My no good, very bad day

6:20 am: Tiger and I are in our van, hurtling toward our carpool pickup spot. When I look into the rearview mirror I see that my hair has frizzed due to the high humidity. I look like I stuck my finger into a light socket, only less alert.

7:00 am: I drop off Tiger and meet Joanne at Starbucks to discuss the status of my upcoming swim meet snack bar.

As I wait for my grande, I imagine that Joanne will offer to take over the snack bar, giving me a much easier job to do for the team, like extracting impacted molars from giant crocodiles.

7:40 am: Our snack bar business has concluded and sadly, I’m still in charge of the snack bar.

8:00 to 10 am: I work on my snack bar shopping list. It’s hot and muggy and my t-shirt sticks to me.

I imagine working the snack bar on a hot and muggy day like today, but things are bad because I ordered hot chocolate instead of Gatorades and bottled water. Swim meet participants are dropping all over the pool deck from heatstroke!

That’s when a crew of parents attacks me with swim fins and snorkels for ruining their kids’ best chances for a Zone time, and I imagine trying to climb up the lifeguard’s chair to escape but the lifeguard beats me back down with a flotation device.

LIFEGUARD: My kid sister coulda had a ZONE TIME!

10:05 am: I leave to pick up Tiger from the carpool pickup point. Micki is late picking up her daughter so I call her. She’s stuck in traffic on the I-5. Just then a hit-and-run driver plows into Micki’s car. BAM!

She’s okay, but she’s going to be late. Joanne offers to hold on to Micki’s daughter and I race off with Tiger. We carpooling women are nothing if not flexible.

10:25 am: Tiger and I are late to his community service appointment. As we pull in to the parking lot the car makes a strange sound.

10:30 am: Tiger and I pick up coolers containing meals for homebound seniors. The odd car sound gets louder and turns into a grinding noise. It sounds like something evil is chewing up the car’s engine compartment.

I wonder if the car will die on me on the I-5. I imagine getting out and pulling up the hood, only to have something evil with wings fly out and attack me, but spit me out because I’m so sweaty and stinky.

EVIL THING WITH WINGS: And you never called back that sub sandwich place about donations, either!

10:40 am: I call the community service headquarters from the auto mechanic’s waiting area. I ask for a substitute driver.

I tell the auto mechanic receptionist all about the evil noise coming from my car. She writes: “check evil noise” on the estimate sheet. Hopefully they won’t charge extra for this.

11:00 am: Tiger just got off a 2-hour swim practice and is hungry. My brain turns off and I offer to walk him down to Alberto’s in downtown Encinitas. When we arrive at Alberto’s, I remember: I left the community service meal coolers in the mechanic’s waiting area!

Community Service Credo:

Never leave the meals behind!!!

I gallop past a storefront window on the way back to the auto mechanic. My reflection reveals a head of frizz; I look like an albino version of Foxy Cleopatra, only lots chubbier.

Foxy Cleopatra

11:10 am: Tiger catches up with a diet Coke for me, which I gulp down. The substitute driver arrives. He doesn’t know the route and asks us to go with him.

Tiger and I pile into this guy’s tiny car. He rolls up his window and tells us he never uses the air conditioner and he’s not even sure it works. He turns it on. Hot air blasts out.

11:15 am: It turns out he was pushing the heater button. My frizzy hair now reaches for the ceiling of his car interior. Soon, it may start lunging at strangers.

12:30 pm: The mechanic calls just as we finish our route. Our van needs new brakes and new rotors.

$800.

KA-CHING!

I resolve to make Hubby a really nice dinner tonight and tell him after he eats, but then I remember I won’t be able to get groceries today, so I resolve instead to make a really nice dinner out of leftovers.

12:45 pm: The substitute driver drops us off at our house. It smells funny inside and I see odd-looking splashes on the floor and walls, reminding me I forgot to put cleaning supplies on my snack bar shopping list.

I follow the trail of splashes as I imagine how my snack bar sends 50 people (maybe more!) to the hospital with food poisoning.

CENTER FOR DISEASE CONTROL: The woman responsible for this snack bar will be put behind bars!

The splashes lead me to Mojo, who’s in the middle of an impressive diarrhea attack.

12:46 pm: The day pretty much went downhill from there.

Orange juice in my coffee

SCENE: Wednesday night after dinner, Bonnie’s usual writing time.

SQUIRT: Mom! I need the computer! I have to write a research paper!

MOM: What?!? How many pages? But school’s almost over! When’s it due?

SQUIRT: It’s due tomorrow. Four pages. But don’t worry, Mom. I’ve got it covered.

It turns out “got it covered” is Secret Teenager Code for, “I haven’t done any research yet.” But hey! At least he picked a topic!

SQUIRT: Ninjas.

MOM: You’re writing a research paper on… ninjas?

SQUIRT: Yeah! Cool, hunh?

Yup. Cool.

You can blame him for me not posting on Thursday.

Last night’s Crazies was all my fault, though. Late in the evening I realized we hadn’t completed the independent P.E. application the high school requires, so we basically scrambled around like the noodles we are just to complete everything in time to turn them in this morning.

And then this morning I mistook the orange juice jug for the milk carton.

It wasn’t the best tasting stuff in the world, but heck, caffeine is caffeine.

The things you miss when you’re watching the road

We’re on our way home from school, “we” being me, Squirt, and his bud Eddy.

SQUIRT: (pressing his face against the car window) Is anybody there right now?

EDDY: No… Oh, wait! Aw. False alarm.

SQUIRT: (disappointed) Aw.

You might think they’re hoping to see a friend, or a cute girl, or a burglary in progress, or maybe even a clown who just happens to be juggling swords of flame while balancing on a unicycle as we drive by.

Nope. You’d be wrong.

What these two fine examples of American youth are hoping to witness is… another act of public urination.

About a month ago they saw one guy relieving himself on the sidewalk, and the hilarity of it carried them through a whole week of carpooling.

Now they examine the same spot every day as we drive by, searching for The Peeing Man (or a reasonable facsimile thereof). Failing to catch anyone else in the act, they are stuck with reminiscing.

SQUIRT: That was the funniest thing. Ever. Ha, ha, ha! I was just looking out the window…

EDDY: Oh, my god, I laughed so hard! Ha, ha, ha! Me, too! Looking out the window!

SQUIRT: I thought he was just standing there, waiting for a bus or something… and then… HA, HA, HA!

EDDY: We see the stream! HA, HA, HA, HA, HA!

Maybe I’d be laughing, too, if I’d seen it for myself. But somehow I doubt it.

Snack bar sacrifice

Volunteering to run a three-day swim meet food concession is like volunteering to throw yourself into a volcano: the rare individuals who make such offers rarely last long enough to do it again.

And then there are those who get talked into volunteering: clueless souls who never even notice the volcano part of the job until they’re sailing into the crater.

“You should never answer your phone,” Abby said. “I stopped answering mine last year. I screen all my calls.”

I considered this and then lit up. “But you always pick up for me!”

“You nut! Of course I pick up your calls. You never ask me to do anything! It’s only a few swim moms I have to avoid.”

Abby was sharing her Swim Team Volunteer Avoidance Secrets with me in case I survived the snack bar long enough to be shanghaied into doing another meet. So far, her tips also included hiding in the car when picking up a swimmer—but only if a booster club board member was nearby.

“You don’t have to avoid ALL the moms,” she explained. “Just the board members. They’re dangerous. You stop for a quick chat and the next thing you know you’re next year’s meet manager.”

“Yikes!” I said.

“Look at me,” said Abby, jabbing her thumb at her chest. “I volunteer when I want, where I want. I choose the job. That’s because I can spot a board member a mile away and I screen all my calls. And I don’t let myself get talked into anything I don’t want to do.”

These insights were extremely informative and I probably should’ve been taking notes, but I was already thinking about how to properly phrase my next question.

“So,” I said, in what I hoped was a non-board memberish fashion. “Are you free on—”

“Forget it. I’ll work Hospitality for you Saturday afternoon, but I don’t ever work the snack bar.”

“You’re on!” I said gratefully, and wrote her name down.

I may be sailing into that crater, but I can recognize a good food concession volunteer when I see one.

My 1.5 seconds of fame

Tiger found a linkable video of the newscast I mentioned here. Somehow they managed to find one coherent sentence in all my splorking—amazing!

I’m the gal in the glasses at the very end, just before they sign off.

Get this video and more at MySpace.com

Thanks, Tiger!

P.S.

I’m NOT the lady in the sunglasses. Not that there’s anything wrong with that lady in the sunglasses.

On bosoms, Chihuahuas, and free car washes

I was digging through my pocketbook for my “One FREE car wash!” card when I heard the kissing.

“Mwah! Mwah! Mwah!”

It came from the woman ahead of me in line. I could only see her back, but she was tanned, curvy and blonde, wearing a white babydoll t-shirt and short-shorts. I immediately forgot the free car wash and considered instead 1) the freedom of sportswear a really good figure can give you, and 2) whether or not this gal was wearing any underwear.

Just then the blonde threw a Chihuahua onto her shoulder. For a quick moment I thought she was going to burp it, but she only kissed its neck several times.

Mwah! My baby!” she crooned as her dog quivered and trembled. “Don’t be nervous! Mwah! Mwah! Mwah! It’s just an old car wash!”

The line moved forward, prompting me to start digging around for my card again. All kissing and lack of underwear aside, who wants to pay for a car wash when they have a perfectly good free pass in their pocketbook… somewhere?

Just then the blonde whipped around, stunning me with one absolutely perfect bosom, barely contained within an ultra-low scoop neck.

“Do you own dogs?” she asked.

I hoped I’d averted my eyes quickly enough. “Yes!”

“Aren’t they great?”

“Oh, yes!” I nodded emphatically. “They’re great!”

She grinned and turned to face the cashier. “Pump No. 3!”

The cashier’s eyes widened until they looked like the cup lids by the soda machine. A man in a suit who was looking over the road map display also seemed transfixed. Both watched as the blonde struggled to open her handbag while holding her dog.

“Darn!” she said. She put down her handbag, pulled open the neck of her t-shirt, and tucked in the trembling pooch. The Chihuahua gave a contented sigh, echoed faintly by the cashier and Mr. Suit.

“He was cold!” laughed the blonde, handing her money to the cashier.

“Aw-w-w,” the cashier said hopefully.

“He gets cold so easily!” the blonde told Mr. Suit.

“Poor little pup,” sympathized Mr. Suit. “A Chihuahua?”

She laughed. “Yes! He’s a Chihuahua! Aren’t you, baby! Mwah!

The cashier gave her a receipt, no doubt cursing his inability to make canine small talk. The blonde turned to Mr. Suit.

“Wanna pet him?”

The cashier and I froze. Mr. Suit’s mouth fell open, but he recovered quickly. Or at least, his hand did. It popped up, hovered briefly over the dog’s head, then moved in.

“Nice doggy,” he cooed, finally connecting with a pat on the pup’s head. “Nice, nice— doggy!” The Chihuahua made a little rattle, like the noise you hear if you hold the toaster lever down too long.

“Oh!” laughed the blonde. “He’s so protective! Mwah! Mwah! Mwah! Aren’t you, baby?”

She waved good-bye and sailed out of the lobby, the dog still tucked into her bosom, a hairy figurehead secured to the prow of a well-built schooner.

Mr. Suit wandered dazedly out the other side of the lobby. The cashier jumped when I pushed my credit card into his open hand. He completed the transaction and chuckled as he asked me for my signature, and I chuckled as I signed it.

In fact, I kept on chuckling until I sat down to wait for my car and realized my free car wash card was still in my pocketbook. Somewhere.

The Curse of the Kitchen Island Cooktop

Picture of a singed container of yogurt, victim of our fire
YOGURT TELLS OF ORDEAL: “It was horrible, horrible!”.

Our kitchen island ought to be studied by world-class scientists of gravitational theory. Really, it should, because at any time you will find all sorts of stuff that’s mysteriously landed on it; stuff that no one ever remembers putting there!

We’re talking cell phones. Bookbags. Briefcases. Water bottles. Cold medicine. Swim trophies. Geometry homework. Snorkels. Baby wipes. Library books. And even pencil sharpeners! You name it, it arrives on the kitchen island all by itself, rarely leaving room for anything that might actually belong, you know, in a kitchen.

How or why this happens, I don’t know, but I’m confident it has absolutely nothing to do with my housekeeping skills. Rather, I feel very strongly it’s the result of some kind of curse.

The Curse of the Kitchen Island Cooktop

Once upon a time, a kitchen island cooktop rudely told a troll that his messy desk was a sign of a cluttered mind. So the troll cursed all kitchen island cooktops to be clutter landing pads forever and ever and ever. The end.

As a result, Hubby found no room on the kitchen island for his grocery bags when he came home from the store. A little peeved, he plopped everything down on the cooktop instead, not realizing he accidentally turned on the gas burner at the same time.

He didn’t notice anything burning because he immediately left to get more groceries out of his car. Our fire alarms didn’t clue him in either, because even though they’re really good at waking us up at 3 am to announce that their batteries need changing, it turns out they totally suck at reporting an actual fire.

The good news is that he came back in time to discover the flames before they burned down our kitchen island. The bad news is that his sushi was on fire, which, when you think about it, kind of defeats the whole purpose of sushi.

A picture of Bucky, the Siamese Cat
BUCKY THE CAT WITNESSED EVERYTHING: “Heck, yeah, it was pretty funny watching him dance around that cooktop with it on fire and all.”.

Hubby put out the fire but man, oh man, was he ever cranky about it when we finally came home from piano lessons.

“Why,” he asked, launching into Lecture Mode, “Why is this kitchen island never clear of clutter?” This question never troubled him before, of course, but apparently gained importance when his sushi went up in smoke.

As he developed his theme (“Why Your Cooktop Curse Theory Needs Some Work”) I realized that our kitchen table—only three feet away from the kitchen island—was absolutely clear of any clutter. I also realized that if I’d brought in the groceries, I would’ve unloaded them on the kitchen table.

That’s when I knew only I could truly understand the power of the Kitchen Island Cooktop Curse, which could trick my poor man into unloading groceries on the cooktop rather than on the table!

Poor guy. He may have saved our house from burning down, but he’s proved himself completely ineffective when it comes to household curse management.

Little Wood Shop of Horrors

Mr. G’s classroom is filled with monstrous, hulking machines that look as if they could chew up teenagers as easily as my vacuum cleaner chews up Lego parts.

Needless to say, Mr. G’s Wood Tech class is one of the most popular electives in the curriculum.

Mr. G: … But if you’re wondering what’s the worst accident I’ve ever seen, I’d say, oh, it was the one caused by improper use of this machine here, the SIDE JOINTER.

(he puts one hand on the steel monstrosity known as the SIDE JOINTER and pats it fondly)

The kid who did it… well, he cut his arm wide open. A huge hole. There was no immediate blood loss to speak of, so we could see inside his arm.

(he puts both thumbs in his jeans pockets and smiles)

It looked like… shrimp.

This safety lecture is known all over campus as “Mr. G’s Death Speech,” the premise being that if students can visualize the kind of damage they can do to various body parts, they might be motivated to use the machines properly.

Kind of a “Scared Straight” approach, only with food metaphors.

Mr. G: This machine here…

(he indicates a slouching beast of steel hardware)

… is a JOINTER.

(the class leans forward to look at the JOINTER)

The blade spins this way … while you move the wood into it … this way. If you use any other procedure other than the one I show you, the wood will shoot out and hit anyone standing nearby. If that person is a boy… well, he’d be hit directly in the …

(the students hold their breath)

… TESTICLES…

(the students’ mouths make little Os)

… at the speed of oh, 108 miles per hour. At that speed, a block of wood could easily FLATTEN a set of testicles.

(the room is so silent you could hear a strip of first aid gauze drop into the sawdust on the floor)

FLAT. (he slaps his hands together and the kids jump)

As a PANCAKE. (he grinds his palms together to indicate EXTREME FLATNESS)

Mr. G delivers the Death Speech as dryly as a bleached out skull and crossbones, interrupting it only with long, painful pauses laden with the promise of trauma.

It’s an effective speech, too. Mr. G had a perfect safety record that lasted over a decade—until it was broken last year.

By a Wren boy.

Mr. G: Now, the table saw over here…

(the students crane their necks as one)

…that table saw will take off your arm.

(several mouths fall open)

You can pick your arm up, wave it at your friends, and take it to the hospital so they can sew it back on.

(the class laughs, but weakly)

Mr. G: The table saw does a nice, clean cut. But the jointer, see…

(he points back at the jointer)

… well, the jointer is more like a… FOOD PROCESSOR. You stick your finger in there and it will suck your arm up to oh, (he considers the distance) about your elbow.

(the kids wince)

… But your arm’ll get ground up as it goes. Just like hamburger.

(all the kids go a little pale)

When Tiger returned to school after his little incident with the Sanding Machine of Doom, he became known as our high school’s version of The Boy Who Lived.

Mr. G took it kind of hard, though. So did I. And now, there’s something new to worry about, but it’s not another machine.

It’s another Wren boy.

Mr. G: One plate of hamburger, made out of your arm. Just like the stuff you get at the supermarket.

Kid in class: (gulps and whispers) Only with a lot more calcium.

Squirt: Sick!