so if you're thinking, "Ugh, I already know this story!" you're just going to have to read it again.  Deal?  Good.

Every family has their traditions when it comes to the holidays and mine is no exception.  While I live far from my hometown now, those traditions have become a little more difficult to follow through with but I will never give any of them up completely because they are important and dear to my heart.

Mom loves Christmas.  I mean, she is ALL about Christmas and don't you dare leave out the "Christ".  She decorates with only about 100 candles, wreathes, garland, lights everywhere, one unbreakable Nativity scene so kids can play with the "dolls", mistletoe, angels, and of course the biggest and most beautiful tree.  Mind you, it never looks tacky.  Somehow she manages to maintain some mad skills when it comes to decorating with a whole lot of weird stuff to make it look nice.  (Does anyone else have a three piece wooden train set with mice in it?)
Mom loves Christmas music.  She plays every kind of Christmas music she can get her hands on and a lot of times it is weird music we've never heard of before.  It has never been some of the quirky Christmas music that you hear on the radio, but always singers that want to praaaaaaaise Jesus!

It all began when my mom had horrible back issues when I was in my teens.  She was physically unable to do a lot of things without our help or dad's.  But when dad was up north working on the slope in Prudhoe Bay, AK…all matters that required help reaching things or getting up on ladders were left to me and my brothers.

Well, being that my brothers and I are assholes, we took advantage of mom's misfortune to our hilarious benefit.  (Don't worry, she had fun with it too…after all, she raised us so in the end it's all her fault anyway.)

Our traditions had always landed on one day…the tree decorating day.  It had always started by making a batch of Tom and Jerrys (and yes, ours had a dash of alcohol in them...don't judge), pulling out about 10 boxes of decorations, turning on Roger Whittaker's Christmas (Never heard of it? Neither had we.), and putting up that giant xmas tree that almost always reached the very high ceiling.

Our number one goal for our Christmas tradition was to irritate and almost upset mom.  And we are a family of achievers so you bet your ass we succeeded every year.  We'd have our hot drinks and start the music and everything would start off so innocently…setting up decorations here and there throughout the house, humming along to the weird music, taking out the ugly ornaments we made as children and confirming with mom that they needed to be in the back of the tree where no one could see our shitty art we made for her and dad out of love, stuff like that.

But then…we'd start singing along rather than sweetly humming.  We'd sing off key on purpose or we'd try to match his very deep baritone voice and it was especially awesome that my little brother could actually pull it off, but it was disturbing when I'd try.  We'd change the lyrics or emphasize the odd language that was being used in Roger's music and start talking about how weird it was.  We pulled out the CD case and talked about the the cover used on the album and how real the snow looked.

I mean, it's awesome.

All the while, mom was usually saying, "Guys! C'mon. Stop it! You guys, knock it off.  Don't ruin it."  Which was always, of course, followed with one of us saying something along the lines of, "Yeah, Kathy. Stop it!  You're ruining Christmas. You're going to upset baby Jesus."  And we'd all start laughing…and we never did stop it.  Again, the goal was to upset mom…not Jesus.

Decorating the tree was a big deal.  We had ornaments that belonged to all of us kids from over the years, ornaments that my mom had from growing up, ornaments my parents had together throughout their marriage, and ones that were from family members that had died long ago and were over 100 years old.  

One by one, we'd hang the ornaments and the tree would start becoming this beautiful piece of art.  Mom loved this.  But then when we noticed that things were getting a little too normal and how happy she was with all the hard work we were doing, we'd have to change that.  We all had our tasks to begin the awfulness which started with taking our hideous ornaments from when we were in preschool and elementary school and bringing them directly to the front where EVERYONE would see our proud work.  Mom wouldn't notice this at first, but when she did we would hear her exhale in slight frustration and start to try putting them towards the back (as if we didn't know what she was doing).  The other assignment one of us had was to put about 10 ornaments on one branch, being sure the branch was barely hanging on and maybe shaking just a little from all the weight.  It had to be bowed over completely and right out in front.  Our hard work had to be where all eyes could see what we had done.

It was usually that branch that mom would notice and finally realize what was happening…and that's when we began our really awful behavior and when she was probably ready to sign any documentation she needed to emancipate each of us.

Mom would again try to tell us (unsuccessfully, of course) to quit it and put everything back the way it was.  We'd play along while singing horribly with Roger and look as if we were fixing it.  But what was really happening was we were now using the ladder to hang ornaments.  See, with mom's bad back, she couldn't and wouldn't get on the ladder.  Yeah.  My brothers and I have a oneway coach ticket to go straight to hell for this.

Steve was usually on the ladder while Jeff and I would hand him the pile of ornaments that were stacked on one branch for him to put up on a branch that she couldn't reach.  We'd also hand him our crappy paper ornaments with crayon scribbles, our school photos, and handmade salt dough ornaments painted exactly to look like a 4 year old did it, right where all the gorgeous crystals, blown glass, and expensive ornaments were supposed to be.  She'd laugh and holler out at all of us to stop it.  We didn't. We continued and we made it worse (or better).  There was a Santa that would go on the tree, but we never really figured out how he was supposed to be placed as he didn't have a hoop to hang from.  But we were a pretty smart group and managed to make it work…for our benefit.

Santa's boner.  Merry Christmas!

We had an angel that had big beautiful wings that lit up and she was incredible.  But it wasn't until we took the elf from Elf on the Shelf, and stuck his head up her dress and his hands down between his legs to really make Christmas amazing.  Blasphemy, I know.

Sometimes, we'd hang weird shit up on the tree, like mom's slippers or a dollar bill.  One or two of the dog's toys ended up there and we knew the dangers that went with that, but it was worth it.  The cat loved batting at the ornaments, so we made sure the very noisy bell was right where she could get at it.

Did we ruin Christmas for mom?  Maybe for a minute, but in the end she had a good laugh with us because she was a good sport.  But I do have to say now that she has a good back again and dad is retired…it just isn't the same.  Now, she has dad fix it.  What?  What was there and is there ever to fix?  We made it perfect.  So, now that we're adults and have helped decorate the tree the same way as it should be decorated…we come back on Christmas and it's ruined.  Dad or mom, will make sure the one branch that is dying because of the weight from 20 glass balls is back to its perky self with ONE ball.  Pshh.  The ugly ornaments aren't even on the tree, and her slippers are on her feet.  I call bullshit when I see that. The worst is she puts a star on top of the tree so the perverted elf can't do its thing.  

But here's the thing…my brothers are the same and will never change that part of us.  Come this Christmas, you bet we'll be listening to Roger Wittaker, singing loudly and horribly, changing the ornaments when neither parent is looking, and laughing the whole time.  And now that we're older, we'll yell at mom if she tries to change it and tell her she's ruining Christmas.  I can't wait!

I Wrote a Book

For the most part, I know everyone already knows this…but for those who weren't aware, yes I did!  I wrote a book on accident, actually.  I get asked all the time what made me decide to do it and honestly, I really had zero intentions of it getting this far.

Back in 2012, when life decided to deliver a flaming paper bag of shit on my doorstep on a daily basis, I tried to find a way to stop stomping on it to extinguish it but rather find a way to let that damn thing burn out on its own.
I wrote every day.  I found things that were funny around me and made fun of whatever I discovered and most of the time, it was me making fun of myself on this site.  You're welcome.

But how it happened, was a little like this…

I woke up from a dream and a 10 second portion of it stood out in my mind and wouldn't go away.  It was so vivid.  In my dream, a group of 4 of us were trying to run away from something scary.  We were in a dark and creepy cemetery that looked like one you'd find in New Orleans.  We couldn't escape and somehow I had the "means" to get us out.  I sat up in bed with the idea going over and over in my mind thinking, "Oh my god, that would be so cool if someone could do that."
At that point, I was still working at the gyms and Fuzion and doing what I could from Wenatchee…but I couldn't get the thought out of my head.

So, since it sounded like a book I'd like to read, I started to write it.

I wrote like a crazy person, typing every day.  I wrote a minimum of 1,000 words a day.  God, looking back I know it was significantly more than that.  I typed so fast as the story poured out of me.  I had no idea what was going to happen with the story, no idea who the characters were, who the antagonist was going to be, and if there was even a plot to the story!  I just wanted what I saw in my dream to happen to a character.  From there, my monster of an idea turned into a very loooooong story.

During that time, I was also pretty lonely.  I didn't have the kind of sex life I wanted and so I wrote about one I hoped to have…passionate, wild, and fun!  I often get asked if my book is like "Fifty Shades of Gray".  Umm, hell no.  A lot of those sex scenes seemed like they were cut and pasted together and that's simply not me at all.  Mine were detailed and graphic and exciting.  In fact, I had to clean them up a bit because I had to remind myself that I wasn't writing for Penthouse Forum.  (Hey, maybe I'll redistribute the book later with the unedited version for all you perverts!  Thanks for the idea, Rob.  Brilliant.)

Over time, my story started to have a life of its own.  Things happened that I didn't see coming.  Characters arrived that I'd had no intention to meet.  And maybe I killed a character I hadn't meant to kill…or maybe I let that one live.  There was no plan.

The weirdest part of this writing experience was how things that I wrote about started to actually happen.  I had been driving down one of the main streets in Wenatchee when I saw a guy who looked JUST like one of my characters!  It freaked me out.  I'd never seen this man before in my life, and low and behold he existed.  And out here, of all places!  A couple months later, I met a man who I spent time with and the way we got to know each other almost mirrored what had happened in my book.  Two characters in the story got to know each other the same way.  It hadn't hit me until months later when I read through it and discovered how weirdly similar the whole thing was.  Super bizarre.

Anyway, I wrote and wrote and people kept asking if I was going to publish it.  No.  Who would buy this crap?  I mean, it was a great story, but who the hell am I to even pretend that what I'd written was good enough for others to read from beginning to end?  I'd let some people read parts here and there and I would be told it's good.  The story is fun.  The sex scenes were really hot.  There are parts that were funny enough that made them laugh.  Good right?  Still, my lack of confidence got in the way…besides that, I wrote it for me.  It was my therapy.  I needed a pretend world to escape in, a pretend love life to to live vicariously through, and simply allow my imagination to reawaken after being dormant for so long because of the type of life I had been living for so long.  But enough people encouraged me to take it to the next level.  Okay.

I went to the local Writer's Conference and learned some things and then met with an editor and a publisher.  I was doomed with the editor because he specialized in non-fiction.  He did read my blog later and enjoyed it, but he didn't know how he could spin it to sell it.  No biggie because, duh, just come here to read it and it's free!  But I was also doomed when I met with the publisher.  I was the last one for the whole weekend to meet with her and she was half asleep and bored before I even walked in.  I was nervous as hell and felt like I needed to blow her away with my amazing story about witches and sex and blah, blah, blah.  As I explained my story, I started to hate it because I had no idea what the hell I was doing.  Also, it didn't help that I think she hated me as soon as she saw me.  It was a no-go.  However, she gave me pointers that I took into consideration later.
After that, I kept working on my story because I did love it and wanted to continue to be in that world.  The next year they had the conference, I went in with a very different approach.  I decided I didn't think I wanted to publish it.  I'd still go in and talk to the different publisher and pitch it to her, but then wouldn't care if she wasn't interested…again, this was my story and it was for me and I honestly didn't think my style of writing was all that great.
When I sat down with Jennifer, I told her about my story and my attitude was more carefree and blasé…when I finished, she was giddy.  "You just described my absolute favorite genres!!  I LOVE books like this, they're fun, they're sexy, and they are very marketable!  Here's my card…get in touch with me this week and I want you to send me the first 50 pages of your manuscript!"

Um, what?  I'd even warned her about my style of writing not being eloquent and she preferred that.  Huh??  So, now the REAL pressure was on.  I didn't plan for that.  That meant someone out there that I didn't know was going to read my crap and then I'd have to hear that it sucked and they'd made an unfortunate mistake and to please burn those first 50 pages of the manuscript and to do myself and the world a favor and never write another word again.  That didn't happen, though.  I received an email that said they enjoyed the story and looked forward to the rest.  Also, in that email was a contract for me to work with them on this book along with a W-9 for payment when that time came.
It may not be a "major" publishing company, but this was my first book ever.  How cool, right?

So, here I am a long time later, because to be perfectly honest, I had about 100,000 words to get rid of.  Crazy!  Remember, though, I wrote this for myself and just let the words fall onto the screen day in and day out.  I cleaned it up, sent it to my editor, she cleaned it up more, I cleaned it up more with her, my book designer did his thing, my proofreader worked on the finer details, and my book manager read it and loved it.  I wrote a book.  I WROTE A BOOK!!!  And the best part?  I finished it.  And now I'm working on book two and writing better than I did in the first one.  I can't wait to see where this one takes me and my characters.  But look at this…I'm all legit, now!

If I sell 5 copies, I'll be so happy…but I just might sell more.  So rad.

New Beginnings...

Yes, yes, I know it has been quite a while since I last blogged and I'm sorry about that.  But honestly, there hasn't been a whole lot to write about because I've been writing everywhere else, it seems.  Plus, the job I had was killing the creative side of me slowly within the surrounding gray confining walls of a stifling cubicle.

Since that no longer exists for me…I'll write about something that happened yesterday.

Farrah is starting the 3rd grade next week!  Not only that, she is starting at a new school.  Kenroy Elementary!  The private school she has been attending for so long decided to shut down the program for older kids making it so she would have to join the forces of normalcy with the rest of the kids in the community.  I had worked hard with the district office to have her choiced into a better school than what she attended in the first grade down the street from us.  After finally being accepted in and being given the name of her new teacher, we decided to drive over to her school and walk around so she could get a good feel for where she will be going and where things are, like the playground, the cafeteria, and the office.

When we arrived, we were floored with how big her elementary school was!!  The entrance was huge with big windows, but we didn't go in.

We walked around the perfectly manicured school and admired the play fields she would get to play on when it was time for recess.  We looked in the windows and saw inside a couple of the classrooms and agreed they looked very nice.  We also saw lockers and I had to question if we were actually at an elementary school because I didn't have a locker until Junior High.

I thought, no way.  But the area we live in has been growing rapidly, so what did I know?  I looked in another classroom to be sure I was in an elementary school still and I saw a whole board that talked abut 5th grade math and science. Yep!  This was definitely her school!  Wow!!!  We kept on walking and found that there was a large outdoor courtyard where she would get to have lunch on the nice days.

Farrah was absolutely beside herself with excitement!!!  She said, "Mom, if I knew this was the school I'd get to go to in the second grade, I would've wanted to come here last year!"  I was really pleased with the decision I'd made to choose this elementary school over some of the others.  It really was beautiful…

Until we decided to try going inside the main entrance of the school.

"WELCOME TO STERLING!!" the sign read leading to the endless hall of lockers.

Sterling?

What's that?  Where the hell were we?  This isn't Kenroy?  What the hell was going on?

Omg.

We were at the wrong school that whole time.  I was taking pictures of her in front of a school she wouldn't be attending and sending them to people!

We were in front of Kenroy park and Farrah said maybe Kenroy elementary was on the back side of the park.  I looked it up on my phone, drove one block up the hill, and BAM!  There it was…on the other side of the park.

We did the tour once again, except we made sure it was the right school before taking a bunch of pictures.

Umm…oops?

Failing at Parenting

As parents, we try to shelter our little ones from the ugliness of the world by making sure we don't share what's on the news, we don't expose them to the hardships that we might be personally experiencing, and we filter what we say by leaving out the colorful adjectives and adverbs that aid in decorating our vocabulary.

Did I say, "we"?

Yeah.

I've found that I have a seven year old that might be a little more "worldly" than others. 

I teach her about some of the world's problems (past, present, and future) so she can decide for herself how to help the world...like Mother Teresa.  Or dominate it...like Hitler.

I do my best to keep her from knowing what hard times I have going on around me.  I don't tell her when I might only have $20 to my name...except for that one time.  I couldn't help it!  I was super stressed about it.  But usually she doesn't know because I don't want her to scold me about it.  That's really embarrassing.

And then there's the foul language that I seriously don't want her to hear.  I appreciate the networks on TV that have good shows with censored language.  I want her to watch something that might be interesting but I don't need her hearing the bad words that might be said.  However, when the words get "bleeped", she's smart enough to fill in her own choice of words.  That would be MY doing, thank you very much.

This morning's example:

Farrah:  Mom!!  There's a spider on the wall!
Me:  Oh, that Bastard!  I thought he was living under the garbage can.  Ugh!  He escaped.
(She leaves and then comes back)
Farrah:  Hey! Bastard is gone...I can't see him.
Me:  What did you just say?  Did you just say, "Bastard"?
Farrah:  Yeah, that's what you named him, right?

One ticket to hell, please!  Oh, and might as well get me an extra because my daughter wants to follow me wherever I go!

Famous Last Words...

What is the age that forgetfulness kicks in?  I suppose it's fair to say we would all assume it hits us in the golden years of our life.  That's the time when we've lived out some of the best times and the worst times and built memories on top of memories that, unfortunately, wind up getting shuffled around in our minds until bits and pieces get lost and closed up in a little hiding spot either temporarily or forever. 

So, what's the excuse for a 7 year old?

For the past couple months, I've wondered if I need to take Farrah in to see a specialist about a possible early onset of Alzheimer's.  The reason?  Her answer to everything is, "I forgot."  I believe I hear her say this at least 3 times a day, every day. 

Me:  Did you brush your hair this morning?
Farrah:  I forgot.
Me:  Did you grab your shoes for P.E.?
Farrah:  I forgot.
Me:  Did you eat your breakfast?
Farrah:  I forgot.

Do you see the pattern?  Yeah, pretty predictable at this point. 

Dealing with this on a daily basis is starting to drive me bananas and I've now started to call her "Forgetful Farrah" which she HATES!  However, it's been explained to her that I will changed her name if she changes her ways, until then...the name stays.

There was one thing she forgot that sent me over the edge of reasonability.  Her routine in the morning is pretty basic:  Brush teeth, shower, get dressed, make bed, feed the dog, pull together school work and backpack, put together a lunch (I make the sandwich if she can't). 
So, I asked her all the questions confirming that she had completed all of these tasks and I received a proud, "YES!" from her.
Off to school we went.
When we arrived, I was helping her grab her things and when I grabbed her lunch box (which she almost forgot), the weight of it was significantly lighter than I'd expected.
Me:  Ummmm...why is this so light?  You said you packed a lunch!
Farrah:  I did!

I opened it.

Me:  OH MY GOD!!! WHAT THE HELL AM I LOOKING AT?!!!
Farrah:  Ham.
Me:  Where's the rest of your lunch?!
Farrah:  I wasn't very hungry and I forgot to add anything.  But, mom, there's three slices!!
Me:  Are you kidding me??  Do you know how horrible this is?  Not only are you going to starve, but you will have succeeded in making me look like the worst mother in the world.  Grrrrrreat.

With steam coming out of my ears and fire shooting out of my eyeballs, I sent my forgetful child off to school telling her to inform her teacher that SHE packed her own lunch and I was now heading to the store to pick her up something so she wouldn't die.  Before she got too far away from my car, I'd asked her a question...
Me:  Hey, did you eat the granola bar this morning for breakfast?
Farrah:  No...I forgot.

GAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

And when we got home later that day, and I asked her to empty any trash from her lunch box and asked if she had anything left over she said she did.  Ham.  I had to ask her why after the big fiasco over her weird lunch, she didn't eat her ham...

Farrah:  I forgot.

I'm the Grossest Person I Know...

That is a very true statement as of last night.  While there are plenty of people that have grossed me out beyond words, I topped them all when I went to bed Wednesday night after dropping my daughter off with my parents for summer vacation.
I had gone through my nightly ritual of getting ready for bed and started pulling together what I felt like watching on TV to put me to sleep.  However, sometimes I have a bad habit of getting hungry right before bed...I know, this is terrible for my metabolism.  Don't worry.  I learned my lesson the hard way.

I went to the kitchen to look through the cupboards and nothing sounded good to me.  I even went upstairs to see if Farrah had accidentally left her zip-locked baggie full of deliciousness in her room (that I always tell her to NOT leave in her room because I don't want ants in the house), but she had either finished it or actually put it away like I told her.  Defeated with no snack, I drug my ass back to my room only to find a bag of Lay's potato chips carefully rolled up and with a chip-clip on it, keeping it sealed.  Jack pot!!  This isn't a normal thing to discover in my room...clothes on the floor, perhaps.  But a delicious just-what-I-wanted bag of chips?  No.  I turned on my lamp, off the main light, got all cozy in my bed in my blankets and eagerly grabbed the bag of chips and unclipped and unrolled it as I began to watch Game of Thrones for the hundredth time.  And, boo...they were stale.  Ugh!  Just my freakin' luck.  This was a new bag of chips that had barely been touched and they were grossly stale.  However, I give everything, even a bag of chips, the benefit of the doubt.  There was a possibility that the first, second, and even third chip were just my bad luck, but perhaps the 4th would be okay.  I had convinced myself if the 4th chip was as bad as the first 3, then in to the trash it would go.  I bit down on my 4th stale chip thinking, "Dammit!!" just as I looked into the bag...
GASP!!!
AGHHHHHHH!!!!! AGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!  PFFFFFTT! I spit out everything I could in my mouth, grabbed a bottled water and swallowed.  SHIT!! DON'T SWALLOW IT!!!  More water, sloshed it around and spit it out into my white sink, praying I wouldn't see anything...and I didn't.
I did not see a hundred ants come out of my mouth and into my sink.  That's right ladies and gentlemen.   I looked into that bag of chips and was holding a fully infested ant paradise.  I screamed so many times, did the heebie-jeebie dance so many more times, and thought about puking only a million times.  The horror I felt was reflected in the mirror when I happened to look at myself...I looked like a chick that just realized she ate 4 chips out of that bag along with many, many ants.  I...ate...ants.

It was a mad dash at that point.

I had to find the source of the ants quickly...and I did.  There was the tiniest of burrowed holes near my bed with so many ants around it...the dry heaves were about to start up.  I sprayed the shit out of that area and pretty much the entire carpet in my room.  I was so overwhelmed with the fact that I'd eaten them and now had also tossed the bag onto my bed, I started to freak out with more heebie-jeebies.  I even thought I could see the carpet move (that's a bit of an exaggeration, but that's what my eyeballs were doing to me).  I ended up spraying EVERYTHING in my room.  By the time I'd cleaned everything, vacuumed everything, threw everything away...my room was actually ant-free.

Holy shit, that was the most disgusting thing I'd ever done in my entire life.  All I could think about were a bunch of ants swimming in my gut, having a feast on my dinner from earlier.  So grossed out.   I also felt like I could feel them on me even though they weren't.  I checked.

Have I ever eaten a bug before last night?  Of course.  I've been on the back of motorcycles enough times to know it's part of the deal if you open your mouth to say something while riding.  It just happens.  But this?!!  No...that's not supposed to happen.  I will probably be scarred for life from that incident.

Ironically, I shared the story with the gals at work and one of them told me about one of the men that works with us that he had ordered breakfast yesterday and was served an omelet....with flies in it.  Another had crickets throughout her house last night, and another had beetles brought into her home.  I'm not sure if our male co-worker actually ate his fly-omelet...but I know I ate 4 chips and I am positive my chips were overly seasoned with ants.  No need to have a protein shake after that.

This is how I felt like I probably looked when I was devouring my tasty, tasty chips.

Yummy Lays Potato Chips.

Won't You Be My Neighbor

"It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood,
A beautiful day for a neighbor.
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?..."

Oh, Mr. Rogers...I'm not real sure you'd approve of one of my neighbors.  

(This is a rant...sorry)

You see, I live in an area where the people are very kind and friendly.  The neighbors I have are sweet and caring.  Bob, who's the older man next door, brings me vegetables from his garden and wine grapes every summer.  We talk over our fences about random things and he and his wife are great people.  On the other side of me, used to live a family that was generous with their time and lovingly devoted parents to their children.  Angie, the mom, and I would sit on her porch and chat from time to time.  When I moved here, I kept to myself, didn't want to talk to people, didn't want to meet people, just wanted to be left alone.  However, those two families were what little dose of human interaction that I needed during that time.  
When Angie and her family moved, another couple moved in with their three giant awesome dogs.  They've both been super great when my dog, Twig, has decided to be an asshole and dig a hole to China that led to their house and play with the 300+ pounds of dog.  Their dogs just play with Twig (they mostly play follow-the-leader; my dog being the leader) and nothing happens.  It's just rude of my dog and as an extension...rude of me.  But they're always gracious when they bring back my little shit of a dog.  

The house across the street has a large family that just moved in a few months ago and they all seem very sweet.  When Twig decided to go on an "Amazing Journey", Farrah had knocked on their door asking if they'd seen Twig and they were immediately giving us information about where they'd seen her, how nice of a dog she is, they were going to let us know right away if they saw her again...the whole family had come out to help.  Awesome!
The next house down, those neighbors were kind but moved away, too.  The new people that moved in had seemed very kind.  The wife had helped me clear my driveway of snow when it had dumped the night before and I was extremely grateful.  

But...yesterday...I got a clearer understanding of the kind of person this woman is/was.  While I don't want to seem like a complete ass for what I'm about to say because she was so awesome to help me out, I learned some stuff about her that makes me think I'd rather get stuck in my driveway next time we have a snow storm.
Twig ran away yesterday.  She had been gone the longest time ever and we finally found her when we went knocking a third time on the house that has the 3 dogs.  The woman answered the door and we talked about Twig, laughed about how funny she is to want to play with beasts and doesn't die, and what have you.  She was a doll.  In the middle of our conversation, there was a little girl at that other neighbor's house...with Twig!  "TWIG!!!"  She came running to us, got her loves, and we quickly put her leash on her.  The little girl came over...along with her mom.  We thanked them profusely for taking care of our dog and the mother decided to speak, "Yeah, we decided to take her in because she was just wandering around.  You know, we hear her crying all the time every day."
Both Farrah and I looked at each other with wtf-faces, "Um, really?  She never cries.  Like ever.  Unless she thinks I'm going to kill her or something, which is still never."
Her:  "Well, since my kids want a dog so bad, if she hadn't had a tag on I was just going to keep her." (No joking in her tone.)
Me:  "Hmm. Okaaaaaay."
At some point, I looked at my nice neighbor and she gave me an awkward smile.  I started changing the subject and talked to my nice neighbor about her new tattoo and we talked about mine and somehow the subject about "friendly neighbors" came up randomly from the neighbor that wanted to steel my dog.
Her:  "You know, it's funny how we have neighbors around here that are nice, but a lot really aren't." (Huh?)
Her:  "That old man over there?  He's awful.  Just an awful cranky old man who isn't nice to anyone, ever!" (Mind you, she's saying this so extremely loud that I start getting uncomfortable because I know exactly what she's doing...she hopes he hears her.)
Me:  "Are you serious?  Bob?  He's great!  Maybe next time you see him walking around with his baggies of vegetable that he hands out to all of us, you should tell him you'd love to try some because they're beautiful!"
Her:  "No, he's terrible.  I was clearing out your driveway one day and he was out there with his snow blower glaring at me the whole time."
Me:  "I don't know why he'd glare at you except that he helps me every winter.  Maybe he was still planning to."
Then she continued with this beauty...again, so incredibly loud, I don't think she was really talking to us, but the whole damn neighborhood.
Her:  "And you know what sucks?  I'm on my own for 3 months out of the year (boo-fucking-hoo, lady) and I had to shovel my snow by myself after having my son!  Everyone in the neighborhood saw me!  They all saw that I had strangely put on an extra 40 pounds, clearly from having a baby, and was outside shoveling with a baby crying inside while my daughter watched him, and did any of them bother to stop and help me even once?  No.  People here only really care about their own problems!"
Me:  (Nothing...I had nothing to say.)
Her:  "And then Angie, who used to live here who has half the driveway I do, actually complained about how hard it was to shovel her driveway.  Can you believe that?  And out of the blue, she starts talking about being on her own, she's alone, he cheated, all this stuff and I thought, whoa!  I hardly know you, lady, and I don't really care about all of this crap you're telling me."

At this point, my nice neighbor and I are looking at each other with "oh-my-god-this-woman-is-toxic" eyes.  

Here's the thing.  I cannot STAND people like her.  Not one bit.  Even reliving that moment right now is making my blood boil.  Angie clearly needed someone, anyone, to talk to in that moment.  She just happened to choose an asshole, and for that, it breaks my heart for her.  Screw that neighbor for being so god damn inconsiderate and insensitive.  I didn't know that about Angie and here's this lady practically yelling about it for everyone who knew Angie, to hear.  Asshole.  And whatever the circumstances were in Angie's private life, she just wanted to talk.  People shouldn't belittle someone for being human.  And Bob?  He is a great man.  He's good to everyone and flips me shit when he sees how gross my yard gets, but he knows I'm doing the best I can.  I am grateful that he lives next door to me!  

I listened to this woman talk shit about every person in the neighborhood and how awful and selfish they are...and I'm left wondering...why?  Not one nice thing came out of her mouth.  I even asked her about her favorite football team (the 49ers) because I was going to suggest we all get together to watch some football this coming season...but the crap that spewed from her about the 49ers, her friends that she won't invite to her home anymore because they're so awful about her favorite team, and how her daughter got picked on for liking the 49ers...all made me not continue down the invite road.  I just figured a football fan is a football fan and it would be fun to watch some games.  But, no thanks.  

I was able to determine in a matter of 10 minutes, that this woman is someone I could never be friends with.  She's not just a complainer, but she's mean.  I'm a great judge of character and I could tell that she is mean to people, clearly a shit-talker, and downright rude.  The fact that she said how awful "everyone" in the neighborhood was, is pretty ironic.  She's busy pointing the finger at everyone else and their awfulness, while she has three more fingers pointing back at her.  

Hey neighbor, we're not the problem...you are.  This is a neighborhood, a community of really great people and I feel lucky to live here. So, if you are so unhappy in this "terrible" place, go back where you came from and be awful there.

Hiking...On Purpose

This weekend, I had the privilege to be invited to go hiking with a couple of friends to a very popular hiking spot in Wenatchee, WA.  This was something that I had been asked to join in on, on several occasions and we finally had the opportunity.

Here's the thing...I've only gone hiking twice in my life.  Once, when I was 17 and the other time was two days ago.  My first experience was horrific as I had been a teenager with other teenagers, all of us who were terribly equipped for the hike.  We had climbed (not hiked...climbed) incredibly steep hillsides, leaving clothing behind as we climbed because we were so hot, no water on any of us, and poor shoes.  At one point, we all had to scoot our backs up against the side of the mountain with only a very small area for our footing and then a treacherous cliff just beyond our toes.  When you're a teenager, you're invincible.  This was when reality sunk in.  One slip and we'd be dead.  It was incredibly frightening and thus began my fear of heights.  Thanks, friends.  When we reached the top, huffing and puffing, there was snow.  All of us punched our hands into the slightly thawed icy crystals and filled our mouths with as much as we could fit without giving ourselves brain-freezes.  And that's when I saw my ex-boyfriend and his best friend drinking from their water bottles.  Assholes.  To this day, I'm surprised they didn't "accidentally" find themselves at the bottom of that drop-off.  While the rest of us wanted to stay at the top and stay cool, the two that were refreshed from their water, were the only ones who knew the way back, so off we went.  And that meant it was time to go...down.  I believe the potent mixture of both fear and anger got me off the mountain that day.  I remember hearing a lot of, "It's okay, Kathy.  Jump!  We've got you.  We won't let you fall."  Since I'm here writing this, I'm happy to say my friends did indeed keep me alive that day to wait another 20 years to tackle the whole "hiking experience" again.

That brings me to Saturday, May 24th.  Saddlerock.  Past the horse arena and towards a dry rocky terrain, we parked the car, tied our shoes, stretched a bit, and made sure our water bottles were full.  Time to climb this beast!
Many times, I've been told how it's a great hike, great workout, beautiful views, not difficult, bring Farrah - she'll love it, and how much I'll enjoy myself.  Well, it was my opportunity to give hiking a second chance as I'd turned the idea down many times since I was a teen.  We brought a friend's dog along and my friends, Rebecca and Danny, and I began the journey.
In the beginning it wasn't terrible and Rebecca and I enjoyed each other's company talking about random things, drinking our water, walking the lab, and greeting other hikers who were on their way down.  As it progressed, the path became steeper and my breathing became heavier.  More water.  I could feel the workout I was getting and was happy that I had come along.  The sun was hot and I could feel I would get a nice tan in the process as well.  By the time we reached the halfway point, the dog was heading for a shaded tree and Rebecca's boyfriend, Danny, had caught up to us (he was running the whole way!).  And here's where the bad parts began...we weren't at the halfway point.  We weren't anywhere near it, as a matter of fact.  Alrighty!  I psyched myself up and started the trek with them again.  And again, the path got steeper...and steeper...and steeeeeeeeper.  Annnnd that's when I realized my footwear was so very, very wrong.  Pumas?  Really?  Am I retarded?  Apparently.
So, I hiked up higher and higher and every once in a while my foot would slip on some sandy gravel.  I hated it because I would think about how embarrassing it would be to fall on my ass.  That's when I looked down.  Nope.  It was no longer a fear of being embarrassed from falling on my ass, but falling off the cliff and breaking my ass, my face, my back, my arms, and legs.  That sounded like a shitty Saturday afternoon.  My fear of heights hit me hard when I was at a very steep spot and not in any position to head down and run away like the coward I was.  Shit.  So I climbed and whined and whined and climbed.  Rebecca and Danny talked me through to the best of their abilities...Danny's kind words were, "Don't be a pussy.  You can do this."  Rebecca on the other hand was a bit more delicate, "I know you're scared, but you'll be so happy when we reach the top."  When I asked where the top was and she pointed about 5 more miles away straight up, my words were, "MOTHER-FUCKER!"
I climbed and slipped and whined, but mostly I talked about how Rebecca was a big fat lying liar about Saddlerock.  Her 4 year old did this and she thought my 7 year old could?  That's just mean.  Her 4 year old was carried by Danny...so he didn't actually climb it.  I would've been pretty upset if I'd taken Farrah.  We would've lasted about 1/4 of a mile and turned around (and that would've been one hell of an excuse to get out of climbing anymore and we would've run off to Dairy Queen for a blizzard.).  You know what else sucks up there?  Bees.  Lots of bees.  So, while I was scared of slipping and falling to my death, I was also scared of an attack from the wasps surrounding the path.  Sigh.
When we reached a spot where others had stopped to catch their breath and take in the views, I found relief in knowing we were done.  Only we weren't.  "No, Kath, we still have to get to the top!" Danny pointed to the rocks we needed to reach which were straight up.  Kill me.  The path got steeper and narrower and even the dog was ready to throw in the towel.  We reached the very, very top about 10 minutes later and the view truly was incredible.  Except...I couldn't move off the rock I was on.  I could either fall forward or backward.  Either way, death awaited me.  Awesome.
After we took all our photos and realized we were killing the dog, we started to make our way down from a different way.  Had we gone down the way we came, I would've simply sat on my butt and scooted my way to the finish line.  As it was, there were a couple areas where I did, in fact, have to do that.  As we got closer to the end, I found my stride pick up to a perfect speed.  We had talked about what we were going to eat the entire way down...that was my motivation.  Food and a BIG bottle of water.

Needless to say, hiking is not on my list of things I can hardly wait to do again unless the path is paved and flat and slightly downhill...both ways...and I'm being pulled in a wagon.

Public School...FAIL

This may be an unpopular post, but just deal with it.  My mom was a public school teacher, I am a public school graduate, and my daughter is currently attending public school along with 99% of the rest of the country's children.  Here's the thing.  I'm not a fan.  Sorry.  Things were different when we were kids and they were regimented in a way that seemed to make sense.  Nowadays, I don't like it.  They've eliminated cursive writing because it seems to be "unnecessary".  Really?  I'm glad my signature on loan documents will never be able to be forged.  Looks like fingerprints are in the future for everyone!  Way to go, America.  That being said, Farrah had the most beautiful handwriting in her class.  Now?  Now, it doesn't even seem to matter to her teacher.  Her teachers at her private school complimented her on her beautiful handwriting and encouraged her daily to keep up the good work, helping her find pride in not only turning in work that was accurate, but beautiful, too.  What I've seen is a downfall in that wonderful "insignificant" skill of hers to be hurried and sloppy.  That's not my kid.  That's my kid who is bored and just wants to finish whatever she's working on so she can do something else.
I had found out 3 months into the school year, that the days Farrah went to the school library, the first graders were limited to the "first grade section".  Umm...what?  Farrah reads at a 4th grade reading level and she has to read about the puppy who lost it's way?  No.  I got the librarian to make an exception for her, but it really bothered me that it just got overlooked.  How the hell do you overlook something like that?  I'm not using this post to brag about my kid, but to point out something that I was concerned about by the time I'd conceived her.
There are many teachers out there with the love and passion for teaching and I know some of them.  Unfortunately, they're not at my daughter's school.  I knew things were changing when I'd have to help my stepson with his homework and watched the way the system changed on an annual basis.  Eventually, it was going to get to a point that it would hit home with me and my daughter...and it has.  She is a bright kid and very mature.  But one thing I believe she has picked up on and has learned is to just keep quiet, get her work done, play with her friends, and be ready to come home when it's time.  Sounds like me.  She's bored.  I'd warned her teacher and her principle that this could happen and I wanted to be sure she got challenged.  Mind you, her school isn't doing an awful job, it's just sometimes, certain students get left behind to fend for themselves while the ones that need more help, get more attention and more one on one time.  That means kids like Farrah are forced to be independent (which, thank goodness, she knows how to do...but she shouldn't HAVE to completely in class).
The problem I see with public school is how it has become a cookie-cutter program that the teachers have to follow accordingly and without getting an opportunity to think outside of the box.  My daughter used to be encouraged to follow her dreams at her old school.  While math, science, social studies, literature, and geography (yes, all in kindergarten) were important...Farrah loved dinosaurs, fossils, and various information on ALL animals...her teachers would have her spend time studying those things she was so passionate about.  She'd come home and tell me all about it and how much she learned and her excitement was contagious.  Now, it's more strict about following the rules that are set forth in the curriculum and they cannot be tampered with in the slightest.

So, blah, blah, blah...after that long rant, here's why I'm finally bitching about this in the first place.  Yesterday was Mother's Day.  Farrah had worked on a little project she'd put together for me at her school.  I remember last year at Seeds Learning Center, they had a Mother's Day program.  The moms got a little concert with their little ones singing to them and each child came down and gave us our gifts they'd worked so hard on.  Cards, a flower, and a handmade bird feeder made out of cheerios and ribbons.  Are you kidding me with that cuteness?!!  They all dressed in their best and gave all the mommies hugs and kisses.  The teachers were so loving and helped the shy kids with boosting their confidence just enough so they could participate.  It was great.
Yesterday, Farrah said, "Hey, mom! I almost forgot to give this to you!"  She handed me a laminated piece of art with a poem on it.  It was so cute and sweet.  I read the poem...and after the first sentence, I stopped reading.  "Farrah?  Isn't this the same poem that is on the wall in our living room that was my Christmas present that you made at school this year?"
"Yeah."
"Did you notice it was the same?"
"YES!!  A bunch of us did!!  We were trying to tell our teacher but it was like she didn't care."
"Did you say something to her about it?"
"No.  Because I knew someone else was going to say something and I didn't feel like it."
So, there you have it.  I have a picture on my wall of my daughter's hand print with a lovely poem about her hand and how small she is now and how quickly she's growing.  AND NOW I have another piece of artwork with her hand print with a lovely poem about her hand and how small she is now and how quickly she's growing.
Are you kidding me?
Not only is the curriculum "cookie-cutter" but so are the special projects?  While the thought is sweet to do anything at all...I can't imagine how disappointing that was for the class.  Farrah expressed how much it bothered her, but also pointed out she wasn't alone in the discussion with the other 7 year olds that thought they were putting something special and unique together for their moms for Mother's Day. It hurt my feelings for Farrah because she takes those types of things to heart and puts a lot of effort into making something special for her parents...to find out that it really wasn't that important to her teacher to make a little more effort to find a new poem especially when the kids were telling her they'd ALREADY DONE THIS PROJECT.  5 minutes.  That's how long it would've taken a teacher to find a new poem.  One to two days is all it would've taken to allow the kids to come up with something special they wanted to say themselves about how much they love their mommies.
It's more important, apparently, for math, reading, P.E. and your various science studies to get done, than it is to allow a 7 year old child to use their imagination and their own talents to put together something truly from their heart.  I was also given a book that was "M" is for..., "O" is for..., etc.  These were all done FOR the students.  Farrah did "H" herself to say that "My mom pays for my HORSEBACK RIDING CLASSES".  The rest were what the teacher told the students to write.  Again, I have to compare to Seeds Learning Center...that would never happen.  The teacher would have the students list off words that start with those letters to describe their mom's and then THEY'D get to choose what they wrote.  And the reason those would be so special?  Because they were the truth from the hearts of the children that knew their mom's the best.
I don't know...it really bothers me when I know how much potential every child, not my own, has and it gets pushed out of the way to just keep up with what the teachers are told to do.  The government run education system is losing it's grip on what makes people awesome and helps them grow academically. Maybe it's time for me to join the PTA (something I never wanted to do) and be an advocate for education instead of the god damn fund raiser bullshit.  And I'll do whatever it takes to get Farrah back into Seeds Learning Academy.  That's a promise to my kid that deserves to be back where she WANTS to be and she feels important there.  Her words, "Yes, I have the friends I've made at Cascade, but I can make new friends.  THOSE are MY teachers and that's the school I want to go to."  You got it, honey.

Kochrian Tradition

Yesterday was Easter.  I know I have written about it before, but there is something about Easter that will forever bring forth wonderful childhood memories.  But most of those memories are about my Grandpa.  Don't get me wrong, Grandma was always there, too, to participate in the festivities in her own right, but it was Grandpa's day...his day to be...awful, yet wonderful.
Grandma had the role of having the Lund kids and Grant kids over to decorate eggs on a Saturday, but Grandpa helped with showing us how to do little tricks with crayons before dipping them.  (He liked to write $1 on a few that he decorated).  Grandma would always bake a pound cake in an antique cast-iron lamb mold (it was later decorated by laying on a tray of "grass" with various candies around it before we cut its head or ass off - it was always a little disturbing to me).
But my Grandpa...this is when I miss him the most.  When all those eggs were decorated and ready to be distributed the next day, he was all set.  After years of the torment that I endured on Easter at the hands of my tricky Grandfather, you'd think I would've learned my lesson by getting some rest, practicing with my brothers to hide shit and make me find it, take some adderal to be better focused...SOMETHING!!!  But no, I never learned.
When it was time for the over 100 eggs to be hidden, my cousins, my brothers and I would walk to the local park and play for about an hour and kill some time.  All the while, we were all mentally preparing ourselves to out-do each other.  Me?  I always knew what I was in store for.  Out of the over hundred eggs, I was lucky to get 10.  Not because I was an idiot, but honestly, I just sucked at it.  However, I refuse to take ALL the blame for it.
I put it back on Grandpa.
He was an expert egg hider.  He went to GREAT lengths to hide the eggs.  He would take an entire wall of firewood that was flush up against a house, pull one log out, place the egg toward the back, and put that log back almost flush.  You'd have to be looking pretty hard to find the log that was just a tad bit off from the rest.  He'd hide them in the back of the toilet.  He'd dig a whole in the dirt, put the egg in, then cover it back up...never to be seen again.  But he loved this.  He loved watching us find them and he loved watching us struggle.  From a distance, you'd see Grandpa with his hands in his pockets and bending over certain areas and looking aloof...we knew to watch him.  We would troll the old man who had the biggest grin on his face who laughed and smiled through the whole "hide & seeking" process.  He'd kick at things, hum a little bit, sometimes was sweet enough to point in a direction, and sometimes...sometimes if one of us was on the verge of tears (usually me) from the pathetic five eggs in the basket, a clue was given.
While Grandpa was notorious for the ways he managed to hide so many eggs so well that it appeared like a normal non-egg-full-garden...the joy it brought him on Easter day, makes me miss him so much, but not in a sad way.  I consider myself incredibly lucky to have such wonderful memories of this awesome man and this story is just one day out of the year that he enjoyed immensely.
The beauty about Easter with Grandpa was while it was one day of the year, it was a day when all his grandchildren were together and he was able to play with each and every one of us and enjoy being a grandfather to so many kids that loved him dearly right back.
Watching Grandpa kneeling down, pointing at an area that "might" have an egg, seeing him laugh and beam when someone actually found an egg (especially the $1 eggs), was something I'll forever remember.  It was such a happy day for him, which made it a happy day for me...even when it was my basket that had the least in it.  I'd like to think I didn't have many eggs because I was so busy watching Grandpa and observing his joy, that I was just too distracted to see any.  However, I know the reality...I honestly suck at finding eggs on Easter.
But, Grandpa, thank you for making it so memorable...even if finding eggs with my daughter yesterday was a flashback of my childhood and still getting the least amount of eggs...at the age of 37.

KFC

It has been brought to my attention that it has been quite some time since I've written something here, and for that, I apologize.  It's not that funny, interesting, or even horrible things haven't happened, it's just that I am super busy.  The moment I want to write about something, another task whispers in my ear that it needs attention and I then forget my poor blog.  Well, I have forced myself to make time for this and I have a little story I can share...

A few weeks ago, one of the gals in the office had ordered some KFC chicken strips for lunch and ended up with far too many for one person.  She invited Rebecca and I to help ourselves to some before we took off for the gym.  We had a couple, said our thanks, grabbed our stuff, and went to the gym for a hard work out.
When we came back to the office, we could still smell the chicken in the air and we were both starving.  After a tough work out, it is not uncommon to be very hungry.  We inhaled the aroma and we were both salivating.  I remember even singing the classic KFC song, "We do chicken right!" as we walked in.  Rebecca and I were expressing to our co-worker how good it smelled and how hungry we were.  We even commented that the entire office smelled so yummy.
However...for some reason, she just looked at us funny.  She even looked...disturbed, until she finally said, "Well it's interesting that you two think it smells so good because about ten minutes ago, a client brought his dog in and he took a huge shit over there." She pointed to an open area at the floor.
While laughing, I had to ask myself, what the hell was wrong with me.  Jeez, what was wrong with BOTH me and Rebecca?  Why did we come in, smell dog shit, and instantly get super hungry and want chicken?  All I could picture when I walked in was a delicious chicken-pot-pie.  Yummmm.  Only, apparently, my chicken-pot-pie would have dog shit in it.  After we'd settled back into our seats, and the office was back to it's very quiet self, I replayed the whole scene in my head:
Opened door, sniffed, drooled, sang a little ditty about chicken, praised our co-worker for bringing in some great food, discovered I was starving for poop.
In the silent office, I belted out the biggest laugh and couldn't stop laughing.  I was hungry for poop.  What??

Fishy, fishy, fishy, fish...

Monty Python's "Meaning Of Life".  Anyone?  Anyone??
Irrelevant to the story anyway.

I'm going to walk you through an experience I had recently while doing laundry.  You know how you dread the children accidentally leaving crayons or markers in their pockets on laundry day?  Or perhaps you've left gum several times in your pockets and never seem to learn your lesson?  Here's a new and perhaps more frightening experience.

I was removing the wet clothes from the washer into the dryer, little piles at a time.  Suddenly, I saw it.  My eyes got big and the only noise I could hear was coming out of my mouth, "Noooooooooo. No. No. Oh god...no."
Pen?  Nope.
Crayon?  Nope.
Gum?  Nope.
Fish Oil Capsule from when I'd planned on taking my daily vitamins?  Yes!!! Ding! Ding! Ding!

The capsule was swollen and very, very empty of its contents.  I slowly lifted the damp clothing in my hands and brought them to my face to inhale what I anticipated was going to be the scent of garbagy-stinkiness along with Downy freshness.  I could feel the slight lump in my throat when I looked down and saw a second capsule and simply knew, my favorite clothes would probably have to be burned.  But wait!!  I didn't smell the fish oil.  I grabbed another handful...nothing.  Anyone who takes fish oil capsules knows how good they are for you, but also the unpleasant smell of the pill.  All I smelled was Downy.  Downy, Downy, Downy...I LOVE DOWNY!!!

Clothes saved and no tears!  But I saved the capsule as a reminder to be sure to have my head pulled out of my ass before washing anymore clothes.

However...that is not the end of our story.

After some time had gone by, I did discover one casualty of the fish oil capsule debacle.  One of Farrah's long sleeve white tee shirts.  It took one (or two) for the whole team.  Thank you, Farrah's shirt.  May you burn brightly out in a garbage field somewhere far from my home.  You smell awful.