Month: May 2016

A few years ago I saw my father put more effort into Christmas than I had ever seen in the previous 40 some odd years combined.  He had used letters from Alex’s (or Abby’s, God help me if it was Abby’s, “MOM they were MINE! NOT Alex’s…..”  shadddddup) – anyway… he had wrapped a box containing stencil letters – the kids had to rearrange the letters to figure out their gift.

This doesn’t seem like a great, big deal but trust me when I say – it.was.HUGE.  My dad is not a Christmas guy.  I think it was maybe the first Christmas after mom passed, which made it all the more heart wrenching (I loved that he was picking up where mom left off, I only wish she had been able to see it).

Anyway, after some time and some really bad guesses (“it says, ‘I owe you one mountain due’! YOU OWE US A MOUNTAIN DEW????” – Calvin) somebody figured it out.  I’d have to say it was Alex, Abby was only 5 and Cal, while brilliant, is a bit of a schlub.

Trampoline!!!  TRAM-PO-LINNNNNNNNEEEEEEE!!!!!

In the years following, the kids have spent a good deal of time on that thing.  We expected it would become ‘old news’ quickly but – to their credit, the kids still use it quite a bit. …to the point – Cal jumped through it; well, just one foot anyway.  If the fates loved me – I would’ve been there to witness this…  As it is, Abby retells it as best she can between the guffaws.

So for months, the trampoline has been out of service – Abby and her 45 pounds soaking-wet  physique (no way she’s actually mine) has been out there minimally and not able to really do what she likes to do (she’s our gymnast, that trampoline is her Mecca).

Weeks ago we ordered a replacement mat and the padding that covers the springs.  They (and their shipping cartons) found a nice, comfy spot in our living room and made themselves at home for at least 2 weeks; yesterday, I’d had enough.  I went out to take care of the replacement (Dan was doing a ton of cooking – for our anniversary I ordered crawfish, shrimp and gator sausage – with some local corn and not-so-local potatoes he did up a country boil.  I was left to my own devices for the trampoline makeover).

I was, uh… struggling.  There was sweating and swearing – both profusely.  For those of you who have assembled a trampoline – tell me that shit doesn’t suck.  For those of you who haven’t… that shit sucks.  In that it was a day of the week – I was pissed at Dan… therefore, there was no way I could allow him to help…  Alex on the other hand….

My girl and I got into a groove (using one spring to attach the next and so on) and had it pretty much licked when she said, “Mom I get to jump on it first – Abby always gets that kinda stuff.  I helped so I get the first jump.”  I agreed she had earned it but — sensing the inevitable argument (about the 1st jump and anything else they might discuss thereafter) I tried to be proactive.

jenius situation #1: “Hey now! I don’t want you guys out here fighting all the time…”

“wait… you DO or you DON’T want us out here fighting?”

This, my friends is the very girl who sat at our dinner table not a week ago lamenting about losing her 4 point oh (“I have a 3.95 – Yale is NOT interested in a 3.95”).

“Yeah Alex, I want you out here throwing down every day – knock the shit outta each other as much as possible.  If you can get help and gang up on whoever seems weakest that day – that’d be good, too.  Scream and yell while you’re doing it – let’s make sure the neighbors hate our bouncing guts…”

We had about 8 of 90 springs yet to connect when Pop showed up with Thing 2 and Thing 3…  I just about blew my top when he jumped down and helped.  ‘Ok dad, here… how about I run the ball 99 yards and flip it on over to you for the score…’  But, he’s a guy and my dad – he couldn’t very well NOT help (other than the time he and Dan leaned against my car while I changed the oil – you know, to make me a better person) – Alex and I just glanced at each other and grinned.

With the mat finally attached (Pop did the last spring bare handed – I was torn between being impressed and wanting to call him out on showing off) we decided to start on the padding.  First of all, I asked Cal to bring the box to me (you see, I am actually borderline genius… I KNEWWWWW what was coming).  The boy – who can hear a deer walking in the woods from 9,000 yards, didn’t hear me.  He opened the box inside.  And subsequently carried – dragged (drug????) – the padding across the wet, muddy yard (did I mention Brownie’s errant pooping affects the yard as well as our floors?).

There was yelling.

As we completely unfolded the mess Cal handed us – I noticed it was a perfect circle; my question is – why in the hell would they make it a complete circle???  It.is.a.replacement.part. – not intended to be put on during installation but after installation.  Briefly: it goes between the poles (attached to the frame) and the netting (attached to the poles) – without going into extreme details or including pictures it’s tough to explain how this situation nearly broke me.

Dad and I were disassembling perfectly good working parts – not so happily – when Dan came over and…

jenius situation #2, “isn’t there an opening?  You could just wrap it around…”

Remember how I mentioned I was ticked at him anyway?  This did not help his cause.  “oh, hell yeah it has an opening jackass… but that seemed way too quick and easy….”

We never did get around to tying the padding in place…  Oh! and the first jump?  It was all Alex… after Abby said, “take the first jump, I don’t care… I stood here and boinged my hand up and down on the new trampoline for a while… but yeah – you get the first jump.”

We’re assembling a gang tomorrow – chains, brass knuckles, the works – gonna beat the snot out of her when she’s in mid-back tuck.

Men… take note.  This is perfection!!!  A surprise whisk-away for our 19th anniversary.  Reservations at a local restaurant I’ve been wanting to try – The Twisted Trout (perfect for a special occasion).  Then to the Bedford Springs for a drink and a shared piece of pie (we wondered how it is we’ve never stayed at the Springs and promised to remedy that on year 20).  Then we went back to our room at The 1788 Inn – it’s a wonderful, new(ish) B&B in Breezewood – we were never more than 10 miles from home and yet I felt like we had traversed the globe on a whirlwind date night…  romance….

Incidentally – see how Dan is in my phone as “Poops” – I have a couple of points to make about this…  First, it’s our mutual pet name and the story of how it came about is boring, I try to stay away from boring stories…  Second, there is nothing and I mean NOTHING more infuriating than being in the midst of a knock-down-drag-out text fight with him and every time he sends one of his stupid, shithead, asshat messages my phone dings and I see, “Poops” pop up on my screen – let this be a warning, think wisely before creating a contact!  And third… if your husband is in your phone as “Poops” and your DAD is in your phone as “Pops” be über careful before sending those dirty texts… dads don’t want to know what you got in store for your husband later…

ok… so back to it being my anniversary – which it is, today, May 24th.  Nineteen years.  We only promised each other 60 – this really bugs the hell outta Calvin, “Mom, stop, are you and dad really gonna divorce in 2057?” …as if I’ll have the money for a divorce attorney after all of the plastic surgery.  I haven’t mentioned our special day a whole helluva lot today, as people will undoubtedly belittle our accomplishment – clearly anniversary-having is the only competition those people can win…  I really, REALLY loathe people who say shit like, “19 years?  Is that all?  You guys are newlyweds…. I’ve been married for 49 years…”  Does anybody else hate that???    Is it just me?  is it because of my personality disorder?

We’ve lived quite a bit in our 19 years, Dan Iseminger and I… we’ve gone to school as a married couple, had some kids, bought a house, bought a business, dealt with a terrible loss… I guess we do alright.  There are days, moments when I think about him and my heart hurts because it’s so full and I wonder why he’s stayed; I think, “You could do so much better.  You DESERVE so much better.”  And I close my eyes and hope with everything I have in me, that he never realizes this truth.

I also find myself frequently wondering what the hell he sees when he looks at me – it’s been 19 years, 3 kids and 30 some odd pounds and he still thinks I’m the hottest woman he’s ever seen – I don’t know if he’s just that wonderful or if he knows there’s no easy way out so he’s just talked himself into believing it…  I look at him and ask myself, “Why?  why am I so lucky?  what have I done to deserve him and this amazing life we share?”

And then there are times I wonder, “how bad can prison really be?”  I dunno, I’d like to say I marvel at couples who don’t fight, who don’t know marital strife, but mostly I just think – have they never remodeled?  do they not have mothers? or fathers? are they just 2 happily married orphans?   have they never had to read the same map?  are they independently wealthy?  have they never rowed a boat together?  have they always had duplicate checks in their shared checkbook?  when they make brownies… do they sit down and rationally discuss who will get the last one?  does nobody in their house fall asleep on the couch – every.single.night?  is everybody turning their clothes right-side out before washing?  do they not have a competitive bone in their body?  has neither partner ever experienced digestive issues?  how are these people not arguing?  have they never, for even 1 second, questioned their decision?

We’ve spent the better part of the last quarter century fighting about the most inane things… and I admit… it’s 97.9888% me.  Dan would love to be one of those angstless couples…

he done married the wrong girl.

I am the person who celebrates the minutiae of life (I spent 5 minutes this morning jumping on Abby because her newly-learned French-braiding was magnificent); I am also the person who will wage war over who slept worse last night…  passion is not a one-way street my friends.  For the most part, Dan has come to accept me and my emotionally unstable ways…  he’s learned to just wait it out.  That’s what a coupla decades will do to ya – it’ll wear ya right the hell down.

For my part… I’ve come to accept(?)… expect(!) immaturity (and not of the attractive variety… no cutesiness here, people).  There we were Saturday evening – at the Springs, in a romantic nook, holding hands across the table, looking into each other’s eyes – no words, just knowing smiles –  the smiles of 2 people who have spent years nurturing an intimacy of such profoundly deep proportions, it often catches us off guard…

*burrrrrrrppppppp*

His laughter matched the exaggeration of my eye-roll.  “Ooooh I seem to be rifting dinner.  [uncontrollable chuckling] ‘Rift’ – what a great word.  I mean… of course I think it’s perfect ’cause I know the definition but even if I didn’t… if you said ‘rift’ to me – I’d know exactly what the hell you meant.”

I leaned in… “is this foreplay? only askin’ ’cause ya know… I’m just trying to get a handle on the direction this evening is taking…”

So here we are… 19 years later.  Lots of things done right, a few screw ups, tons of remarkable memories, some things we’d like to forget, amazing shenanigans, questionable antics… and a whole lot of love.   We’re far from perfect, we’ve both made our fair share of mistakes (him more than me, obviously) but it works for us.

As we sat on the couch this morning, holding hands I asked, “You gonna work on that committee report tonight?”

“I hope not.”

“ok… I think I’ll make something special for dinner.”

he gave me the raised eyebrows

“ok… I’ll think up something special for YOU to make for dinner.”

he smirked

“ok… so once you get to the counter, tell them we want a whole box of tacos and – because it’s a special occasion – we’re going supreme tonight..”

Dan Iseminger you are my soul mate and I adore you.  Our lives could’ve taken so many different turns before we met and yet I know we would’ve found each other…  Thank you for never realizing your partner potential…

 

 

 

This morning I put some chicken in the crock pot.  To clarify… I put the word *cook* in quotations because I once mentioned crock pot cooking to an older, Italian, female, co-worker and she chastised me pretty righteously.  “That is NOT cooking!!!  I can’t believe you let something sit ALL DAY paying no attention to it and call what you are doing – COOKING!!”  In retaliation for that I started calling her when I was making pasta – “hey Nanc… hear that?  It’s the Prego sliding right outta the jar!”  I’m sure she was crossing herself and asking for forgiveness on my behalf.

My life – being no different from every other person I know – is way too busy to do anything other than crock pot the shit out of stuff.  Meals involve either a phone call or a crock pot – there is no other option.

Anticipating high praise, I called the kids to check in on them and ask, “does dinner have the house smellin’ all tasty?”

“Uhhhmmmm…. well… to be honest mom… it kinda smells like dog poop,” I could tell Cal’s face was all squished up.

In normal times – this would have warranted a nasty comeback… however……. we are having a little bit of an issue at our house these days with our elderly german shepherd.  She poops on the floor almost daily; you have no idea the stress this is causing – while not the neatnik I’d like to be, I am certainly NOT a person who is ok with dog turds on my floor EVER, let alone on a daily basis.  I’ve considered having her put down but dammit she still seems to be happy most of the time – I’m at the end of my rope.  So, when he told me dinner smelled like dog poop…

“Well son… considering our current dog situation… are you sure it ISN’T actually dog poop somewhere?”

“No, when we got home we smelled it pretty bad so me and Alex looked over the entire house.  Then we figured out — it’s dinner.”

 

 

 

So…. this February I bought a cake for a Valentine’s Day party I was throwing. I bought the cake online – it was WAY cheaper than any cake I could get around here. Unfortunately… I ordered the cake a little late; grrrrr the tracking number showed that it might not get here on time. I went to talk to a friend of mine – she owns a bakery, and asked her if she could whip me up a cake in time for the party later that evening. While we were standing there chatting a man came in and asked if my friend would sponsor his kid in a state-wide wrestling tournament again this year, she said, “Of course… get me the information and I’ll get you a check.” After he left, my friend said she’d have to work the next day (Sunday) to make her orders for Monday if she dedicated her whole day to my cake but she knew it was important to me so… she made a few phone calls and started to mix up the batter.

Meanwhile, my kids called and said the delivery man just put something on our porch. I told my friend thanks anyway but my online cake just showed up and asked her to please understand that I saved $10 by going with the internet option. She put the batter in the fridge, said she understood and wished me well with my Valentine’s Day party…

I got home and looked at the cake – it looked ok, but not like other cakes I’ve seen. I cut a slice of it and took it back to my friend; I showed her the slice and asked what the online bakery used to make this confection. I can’t believe she didn’t know – I mean SHE’S A BAKER for chrissakes!!!! She did offer to check out the website to see if she could figure it out. While she was searching the website for me, a few customers stopped in for baked goods; she took care of those people and left me standing there waiting for her (I was NOT overly thrilled). After about 15 minutes she came back with a list of ingredients. I thanked her, told her how wonderful she is and again, mentioned that if it weren’t for the savings I would NEVER have ordered my cake online.

A few weeks later we were planning a party for my dad’s birthday… we needed a cake. I went to my friend the baker. I asked her what kind of cake she suggested – you know, since she knows my dad so well. While we were discussing my dad’s likes, dislikes and his food allergies, the local librarian stopped in and thanked my friend for her donation to the summer reading program; my friend apologized for the smaller donation this year and explained her cake sales had really bottomed out because of internet bakery sites. We talked a few more minutes after the librarian left then I thanked my friend for her suggestions and went home to order my cake online. While I was waiting for my credit card to process, I looked over at my son’s Little League picture and my heart was so full of love, seeing him there in his jersey – with my friend’s bakery name emblazoned on the front, I counted back the years my friend had sponsored his team… 7? 8? When the cake came I couldn’t believe it was not what I ordered – even to the point of containing one of my dad’s allergens. My friend, the baker, came through for me – she quickly frosted a cake and brought it to the party because I was already entertaining guests and couldn’t leave… She’s a life saver (literally, in this case) but I have to admit, I was a little shocked when she charged me a delivery fee – with all the business I used to give her.

For my anniversary I price shopped all over the internet for a chocolate cake with peanut butter icing (if the icing didn’t get him, the money saving would!!!) – when I got the cake… the icing was white. I took a spoonful of the icing to my friend the baker and asked her what the online bakery sent me. She told me she had no idea and suggested I call the online bakery. I told her, repeatedly, about the automated system and subsequent non-existent customer service at the online bakery number. She said she was sorry but she couldn’t help me…

I am livid!!!

What the hell?????? Over the years I’ve given her a lot of business and now she can’t help me???? …wasn’t it her shop that made my kid’s birthday cake 2 years ago – she should remember, after all she delivered it during that blizzard ‘cause my car broke down??? Didn’t I give her a huge shout out that night she went into the shop at 11pm because my friends and I were craving her cupcakes? I gave her $5 extra a few years ago when she gave me that amazing castle cake for my daughter’s birthday even though I wasn’t going to be able to pay for it until I got paid at the beginning of the month. If she could save money she would jump at the chance… and now she can’t tell me what’s in this cake I got online?????

Ridiculous scenario, right? Yeah… not so much. Every time you see the word bakery – insert pharmacy, when you see cake, cupcake or icing – insert medication and now you know exactly what I deal with in these times of mail-order pharmacy (for that matter… you can write this same story about any small-town business). Please, I beg of you… please realize you might save a few dollars with mail-order but in so doing, you are destroying local businesses – the very people who sponsor your kids, your seniors, your local community events… I will NEVER jeopardize your health, I will NEVER let you go without medication BUT… If you come to us ONLY when you have an emergency, pretty soon – we won’t be there to help you out. If you still find mail-order justifiable – ok… I can live with that, I understand how expensive medications can be, but please understand I JUST CAN’T MAKE MAIL-ORDER EASY FOR YOU.

As I sat there watching my sister-from-another-mister glance through her enormous calendar during Pop’s birthday celebration last night, I started rattling off the Iseminger’s commitments for the day in question. I looked, with an unmistakable air of arrogance, at Gary (husband of Missy, said sister), tapped my forehead and said, “Mine’s all up here, baby… all. up. here.”

There is no bigger asshole on the face of this earth than me.

Who throws down the gauntlet like that? I might as well’ve stood up and said, “Hey Karma – here’s my ass… go ahead and give it a good, swift kick!”

Now… I will say it’s been a little bit of a week in this house. First there’s work – it’s not that I’m working an insane amount of hours, actually… I’m working less, it’s just that the schedule is a tad different than what I’m used to; and we’ve gone from a pretty set schedule to one that changes – sometimes – week to week. I just can’t seem to get a grip on when I’m working… 2 college degrees people, 2 college fucking degrees and I’m having trouble comprehending a clearly written calendar…

Anyway, aside from my confusion on when not to show up for work, since Monday we’ve had 3 softball games (1 canceled), 1 Little League game, 1 unscheduled practice, 1 no-practice on a regularly scheduled practice day, 2 gymnastics practices, 4 field trips (1 unattended but with a call from the school informing me my kid was not in school {?????} 3 frantic texts later confirming she WAS, actually, at school), 1 rescheduled Track and Field Day (which was canceled, again and rescheduled for next week) and 1 birthday celebration that went from 6 people eating pizza at OIP to 13 people eating dinner at one restaurant and getting dessert at another because the 1^st restaurant clearly needed for us to leave so they could close…. I won’t even get into the washing of uniforms for 3 consecutive days of games, the delivering of softball equipment every day at a (different) specific time, Dan needing to be AT work at 4am Tuesday morning for some kind of upgrade or the concession stand obligation affecting the when/where of the birthday celebration.

Schwew! While this – sadly – isn’t a huge deviation from our normal schedule… it also isn’t the norm. But hey! No worries people, ol’ Miss I-don’t-need-to-write-anything-down is right on top of it! Hahahaha Missy and her calendar… ROOKIE!

So… me and my computer like memory had a morning that went a little something like this:

6:52am – Dan woke me. God forbid he gather his clothes the night before – NOOOO – he has to get dressed in our bedroom… asshole. (truth be told; I feel bad for him. I used to be an insanely early riser and he used to be the slug-a-bed… now he has an early-start job and I can’t seem to get up before 6:30 – I carry some guilt for sleeping that late but buying the store compounded with my mom’s shitty lot in life has taken a disastrous toll on the quality of my sleep). So I woke up struggling with the self-loathing which accompanies such a late wake-up time and the desire to stay in bed all day.

6:56am – poured my first cup of coffee and Dan’s travel mug, sent him on his way with a grunt.

7:01am – telling myself to get my ass upstairs to wake the kids – thinking, “they have plenty of time… why rush this????” But some unknown force pushed me to get up.

7:03am – woke Cal, moved on to Abby

7:05am – Cal called out, “Mom! MOM.” I came out from Abby’s dungeon and saw a very concerned, yet strangely calm Calvin with a very take-charge kinda look on his face, “Mom, I have exactly 10 minutes to get to the bus.” (with realization washing over me like a bucket of ice water), “OH SHIT!!!! I TOTALLY FORGOT YOUR FIELD TRIP! DAMMIT – I WANTED TO GET UP AND MAKE YOU EGG SALAD. HOLY HELL 10 MINUTES – YOU GET DRESSED AND GATHER YOUR OTHER LUNCH STUFF AND I’LL RUN TO SHEETZ FOR A SANDWICH!!”

7:06am-7:08am – (tearing my room apart): I need pants, pants… any pants… ohmigod these sweatpants are god awful… I mean… what am I gonna do, I won’t see anybody and they go on so fast – well that’s cuz they’re 8 sizes too big… ugh the elastic at the ankle is ridiculous… they look so stupid, who am I? MC Hammer???… I won’t see anybody, right?? Surely not…. Shoes, uhm sneakers… dammit why do I always untie my sneakers??? No time to tie, flip flops… flip flops… sonuvabitch I just wore them yesterday… who can’t just put their clothes IN the laundry basket??? Why do we have clothes laying all over my shoes… (I picked up a lonely flip flop and screamed right at it): WHERE THE HELL IS THE OTHER FLIP FLOP????? geezus I coulda had my sneakers tied by now, forget the flip flops… no time for a bra, I need a baggy, thick sweatshirt… a baggy, thick sweatshirt… WHERE THE HELL ARE ALL OF MY SWEATSHIR…..oh here’s one.. draped over the laundry basket… with the other friggin’ flip flop under it – yeah that’s about right, now that I have my damned sneakers on… fuck you flip flop! Fuck.you. Purse… purse I need my purse… Has ANYBODY seen my pur… never mind!!! I got it…

7:10am – (left foot out the car door, the other slamming the brake hard): put ‘er into park before getting out Karen… man I really need to get myself together here… I can’t believe I’m out in public looking like this, please don’t let me see………

7:11am – oh Hiiiii! Karson… Corey… I, uh, we, uh, forgot about the field trip. …woke up a little late – Cal will be there though! (I take a few seconds to take in Corey’s appearance – slacks, nice shirt, basically just standing there being an adult with responsibilities… meanwhile, I’m standing there in 2X cheap-ass sweatpants from 1989, hair that had no chance of looking good even if I had tried and a mouth full of ick that needed, at the very least, a stick of gum…)

7:13am – (sliding into our alley sideways): ya got everything you need??? Don’t worry bud, Karson and Corey are still at Sheetz – we’re good!

7:14am – (at the light): oh crap, there’s Corey… he’s already dropped off Karson… ok… no worries! No worries! We’re good!

7:15am – (screeching to a halt): 7:15 on the dot my man… how ’bout us??? have a great trip bud, I love you!!!!

7:17am – (got home, dropped into the kitchen booth, took a deep breath and wondered why this last 15 minutes seemed more taxing than my last half-marathon): Momma, here’s the homework I was telling you about at the restaurant – we only have a few minutes….

After finally getting the girls on the bus (which, I might add, required no running by any person involved), I poured myself a 2^nd cup of coffee and thought, “I don’t know… maybe it’s time to admit I need a calendar. With a little heads up – that entire situation could’ve been avoided.” I sat down, swiped my phone awake and saw: “Reminder: Cal field trip 7:15 today”

We bicker.  A lot.  Some (Abby) more than others, but we all do it to some extent.  The breakdown looks something like this:

Alex and Abby – 53% of all Iseminger bickering

Me, explaining to Dan why he’s wrong – 28%

Abby plus any member of our house other than Alex – 16%

Alex plus me and/or Dan – 2.5%

Cal – 0.5%

We’ve taken it to an art form (with not a drop of Italian blood in our veins).  We bicker about everything from who had the hardest Math24 cards to who most often pours milk for dinner; who always has to take the first shower to ‘why does Abby get to wear a shirt with smack talk on it when we can’t?’ (I’m not ok with my kids wearing shirts with sayings like, ‘Legend in the Making’ or ‘Get Ready to be Second’ yuck, just yuck.  But I did buy Abby a shirt that read, ‘Girls can do anything boys can do, only better’.  I guess it was trash talking but it seemed ok somehow…  Yep, shoulda seen that one comin’ – the shirt created sizable discord).

It seems most of our bickering goes on in the car.  Could be because we are in the car so much – 3 kids who play lots of sports and a mom who doesn’t cook… we are constantly driving to a game or restaurant.

Case in point… last fall we were headed to Chambersburg for Cal’s late-afternoon baseball game; the 5 of us were ready ahead of schedule (this is completely unheard of, btw) and sat in the car waiting for Pop.  We passed the time bickering about where we’d eat after (talk about summing up our car sparring in one 7-minute showdown – arguing about a post-game dinner…).  Pop showed up and got himself situated in the car, completely unaware of the squabbling that had gone on before his arrival; Cal looked over and asked, “Soooo… what did you do today, Poppa?”  Pop sighed then said, “Well, I spent most of the day taking quaaludes so I could handle this car ride with you 5…”

The bickering found its prominence in Iseminger lore 2 years ago on Pop’s birthday.  I can’t even remember where we took him for dinner but we loaded up and got into it pretty good.  The kids were scrappin’ over who always has to get into the 3rd row which evolved into the inevitable, “Abby is the favorite ’cause she’s the baby.”  This worked itself into all of the wrongs faced by my poor underprivileged, deprived children…  By the grace of God we pulled into the restaurant parking lot.   The only thing heard over the kids’ caterwauling was me griping, “Why in the hell would you park here?  Don’t you see those other spots?  Why are you wedging between cars when 10 feet further there’s a slew of open spaces?”  Dan was snipping back about never doing anything right and then…  we heard something….  all 5 of us quit running our mouths to better hear the barely audible singing…  “Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday to me….”

From that point forward it has been understood in our family – the bickering on any given day belongs to the person who last celebrated a birthday.  Pop revels in the fact he has it the longest…  he’s a May birthday with Abby next, in October.  I find it ironic that Abby – the bickerer extraordinaire – enjoys the gift of strife for only 3 days until my birthday slides in unnoticed (I get the arguing and whatever birthday cake is left over from her party…  poor karen).

On Sunday morning, with Pop’s birthday coming up we thought we’d give him a little taste of what’s to come.  It was early as Alex had to be at the fields by 8:30 and the park is about an hour drive away; we stopped at Dunkin Donuts for coffee and a sugar high.  We piled into the car, Dan started her up and off we went.  I looked at him and said, “You think you could buckle your seat belt so I don’t have to listen to that friggin’ DING DING DING all the way over the mountain?”  Then the girls, who were sharing 25 donut holes, started, “I wanted chocolate!” “You said you didn’t want chocolate!” “I don’t want chocolate!” “What??????” “You better not eat all of the other flavors!” “Do you want chocolate?”  “What did you say?  I need to figure something out?”  “Nothing” “No!  WHAT did you SAY?”  “Nothingggggggggg.”  “No I’m not mad I just need to know what you said…”

“SHUT UP BOTH OF YOU”

“I need to know what she said so I can figure something out.” “She said she got you chocolate.”  “I don’t want chocolate – they are NASTY.”  “Well how did I know you didn’t like the chocolate?” “Great now there’s all these chocolate, do NOT eat alla the other flavors.”

“SHUT.”

 

 

“UP.”

 

We rode for 5 minutes in silence – each of us wondering why in the hell we agreed to ride along….  then I heard Abby ask dad if he wanted a donut hole.  “Hmmmm… maybe…. do you have any chocolate?”  Yeah, he’s a shit stirrer.

Today… on Pop’s 67th birthday, we present to him – the gift of Iseminger:

Roses are red

Violets are blue

The bickering now goes

From Alex to you!

I woke up this morning thinking, “oh my god…. I died in my sleep and came back as Tippi frickin’ Hedren.”

I couldn’t even hear my alarm (or Dan’s 3) for the birds….

the

 

 

 

birrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrddddddssss

What the hell are they carrying on about???  Once they pick the 14 or 15 volunteers to crap on my car today… what’s left to discuss?

Is it a reunion?  Are they all just getting home from their trip south?  Is there a reason they can’t just get a box of wine and do this a little later?  By 7am they’re all gonna be sittin’ around with nothing to talk about…

And why are they all squawking at once?  Is there no dominant figure in the bird world???  Is there nary a beak that can take some kinda control???  “ok, ok!  one at a time… we have ’til fall….”

Maybe they all just got wind of  Monday’s forecast and are on a witch hunt to locate the bastard who led them all north…

Or maybe they know who’s idea it was and are letting him have it…  “there’s a possibility of flurries this Monday Sal, WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?”

Meanwhile, I did learn Tippi Hedren is Melanie Griffith’s mother AND I now have a few extra minutes to use as I please this morning…  ha… ha… ha screw you birds.  Screw.You.

well… here’s hoping this Wednesday is a little better than last…

I guess it wasn’t so much a BAD day as it was a day I spent looking around wondering if I exist.

Disclaimer: some of the situations involve people who may read my blog – please don’t take offense, I need all the readers I can muster.

The first transgression was a work sitch (that’s hip for ‘situation’… the fact I had to explain the hipness makes it a little less hip).

Ok, so a few weeks ago I bought a larger-than-usual supply of medications from a wholesaler because the wholesaler was offering a discounted rate.  Seems innocuous enough, right?  (I’ll try not to lose you in the banality that is my day-to-day existence…)  For some reason, out of the blue, I picked up one of the items – the sticker showed full price; this led to an all-out investigation (which was irritating ’cause previous to this I was happily sitting at my desk shopping for furniture – it’s a bitch of a job, really).  Every medication from that order had a full price sticker;  I sent off an email to my rep.  This is the conversation (condensed):

me: I got the stuff, the stickers show regular price

him: you had to fax the sheet not order directly onlline

me: I did fax the sheet

him: oh… ok then… the sale price will show on your invoice

me: I just checked and the invoice shows full price

him: oh… ok… it seems you slipped through the cracks; the deal wasn’t applied to your order – we’ll issue a credit

So… you know, I DID get the prices and I’m not really all that ticked at my wholesaler ’cause let’s face it… shit happens.  And had my day ended there – I probably would be sitting here wondering what the hell to blog about….  But…. alas…. my day kept going….

I get a bazillion emails per minute (not really….).  So, Wednesday (THE Wednesday) I noticed a recurring email that I didn’t want and, as my emailing thus far had resulted in a rather large credit from a wholesaler, I thought, “what the eff….  I’m going for it.”  This is the abridged version of THAT conversation.

me: Hi, could you take me off your email list.

her: sure… could you tell me your company name

me: (totally showing my professional, mature side in that all of my emails have everything but my bra size in the signature line;  I really just wanted to write, ‘uhhhhhh scroll down dumbass’ but…) Everett Pharmacy

her: I don’t have you in my system

me: (looking for a perplexed font) well, I’m replying to an email FROM you..

her: we can’t seem to find your email address in our system

me: well, maybe look in your ‘sent’ folder every day of the last month – I’ll be there

2 hours later they had removed me from their outgoing emails list.  Again… nothing spectacular… nothing warranting any kind of further discussion, especially if my day had ended there… but… it didn’t.

In December we changed banks for a number of reasons, not the least of which being the $150 promotional offer if we got the account up and running by the end of the year.  It was serendipity, I was not happy with our current bank and my bff worked at $150 bank – nothing gets me moving like the promise of being rewarded for something I WANT to do anyway…. only… we never got the 150 beans.

I called some time in February and was told to hang on it might take upwards of 90 days for the money to be deposited; no worries, man, no worries – it was free money…  It was also the kinda shit I only thought of when I was in the shower at 11pm or driving somewhere on Sunday afternoon; but early last week I put a reminder in my phone to call and inquire about my $150 bonus.  On Wednesday (THAT Wednesday) with 2 weird issues behind me; I got home and listened to our phone message, “Hi Karen… we’re trying to get your money.  The promotion was never entered into your account.”

Seriously… what the devil is going on around here?  Again… shit happens and it was fixed with a  single phone call (a deposit for $150 was made into our account the very next day) but – I was sorta feeling a little – I dunno… irrelevant????

I sat down, preparing to share my ‘Karen has never been less significant’ day with Dan but he was looking around for something…   Had one of my fabulous girlfriends been searching… it would not have affected my story telling one iota, DAN looking around? fugetaboudit, I might as well’ve stood on the table with sparklers and tap danced my story.  (it bears mentioning – had I unhooked my bra, his head would’ve snapped around like a bass on a lure… jackass can be outside, mowing grass, with headphones on and before my brassiere hits our bedroom floor he’ll be standing next to me, “did you call me?”).  As I had no desire to unleash my attention grabbers, I instead asked, “What are you looking for?” — 3 times (am I real?  oh my god, I’m Bruce Willis in the Sixth Sense…).  It seems he was looking for the checkbook – we had to pay for Abby’s gymnastics…

except

I had paid… Monday

I walked in on Monday, checkbook in hand and fetched my girl.  The Abbers says, “Mom, my teachers need to speak to you…”  (and me… being me… started thinking how I’d respond to them wanting to showcase Abby in the next competition…).  So I followed the teacher who had asked to see me; when she stopped moving (damn, young, fit people – slow.the.hell.down.) I introduced myself and said, “Abby said you need to see me….”.  She had no idea, “I’m not sure what the owners want but maybe… have you paid for May?” So, I told her I had not but raised my hand holding the checkbook and headed to the front desk.  While at the front desk, an owner trotted over and asked about my overdue payment (it was May 2nd by the way, the 1st was Sunday…) and I kinda looked around wondering what the fuck he thought I was doing – at the front desk – with my checkbook out – and a pen in my hand…  The desk guy told me what I owed and the owner talked to me at length about their plans for the coming months and how the fee might change because of these changes… about 6 minutes of discussion concerning my current payment and future payments…

And… because it was Wednesday (THAT Wednesday) that very same owner asked Dan to please pay the fee for May…

A day of missing deals, phantom emails, lost promotions and ghost payments… I just tried to tag some photos on Facebook – I wasn’t able to do it – is it starting all over????  Eh, it’s payday at work – I know a few people who will celebrate my existence…

 

 

 

On May 24th 2001 we found out all of our hard work had paid off…  Never was I so thrilled to pee on my hand (now, 15 years later they make a more ‘user-friendly’ pregnancy test, go figure….).  I know what you’re thinking but trust me when I say – yes, 8 months of trying to get pregnant is hard work; around month 5 or 6 we wondered if we’d ever bump uglies just for fun again….

I walked outta the bathroom and said something along the lines of, “Happy 4th anniversary, we’re pregnant!  Which might explain my eating habits of late…” then I turned back into the bathroom and muttered, “…asshole.”  (did you honestly think news of even THIS magnitude would have any less Dan/Karenism about it?)

3(?), 4(?) days earlier we had gone out to dinner to celebrate the last of our pharmacy school exams and the impending graduation ceremony, on our way home I said, “geez I didn’t eat much but maybe that had something to do with the 6 pieces of cheese I scarfed down before we left.”  And Dan (who I might add… NEVER, N.E.V.E.R. mentions my eating, my weight, my pants size) chose this moment to say, “Ya know… you wonder why you are gaining weight.  You can’t drink one of those Tim Horton frozen drinks as much as you do and gorge yourself on cheese and then complain about your pants being tight.”  If you know Dan, you know that 100% of the time he will say the wrong thing at the wrong time with absolutely NO WAY of knowing it was the wrong time.

I guess, it really should come as no surprise he criticized my eating for the first (and only) time EVER when I was in the throes of pregnancy cravings…  Of course I didn’t know I was pregnant either but I did know Dan was gonna pay and PAY BIG for this transgression (to be honest – he was right! I complained constantly about my weight but never worked on fixing it… doesn’t matter – he called me fat when I was selflessly forming a life).  We didn’t speak for the next few days – it was in the midst of those days that we graduated from pharmacy school.  That’s right – we busted our asses getting that R.Ph. behind our names and we weren’t even speaking when we graduated – we have nary a picture of the 2 of us in our caps and gowns…  I should write a book.

That poor bastard…  anybody who knows him probably can’t believe he’d even make a comment like that, those same people are giving the “of course” nod in regard to the timing of that statement….

We eventually started talking again (hahaha this hasn’t always provided positive aftereffects for Dan) and began living our life as pharmacy school grads and parents-to-be.  The first order of business was our graduation party, during which we announced our good news to the world. My mom was over.the.moon. she rushed up to where we were standing, all tears and smiles and hugged us both with everything she had in her.  My father, on the other hand, walked up, looked at Dan’s extended hand and said, “You want me to shake your hand ’cause you fucked my daughter?”

touching

For the record we had been married for 4 years.  To this day we THINK he was just being dad, making a joke to hide his emotion… but there’s that little part of me that wonders if he wasn’t a titch disgusted by it all….

and then — there was Alex.

Cal was pretty uneventful.  He was a scheduled C-section – I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned Dan’s carrying on the morning of said C-section because we’d had a snow storm during the night and he had to go clear the driveway.  “Well… uh… I’m about to go have my stomach cut open and a person pulled out so, yeah… if you don’t mind clearing the driveway, that’d be great…” 3 hours later when Dan said, “It’s a boy!” I started bawling and he said, “are you happy?”  I was sobbing so hard I could barely choke out, “I was afraid I wouldn’t love it if it was a girl….” another shining Karen moment.

Abby tried to suck the life out of me from the get-go.  During her pregnancy I’d have a weird feeling in my lower back, Dan always wanted me to get it checked out – but how? it would happen randomly and without warning.  Anyway, fast forward to the morning of the C-section… as they were cutting our little Demon Spawn from my body, I got that lower back feeling and mentioned it to Dan; at the same moment we heard, “We’re losing her…  get the anesthesiologist!!!”  A tray of instruments hit the ground as a nurse sternly instructed another nurse to, “get the anesthesiologist NOW!” and my obstetrician shouted, “Her heart rate is at 33 WHERE IS THE ANESTHESIOLOGIST???”  I looked at Dan in my personal drugged up bit of heaven and said, “is it a boy or girl?”  Dan, with a sheer look of terror on his face, said, “I’m a little more concerned about you right now than what the sex of our baby is…”  (pretty sure the look of terror was less about losing me and more about being left alone with those 3 kids…).  A dose of epinephrine later  and we got to enjoy the news of another little girl joining our ranks… (I’ve made no secret of the fact I only wanted boys… I also make no secret of the fact I wouldn’t trade those 2 amazing girls for all the boys in China…)

I begged and begged and begged for my doctor to let me do #3 by natural means; he refused because of my 2 prior C-sections – he told us afterward she’d have never made it through a vaginal birth, her umbilical cord was exceptionally short and wrapped around her neck… (I was hoping to get through this entire blog without using any variation of the word vagina… sorry ’bout that).

The labor-intensive trip to our first pregnancy, the early-term miscarriage before Cal and the near-death experience of birthing Abby and Dan was out on the “let’s have our own baseball team” plan (he’s such a quitter).  I do agree with him that we are incredibly lucky to have 3 extraordinarily healthy kids and with each subsequent attempt we’d be upping our chances of ruining our streak… so we stopped at 3.

Today my kids (and husband) are celebrating me as ‘Mom’ – what they don’t know is… everyday, with every silly joke, every good grade, every time they step onto a field, a court, a gymnastics mat, every time they say “I love you,” every time they give me a hug, a smile, grab my hand, every time they ask me “how was your day momma?” every time they look into my eyes and tell me something about themselves, they are celebrating me.  I’ve been told I have an ‘odd’ parenting style – can’t really say whether that was a compliment or not…  I don’t sugar coat things with my kids – if they’re being assholes, I tell them they’re being assholes, if they are getting a little swell-headed, I bring them back down to earth…  I swear in front of them but don’t condone any kind of questionable language from them (“when can I say s-u-c-k mom?  my friends laugh at me because I can’t…”  “hahahaha well you’re supposed to say it with your friends and then lie and tell me you don’t…”).  I shout, “BRICK” when they throw up a mess of a shot in basketball and I repeatedly reassure them that I don’t really like them all that much (“mom can I have a friend over?” “WHAT? I don’t like other people’s kids, hell I don’t even like you guys…”).  Lucky for me, my kids see through me and seem to love me all the more for it…

I, like most moms, get a Mother’s Day gift everyday – many times a day, none of which are material in nature.  Don’t get me wrong – this here MacBook Air laptop thingy Dan just gave me this morning is a welcome material expression of his gratitude (after all, he put in about 97 seconds TOTAL for all 3 while I spent months making them and had to have them surgically removed…).

So far I’ve been showered with balloons and kid-made confetti, I’ve received a painting from Abby, a poem and chocolate chip pancakes from Alex and a solo trumpet performance of The Rocky fanfare from Cal, which he learned yesterday for this very occasion (Alex followed up with a bari-sax rendition of the opening song of Beauty and the Beast).  My kids are immersed in the arts!!!  My absolute negligible knowledge of music is overshadowed by my unabashed awe of my kids’ talent.  I sat here and cried listening to them play – I love watching my kids do anything!

All that’s left is the family trip to the track and a visit to the cemetery.  I’m not a cemetery kind of person.  I get ZERO comfort when I’m there; what I do get are mini panic attacks.  I go for special occasions and a rare trip here and there to give the kids a connection so that they will visit when they are older.  The first visit after the funeral was very emotional for me and I think it sorta upset the kids to see me crying, now when we get out and stand at the headstone they all just look at me, wide eyed and nervous – it’s, uh, completely awkward.  Of course, nothing will ever erase the memory of that first family visit…

There I stood, tears streaming down my face, my breath was quick and shallow and I was closing in on an ER-sized panic attack when Abby (5 at the time) looked at me and said, “Momma, is Lalee’s head in there with her body?”

She’s always had a way of changing the feel of a moment……….