"I know just what you're saying" --No Doubt

The cleaning lady is in the house and I am working from home. (Shut up. You spend your hard-earned money on what you want and so do we. We love a clean house and we hate to clean it so it is totally worth it so shut up.) Eventually, I hear her packing up her supplies...

Cleaning lady: Okay, I go. Thank you!
Me: Okay, thank you!
Cleaning lady: Thank you!
Me: Thank you!
*sound of door opening*
Cleaning lady: Ehhcuse me... you cheese es dry.
Me: I'm sorry...?
Cleaning lady: You cheese es dry.
My cheese? She's eating our cheese?
Me: My cheese?
Cleaning lady: Ches. You cheese. I put in dry.
*she points to the laundry room*
Me: The sheets??
Cleaning lady: Ches. You cheese. I put in dry.
Me: Ooooooohhhhhhhh! Great! Thank you!
Cleaning lady: Okay. Thank you!
Me: Thank you!
Cleaning lady: Okay. Thank you!
Me: Okay!

"Feliz Navidad" -- Jose Feliciano, singing the only decent Christmas song

We are invited to a 'holiday' party Saturday night.* We walk in and the place is already crowded. We locate the host and he welcomes us.

He then invites me to play "find the pickle".

My reaction:


As you can imagine, this is not the first time a man has suggested this game to me. Well, okay, it is. In that particular terminology.

Turns out there's some German tradition of getting a pickle ornament and putting it somewhere on the Christmas tree for others to locate. News to me. Those wacky Germans.

I go over to the rather large tree that is packed with ornaments and do a scan.*** A boy of about eight walks up next to me.

Boy: Are you looking for the pickle?
Me: Yes.
Boy: I know where it is.
Me: You do?
Boy: Yes.
Me: I haven't spotted it yet... Where is it?
Boy: I can see it right now.
Me, trying to match my line of sight to his: You can?
Boy: I'm staring right at it.
Me, getting irritated: You are?
Boy: Yes.
Me, tempted to headbutt the child out of the way: You've got a clear line of sight on it, huh?
Second boy walks up: Are you looking for the pickle?
First boy: She is.
Second boy, in a bored tone: I can see it.
First boy: I know. Wanna play hockey?
Second boy: Okay.
Me: Wait! Where's the pickle?!
First boy: You see the letter?
Me, scanning until I find a letter ornament: Letter... letter... Yes!
First boy, rolling his eyes: It's right next to that.
Me: Um...
First boy, with an exaggerated sigh: Way in the back.

It still takes me another minute to find it because the pickle is not a standard pickle green but the sickly bright green of a thousand irradiated pickles that have been dipped in clear coat to add an unhealthy shine. It is behind other ornaments next to the core of the tree.

The boys run off.

Someone walks up next to me.

Me, smugly: Looking for the pickle?



* People say 'holiday' when what they mean is their holiday: Christmas. But, fine. A party is a party. And this party had cocktail shrimp the size of my hand.**

** I once had a roommate who could not fathom the idea that some people did not celebrate Christmas. She kept insisting "Everyone celebrates Christmas." Me: "Um, actually, no." It's in the name, people.

*** It's not something I put on my resume but I am quite the whiz at finding the hidden objects in the Highlights magazine puzzle. I can even find the comb! I kick butt at the pediatrician's office.

"Riding on the Metro" --Berlin

First: New poll up (top right) on the peculiar lure of the vampire flick.

Oh, stop. You know you're dying to make your voice heard. Go vote. You can even select multiple answers.

I mean now. Don't make me chase you.*

And now on to today's completely unrelated post...

People that are in my Metro car every single time I ride:

• Bag Guy. Bag Guy has 14 different full plastic and paper bags and arranges them on the seat next to him, on him, in front of him and on you if you'll let him.

• Teenager on the Monkey Bars. Teenager on the Monkey Bars has to try to impress his friends by pretending the overhead grab bar is actually a chin up bar. He comes this close** to smacking his head on the ceiling. His friends find this hilarious.
  

• Matchy Tourist. Matchy Tourist is one of a group of at least five people wearing hideous, neon-bright t-shirts and matching hats. It's like they found ugly-t-shirt-and-matching-hat.com and said, "Yeah, that's the stuff! We'll be able to spot each other easily and fit right in in über-tony DC."

• Overshare Woman. Overshare Woman insists on sitting on one side of the car and carrying on a personal conversation with her friend on the other side of the car at top volume. The conversation always includes the phrase "I'm not gonna put up with that shit."

• Clueless Tourist. Clueless Tourist "discovers" the Metro map and stands, slack-jawed, in front of it, unable to decipher it, occasionally looking around pathetically for help which always comes... from another tourist.

• Screaming Gregory. Screaming Gregory is the child that screams and cries for the entire trip despite his parents, who are busy eying Overshare Woman nervously, saying "Now, now, Gregory. It's all right, Gregory."

Are these people on every subway system or is it just the DC Metro? Or is it just me they follow? 'Cause, you know, I'm not gonna put up with that shit.



* Unless you're going to do the slasher movie run while looking over your shoulder causing you to trip and fall down bit. I'm a sucker for that move.

** I originally had two angle brackets here but it was screwing up the html. Sheesh. Imagine me holding my fingers an inch apart a la Maxwell Smart.

"No more pencils, no more books, no more teacher's dirty looks" --Alice Cooper

In honor of To Blog Or's brave/foolish recent attendance at his school reunion, I thought I might share a little of my formative years...

When I was sixteen, I was late to school every day.

Every. Single. Day.

I was sixteen and in the habit of staying up until 3 or 4 in the morning so once I got to sleep I wasn't excited about getting up early enough to go to Homeroom. Homeroom was when they checked attendance and made announcements about JV bake sales and such.

I saw it as optional.*

The vice principle had a different take on it.

He called my mother and asked her to come in. She was none too happy about missing work.

I was not invited to the meeting between Vice Principle and Mum but I can imagine how it went, based on the fact that I know my mum. Here's how I imagine it went down:

VP: Thanks for coming in, Mrs. F.

Mum: I'm missing work so whatever it is, can we make it quick, please?

VP: We have a serious problem. LA is late to school every day.

Mum: And?

VP: She needs to come to school on time.

Mum: She's sixteen. What do you want me to do, drag her here?

VP: She's missing Homeroom every day. We can't have that.

Mum: Homeroom? What's that?

VP: We take attendance first thing in the morning and make announcements.

Mum: Oh. ...And?

VP: You can understand how important it is that she be on time...

Mum: Is she failing anything?

VP: Well... no...

Mum: Then I don't see a problem. In fact, as long as we're here, I have a few things to say to you about how much time is wasted in this school. Take "Gym". Where I come from, we learned all kinds of subjects, like Latin and Advanced Calculus, and we didn't waste our time playing on a field. Now here's what I think you ought to do [insert diatribe about how terrible American schools are and how she'd like Gym and maybe a few other subjects eliminated from the curriculum.]

I never got hassled again. In fact, the Vice Principle avoided eye contact when I passed him in the hall. Heh. Mum rocks!



* Who me? Issues with authority? Um, yeah, you could say that. Where some see "rules", I see "guidelines"... "suggestions"... "possible approaches." Now doesn't that sound more reasonable?

"What a long strange trip it's been" --The Grateful Dead

The plan:
Wednesday night we do last minute cooking, laundry, pack, etc.

Thursday morning we drive to NJ, pick up my mother, take her to my sister's for Thanksgiving dinner with 25 or so family members and friends. Thursday night we deliver Mum back to her home.

Friday we visit some with Mum.

Saturday we, and a stuffed giraffe, drive to Long Island for a baby naming ceremony. Saturday afternoon we drive home.

The reality:
Wednesday night we do last minute cooking/etc. Also, in the blink of an eye, I manage to spill coral nail polish in a remarkably wide swath on the brand new seafoam green carpet in the family room. We spend hours feverishly trying to remove the polish with limited success.

Thursday we drive to New Jersey and make comments about all the terrible things we are aware of by comparing them to the worst possible thing ever.

Hubby: Wow! Can you believe how badly that Volkswagen cut off that van?
Me: At least he didn't spill nail polish on the new carpet.
Hubby: Yeah, nothing's that bad.

And so it goes.

We arrive at Mum's to find that she is not well. She was in the hospital 10 days earlier and no longer exhibits the symptoms that she went into the hospital for but she is very weak and dizzy and sick. She can't go to my sister's. I stay with Mum and we have a quiet evening. Hubby brings the six food items we cooked/baked/promised to provide for Thanksgiving, plus a few gifts to my sister, stays for the meal, and brings Mum and me leftovers.

An aide comes to spend the night with my mother.

We check into the local budget hotel. Normally they treat us well and upgrade us. Not this time. We get the room we paid for. It is lacking the usual amenities (hair dryer, shampoo, tissues) but does come with a fan in the bathroom that has the tonal pleasantness of Roseanne singing the National Anthem. But without the charm. We discuss that this is not ideal but not as bad as polish on new carpet.

Friday morning I discover there is no plug for the bathtub so I shower instead of bathing. We agree this is inconvenient but nothing in the grand scheme of the horror that is spilling polish on the new carpet.

At 8 am, I speak with my mother. She says she'd like to see us but there's no hurry. I tell her we will visit at 10 am, when the aide is scheduled to leave. At 9:45 we arrive. There is an ambulance and two police cars parked out front and the paramedics have my mother on a stretcher. We are told that she was so weak that her legs buckled under her. The aide caught her before she hit the floor, and called 911.

We follow the ambulance to the hospital.

We spend the day in the Emergency Room. After running a series of tests, all of which elicit the following exchange:

Tech: I'm here to take you for a doppler [or EKG or chest x-ray or...].
Mum, weak and angry: I was here less than two weeks ago and I had a doppler! Don't you have files? Get it from the file.
Tech: We need another one.
Mum: This is ridiculous.
Me: They have to check you out again.

it is determined that the medicine prescribed for the last problem, has created a new problem: her sodium has dropped dangerously low. A few points lower and she might have suffered brain damage, they inform us.

They admit her Friday late afternoon. We send a message to our Long Island cousins explaining what has happened and that we will not be coming to the naming ceremony.

From Friday to Tuesday Mum slowly gets her sodium levels up and a modicum of strength back. We call our bosses and explain that we are staying in NJ. We keep her company in the hospital, helping where we can. It is not easy to stay with her because she keeps getting moved. She is placed in five different locations in five days. I'm not kidding. Five. Once, they move her at 3 am. I've got to tell you, it's unnerving to go to the room where your loved one was only to find either an empty space or a different person. You immediately think "Oh, god, what's happened?!" What happened is they needed the space for someone else so they played musical beds. Again.

Yesterday, Tuesday, Mum is discharged and we deliver her home by early afternoon, arrange for round-the-clock aides until she is stronger, and we, and the stuffed giraffe, head home ourselves.

We arrive home last night.

Hubby: You know you can hardly see that nail polish.
Me: Yeah, it's no big deal.