May 25 2012
2 Comments
Humor?, money, Random

Wednesdays with Rodney


Rodney called again today, like he does every week to check on me. Such a nice boy. I became acquainted with him about three years ago.  Every Wednesday morning, like clockwork, my phone rings. Recognizing the number on the caller I.D, I usually answer it  “This call is for Say-ra Car-pin-tar,  if you are not Say-ra Car-pin-tar, please hang-up.  If you are Say-ra Car-pin-tar, I need to ad-vise you,” blah, blah, blah.  My name is a grand total of five syllables, it’s not exactly a tongue twister, yet Rodney always seems to fuck it up.  The way he pronounces it makes me think he learned everything he knows about diction from a Speak & Spell. I have never actually seen Rodney, but if by happenstance I struck up a conversation with him in a smokey bar, I might assume that he had a different profession. His deep, monotone voice, automated personality and strange speech patterns are reminiscent of…someone who makes a living…I don’t know…sucking dicks in exchange for crystal meth.

Rodney has been my “account advisor” on a credit card account gone horribly wrong for quite some time.  He works for a law firm in the area that has been given the posthumous assignment of trying to get me to pay the money back.  I’ve always been incredibly honest with him.  “Yeah, I can’t pay you, Rodney.  It was looking good for a while, but not so much anymore.” I said this week.  I’m not lying, things were looking up.  I was given a raise and full-time hours at my current place of employment.  The raise I was planning on, the full-time gig was quite by accident.

The month of May has taught me many an important lesson, the most poignant? Humans are extremely flammable, especially when they are coated in gasoline.  I have a co-worker, who is a lovely woman with a charming British accent and two grown children.  Both of her children live halfway across the planet, one of them owns a farm and I assume, also has a charming British accent.  While working on the farm a few weeks ago, she decided to clear some brush by burning it.  The ground was moist and to speed up the process she added an accelerant,  everything was going to plan until the wind shifted, thereby causing her and the brush to burst into flames.  Can you say ouch? Yeah, it’s a terrible situation. I was asked to fill in for my co-worker while she tended to her daughter.

I’m not a monster, I was in no way doing a happy dance because someones life took a turn for the suck.  I wasn’t sitting around thanking the heavens that I was going to be able the capitalize off of misery, but I was glad that I’d be able to help out the nice people I work for and put in a few more hours.  I was kinda feeling like I was going to be able to get back on track, save some money and pay some things off. That feeling lasted all of 96 hours, it ended abruptly when my grandmother died.

My grandmother, in addition to being the woman that birthed my mother, was also my tenant.  She lived in my condo with her full time caregiver.  In exchange for not having to live in one of those boarding schools for old people, she helped me with the bills there.  Her passing has put me in a financial situation that “fucked” can’t begin to describe.  Thunderfucked doesn’t even cut it.  Yeah, it’s pretty bad.

I dealt with deafening sonic boom of reality crashing down on my face the way every 33 year old woman living in my body deals with stress, I drank a bottle of wine…then decided to file bankruptcy.  It seems like the cowards way out,  I don’t particularly like the thought of this.  There just doesn’t seem to be any way around it.  I keep reminding myself it’s like every event in life. Millions of people have done it before me. Millions of people are doing it right now, but for some reason I feel like it’s a private psychosis.  Weddings, babies, divorces…most of us have been through something like this…but we all tend to act like these events are life experiences that only we’re having when we’re going through them.

After speaking with an attorney, I found out…that I don’t have enough money to file for bankruptcy.  How fucking hilarious is that? I’m so screwed that I can’t even legally claim that I haven’t got a damnthing [intentional omission of space for comic effect]. I have to save money to claim I have none…is anyone else laughing at the irony here?

I probably should have kept this to myself, but then that applies to a lot of things in my life.  I decided to share.  For the past few years, I’ve been making myself sick worrying about financial obligations.   I’m tired.  I want out.  I know I’m not the only one that feels this way.  I concluded, in the company of both Ernest and Julio Gallo, that this is bullshit and I shouldn’t have to spend my whole life worrying.   While I will miss my Wednesday’s with Rodney, I know he’s only calling for one thing.  He’ll have to find someone else.

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Apr 05 2012
12 Comments
alcohol, Humor?, Random

“Casual Friday” in Douchebagotropolis


Picasso had his blue period, Hefner had his blonde period, and I am having my I can’t get shit on paper period, period.  I feel like every ounce of creativity has been sucked right out of me, this must be the way Britney Spears has felt her entire life. The usual 800 insane things bouncing off the interior walls of my cranium have been replaced with other things.  These thoughts are not entertaining, not even to me. I’ve been this way for the past few months.  This is strange and I’d like it to stop.  Incidentally, I’m so distracted I just walked into my own bathroom, turned on the lights, startled a little green lizard on the tile floor, said “Oh, sorry.  I didn’t know anyone was in here,” and closed the door.  I was halfway across the house to use the other bathroom when I realized what I had done.

Yeah, we have lizards here in South Florida.  Little ones, they’re always scurrying around and sneaking into the house.  We have big ones too. They don’t scurry and you’d notice right away if one of those sonsabitches walked into your living room…your first clue would be that your dog is missing.   I’m not sure if you have them anywhere else, I mean, I know that lizards exist elsewhere.  But, I’m pretty sure those places are not Iowa.  Iowans have potatoes, they’re slow moving and there’s a lot of really delicious things that can be done with the potato…lizards…not so much.

You can always tell a tourist here, because they’re leery of the lizards.  It’s ok folks, they don’t bite, well actually they do…just not very hard.  You have to have great hand/eye coordination to find that out.  Mostly our tourists are of the drunk variety, ergo, very little coordination at all.  I met some tourists of the Iowan persuasion this past week, they were neither intoxicated nor lizard-phobic.  Their names were Rusty and Big Hoss, well those probably aren’t their names at all…but it is what we called them.  Rusty might have actually been introduced as Rusty, or that may have been what was written on his t-shirt- it’s hard to say. Big Hoss was tall and did not bear any resemblance to the guy on Bonanza.  I’m pretty sure his name was Bob.  Anyway, he and Rusty were visiting one of the boyfriend’s friends.  They might have been two of the most polite people I’ve ever met.  Behind closed doors they could be card carrying members of The Third Reich…but on the surface they were gentlemen.  I’m still a little worried that they didn’t know what to make of the boyfriend, he is kind of a force of nature in the personality department…and he tends to give everyone a nickname.

We met up with them at an outdoor purveyor of dollar draft beers one night.  They did a lot of standing around and observing, at some point Rusty apologized to me for interrupting me in conversation.  This is either before or after I wandered away from the group and got up on stage to sing with the band (the guitar player insisted).  For the record, I don’t recall him interrupting me at all and even if he did, I probably wasn’t saying anything profound anyway.

A few days later we met up with them at the beach…this was weird day.  Initially, it was just me and 10 dudes on the sand.  There was enough testosterone surrounding me that I was afraid I was going to start sprouting chest hair through osmosis.  They all sat around ogling bikini fillers and I tried not to feel invisible.  It started to rain, and the lifeguards evicted us from the shore….something about lightning and danger…wussies.

The boys went back to the car and I took the opportunity to meet my friend Leah at the “World Famous Elbo Room.”   If you ever see Leah and I in a picture, looking like we’re having a fantastic time, we totally are. She is fun in flip-flops.  The Elbo is two-story building on a corner of A1A and a street you’ll never remember the name of even if I told you.  There’s an upstairs bar, a downstairs bar, and an outside bar. It’s a shithole, a very busy shithole.  If you get down this way I recommend you stop in for a drink, just remember they only accept cash and no one gives a rat’s ass where you’re from or how much money you make.  It only looks like it’s tourist friendly, it’s not. Also, if you ever come visit sunny Fort Lauderdale, please refrain from telling every sun-kissed blonde you meet that you’re “still wasted from the night before and your feet hurt from dancing.”  It’s probable that she lives here, has enough beer in her system to send you staggering to the nearest trash can to puke, and isn’t going to dance with you…no matter how much money you claim to make.

I’m told The Elbo Room is famous for being in a 1950’s surfer movie no one has ever seen.  It is not famous for its cleanliness.  It always smell like a whale’s unmentionables in there.  Charming, I know.  As we stood trying to decipher what the pleasant aroma was, a man struck up a conversation with us.  He looked normal enough, until he whipped out his iPhone and showed us a close-up photo of his crotch.  In the picture, he was fully clothed in khakis and a button down shirt, so it must have been “Casual Friday” in Douchebagotropolis.  Conversations like this send a normal person running in the opposite direction, I think you’ve figured out by now….this girl….not normal.  As Leah dragged me away from the creeper, I was in the midst of inquiring exactly why he had a crotch self-portrait in his phone while contemplating challenging him to a dance-off to see just how wasted he was, and she…was laughing.

The moral of this story is fourfold. The little reptiles are harmless.  Steve Jobs didn’t intend for you to use his phone that way, you filthy prick.  Rusty and Big Hoss are always welcome.  Thank you Leah.

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Mar 22 2012
6 Comments
Humor?, Parenting, Random

Don’t pee in the pool.


“I have to PEEEEEEEE!!!!,” my son shouted at me for the 86th consecutive time from the confines of the community pool.   It’s his new thing, announcing his need to perform basic human functions at a decibel that can be heard from anywhere in a 3 block radius.  I’m used to it, but the gaggle of condo commandos that had congregated under an umbrella at a table near the pool were obviously unnerved. They all turned to look at me, their skin permanently bronzed and leathery from years of retired-life sitting underneath a palm tree in the Florida sun.  I’m not judging, good for them…but holy shit, there’s this stuff…it’s called sunscreen…when applied liberally to the epidermis, it can help prevent you from looking like a talking saddle in a Hawaiian shirt.

As the sound of Frank Sinatra reverberated off of the buildings surrounding the pool, they asked to borrow one another’s reading glasses to inspect the “musicpod thing” one of them had ordered from “the inter-web”.  I dutifully grabbed a towel and escorted the boy to the bathroom.  His little dripping body was leaving a puddley trail of footprints the entire way.  I didn’t want them to think I was letting the boy use the pool as a giant urinal.  He giggled, pretending to be a Tyrannosaurus Rex making tracks to be discovered by a “Paweontowogist”  (that’s Paleontologist, for those of you that don’t speak 4 year old) as we strolled past the judging eyes of the Condominium Association Elite. The alpha male of the AARP members, a big guy, who used to be a New York cop, called out to me “Don’t let him have an accident! Hey, and when you gonna cut that kid’s hair? He looks like a fairy, for God’s sake,” as he gesticulated wildly.  I smiled and said “Never”.  It wasn’t the “I’m sorry my kid is interrupting your Sunday Jazz and incontinence breakfast” smile.  No, it was the “I’ve peed in your pool and I’m probably gonna do it again” smile.  They’ve done it too, everyone has.  Just because you stand around telling people where to park and yelling at kids for running on the patio doesn’t mean you’re immune to being too lazy to get out of the water when you have to go.  As far as his hair goes, I like it long and until my son demands that I shave it all off, it’s going to bounce off of his shoulder blades.

Ever since my son mastered the art of using a toilet it’s become quite the topic of conversation in my home. It’s like some mythical portal. If it weren’t for human waste and automobiles, the only thing the kid would probably say to me is “I don’t want to talk right now”. When he’s not using the can himself, he’s offering its services to anyone he thinks could benefit from taking a big dump.  We don’t entertain a lot, but last week during a family dinner he took it upon himself to tell my Aunt Lois that “if she needed to frow-up or had to poop, she could use his bafroom”.  Aunt Lois didn’t appear to be experiencing any gastro-intestinal distress, but perhaps he thought if there was a sudden issue he’d give her his blessing.  I’m always telling him that he needs to make our company feel welcome…his interpretation is totally not what I meant.

My mother is always quick to point out that “none of her children acted this way” in regards to the fascination with the toilet.  I’d like to point out that I have yet to visit the emergency room to have a french fry removed from neither my son’s left or right nostril, nor has a volunteer fire department been called to assist his safe extraction from the boughs of an extremely tall pine tree.  I’m not discounting my mothers parenting skills, I’m just stating the facts.

I’m not worried about his fixation, something else will take its place in a few months.  I worked with a girl who’s kindergarten aged son was obsessed with Justin Beiber a few years ago.  Every time the kid heard his music or someone said his name he would shriek and go into a trance-like state singing “Baby, baby, baby…ooooh” and do a little leaping jig.  Yeah, I’d talk about shit…using a bullhorn…on the courthouse steps with my son everyday, rather than have to endure that embarrassment.

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Mar 08 2012
7 Comments
Humor?, money, Random

This is an attempt to collect a debt…


I was in my son’s room clawing through a large blue plastic bin, filled to the brim with tiny, plastic monster trucks. “I should just dump it out, that’ll make this easier,” I suggested out loud to myself. Make what easier, you ask?  I forget.  That’s been happening to me more often than I’d like to admit lately, I can’t seem to complete a thought without some kind of interruption.  My internal monologue just can’t keep up with the to-do list. Somehow, “find my car keys” gives way to “hey, where’d that bruise come from?” and in a spilt second turns into “I was just doing something…hmmm…what was I in here for? Oh, I know..fold the laundry.”

“Mommy, can you shut-up, please?  I’m twying to concentwate,” my boy asked as he sat atop a pile of stuffed animals.  “It’s not nice to tell people to shut-up,” I corrected. The sound of my voice was muffled by the hood of my sweatshirt, which had slid around the side of my neck and was actively trying to suffocate me.  “What? I said please,” I was surprised that he’d actually heard me. “Did you find the white car yet?” Right! The white car…that’s what I was looking for.  No sooner did I refocus when the phone rang, it was a bill collector.  My phone rarely rings anymore with someone I’d actually like to speak with on the other end.

After I was advised that this call may be monitored for quality assurance and this was an attempt to collect a debt, I started laughing.  Do I think owing someone money is funny? Nope.  Do I enjoy being badgered by some snotty bitch who’s just learned the correct way to use the word irrelevant? Not at all.  What’s humorous about this situation is that I knew exactly how it was going to end before she even finished verifying that I was, in fact, the very delinquent Sara Carpenter.  If you’ve never been lucky enough to have to politely decline that advances of a collection company…good for you…and can I borrow some money?

“Ms. Carpenter, why are you laughing? This is a very serious matter,” the nasal voice scolded  me.  Why is it that some people think that by putting on a head-set and sitting at a desk surrounded by three felt covered walls gives them all the powers of Grayskull?  Who are you to tell me what’s funny and what isn’t?  I saw terrifying footage of a news reporter being mauled by a pit-bull the other day…laughed my ass off.  Funny is a personal decision. “No, it isn’t.  It’s an unpleasant situation. Serious implies that the balance of the free world hangs in my ability to repay what I owe,” I replied.  Two can play this game.

“You do realize that while you’re laughing your credit score is being damaged by this unresolved amount due?,” the condescension continued.  “You have my account history in front of you.  My laughter is irrelevant.  I’m sure that you can see that my credit is already sufficiently screwed.”  “We don’t used that kind of language here.”  “What kind of language? English?  Well, my Latvian is rusty, but for the purposes of keeping with the professional nature of this conversation…I’ll try.”  “That’s not what I was saying,” she continued.  “Oh, right. You were saying that I wasn’t allowed to laugh, telling me which words I can use to describe my financial situation, and implying that I am blissfully unaware that I can’t pay my bills.“  “No, I believe you misunderstood me.  I’d like to help you resolve this matter, while I have you on the phone I’d like to update our records.  Are you working and if so, may I have the name of your place of employment?”  “My comprehension level in regards to the English language is rather extensive. I suggest you pay more attention to what you are actually communicating as your attitude is being perceived as combative, superfluous, and my personal favorite… condescending!”  “What?” “To recap: treating me like a moron is unnecessary and will only afford me the opportunity to prove that you are an idiot. Get to the point sweetheart, you can Google the big words on your own time,” and then there was silence.  No amount of “heellllooooo? Are you still there?” was going to get around the fact that I’d been hung-up on.  I hate being hung-up on, almost as much as I hate being told what’s funny and what isn’t. Perhaps she is anti-Google? Or maybe she didn’t like the fact that I wasn’t about to be brow-beaten by a twit with a script and a quota. The world will never know.

“Mommy, who are you using big worwds on this time?” my son asked as he balanced a ginormous, floppy, yellow stuffed chicken on his head.  “No one, honey.” “I fed the piggy $1.36 wast night, you can have it if you need it” he said as he motioned to his piggy bank.  It’s amazing what a child can absorb from under the security of faux poultry, he knows that when I break out the large vocabulary I’m usually talking to someone about money.  It’s not that I enjoy deflating the egos of collection company employees (well, that’s not entirely true).  I know they’re just doing their job.  What I find irritating is the repeated phone calls and the manner in which they communicate,  they’re all bullies.  I owe the bank money, I know that these people are supposed to try and get it from me any way they can. Receiving phone calls at 15 minute intervals from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m. is not going to make large sums of U.S. currency materialize in my bank account.  Nor is giving them the phone number to my place of employment so that they may harass me while I try to earn the money to pay them back.

It’s not like I just sat back and let the debt accrue, there was a time when I made regular payments to this collection company to clear up the balance.  When it became too difficult to make ends meet, I had to suspend the payments.  I told them I’d reinstate them when I could…and I meant it.  Until that time comes, I will probably just have to ignore the 256 “Unknown Number” calls that come in to my phone an a daily basis. Oh, and if you get a call from a collections agent who uses the words “superfluous” and ‘irrelevant” to describe your financial matters…well, you can thank your friendly neighborhood Scarp.

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Feb 26 2012
11 Comments
cosmetics, Humor?, relationships

The Adventures of Super Skank


“Sum1 just told me ur bf is out wif sum super skanky blond,” I read through the glow of my cell phone screen.  I hate texting abbreviations.  Most of the time these messages send me straight to Google to research what the kids are saying, the meaning of this one was pretty clear “your boyfriend is out with some super skanky blonde”.  I was devastated. I felt like I had been kicked in the gut and someone was smothering my face with a pillow pet.  Super skanky blonde? Really? This is what it all comes down to? Harsh.  With everything that is going on in my life, I guess I just didn’t realize…this is all my fault.  I should have listened to the advice, should have done some things different. I replied “Ha! Good one. Thanks for your concern, but it’s not what it looks like,”. I was trying to save face…and improper spelling makes me go ape-shit. Now I’m stuck wondering.  Where do I go from here?

It all started a few weeks ago, I began to notice that I was being treated differently.  Even though I was aware that I was being handled with kit gloves, I wasn’t really sure of the reasoning behind it.  People have been speaking very slowly to me and smiling more.  Not people that know me well, but the regular strangers I come in contact with on my daily travels.  You may be saying to yourself “Golly, that’s weird. Why would that happen?  Did you have an accident, Scarp? A head injury, maybe?” Or you could be saying “This isn’t Mayberry.  I don’t used the word “golly”.  Quit trying to put words in my mouth, you pushy bitch…and get to the friggin’ point.” Either way, I appreciate you reading up until this point, so I will explain.  I have accidentally, with the help of a very well-meaning beautician friend, bleached my hair platinum blonde.  I say accidentally, because we were going for a golden tone.  What we got was…um…a lovely hue of safety cone orange.  Apparently, the only way to fix this…is to cry…and then add more highlights. My boyfriend, who initially tried to sway me away from the at-home hair coloring, was kind enough not to say “I told you so, go put a hat on”.

I am the super skank that he is parading around town, the nerve of me.  Evidently people don’t spend a lot of time looking at my face, I’m just hair and boobs with feet.  We were at a bar on Friday night (shocking, I know) and one of the regular lady customers, who is usually very friendly, kept giving us the stink eye.  I was half-heartedly trying to put together a viable scenario that might explain her behavior.  It was only half-hearted…because, as I have mentioned before, I don’t particularly care what people think of me anymore. At some point during the evening she bumped into me.  It was one of those accidental/on purpose collisions…at first she was defensive…and then her demeanor changed.  “Oh my God! I didn’t know you were you!” she apologized…”that’s why I was giving you a dirty look, I was just about to come over and tell you that he has a girlfriend,”.  While I appreciate everyone looking out for the sanctity of my relationship, I wish they were more observant…and used friendlier words to describe my new look.

I was fair-haired before…even though my Gravitar says differently (Mom and Aunt Lois, a Gravitar is the picture thing that shows up on my blog).  It’s the only photo I have of myself where I’m not making a stupid and/or drunk face.  For the record, I’m not always drunk or making a strange expression…just when there’s a camera around.   I’ve been this blonde before, on purpose, but that was many Scarp’s ago.  I had nearly forgotten how this shade of hair color (or colour…if yer European) changes the way people interact with me.  At any moment, I expect someone to slap a helmet on my head and start calling me “Mongo” because I’m getting so much unsolicited help.  I actually had a stranger offer to help me work an ATM last week…an ATM! It’s not a complicated electronic device.  Later in the week, someone else ask me if I was Swedish because “he detected an accent”.  I was born in Ohio and I’ve lived in South Florida almost my entire life.  Remember your history lessons in elementary school when they talked about the Swedish sailing the ocean and conquering the great peninsula of Florida? Yeah, me neither.  I don’t have an accent…there is no European sounding indigenous tongue sprouting from the swamps down here…because everyone is from somewhere else.  If I did have an accent, it would probably be New York-ish in origin…because…that “somewhere else” where everyone else is from is usually one of the Five Boroughs.

This little foray into the world of the very blonde is proving to be abundantly entertaining. I’m probably going to keep it going for a while, at least until my roots start to show and a people realize that I’m a fraud.  Maybe I can transition unsolicited assistance into unsolicited cash donations. In the meanwhile, if you see my boyfriend out with a hooker-esque looking bimbo…don’t be alarmed.

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Feb 20 2012
11 Comments
alcohol, Employment, Humor?, Random

Thanks for everything Bob Villa


You fuckers with the last name of “Smith” have it easy.  You never walk into a professional situation, say “Hi, My name is Steve Smith,” and have people assume that you make Steve’s for a living.  My last name is Carpenter,  because people are stupid, I am constantly being accused of being a wood-worker.  I spent the better part of Saturday at a trade show, working for my new office, with my first and last name hanging from my collar on a name tag.  It was my job to greet people and make them feel welcome.  I don’t know why, but I was more than a little thrown off when old men in woven panama hats kept asking me “how I got my butts to look like that?”.  They weren’t creepy old men, so I know they weren’t referring to my posterior, but were trying to get free carpentry advice.   Even though everyone else was walking around with name tags that said “George Baker” or whatever, no one implied that they were Keebler Elves or inquired about their knowledge of yeast or flour.  The only butt I am familiar with is my own, it’s not a topic I will address without the help of a bloodstream pulsing with alcohol.

I don’t correct people when this happens,  it’s simply not worth it to me…and I find it to be hilarious.  People can’t seem to wrap their brains around the fact that I am not an actual carpenter.  When I do correct them, they are either embarrassed or they tend to walk away from me acting like they’ve been mislead.  I realize this isn’t my fault…but I don’t like to disappoint.  I’ve seen enough episodes of “This Old House” to push my way through a conversation about joinery and wood glue.  Thank God for PBS and Bob Villa.  Mostly people want to tell me everything they know about wood and move on…you’d be surprised how much people know about wood.

Saturday, I found myself engaged in conversation with a man that either had an unusually unhealthy attraction to tree products or was desperately trying to think of things to say whilst hitting on me.  I am in no position to speculate, but I had to be excruciatingly polite during this whole strange interaction.  This is something that I can do, but it takes a whole lot of effort on my part.   Here I was, standing on the deck of a very large, expensive sail boat watching a man crawl around on his hands and knees, rubbing the teak.  “You’re a carpenter! You must be able to feel the soul of this wood,” he moaned as he peered up at me.  I am not the Lorax.  I don’t speak for the trees, living or deceased, but I could definitely hear that the soul of this wood was saying; “get off of me dude, or I’m pressing charges”.

I wanted to laugh, but I couldn’t.  He seemed genuinely connected to the wood and I wasn’t about to lose my job over a disagreement involving talking bark.  For all I know, he could have been the tree whisperer.  I looked around to see if I was on camera, I wasn’t.  Luckily, a group of small children walked on to the boat and curiously came over to see why the man was crawling.  He explained to them that he was feeling the grain and got up on his feet as soon as their parents came over to escort them away from the crazy man fondling the boat.   I used this opportunity to introduce the man to one of my superiors and sneak away.  Immediately upon doing so, I came face to face with a couple who read my name tag and did not assume that I carried a hammer in my back pocket. The couple, who were holding cans of beer and much to my jealousy…looking a bit shit-faced, asked if I was any relation to Karen Carpenter.  They then started to sing…a very slurred version of “Close to you”.  About the time they got to the “one the day that you were born” part, I had to interrupt.  I didn’t want to have to explain to my boss that I’d let his display turn into a very sad, lonely karaoke bar.   It is not in my nature to halt such behavior, I normally encourage this kind of insanity…it keeps life interesting.  I wanted to join in with the singing, but knew that it probably wouldn’t go over well and didn’t want to start the week off looking for a job.

I have two scripted responses to the any relation to Karen Carpenter question, because this also happens to me a lot.  I either go with “No. But, rainy days and Mondays always get me down,” or “No. Why? Do I smell like vomit?” Because I was I work, I went with the cheesy “rainy days” response. Due to their level of intoxication they found this to be hysterical.  They high-fived me and repeated what I had said about five times.  Wobbling away from me, they finished their rendition of the Carpenter’s classic and turned around to shout “Sara, you’re good, you!” as they polished off their drinks.  Some people genuinely appreciate a bad joke.  I smiled and waved, fighting back the urge to yell back “No. You! You’re good”  which everyone knows is the proper response to that statement.

I still have a job.  No one said anything to me about the wood groper…or the songbirds.  Like I said, you Smith’s are lucky.  Count your blessings.    

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Feb 08 2012
5 Comments
alcohol, Humor?

Um, wait…what happened?


The weekend is kind of a blur, most weekends when “Trucker Joe” comes to visit are. Trucker Joe is…you guessed it…a Truck Driver with the first name of Joe.  I’m not sure what his middle name is…it’s probably Michael or something…but it should be Debauchery.  I think his blood type is Busch Light…it’s the only liquid I’ve ever seen him consume.  No water, no juice…just Busch, straight out of the can.  I have no idea how old Trucker Joe is, he may be in his mid-forties…but he’s extremely amusing, usually unintentionally.  He’s the kind of guy you can’t help but like, well, if you met Joe and didn’t like him…that would make you a giant retard.  I woke up to the sound of him cracking open a can of beer Saturday morning. Surely, my admission that I can be woken from a deep sleep by the sweet symphony of an adult beverage being released from its aluminum home, says more about me than the man consuming it…I never said I was a classy broad.  I am of the opinion that the only thing more comforting than the sound of a beer being opened…is looking at the instrument panel of my car and discovering that I have a full tank of gas.

I only have a half a tank of gas… so beer trumps petroleum, right now.  At some point during Saturday morning I joined Joe in his before breakfast beverages, I can’t let a friend drink alone.  There were several empty boxes next to the garbage, emblazoned with the words 18 pack, so I was not the only person helping Joe keep the Busch Beer people in business.  Joe spends a lot of time on the road, between here and Troy,  New York…which is where awesome people are created in bulk.  Troy is the birth place of Uncle Sam, the shirt collar and some of the craziest bastards I’ve ever met in my life.  I’ve come across some demented people in my day, so that’s quite the compliment.  If you’re ever up that way I recommend you check out their public library, it’s got glass floors…how effing cool is that?

Troy is a recurring topic of conversation in my life.  My boyfriend and 90% of the people he socializes with are from there.  Some of them have decided to make Fort Lauderdale their home, which means Fort Lauderdale has more insane people per capita.  This is alright by me, it’s a good kind of crazy.  As far as I can tell there’s a tremendous amount of pride that comes with being from Troy. The city and its inhabitants have a reputation of being kinda rough around the edges. I spent a little time there last spring, I didn’t see any of that.  What I saw was a place that blossomed during the Industrial Revolution, had a bit of an economic downturn and is now bracing for a comeback.  The architecture is beautiful and the people are genuine.  They say what’s on their minds, I appreciate that quality.  I have a t-shirt from there.  On the back, the sentence “Troy…what!” is written.  I’m wearing it right now as a matter of fact.  It was something I heard a lot when I was up there, I found it to be funny.  It’s a phrase that, when said without the appropriate posturing, means nothing.  But when you say it standing, in the aggressive, universal, “Hey asshole, what are you gonna do about it?” position, takes on a whole new meaning.  You all know the gesture that I’m talking about.  If I walked up to a group of my friends, pounded on my chest, declaring “Fort Lauderdale…what!” they’d probably disown me.  If you do that to a group of people from Troy, they might laugh and hug you. These guys are different, there’s a sense of community, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.

When Joe visits my boyfriend, he parks his ginormous truck in the parking lot next to the condominium complex.  Often times, we’ll go out and lose track of him throughout the evening.  He always wanders back to his truck and sleeps off the insanity.  This weekend was no different. We lost him before the sun went down, I’m not sure where he went, but my boyfriend went to check on him sometime in the wee hours of Sunday morning while I was sleeping.   After he located him and made sure he still had a pulse, he and that merry band of Troy-born pranksters that are always around, decided it would be a good idea to give Joe’s truck a bathroom.  They “borrowed” a port-o-potty from a Super Bowl celebration that was being set up in a parking lot nearby and lifted it on to the bed of Joe’s rig.

I saw video of this. Joe was not exactly pleased and requested that they remove it immediately.  They did and returned it to its original location. Joe also said he was going to stop drinking…he didn’t. This all occurred while Joe was wearing my underwear.  I’m not exactly sure how this fits in.  If my memory serves me correct the series of events went a little something like this:  after Joe and I enjoyed our beers on Saturday… he concluded that the only thing that could improve his morning was wearing my undies.  Most people would find this odd, I can’t say that it surprised me.  I’d just watched him sing Snoop Dog’s “Gin and Juice,” and do his own little choreographed dance when he got to the “laid back, with my mind on my money and my money on my mind” part.  He looked more like an auxiliary member of the Village People than he did a gangster rapper when he leaned back in his chair and raised his arms to make a c-like shape.  There was no music and no one else was singing.  Joe is white, bald, lanky, has several deer tattoos, and is rarely seen wearing a t-shirt that doesn’t have a fish on it.  He’s not exactly who you’d expect to hear singing about Compton.  He’s also not the kind of guy you expect to see sporting Victoria and all of her secrets.

Under the guidance of cheap beer, I felt it was my civic duty to make his dreams a reality.  I handed him a fresh pair of purple panties with little green stars on them.  He excused himself and put them on, I could hear him laughing through the bedroom door.  When he exited the room,  the waist of his cargo shorts revealed the tiny velvet bow that adorned the front.   Wait, it gets better…shortly thereafter we decide that we’re going to go out and get some food.  I probably would have forgotten that Joe was wearing my unmentionables…except he insisted on telling everyone we came in contact with that he was “wearing my drawers”.

I got more sideways glances than he did.  Several people asked me why I was letting a grown man wear my underwear…I answered with the obvious “why not?”  It’s not like I was going to ask for them back, so…technically, he was wearing his underwear.  Fast forward a several hours, after the foolishness,  I awake to find  my boyfriend, his roommate and his roommate’s girlfriend sitting in a circle, cleaning greasy footprints off of my boyfriend’s very white carpet.  I knew there was an interesting story behind it, but I didn’t ask.  I’d eventually hear all about it so…I went back to bed.  Evidently, the Karma Fairy repaid them for their port-o-potty stunt and the roommate stepped in a grease puddle while standing on the back of Joe’s truck.  After they stood around giggling and recording their mischief, they came home and he unknowingly tracked the grease all through the condo.  No worries, they got it all cleaned up.  Until the next day, when his roommate put on the very same greasy sneakers and then paced around during an intense phone conversation.  It looked like a live version of the Family Circus comics, when the kids run all over the house and the artist tracks their movement with the black dotted lines. Since I don’t live there and it isn’t my carpet, I found this to be epically hilarious.

Later that morning, while buying supplies for the Super Bowl celebration, someone rented a carpet cleaner.  They took turns shampooing the rug while Joe and I sat poolside, drinking beer and watching the game.  Aside from me looking at him and laughing, we didn’t verbally reference  the underwear incident…that was yesterday’s lunacy.  After Joe left, my boyfriend asked if the weekend was going to be a blog entry.   I considered not writing about it, because I wasn’t sure if I wanted the world to know that I willingly associate with a group men still acting like frat boys.  I decided I would take the Troy approach…yeah this happened, what are you gonna do about it?

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Feb 02 2012
11 Comments
Employment, Humor?, Random

Make your own luck?


Two weeks ago, I walked out of an office run by Satan.  I had no other employment offers, I just decided that place was not going to fit into my plan of being nauseatingly happy in the 2012.  Not the smartest thing I’ve ever done.  I spent the next few days sending out resumes, thinking I was going to have to wait another 6 months to get a job…that I was probably going to hate.  As I made a list of things I might have to pawn in order to get through not having an income, I determined I don’t have a lot of things of value and…I was more than likely screwed.  I spoke to the recruiter that claims she’s working her fingers to the bone trying to find the perfect fit for me.  She said she’d make me top priority and get me some interviews, this woman is a liar. I still haven’t heard back from her.  When she initially contacted me I specifically told her I have no intention of going into another law office, yet she keeps trying to place me in the depths of hell, because that’s where she will make the most money off of me.  She’s just waiting for desperation to set in, thinking I’ll cave and accept a job I don’t like.  I’m on to you sweetheart.

I asked my son what he thought about my predicament.  While he admitted that he didn’t have an opinion on what I should do next, he did tell me that he thought lobsters probably drive Buicks…or maybe Volvos, for safety reasons. That, and we should go to the park so he could play…and I could think.  When I asked him if he thought better at the park he said “no, but it’ll give me something to do while you figurwe things out.  It’s a win/win situation, Mom.”  I admire his logic, sometimes.

My boyfriend suggested that I try getting a job the old fashioned way and go door-to-door handing out my resume, I initially thought he was nuts.  Since my method of emailing my qualifications all over the planet wasn’t working, I was willing to entertain any suggestion.  I put on a flattering dress, an acceptable amount of make-up, printed out 20 copies of my resume, and went out to pound the pavement.  I’m not exactly a shrinking violet, but it is slightly unnerving to walk into a place that may or may not have a position open to try to sell myself.  I didn’t really have a speil, nothing scripted that was going to make people think “hey, this broad is qualified, I must pay her to occupy space in my office.”  I like to fly by the seat of my pants…er…skirt, it keeps things interesting.  I did it because I felt like I didn’t have a choice, I was either going to have to step out of my comfort zone or starve.

As expected, I was met with blank stares or confusion at many of the places I wandered into.  People somewhat politely accepted my resume, said they didn’t have anything available at the moment, and probably tossed it into the recycling bin as soon as they were sure I was gone.  The more places I went, the easier it got to introduce myself.  People’s reactions to me didn’t change, but after the third establishment, I more or less knew what to expect.  It’s a good thing I’m used to people looking at me like I’m crazy, it happens all the time, even when I’m not trying to encourage someone to give me a job. I’m not sure why people react this way, I don’t carry a bag of severed heads, quote scripture, or ask for spare change and postage stamps.  It might be because I’m friendly and people in South Florida generally aren’t, unless they’re trying to rob you blind or selling you something or possibly rob you while trying to sell you something.  I’m guilty of this skepticism myself.  I once took a trip to the Mid-West, where I am from, and spent the first few days of my visit checking my purse to see if my wallet was missing…every time I got into a conversation with a friendly stranger.  I found it odd that people up North actually communicate with each other, instead of trying to pretend you aren’t there.  True story.

I kept smiling through the sideways glances,  my boyfriend, who was waiting in the car, encouraged me with every stop.  “You got this, baby.”  Like me, he was sure that something positive was going to come out of this experience.  He kept saying from the passenger seat “they just need to meet you, anyone can send out a resume, but if you walk in there and introduce yourself…you’re sure to get something.” Even if the most positive thing that happened was that we got to spend an afternoon leisurely driving around Fort Lauderdale enjoying the weather together, I was satisfied.  Then I wandered into an office and was met with the warmest and unexpected of receptions, I thought they were going to dismiss me.  I walked through a set of glass doors and introduced myself to an older couple.  I’d interrupted their lunch, but they didn’t seem to mind.  They’d just been talking about how they needed to hire someone to help around the office, finally…my faulty sense of timing paid off.  They interviewed me on the spot.  I didn’t say anything stupid (bonus!).  They went through my three, yes, three page resume and asked me questions, impressed with the detail.  I’ve been told before (mostly by that soulless, opportunistic, wench recruiter) that my resume is too long, I think that’s a load of crap.  It’s gotten me several jobs,  if you don’t have the attention span to read it…I’m probably too smart to work for you anyway.

I finished the impromptu interview and thanked them for their time, I left there feeling excited and energized.  The next day I received a phone call from the owner’s wife, she asked that I come back for a second interview, which I did.  This interview was more pleasant than the first, and I was asked to start the following Monday.  I’m only working part-time for them, but I can tell you that for the first time in a long time I am genuinely happy about going to work.  There is no yelling, no conflict, no mole-face coworker plotting against me, and no fossilized baked goods.  They keep telling me how busy it is and I keep thinking busy must be in the eye of the beholder.  This is the least active place I’ve ever had my morning coffee.  I spend the majority of time looking for things to do, yeah, it’s the Valhalla of offices.  My fashion sense or walking speed has not been questioned, nor has my intelligence.  A trained monkey could probably do my job at this place…but you’ll hear no complaints out of me.

Jan 26 2012
18 Comments
Memories, Random

The right pair of jeans…


*This isn’t funny.
I don’t remember her name, which isn’t surprising if you know me, I’m horrible with names…always have been.  I just remember her face.  I was in the second grade, we were friends, and she had leukemia.  She was bald from several chemotherapy treatments, which she never spoke about, not that I would have understood anyway.  She was always wearing the largest and floppiest of fabric bonnets. The brim of her bonnets would gently rise and fall with every step she took.  I vividly remember the fabric billowing around her face, undulating like a jellyfish as it swims through the ocean.   I was a little jealous that she got to wear hats to school, since there was a strict no hat policy.  It didn’t occur to me that she had a life-threatening illness and wore these hats because she was embarrassed by her condition. What the hell did I know? I was 7.

She was tall, fair and had striking blue eyes, if she had hair…it probably would have been almost white.  In addition to having a collection of really awesome hats, she was always dressed in little cotton dresses.  “My mom wants to make sure I look like a girl. I never get to wear pants anymore,” she whispered to me one day when I showed up to school in a pair of, what we determined, were the most bad-ass, acid washed jeans on the planet.  I couldn’t understand why she wasn’t allowed to wear pants. I offered to loan her my jeans for the day, on the condition that she didn’t get any pudding on them.  We went into the bathroom and swapped clothes. My jeans were a bit too short for her, but my off the shoulder kitten t-shirt fit her just fine.  I didn’t mind the frilly dress, and the jeans seemed to give her some kind of emotional super-charge.  Her whole demeanor changed, it’s amazing what the right pair of button-flies can do for a broad.

In gym class that day, we skipped the hop-scotch the girls were playing and got into a game of full contact kickball with the boys.  This was something I did a lot, but she rarely ever joined me.  The boys were more fun, they didn’t seem to mind getting sweaty and grass-stained, and even though they talked trash, they were sincere about it.  The summer heat was oppressive, as it often is in South Florida.  I was watching from second base as she stood at home, waiting for the ball to be rolled to her.  The heat made everything look all wiggly and far away.

As the ball left the pitcher’s hands, he called out “C’mon, Baldy. Let’s see what you can do.” This is my first memory of sharing someone else’s pain.  I knew how much she hated being bald.  I was paralyzed with anger.  Yes, I had heard people refer to her as “Baldy” before, but they never said it to her face.  I wanted to run up to the pitcher’s mound and kick him square between the legs.  Before I could, I heard a terrible “thunk” noise, much like a sound a coconut makes when it falls from a palm tree and hits the hard ground below.  In retrospect, it was one of the most beautiful sounds I’d ever heard.  The sound was a direct result of the pitcher getting smacked in the side of the head by a kickball traveling at a high rate of speed, off the foot of my friend.  The blow spun him around and he seemed to fall in slow motion.  I remember cheering and yelling “run!” as we cornered the bases.  I kept looking over my shoulder to be sure she was keeping up.  I was smiling from from ear to ear.  I couldn’t see her expression, because her hat was obscuring her face…but I could hear her laughing.

When we reached home base the pitcher had recovered from his head injury,  he was crouched down, waiting to tap me with the ball and keep me from scoring.  I forgot, for a spit second, that I was wearing a dress and slid into home. Only, I wasn’t really trying to score. I knew that I was out.  As her dress wound up somewhere around my waist and my day of the week underwear were exposed, telling the whole playground it was Wednesday, I stuck my knee out and forcefully nailed the little bastard right in the nuts.  He dropped the ball and flopped around on the ground cursing at me, while grabbing his crotch.  I laid in between him and the base to make sure she was safe.  I realize now that I didn’t have to, no one was going to take the risk of being kicked in the junk to keep her from scoring.

At the end of the day, we changed back into our clothes.  There was pudding on my jeans, but I didn’t care, it was victory pudding.  A few weeks after that she stopped playing with me in gym class, not because she didn’t want to, but because she was feeling weak.  Then she stopped coming to school, her mother would come to my classroom to pick up her assignments.  We’d draw her pictures and send her notes, mine were mostly renderings of us playing kickball, and her wearing my jeans.  Sometimes, if I was feeling particularly inspired, I’d draw us riding ponies or unicorns.  After a while, her mother stopped coming in and her textbooks appeared on the corner of my teacher’s desk.  There was a note, my teacher read it, but did not share it with the class. I was only a kid, but I knew sadness when I saw it.  My friend never came back.

That Wednesday on the playground comes back to me in my dreams sometimes, like it did last night.  It jars me awake and keeps me from going back to sleep, hours after it’s woken me.   I guess what bothers me the most is that I can’t remember her name…or maybe it’s the fact that I don’t know if she got to live long enough to pick out her own clothes.  I guess her name really isn’t important, it was her courage that was most impressive.

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Jan 25 2012
9 Comments
education, Humor?, Parenting, Random

The wheels on the bus…


The boy was in the backyard climbing on the swing-set.  He was perfecting his latest daredevil move: sliding down the slide on his face, and singing the “I like getting dirty,” song he’s been working on for a few months.  Aside from variations in pitch and pronunciation; I, like, getting, and dirty are the only words in the song.  What it lacks in lyrical depth, it makes up for in enthusiasm.  There’s a dance that accompanies the song, its no “Electric Slide” or “Hustle” but I do it with him on occasion because it’s infectious; think one-man Conga Line with some hip gyration for added flair.

“Mommy…uh…hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you…do you think you could, uh…push me on the swing?” I wasn’t in a push-you-on-the-swing kind of mood.  I was quietly brooding, trying to figure out why in the hell I was asked to attend a parent/teacher conference for a preschool student.  “No, buddy.  You can do it yourself,” I said from the comfort of my chair on the porch.  “Pwease?” “No.” “Prwetty pwease?” “No.” “If you don’t get out herwe an push me on the swing, I’m going to come in there and lick your arm!”  After I stopped laughing and composed myself, I again, firmly answered no.  I did so on general principle.  I can’t have him walking around, thinking he can threaten people with arm-licking to get his way his entire life.  I’m only half Sicilian.

Because he is my son, he made good on his threat.  Angrily climbing down off of the swing-set, he stomped into the screened-in patio on the back of our house and licked my left elbow.  He looked at me and grinned, pleased with himself.  He was more than a bit surprised when I laughed, stuck my finger in my mouth, and then inserted it into his ear.  “You can’t out-gross me, son.” I said sternly.  I thought about putting him in a headlock and giving him a noogie, but I figured I’d save the heavy artillery for another day.

“So, why does the director of the school need to see me?” I asked, figuring it was as good a time as any to try and get some information out of the little guy.  “I don’t want to talk about it.”  “Did you get a sad-face?”  “Not exactlwy.”  “Did you call someone a name?” “No, but that Geno kid is a piece of crwap.  He threw Legos at me durwing ciwrcle time”  “It’s not nice to call someone a piece of crap, dude.” “Wright, poop.  I’m sorwy, Mom.”  “He hit me in the eye, though.  That makes him crwappy, wight?”  “Did you tell Ms. Patty about the Legos?” “Nope, I sat on his face and pwetended to farwt.” “It’s not nice to sit on someones face and pretend to fart,” I said, marking that down on the mental list of things I can’t believe I’ve ever had to say to another living creature.

I was sure the meeting had something to do with the faux flatulence, that and his refusal to actually do anything academic in school.  I’ve been spoken to about his lack of interest in the curriculum, my answer to that has been “he’s four, this isn’t Harvard” every time.   The school does not agree with my approach. I don’t care.  I didn’t enroll him there to learn how to execute polynomials and recite the Preamble to the Constitution.  I sent him there so that he would socialize with other snotboxes his age and…maybe eat some paste.  I thought he’d learn the correct words to “The Wheels on the Bus,” and not the ones I threw in because I couldn’t remember (the bums on the bus go glug, glug, glug is surprisingly not a verse in this popular children’s song, not even if you pantomime lifting a bottle of Night Train to your lips).

I know there’s a lot of people that feel that early education is paramount to success.  I agree with them…sort of.  Well, I used to agree with them…until my four year old came home with a homework schedule…then I started to feel like these people had lost their fucking minds.  Homework? In preschool?  Are we trying to make everything about school suck from the very beginning? What happened to singing and breaking your arm on the monkey bars at recess?

I tried to comply with the school’s demands…really, I did. I sat with him every day and argued, my side of the conversation went something like this: “Write the letter “E”, buddy.  Like this…ok, get the marker out of your mouth…write on the paper, not the dog…please stop stabbing the paper.  I’ll get a new sheet of paper. What sound does the letter “E” make? No, not “moo”…close. No, not “butt” either.”  Wash. Rinse. Repeat.  Through many afternoons with the alphabet and evenings with beer; I determined that my son wasn’t ready to put pen to paper.  I learned that I can still write the hell out of the letter “E” and he learned that whining drives mommy insane and makes her eyes bulge out of her head.  I did this until I got the most poorly written note I have even seen, sent home from Ms. Patty.  It said “I’ve been having so trouble with him focusing.  Just keep practice at home.  Sometime it take some time. :) ” It was written on a school bus shaped note, someday I’m going to frame it.  Apparently Ms. Patty has mastered the ability to write her letters, but has not yet grasped the concept of focus, herself.  I was going to correct it and send it back with a note of my own that said “He’s four.  What’s your excuse?”  I decided against it,  I didn’t want my son to be treated unfairly because his mother is a smart ass.

I stopped forcing the issue, I wasn’t going to make him hate school and I certainly wasn’t going to teach him that he could screw around for 6 hours and I would eventually give in and do his homework so he wouldn’t get in trouble.  A lesson in accountability lasts a lifetime, a collage of pictures of things starting with the letter “E” only lasts until the dog eats it.  You could argue that it’s my responsibility to push him to excel, and one of the things I need to do in order for him to succeed is make sure he does his homework. You could also argue that with the right amount of tutelage, you could teach a goat to hum the theme song to “Indiana Jones”. My response to both of these arguments is you can push all you want but…the student has to be ready and willing.

It’s not that he can’t sing the alphabet song or point out the fact the “Chevy” starts with “C”…but beyond that, he simply doesn’t give a shit.  This is totally ok with me, he’s got plenty of time.  Everyone learns at a different pace.  I think forcing a child to behave in a manner that exceeds their maturity level is a very bad idea, I am aware that I am in the minority here.  Sure, I could yell and threaten, and my kid would learn to please me out of fear, that’s not how I roll.  I’m not trying to raise a weasely, Yes-man.  I’m trying to create a man that can think, act and live in an manner that is satisfactory to his standards.

When I showed up for the parent/teacher conference there was no mention of the Lego incident. Educational catch-phrases were thrown around, I hate catch-phrases, regurgitating the stupid thoughts of someone else discounts what the messenger is trying to communicate.  As I expected, the conversation centered on his disinterest in school.  They had given him an assessment test and meticulously written down all of his answers.  As I reviewed the results, I couldn’t keep myself from laughing.  The director of the school was not amused.  It was obvious to me that my boy was toying with them…because he thinks he’s funny.  I’m not sure how funny I’m going to find him at 16, but right now…he’s hilarious.  They asked him what sound a pig makes and he barked.  They asked him what 1+1 equaled and he answered “boring”.  It was implied that I was doing a poor job of exposing him to the world around him.  My mind wandered to a conversation the boy and I had recently as she gave me parenting advice.  I shook my head, but I wasn’t listening…there’s no need to absorb advice you have no intention of taking.  My son’s voice declaring “Mitt Wromney is a goofball with funny hair,” floated through my head.  If I’m doing such a piss-poor job of exposing him to the world, why is my boy giving me unsolicited opinions on a GOP candidate?   There’s not a lot of politics being talked about in my home, especially of the Republican variety.

“If he doesn’t learn these things now, he’s going to do poorly on the Kindergarten entrance exam,” she said, I finished the statement in my head with “and that will send him straight into a life of crime, trailer park living and face tattoos.”  There was no way she was going to get me to take this seriously.  This experience is supposed to be fun.  I thanked for her time, and told her I would continue to work with him, but I wasn’t going to stop trying to make learning enjoyable and appropriate to him and his personality.  I added that if necessary, I would hold him back a  year to make sure he was mature enough to go to Kindergarten. You would have thought I said I was going to feed him a steady diet of paint chips and take him to visit Charles Manson on our next family vacation.  “You can’t do that, it’ll effect his self-esteem” she declared.  “Right,” I said, on my way out of the door

When my son came jumping down the hall after school was over I asked him how school was, “borwing” he answered.  “We learwned about the Jungle, that place sucks. Therwe’s no Monster Trwucks or anything.”  On the way home I reinforced the school lesson with a little Guns  N’ Roses “Welcome to the Jungle” and Steve Miller’s “Jungle Love”.  “Ms. Patty didn’t tell us about the music in the Jungle, that would have made school awesome!”

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