4/15/08

I’m sure I already mentioned that MILfH is the first to bed and the last one to get up.  Sometimes she sneaks out the door and goes somewhere.  The other day she was complaining about how she is running out of money.  Right after that, she said:

“Have you ever been to that Indian store?”

“What Indian store?”

“The little touristy place downtown?”

“No,” I said.  Mostly because I’ve been too busy, I’m not a tourist, and this is a new town for me. 

“Well I guess the Indians in Montana aren’t as creative as the ones in the Southwest,” she said. 

“What?!”

“The store sells mostly Navajo stuff.  So I guess the Indians in Montana just aren’t as artsy.  But I did find a really nice necklace made by a Blackfoot woman.”

“Huh,” I said.  This was quickly becoming my response to everything.  “Huh.” 

Now I don’t know much about the artsy-ness of the various Native Americans in the country, but I’m pretty sure that was some kind of insult.  Hopefully she won’t talk that way out in town, because there are lots of “Indians” still roaming around town.  And if one of them decided to pull out an original handcrafted antler-handled hatchet and used it to split her skull, I think they’d get all time suspended by a Montana jury. 

I hear she is running out of money due to an insatiable craving for souvenirs.

But the weirdest, most insecure show of behavior so far has to be regarding the coffee.   

I made a pot of coffee on our first morning in the new house in Bozeman.  I made the full pot, 12 cups of Starbucks Breakfast Blend.  I made 12 cups so everyone could have some.  I started to clean the kitchen and put things away.  I saw a glass container of coffee grounds on the counter (not mine) so I moved it to the area near the coffee pot.  MILfH saw this and said, “Oh, is my coffee in your way?” 

“No,” I said.  “Is that yours?  You can keep it on the counter.  I don’t mind.”

She stood up and raced to the coffee.  “No, I don’t want it to get in your way.” She had Macy in one arm.  She scooped up the coffee in the other arm (it’s a pretty large container).  I thought maybe she was going to take it up to her room.  No.  Instead she went back to the living room, rocking the baby in one arm and rocking the coffee in the other.  She stood there, holding the baby and the coffee for several minutes. 

Are you going to hold that all day?  I wondered this.  “I don’t mind if you keep it in the kitchen,” I said.  “I won’t take it.”

“Oh, well, if you don’t mind,” she said.  “I’ll just keep it on the counter.”

FINE.  Sheesh. 

The next day I made coffee again.  She finally woke up after her hours of restful sleep and pulled out her own coffee pot.  Apparently this was how it was going to be…two coffee pots making coffee simultaneously.   Whatever.

The next day she was amazingly awake early.  She already had her coffee going.  And she offered me a mug! “You can try my coffee if you want,” she said.  I thanked her and took half a cup.  It was really good!  It must be that Millstone French Roast, who knows. 

There was a little left in the pot.  “Do you mind if I finish off the pot?”  I asked.  “I’ll make some more.”

She leapt off the couch and headed for the pot. “No, I need more,” she said.  She emptied the pot into her own cup.  “I can make more,” she said.  “Where’s your coffee?” 

Okay, I guess we can make more as long as it’s my stash of coffee.  Fine.  Her coffee was good, and I would have really liked more of it, but whatever.  She grabbed my bag off coffee and added some to the already-used grounds of hers. 

Fine.  I swear I won’t touch your flippin’ coffee. 

I also am barred from her Vermont effing cheese, her yogurt, her juice, and anything else that she brings home.  Which I don’t mind in the least.  What I DO mind is that she happily helps herself to everything that I bring home…she was the first to tear into a new box of crackers I bought for Jesse, into the juice boxes that I provide for AJ (I hate it when other people drink those darn expensive juice boxes…they are for PRESCHOOL USE ONLY), the fruit, the snacks.  And when I make dinner, she is always the first to eat…even before my children, who I always make sure are the first to eat.  She even finished off the pan of scrambled eggs I made the other morning for breakfast before my husband had ANY.  The rudeness and general self-centeredness astounds me in this grown woman. 

A couple of days ago she asked me “Do you think I’ll ever find someone?”  (Uh…she is MARRIED.) 

“You found Greg, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, but Greg is stuck in this cycle of abuse.”  I swear, if I hear cycle of abuse one more time…

I yawned.  “I’m surprised you would want to find anyone, after your experiences.”

“Well, it would be nice to find someone nice.”

“The key is to not need anyone,” I said with my 30-year old wisdom of the ages.  “Then you won’t need to depend on anyone, and maybe you won’t take the first person who comes along.”

She nodded.  “Well, I was fine before I met Greg,” she said.  “I was happy in my house with my dog.  Now I’m in debt, have no savings, and I don’t know what I am going to do.”

I didn’t point out the obvious, like well if you were happy, why did you marry that guy, because pointing out the obvious never gets anyone anywhere.  I just shrugged. 

“Huh,” I said. 

That fancy cheese is still in my refrigerator, unopened.  Yet the package of feta that I purchased for myself has been opened and used by MILfH. 

Last night for dinner, she tore into the package…midway through opening, she stopped…and asked me, “Is it okay if I open this?” 

4/6/2008

Since Sharon and I were tag-teaming kid duty, the rest of the drive to Montana was fairly uneventful.   Sharon, thank you so much.  The only other thing that happened was that we stopped at a McDonalds in Columbus, MT for lunch on the last day of the move.  Sharon took Macy to the bathroom to change her.  AJ was hungry.  The restaurant was very busy. 

I asked MILfH if she could watch AJ while I stood in line to order him a kid’s meal. 

She shook her head and said “Actually I’m going across the street to look for souvenirs.”

Don’t ask my why she wanted a souvenir at that very moment in Columbus, MT.  But I hung onto AJ in line and ordered him food, though he kept trying to dart off, which was why I needed the help in the first place.  Kids who have to sit in cars all day have lots of pent up energy.  Oh well.  At this point, I was glad to have five minutes sans MILfH.

We got to Bozeman and as it turns out, the landlord was applying touch up paint to the house.  The fumes were very strong and I didn’t feel good about staying there with a kid, a baby, and heck, myself…who was getting dizzy from the paint.  I decided to take my kids and myself and Sharon to Butte, to stay at my moms. 

“But your mom has cats,” she said.

“Yes, she does,” I confirmed.

“Then I can’t stay.”

YES!  Finally a MILfH repellent.  MILfH sulked off to a hotel and Sharon and I headed for Butte.

Things have settled and the paint has dried, and she is still with us in Bozeman two weeks later.  Since Bozeman is such a hot spot to live right now, finding daycare for an infant has been next to impossible.  Most waiting lists are extended into 2009.  So MILfHis “helping.”  By “helping” I mean sustaining life, which I know is important. 

But she lets the baby sleep ALL DAY, and then Macy is awake and ready to party at night.  She gives ZERO attention to AJ throughout the day, and is content to let him watch TV for hours on end.  She leaves him downstairs while she goes upstairs to read her various Montana travel magazines and books. 

I play with AJ as much as I can between setting up house, getting ready for the new job, unpacking, etc. but the poor kid is sad.  Jesse can barely walk because he had to do 99% of the heavy lifting and it’s made his foot problem flare up terribly.  The whole experience has made me feel very stretched and busy and not a good mom.  But I know it’s temporary, and I am on several waiting lists for daycares.  We also have one spot that we are going to try to take at an “okay” daycare just until one of the good ones opens up.  MILfH HAS TO GO.

She said she would be happy to stay if “she could bring her Dukey.”  Duke is her old, smelly ass dog.  Well, it isn’t my choice because we are renting, and they don’t want dogs from their renters.  She does not seem to understand this.  “Just tell them you are desparate,” she said.  “He’s a good dog and I’ll keep him on the porch during the day and he can sleep in my car at night.”

“I think we’d get reported as animal abusers if we kept a dog in a car overnight,” I pointed out. 

“But he loves my car,” she said.  “Or maybe he could just come up to my room at night.”

“It’s not our house,” I said.  “And even if they did allow dogs, there would be a non-refundable dog fee, and it would increase the monthly rent. 

She said “Well, that would be fine,” she said.  “Then I could stay.”

HA!  Right.   

MILfH is the first one to bed and the last one to get up.  It makes me insane.  That of all things, makes me insane.  I cannot stand lazy people.

The news was on, and there was a story about how people in the military follow orders.
“I can’t understand how those soldiers just blindly follow orders,” she said.

I am a former Marine. I said, “Well, they’re all really trained, and the ones that can’t follow orders get weeded out pretty early.”

Her clever response:  “I guess that’s why I’ve never been able to work.  I just ask too many questions.  Like, why do you have that rule?”

I wanted to say, “No, you’ve never been able to work because you are LAZY.”  But I just smiled my most sarcastic smile and thought of all the people on earth slaving away to make a buck, while my mother in law chooses instead to marry the first (and second, and third) men who happen upon her. 

Her current husband is a real tool.  A real jerk.  They are both jerks to each other, and she is an awful stepmother to his two daughters, of which he has full custody.  She was proudly telling me the other day how she really told off the eleven year old before she left to join our caravan.  Wow.  You told off an eleven year old girl from a really troubled family.  How proud you must be. 

Anyway, she’s been touting the “abuse card” for a while now.  How he’s “very abusive.”  She can never tell us just how he is abusive, because I don’t think she knows.  She probably feels abused.  She did hint around how he pushed her during a fight, which does constitute abuse.  She didn’t flat out say it, but she hinted around enough to where I think they hit each other when times get tough.

“I don’t deserve that,” she said.  “I’m a child of God.”

I DID reply to that.  I said, “I hate to tell you, but even if you WEREN’T a ‘child of God’ you  still wouldn’t deserve that.”

She chuckled with non-understanding.  She has already confessed to “making fun of” Buddhists, Muslims, and other non fundamentalist Christians.  I’m pretty sure she thinks all non “children of God” deserve the smackdown. 

We’ve already heard the story (she doesn’t know we know) about how she got drunk and threw a beer bottle at her husband’s head a week after they moved into their new house.  He called the cops on her, and she fled the scene in her CR-V.  She headed for the safety of the Christian retreat up near their house, Rainbow Valley Ranch.  The gate was closed, which is why she left the vehicle and jumped the fence and started scampering across a field, which is where the cops tackled her.  I guess abuse works in both directions.  I’m sure she thinks those police were probably Jews.

The time came to fill up the new refrigerator.  Part of the deal of MILfH coming up to “help” us included me cooking her stupid meals for her.  Fine, I get it.  But I am not a grocery store runner. 

The first trip to the grocery store (she had already been to two) for us was exciting.  As we walked out the door, MILfHsaid “I need some Millstone French Roast.  And I need special margarine, it’s in a green and yellow container.” 

Fine.  Whatever.

I went to the grocery store and I did look for these special items, I really did.  But the Smith’s only carried a couple brands of coffee and while they did carry Millstone, there was no French Roast to be seen.  So I went to the dairy section.  As it turns out, every brand of margarine in America comes in a yellow and green container.  So I didn’t buy that either, as I know I would have purchased the Wrong Kind.  And MILfH would have taken this personally.

She seemed insulted that I returned with nothing for her.  “I tried,” I said. 

A later attempt at a grocery store run yielded another request.  “Will you get me some cheese?”

“Sure,” I said.  “What kind?”

“Vermont White Cheddar.”

FINE.  I went to a new, very nice Rosauers.  The dairy aisle had your run of the mill cheeses, four kinds of cheddar…but none of them white, or from Vermont.  I headed for the deli area, cursing up a storm that I was wasting minutes of my day searching for specialty cheese for the laziest woman I know.  I could have said no, but I’m holding it all back.  I want a peaceful house and it’s already tense enough with a mother in law living in it.  I finally found a block of “natural cheddar from Vermont.”  FOUR NINETY NINE FOR A TEENY WEENY BLOCK OF CHEESE.  Whatever.  I threw it in the cart.

I got home and unpacked the groceries.  “Did you get my cheese?”

“Yes,” I said.

“How much was it?”

“Four ninety nine,” I said. 

Her jaw dropped open.  “Are you serious?  For Cracker Barrel?”

My eyes have started to do a funny thing when MILfH talks.  They jerk around, like I am about to have a seizure, or perhaps a stroke. 

“You didn’t say Cracker Barrel,” I said.

“I didn’t?  Oh, I thought I did.”

“Nope,” I said.  “You said Vermont White Cheddar.”

“Yeah,” she said.  “From Cracker Barrel. I swear I said that.”

I know that this visit from MILfH, while semi-helpful, is shortening my lifespan by several years.  I wanted to stick the fancy Vermont White Cheddar somewhere where the sunlight would never hit it. 

I can’t do it anymore.  I can’t hold back this story.  I apologize to anyone who will think “oh, you shouldn’t blog about that stuff” but the satisfaction of writing this down and getting it OUT OUT OUT is more important than that.  Plus, I am just not a good enough person to keep this kind of stuff in the shadows, where it belongs.  To quote my first barracks-mate at Lejeune (Cpl. Quayim, from Chicago):  “I ain’no fridge…I don’t keep stuff.”

Before I start the story I want to make it clear that I have two mothers-in-law.  My step-mother in law is a gem.  The other one is coated in crazy.  So please make sure you don’t mix them up.  Also, my husband gets the biggest kudos of them all for having to grow up under what could only have been constant duress.  He is, for all intents and purposes, quite normal. 

“Oh sure,” you might be thinking.  “All of our mothers in law are ‘crazy’.  Aren’t you being a little harsh?”

You would be incorrect.  Mine is a few bulbs short of a chandelier, the nuttiest fruitcake of them all, looney as a tune…whatever.  The crazy part really comes in to play at the end of the story.  I will also be the first to admit that writing this down has been very theraputic, as I am extremely traumatized from being in her presence for an extended period of time. 

I actually started writing the story a couple of months ago, because some things were so ridiculous that I had to write them down.  It’s going to take a few posts to get it all out…but be sure to tune in for the exciting conclusion.  Hint:  I don’t kill myself.  (It’s a surprise ending!)

MILfH = “Mother in Law From Hell”

April 4, 2008

We’re in the process of moving a household to Bozeman, MT.  Somehow I okayed my mother in law to come stay with us and help out the kids.  She doesn’t work, and we are paying her to make sure the children are supervised and fed while we do all the zillions of things it takes to move to another state.  She’s been with us two weeks now and I’m ready to burst through the wall, leaving a Maleesha-shaped hole.
 
I should have known I was doomed from the beginning.  I had a job interview in Bozeman three weeks ago.  I flew up on Thursday, and Jesse left to meet me in his vehicle so he could see the town.  This meant our kids needed to be watched Thurs-Sunday.  My step-mother in law could take them Friday through Sunday, but we had to rely on the MILfH to watch them overnight on Thursday.  This gave me incredible anxiety and worry, but it had to be done.  Why worry?  Even though we had lived near her for years, she’s never really bothered to visit, or invite us to visit her.  She chooses to focus 100% of her attention on her husband and his children.  Plus, she used to run a daycare in KCMO and lost her license due to allegations of child abuse.  Concerned?  Me?  Hell yes.  My husband insisted it would be okay.  What choice did I have? 

I asked MILfH what I should leave for dinner on Thursday night, so she wouldn’t have to cook.  Did she want me to make something beforehand?  Did she prefer to cook?  Should I leave a Stouffer’s lasagna?
 
“I could just bring some leftover pork roast from home,” she said.
“Okay,” I agreed.  “AJ likes pork roast, so that should be okay.”
“Oh, that’s right,” she said.  “I forgot about AJ.”
WTF?  Did you think I was asking you what you wanted for dinner?  Did you forget the purpose of your stay?  Who cares what you eat.  You’re an adult, hell-O.  Argh!

When I called to check on them Thursday after my interview, there was much crying and screaming in the background, but maybe it was just a coincidence.

Then when I picked them up at my step-MIL’s on Sunday, step-MIL informed me that Macy, my dear tiny Macy, was not strapped into her car seat upon delivery by MILfH.  I hit the roof.  What the hell was she thinking?  My husband lectured her and she swears she “didn’t know.”  Yet AJ was buckled in.  She was buckled in.  Did it not occur to hear that those buckles in the car seat had an effing purpose?  That they weren’t some elaborate car seat decoration featuring buckles? 

If something would have happened to my kid, they would have never found her body.  So she is lucky.  I don’t believe that BS about not knowing, because as I mentioned, she ran a daycare for several years, and it was not before car seats were invented. 

Then the day of the move came, and we loaded into the multiple vehicles it would take to get us there.  I asked my friend Sharon to come with me, and she being some kind of saint, took the time off work to come help me move.  MILfH would follow us in her own vehicle.  I won’t lie.  I was not disappointed that I didn’t have to spend the next nine hundred miles with my MILfH. 

There was a ton of snow the morning we moved, and we didn’t make it very far before we had to stop.  We went into a gas station/sandwich shop and ordered food for lunch.  Macy needed a diaper, so I said that I would run out to the car to get one.  Sharon was feeding Macy and I told AJ to stay with MILfH.  MILfH nodded that she would watch him.  I went outside and started digging through my car. 

The next thing I know, I hear the voice of a lady saying “Little one?  Little one?  Are you supposed to be out here?  Where’s your mommy?”

Then I heard a familiar voice say “I don’t know.”

I ran out into the parking lot and there was AJ, standing there behind a Ford F-250, in the middle of a busy gas station.  Cars were everywhere.  I dashed to him and grabbed him up and yelled “AJ!  What are you doing out here?!”  I yanked him back to the gas station.  I stormed inside.  Sharon was still feeding Macy, she was turned toward the sandwich shop. 

But the keeper of AJ, MILfH, was shopping for gas station souvenirs.  “AJ was in the effing parking lot,” I shouted.  People turned to stare.  Sharon, who was already taking care of a kid, apologized profusely.  “It’s not your fault,” I said.  I turned to MILfH, who said “Oh my gosh, that’s terrible.”  She looked mildly concerned, and then held up a bag of potato chips.  “Have you ever tried these?” 

Did I mention I had to pay for her gas the entire trip?  And food?  And probably somehow I am paying for those stupid trinkets too.

It was several hundred miles before I calmed down.

Later on we stopped in Sheridan, Wyoming.  Jesse sprang for a really nice suite for Sharon, myself, MILfH and the kiddos.  I had a million things to do to manage the kids.  I asked MILfH, very directly, if she would be in charge of AJ for the hotel experience.  After all, we were paying her well to HELP us take care of the kids. Sharon was already helping a ton with Macy, and I was overseeing the total kid health experience as well as the entire caravan’s care and feeding.  MILfH nodded and said “AJ, you are my kid this weekend.” 

Great.  Finally.

After dinner in the hotel restaurant, kids needed to be fed and washed and put to bed.  I was preparing food for the crying children when MILfH walked into the suite and declared that she was going to take a pill and go to bed.  Sharon and I got the kids to sleep eventually. 

The next morning, MILfH woke up (last, I might mention) and said she was going to look for some coffee.  She offered to bring back some coffee for us, “as long as she could find free coffee.”

AJ asked if he could go with MILfH.  “Okay,” I said.  “But stay with Gramma.”  MILfH said “Don’t worry.  He will.”

About half an hour later, MILfH comes back to the hotel room.  Without my son. 

The adrenaline kicked in.  “Where’s AJ?”  I asked. 

“Oh, he found his Uncle Mike and decided to go with him,” she said.

“You left him with his Uncle Mike?”  I said in an increasingly pissed off tone.  “Does Uncle Mike realize you left AJ with him?  Does he know you left?”

“I think so,” she said. 

Holy fuckballs.  I ran down to the lobby, the last known location of my three-year-old son.  No where to be found.  I sprinted through the halls back to the elevator, muttering “I’m going to kill you” under my breath.  “And I’m going to make it painful,” I added.  Apparently we were paying her to be on effing vacation. 

No AJ in the room.  No Gramma, either.  Apparently she realized the error of her ways and went to go look for him.  I called my husband in his hotel room, where Uncle Mike was staying.  “Please tell me AJ is with you,” I pleaded.

“WHAT?” He shouted.  “He’s supposed to be with YOU.”

Eff.

Finally MILfH returns.  AJ is with her, red-faced and tear streaked.  Kind of like a lost child would look.  “He was in the video game room,” she said.  “Was he with Uncle Mike?” I asked.  She didn’t give me an answer, and changed the subject.  “I couldn’t find any free coffee,” she said.  “Sorry.”  She was carrying a cup of delicious smelling coffee.

Strike two, I thought.  First you let him dart into a busy parking lot.  Then you lose him in a hotel in Wyoming.  Why are you still alive?  Why have I not squeezed your neck until your head popped off?  These were some of the various thoughts that were passing through my head. 

Sharon and I had an agreement that we would take care of the children the rest of the way.  I told Sharon that if I ever struck it rich, I would owe her a million dollars.

Coming soon…Part 2

Just an FYI…I have so many Montana-related posts to write that I am going to keep them in a new blog.  So if anyone cares to read about adventures in huckleberries, dog poo problems in Bozeman, or the perils of driving around Montana with out-of-state-plates, then click Gold and Silver…

I’ll still write here a lot about my usual nonsense. 

back to regularly scheduled programming…

I see nothing wrong with a good, old fashion spanking.  However, spankings don’t seem to work on all children.  Take mine, for example.  AJ is a mini-adult, and he will be the first to remind you of this.  Spankings are completely and totally ineffective on him.  In fact, they veer toward the counterproductive.  Spankings make him angry and apt to spank you right back. 

Enter “the corner.” 

I was a “spanked kid.”  I won’t say they worked on me, come to think of it, they just made me realize the sheer importance of ingenuity…figuring out new and clever ways to not get caught.  I also don’t think I’m neurotic or angsty due to those spankin’s, either.  I don’t think that spankings have long-lasting ill effects (as long as they were just some butt-whacks, mind you).  When we made a major offense, such as the telling of a lie, we even got The Belt. 

AJ gets The Corner. 

Who would have thought that a child could wail like a fire engine at the mention of The Corner.  We simply found the dullest corner in the house.  Nothing interesting to look at.  No possible way of entertaining himself.  And when he’s naughty, The Corner is where he gets to stand.  I must say The Corner is a hundred times more effective than a spanking, in AJ’s case.

But I’m afraid the neighbors will hear his screams and think we’re doing something worse!  It’s just The Corner, I promise. 

He’s really a good kid.  And we have The Corner on our side when he’s not. 

The building I work in is a very long rectangle, with offices along the window sides and offices on both sides down the middle.  Consequently, there is a path that leads all around the building…like a track, if you will.  You could do laps if you were so inclined.  Each far side of the building has bathrooms. 

On my end of the building, the bathrooms are clearly marked.  One is marked ‘Men’ and one is marked ‘Women.’  For the illiterate, the standard “Chick in Skirt” and “Dude with Stick Legs” graphics are emblazoned on the signs.  I think there are also Braille bumps, incase you aren’t convinced which bathroom is which yet.  The bathrooms are of the single user variety.

There aren’t many women on my end of the building.  So I’ve been surprised to find that the door is locked many times during the day.  This is annoying, because the bathroom doubles as a ‘mother’s room’ and when you gotta pump, you really gotta pump.  Either way, I have been mystified as to who the mysterious Bathroom Hog was.  She seems to be in there a LOT.  Maybe she is eating too much fiber.  The only conclusion I could come up with is that someone from the other end of the building must be using this side for some personal embarrassing reason.  Come to think of it, tech support sits on that end, and there are a lot of people and much more noise.  The bathrooms on my end of the building are practically private in comparison.

Wednesday, I was microwaving some meatloaf in the kitchenette, just around the corner.  The kitchenette is on the opposite side of the building, so I have to go around the bathrooms and down the hall, a big U shape if you will.  Then I heard the bathroom door open.  I quickly peeked around the corner to see who it was.  But the only person I saw was a man going around the opposite corner, to the other side of the building.  Shucks.  Here I was hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever it was using the bathroom all day.  I guess I was just curious.  But I could have sworn that when I walked by the bathrooms on my way to the microwave, it had been the women’s bathroom that had been closed. 

Today I was heading for the bathroom and the door was shut.  I reached down to check to see if the door was unlocked but then the door suddenly opened from the inside.  I was semi-shocked to see the SAME dude from the other day!  Except this time, there was NO mistaking which bathroom he was using…the skirt don’t lie.

“Oh, sorry,” he said, with a smile.  Then he went on his business.

No big deal, I thought.  Maybe the men’s bathroom is gross.  No one was around, so I cracked the men’s bathroom to have a look-see.  I was expecting the worst.  But no, shiny porcelain abounded.  It may have been a shade cleaner than the women’s. 

Then I thought about it.  Dude sits on the other side of the hallway, so he has to take four or five steps past the men’s bathroom to get to the women’s.  So I can’t even pin it to laziness.

Even stranger, the dude was presenting a brief at a meeting last week.  He was introduced to the meeting attendees as the head of a division.  So we can’t blame illiteracy either. 

I have no idea why he needs to use the women’s bathroom.  I promise you, there is NOTHING interesting in there.  I’m stumped.

So later in the day I went again and this time the seat was left up.  Oh-no-you-didn’t!  I guess now that he’s been busted, he isn’t even going to try anymore.  What do I have to look forward to Monday?  Shaving clippings in the sink?  Dirty underwear pushed up in the corner?  Towels on the floor?  Magazines splayed around?   

This means war. 

My son just loves his new Big Wheel. 

Things about today:

Good:

1.  I’m going to be a huckleberry farmer.  Alright, ‘farmer’ is too strong of a word.  But did you know that you can buy huckleberry bushes online?  I ordered eighteen.  The first two came today.  They will all supplement the lonely, huck singleton already planted out on the land.  Who knows if they’ll ever make berries.  I guess the plants are easy to grow, but getting berries is the challenge.  I got a box from FedEx today.  Out popped two slightly compressed huckleberry plants in one-gallon buckets.  Packed lightly in foam peanuts.  They have blossoms and everything.  At first I didn’t think they were real and that I was the victim of some Nigerian huckleberry online scam artists.  But then a couple of leaves fell off and I noticed a stalk was slightly wilted.  Cool!  But what will I do if the bushes do make huckleberries?  Nineteen huckleberry bushes?  I dunno…make jam? 

2.  I got my car detailed.  I’ve never had a car get detailed before.  I’ve also never had a manicure, but I imagine that the feeling is similar.  What happened was, my “Check Engine” light came on while I was tooling down I-90 at about 85 mph.  I got a tingle of panic.  Is the “Check Engine” light the bad one? I wondered.  Nah, I think the bad one is “Service Engine Soon.”  Or is it?  Ha…”soon” they say…as your engine drops out of your car onto the highway.   It oughta say “Service Engine NOW, mofo!”  Okay so after my train of thought stopped, I made an appointment to get the “Check Engine” light checked.  I might add that the “Cruise” indicator was also blinking.  As it turns out, some air sensor was going bad and it was going to cost about $350.  The standard warranty for a Subaru ends at 60000 miles.  And here I was at 64000.  Doesn’t that just stink, the service guy said.  Ha! 

You underestimated me, service-guy! 

You and your posse of highly-paid labor-guys who were planning to stand around my car, look inside once or twice and then replace a fuse! 

But I bought the extended warranty!  MWAH HA HA HA! Eat that, service-guy! 

He seemed to be annoyed at my dance of triumph, so I stopped.  “Hey,” I said, “since I’m saving all that money, can I get this?”  I pointed at the flyer sitting on the counter.  Gold Detail.  It listed all the things that they cleaned, which was everything, even the engine compartment.  “Sure,” the service guy said.  He was probably thinking “At least we’re getting something outta her…sucker!”  Anyway I picked up my car and it’s so clean I kind of wonder if they brought out the right one.  It even seems to drive better…maybe because it’s happy.  It’s happy because it no longer smells like a combination of toddler fart and month-old Whopper. 

I vow to try harder to keep my car clean.  In order to accomplish this, I plan to tow my children behind the car on a reinforced toboggan.

Bad:

1.  I bought a new lamp for my office.  My new office at my new job is an “inner” office, and I can’t deal with fluorescent lighting.  Yet the dim, flickering bulb over my desk is woefully inadequate, and I may go blind if I don’t get a lamp.  So I found a lamp for 5 dollars.  Score!  Then I went to purchase some light bulbs. 

All the light bulbs have jumped on the Go Green bandwagon.  I was intrigued.  Could *I* be green?  Might *I* contribute somehow, little ol’ me, to saving the earth?  I picked up a package of those curly pretzel bulbs.  “Lasts six years!” the package said.  “Save $141** in energy with these bulbs!” the package said.  I noticed the warning asterisks, and flipped the package around.  The warning reminded me of the contract that Willy Wonka (Wilder not Depp) made all the kids sign, starting out with normal sized writing and getting smaller and smaller and…anyway, the gist was that if you used the bulb for four hours a day for the next six years, your energy savings would be somewhere in the neighborhood of $141**, if lots of other factors came into play and if nothing went wrong***. 

***But it could go wrong. 

I’m no mathematician, but $141/6 years/12 months/30 days ended up saving me about six cents a day***.  I decided it was not worth paying eight bucks for a fancy, green-packaged, tree-hugging, whale saving pack of four light bulbs when I could get four gas-guzzling, forest-fire starting, blood diamond, DDT-drinkin’, starving children bulbs (that were of a higher wattage, mind you) for ninety-four cents.  Sorry earth.  I love my wattage. 

2.  You can’t buy Bran Flakes anymore, apparently.  I am pissed about this.  I love Bran Flakes.  Before you ask, I am not a senior citizen.  But it is what I grew up on.  They used to be called Kellogg’s Bran Flakes.  Over the years, they became Kellogg’s Complete, and you could get them wheat-bran or oat-bran (I love the oat variety).  Is this because people just want their stupid Froot Loops?  It pained me to spell that out.  It is NOT ‘Froot,’ you dumb toucan.  I miss my Bran Flakes!  The metamucil is just not the same.

Side note:  A while back I did a post on Extreme Bust-Up Flaming Nachos.  I want to apologize to all the pervs out there who keep landing on my blog because they were searching for “extreme busts.”  I feel terrible about all the confusion.  I mean, there are dozens of you every week. 

You all must be terribly disappointed.

AJ made a little friend at the park on Sunday.  The park is awesome…huge, landscaped, complete with lake and creek and wonderful bridges and things to climb on.  The sun finally came out after a long, long, extra long winter here in Montana and suddenly the park was packed with families.  AJ was a little intimidated by all the new kids, but in a short time he was venturing onto the slides.  He didn’t latch on to any kids, instead playing with ‘Mac’ his imaginary friend. 

Soon a mommy sat next to me and we both had babies with us.  Babies are a great way for moms to start talking to each other.  There are endless questions such as “How old?” and “Is he/she sleeping?”  Her baby and my baby were born only three days apart, as it turns out.  And then she said she had a 3 1/2 year old running around on the rocks.  How convenient!  So did I!  So we introduced the kiddos and they spent the next two hours throwing grass into the creek, racing around the playground, building houses for ants, and making the very last pile of snow in the park into snowballs.  I was very happy to see AJ having so much fun with another little kid finally.  Bonus:  I got the mom’s phone number so we can meet at the park again. 

I’ve used that saying:  “What does that have to do with the price of rice in China?” a lot.  Interesting that the price of rice in China apparently has a lot to do with things.  According to the news, “the global price of rice has ’skyrocketed’ 75 percent in a couple of months.’  Some major rice producing countries are limiting the rice type and amount that they are exporting.   The news in America has picked up on these important topics and didn’t hesitate for a second to paint the headlines dire:  Food Rationing in America?  Sam’s Club to Limit Rice Purchases…etc.

Remember Y2K kids?  What happens when you tell people that a store is going to limit anything, whether it be rice, the latest Elmo doll, or tickets to the World Series?

You get a huge run on these items when everyone goes out and buys five or ten times as much as they would have normally.  Heck, I eat rice maybe once every two months and I was tempted to go out and buy an 80-lb bag.  It’s the survivalist in me, I suppose.  But I am going to resist this, because common sense tells me to sit tight.  If I can’t afford rice in a couple of months, then I guess I’ll eat bananas.  If the rice crisis drives up the price of bananas, I’ll eat potatoes.  If a potato famine arrives, I’ll go to the store and buy up all the Fritos.  There’s always plenty of Fritos.  And I bet they keep well with all those preservatives.

In all seriousness, countries are experiences major food shortages.  This isn’y anything new, though you would think so from watching the news.  The food shortages in many places are increasing due to the rising prices of the food.  But why are the prices of food going up?  Is it because suddenly these is no food?  Did a major storm wipe out all the rice? 

One major reason is simply that the cost of oil is becoming out of control.  It costs lots of oil to get that food all over the world to where it’s needed.  So when oil goes up, so does everything else.  This is a good reason to buy your food locally to send the message that we don’t need your stinkin’ rice anyway.  I don’t plan to go without coffee anytime soon.  Or bananas.  My son would lose his mind if I took away his bananas. 

I also don’t plan to give up my car.  I can’t.  Although I do get a kick out of reading the uber-greenie blogs about how much better they are than everyone else because they live in a loft apartment that’s illuminated by candles and how they ride their bike to the protests they attend.  Noble, perhaps.   Realistic?  Not for very many people.  I really get a hoot from the celeb-blogs…Leo bought a Prius, some one else remodeled their Aspen manse to use 34% less electricity…super, guys!  Now how about limiting the number of times you fly back and forth across the pond to your villa in France? 

When you have means, it’s pretty easy to tell other people the right way to do things.  People with money can easily purchase expensive, organic, locally grown lettuce and fluorescent light bulbs.  People like Barbara Kingsolver, who wrote the phenomenal Animal, Vegetable, Miracle can afford a 100 acre ranch in West Virginia to live off the land for a year.  Single people with jobs in the city can easily mock the surburbanites and commuters of the world, suggesting that they take their kids and their dog to the crime ridden neighborhoods and cram themselves into an apartment.  It just doesn’t help the problem, all the finger pointing.  Everyone has someone to blame.  I guess that means that everyone is guilty. 

Now what do we do about it?

Incase you aren’t convinced you can find anything on line:  Rice Online