Tag Archives: kids

Me want woman

This week, I won’t have to shuttle any kids to or from camp.

But, I thought I would share a camp memory from last week.

Kid #3 was enrolled in a film class.  The drop-off instructions said to  enter through the front doors of the school on the first day of camp and meet the instructor in the lobby at 8:45.

So, on the first day of camp, we parked the car, entered the school through the main entrance and looked around for someone to help us.

A man in a suit greeted us.  “Can I help you?” he asked politely.

“We’re looking for the film class,” I said.

“Oh, I’ll escort you to the front office,” he replied.  “I apologize for all of the commotion.  We’re having a principals’ meeting today.”  He made a sweeping gesture with his hand.

As he spoke, I became aware of all of the principals walking through the front lobby and gathering in a large conference room.  The men were wearing collars.  The women, long, starched habits.

AnimalI suddenly became self-conscious of my clothing choice.  After rolling out of bed, I had chosen to wear a pair of camo cargo shorts and a Muppets T-shirt emblazoned with a picture of Animal and the words “Want Woman!”  Standard butch attire.  I folded my arms in front of me and tried to look casual and maternal.

I told W about my adventure later that night.

“You owe me big time,” I said.

“Did you not notice the words ‘Pope John Paul II’ in the name of the school?” she asked.

The lesbians and the land beaver

I thought I’d back up and explain that whole groundhog thing yesterday.

It all started last Friday.  I was walking down the steps to the basement when I saw him.  He was about as big as a football and walking in a nonchalant manner across the middle of the basement floor.

“Oh, hello,” I imagined him saying in a voice quite like Winnie the Pooh.  “Pleasant day, isn’t it?”

Holy shit.

I rounded up the kids to act as my human shield share in the adventure and learn something about animals and nature.  Further inspection revealed that the groundhog — also known as a woodchuck, whistle-pig or land beaver — was living in a mass of insulation wedged under our oil heater.  We heard rustling in this “nest” but were unable to see the critter, even though the kids shined the  flashlights at the nest and then into each other’s eyes.

Translation: There’s a land beaver inside our house!

I called W at work.  When she didn’t answer, I texted three letters: OMG.  Because texting “there’s a land beaver in our basement” seemed too weird and where was the surprise in that?  I like to keep that woman on her toes.

I finally got in touch with W and told her about the groundhog.

She e-mailed contact information for a wild animal removal company.  After a quick phone call, I learned that it would cost $295 to have someone come out to the house and set a trap.  Each additional trip back to check the trap would cost $95.

When W got home, she made some additional calls.  Our options were:

1. Live with the groundhog (Yes, someone actually suggested this.  As if having a groundhog roommate was a sensible idea.  Really, he’s very polite and quiet, even though he might have rabies, eats a lot of salad and poops in a very random manner.)

2. Hire an exterminator.

3. Buy a humane trap.

We eventually decided on #3, although I was leaning toward #1.  I mean, it would make a great book and all — The Lesbians and the Land Beaver — and we already sleep with a bunch of cats in our bed.  Let me tell you, this little guy would have looked adorable in a striped nightcap.

W went out to buy a trap.

I should probably add here that I apparently told W to handle this.  I didn’t mean it in a I-take-care-of-everything-around-here kind of way so small, rabies-carrying mammals trapped inside the house are your purview.  I just had a full plate that day and was delegating household responsibilities.

W wondered out loud why her big, strong butch couldn’t handle one wayward land beaver.

Anyway, W bought a trap for $34.99.  It even came with a free trap for chipmunks and other small creatures.  Bonus.  I mean, who doesn’t love a good BOGO sale?

We baited the trap with apple slices and waited.  And waited.

The weekend came and went, and there was no sign of the groundhog.  Nothing on Monday or Tuesday.

On Wednesday afternoon, I was working at my desk when I heard scratching on the inside of the French doors that we use to close off our front room.  I had assumed that one of the cats was trapped inside.  As I walked toward the doors, I saw that it wasn’t a cat trapped in the room but the groundhog.

I called the youngest kid to go into the room with a broom, a bucket and a bed sheet help me trap the critter.  By this time, the groundhog had scurried under furniture in the room.

The child wanted to know why I was the only person to see the groundhog.

I started to wonder that myself.  Was there really a groundhog trapped inside our house?  Was I going crazy?  Or maybe I was the only person who could see this land beaver (sort of like the Sixth Sense only with groundhogs instead of dead people).  Maybe I was the land beaver whisperer.  It was all so strange and confusing.

I called W at work.  “I can’t come home now to take care of it,” she said, as if I had designated her  house groundhog wrangler for life.

“I know, I’ll take care of it,” I said.

I sent our youngest inside the room to place the trap.

“Don’t worry, I’ll close the door behind you and hold it closed so that the groundhog can’t get out,” I assured him.

After the trap was set, we barricaded the door.  Just in case the groundhog decided to go all Ninja on us.

And then we waited.  I went back to typing at my computer to maintain an air of normalcy.

In a bit, I heard some noise, and there was the groundhog trying to get the bait from the wrong end of the trap.  This little guy needed GPS.

I sent the youngest back in the room to leave a trail of lettuce and snow peas leading to the entrance of the trap.  I was hoping the the critter wasn’t familiar with the story of Hansel and Gretel

“Don’t worry, I’ll close the door behind you and hold it closed so that the groundhog can’t get out,” I assured the child once again.

Again, he wanted to know why I was the only person to see the groundhog.

About 20 minutes later, I heard a loud snap.  There sat the groundhog inside the cage.  I had captured the elusive land beaver.  I was a hero.  A land beaver tamer.  I felt very brave and very butch.

The elusive land beaver

* * *

Lesson learned:

A land beaver in hand is worth two in the bush.

Things that I’m doing to avoid doing the things that I should be doing

Things that I am doing right now:

  • Eating Lucky Charms and wondering how General Mills makes them so magically delicious.  Maybe it’s his special military training.  Seriously though, they are delicious.
  • Texting my college roommate about a soap opera called Capitol that we used to watch back in the day.
  • Texting my son with information that they are expanding our local Apple store.  Ha!  Mom knows something that you don’t, Mr. Smarty Pants (not his real name).
  • Singing to the cats.  Operas don’t write themselves, people.
  • Searching craigslist for a white accent table for the newly painted blue room.
  • Sending randy text messages to W.  But not too randy because she is at work and that’s totally inappropriate (and she gets distracted by my flirtations).
  • Thinking about scrubbing the bathroom floor.
  • Screwing around on WordPress.
  • Writing this post.
  • Thinking that I should take a 15-minute power nap.
  • Wishing the kids came home at 4 a.m. instead of 4 p.m.

Things that I should be doing right now:

  • Scrubbing the bathroom floor.
  • Scooping the litter boxes.
  • Answering my copy editor’s queries.
  • Writing the last article for this week’s deadline.
  • Taking our pile of to-be-donated books to the library.
  • Reading Life of Pi before W yells at me again.  (We both read the book years ago, but decided to read it again before we see the movie.  The movie comes out next week.)
  • Vacuuming the bedroom.
  • Doing the laundry.
  • Picking up my flannel shirts from the drycleaner.  Yes, I get my flannel shirts drycleaned.  Well, just the good ones.  Yes, I have “good” flannel shirts.

Waiting for the weekend

W and I are going away for the weekend.  Actually, just Saturday night, but it’s still a big deal because we rarely go anywhere without the kids.

A few months ago, I found a Groupon for a new casino that had just opened up about 15 minutes from our house.  For $99 you got a $50 dining credit, a $50 slot credit and an overnight stay in the adjoining hotel.  Sweet.

Groupon. Good.  Heidi.  Good.

Have I mentioned that I love Groupon just about as much as I love Heidi Klum?

I figured that if I purchased the Groupon W and I would have to commit to going away and finding a babysitter.

W told the kids that they were going to be staying with their grandparents.  When they asked why, she attempted to explain the value of the Groupon.

Basically, they thought it was a rip off because, in the end, we were only netting $1.

W commented that when you have babysitting the Groupon is worth like a million dollars.

How true.

I would sleep with Demi Moore for $1 million.  Wait, I don’t think that was the premise of the movie.

I would definitely pay a million bucks for a night with W.  It would be like our own lesbian Indecent Proposal.

The kids really have no idea as to how much things cost.

You could show them a bag of rocks and they might think that it costs $36.  A tank of gas?  Maybe only $10.  I know that I never really learned the value of money until I started working at McDonald’s when I turned 16.

Minimum wage was $3.35 an hour back then.  I had to wear a brown polyester uniform, get up at 5:30 a.m. on weekends and clean out a fast-food bathroom that was too dirty for me to use without lining the seat with cheeseburger wrappers.  You do the math.

Anyway, W and I are excited about our big weekend.  We’re meeting some friends there and will be having a nice Italian dinner Saturday evening.  I want a glass of red wine.  Or two.  I’ve been jonesing for a Kir Royale.  Or two.

Hoping that the anticipation and excitement doesn’t supersede the actual weekend.

Because, truth be told, I haven’t been able to think of anything else this week.  Just being alone with W.

Geek confession: I heart graph paper

I just looked down at my T-shirt and saw the labels that my 13-year-old son printed out and then stuck on me earlier today.



He had stuck an I KICK ASS AT MATH label on the backside of my shorts but he promptly removed it after I told him that both the wording and placement was crossing the line and bordering on being disrespectful.

The whole label thing came about after I took him shopping for back-to-school supplies.

Checklist in hand, we roamed the aisles of Staples.

It was so exciting and made me think back to my school shopping trips with my mother.  As we walked in the door, I was giddy with memories of brand new colored pencils packaged in rainbow order, scented markers that smelled like real artificial fruit, erasable pens (can you believe it!) and the piece de resistance — a Trapper Keeper notebook in all its shiny, plastic glory.  I wanted to find a permanent marker to sniff to prolong my back-to-school buzz.

Trapper Keeper Notebook

However, I was quickly brought down to Earth by my son.  This seems to be his full-time job.

He matter of factly picks out a couple of binders, a pack of Pentel mechanical pencils and some other necessities, and he’s done.  Done.  How can that be?  There are aisles and aisles of pencil cases and paper punches, rulers and ruled paper, gel pens and glue sticks.

I quietly pay for the supplies, and we head home.  While I’m driving, I turn to him and very earnestly say, “I have a notebook at home that has graph paper in it.  You can have it if you want.”

For some reason, I thought he would find this neat.  I used to love graph paper (imagine the word “LOVE” formed square by square on a sheet of graph paper).  You could draw on it, use it to make word jumbles or to make your math homework neat as a pin.  I have a very distinct memory of tucking into a brand new pack of colored pencils and using them to do long-division practice problems on a sheet of graph paper.  So orderly and colorful with each row of numbers a different shade of the rainbow.  Imagine the joy this brought to my 12-year-old OCD self.

Him: You’re kidding, right?

Me: No, I used to love graph paper when I was a kid.

Him: Mom, that is so lame.  (snickers)  Did you and your lame-o friends used to have graph paper parties?

Me: Well, actually, we used to get together and make word searches.

Him: (peals of laughter)  Oh.  My. God.  That is so geeky.

I want to tell him how my friends and I liked books and puzzles and brain teasers and words.  That we cared about our grades and thought that an organized notebook and a fresh number 2 Dixon Ticonderoga would help us achieve and succeed.

For a split second, I think about telling him how we loved Mad Libs.  That Mad Libs are fun and smart.  “See, it is possible,” I want to say.

I catch myself just in time, though.

I wear my labels for most of the day.  He points them out to the other kids and they all laugh .

Little do they know that “geek” is a label that I’ll proudly wear any day of the week.

I can kick all of their asses at a times table competition.  Losers.

I take the graph paper notebook from the pile of school supplies on our kitchen table and quietly put it in my desk drawer.

Butt of the joke

Bart calls for Seymour Butz

We went to a concert in a local park last Sunday to meet up with some of W’s family.

The kids goofed around on the playground equipment.

“My butt hurts,” one of the kids blurted out.

“Then you should go to the butt hospital,” another retorted.

A woman walking by laughed out loud.

This is how I knew she doesn’t have children living at home.  Maybe she never had kids.  Or, maybe they’re grown and living on their own now with their own insult-slinging offspring.

With three boys ages 12, 13 and 14, we hear on average 123 butt retorts per week.

We are desensitized to the not-so nuanced humor of the butt joke, even the good ones.

In our house, something, anything — an iPod, a book, a laptop, a sweatshirt — is always lodged in someone’s butt, up someone’s butt or up someone’s butt and around the corner.

It never fails.

Child #1: I can’t find my shoes!

Child #2: Maybe they’re up your butt.

Child #1: Maybe they’re up your butt!

True fact: A child just walked behind me exclaiming “Ow, my butt.”

I think back to the lady in the park.  How she wasn’t jaded when it came to a decent one-liner with “butt” in the punch line.

Now that I think about it, I bet she never had kids.