Let’s Play Ball

Today was the first official night of the baseball season. The fields are finally open and it was a gloriously beautiful spring day. Unfortunately it sounds like Mother Nature is going to kick us right in the seeds later in the week and won’t stop until we’re writhing on the ground in pain begging for mercy. This year I have four kids playing on four different teams, and my husband is the assistant coach for Cameron’s team. It’s complicated, to put it mildly. I really don’t remember much of the evening. It felt a little like an out of body experience.

5:00 – Justin and Alex are eating pizza rolls. Cameron can’t find his water bottle. David is wigging out because one of his idiot friends (I like David’s friends. They are good kids, but as a whole, 7th graders aren’t always the most judicious of creatures.) “text bombed” him, incapacitating his phone because no other texts can go through until each one of the hundreds of texts his friend sent at 7:30 this morning comes through, and they’d been trickling in all day. David’s pulled this joke on others before so he’s getting a taste of his own medicine, though he was quick to point out he hadn’t done it for a year, only did it to “maybe” two people, and only sent 20 texts.

5:15 – David leaves for his practice with his friend, whose mom, Julie, is kind enough to agree to go out of her way and drop David off at Alex’s 6:00 practice so Alex isn’t alone while I run Justin over to his 7:00 practice. But then as Barry and Cameron leave for 5:30 practice, Barry tells me to drop Justin off with him because his 7:00 practice is at an adjacent field, then go to Alex’s practice. So I text Julie that never mind, we’re all good. Now I need to get Justin and Alex dressed, which cannot happen without: Sock drama. Athletic supporter drama. Hat drama. Shoe drama. Shoelace drama. Bag drama.

5:45 – I can’t deal with dog drama too, so we leave a very sad doggie looking at us longingly from the stairs. Guilt-ridden because it’s so nice out, I promise her a treat if she’s a good girl. At a red light I peek at an email to see what number field I need to take Justin to. Well, crap. Turns out his practice is not at the same place as Cameron’s. I should know never to trust my husband. Alex is giving himself a pre-practice pep talk. “Don’t fart. Don’t fart. Don’t fart.”

6:00 – Arrived at Alex’s practice. I forgot my damn chair. Text Julie back and tell her to never mind the previous never mind, drop off request is back on. Talk to my friend, Amber, who probably thinks I’m a complete fruit bat because I’m trying to mentally talk myself through all of this schedule shit while sitting there with her. Pinged with an email. Justin’s coach. Oops, he got the field wrong, it actually IS at the same location as Cameron. He’s sorry for the inconvenience. Sorry doesn’t help me much now that I’m sitting there with Justin, have to debate whether to run him back over now or just wait. I decide to wait because Julie will think I’m certifiable if I send another change of plans text. I guess I should have trusted my husband.

6:05 – This coach is a nice guy, but he needs to run a tighter practice and shut down the kid who keeps interrupting, and is obsessed with relaying everything that is said to his sisters. Hold all questions until the end, junior.

6:20 – Interestingly enough, Alex actually spends his time at practice playing baseball instead of talking to girls and playing in the sand. That’s new for him.

6:40 – Justin and I are off. We pass Julie on the way. Things are working out ok. At the next site the parking lot is packed so I park in the fire lane to walk Justin over to find his coach. Yeah, that’s right, asshole in the Explorer, I’m parking here. Wanna make something of it? You’ve got plenty of room to get around so don’t give me your look, I’m on the clock here.

6:50 – Where the hell is Justin’s team? Is it just me, or are half of the suburban dads pretty much an extension of college frat boys? We never really leave high school, do we?

6:55 – Driving back. Phone call. David. Alex is done, where ARE you? Also my phone still doesn’t work. Um, you’re talking to me on it right now, aren’t you? Yeah, but I can’t TEXT.

7:00 – Pick up David and Alex. Drive a few blocks. Drive back a few blocks to retrieve Alex’s batting helmet, glove, hat, and water bottle. David wants to know why God hates him because he’s been praying for his phone to go back to normal, but it hasn’t yet. I suggest that perhaps God is trying to teach him patience.

7:10 – Drop David off at home, wearing the title of worst mother ever because I won’t stay to make him food.

7:30 – Relieve Barry from Justin’s practice so he can go home and feed himself and Cameron. Hang out with Alex watching batting practice. Solid 25 minutes of relaxation.

7:55 – In search of a bathroom.

8:30 – Practice over. All good. Insane, but we survived. Just glad we didn’t have to do it in snow.

8:45 – WARNING. WARNING. WARNING. Justin is about to lose it because he wanted me to make Thai peanut noodles for dinner, which I’m not going to do at quarter to nine. I talk him into settling for a frozen chicken fettuccine Lean Cuisine.

8:50 – Alex wanders into the kitchen. What do I smell? Oh fuck. There’s only one Lean Cuisine. I know where this is heading. He wants one too. I decide to do what is fair, and split it between both of them.

8:55 – DANGER! DANGER! DANGER! Full scale meltdown when Justin realizes he’s not getting the entire contents of the Lean Cuisine. Shut the windows, we don’t need the neighbors to hear this. Alex crying now because he wants pizza too, Justin howling, dog trying to steal food while everyone else is yelling and screaming. David whining some more about his phone.

9:30 – A peace settlement is reached at last. Begin bedtime preparation. Argue over who gets to sleep with the dog. Barry comes upstairs after mopping up the laundry room floor because a sock got stuck in the sink drain, causing the water to back up.

10:00 – Lights out. I cannot do this every night. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

© Jennifer Alys Windholz, 2013

Gonna Pop Some Tags

My previous posts about my thrift store excursions (see Goodwill Tour and Goodwill Hunting) have been quite popular. Yesterday I spent some time at the newly opened local Goodwill store to scour the place for some useable items for my friend’s 80s Boom Box Bash tomorrow night. Among other things, I came away with a white sport coat for Barry’s Miami Vice look, and lots of neon. The problem with dressing up though, is that stuff I would have worn in the 80s as a teenager, wouldn’t necessarily have been what I would have worn in the 80s as, well…not a teenager. But that’s all I know. And I’m going to be way age inappropriate, but that’s all right.

Anyway, in my exploration I did come across some other finds. I wasn’t as good a documentarian as I have been in the past, probably because the new store isn’t quite as tacky (and is slightly overpriced) compared to the Savers and Goodwills I’ve visited in the past. Plus I was on a mission. But there was some good stuff nonetheless. For instance…

I think if you have to come out and SAY you are “really cool sunglasses,” maybe you’re really not cool sunglasses.

These are the scariest fucking “Nativity Angels,” no, the scariest fucking ANYTHING I’ve ever seen.

Almost bought this for my brother. But $1.99? I’ll pass. The mere mention of the words “Mmm Bop” will make his head spin.

Not sure how Ralph Lauren managed to stay in business competing with a fashion powerhouse label like “Space for ladys.”

A “Twilight” iPhone case. Just…no.

In the immortal words of Dana Carvey as George H.W. Bush, “Dan Quayle. Still. Gaining. Acceptance.”

Camera graveyard. Wish I’d come across an old Kodak Disc camera. Anyone have one of those? Atrocious color.

Girl group Verbatim. Sorry sweeties, I think it *was* all a dream because no one has ever heard of you.

Classic 80s flick. The only redeeming thing about Matthew Modine’s hairstyle is that it’s not a mullet.

© Jennifer Alys Windholz, 2013

First Grade Underground

The first grade barter system has gotten more interesting in the last few days. Let me back up a step. Since the beginning of school, Justin and his friends from his class and on the bus have engaged in a thriving trade of trinkets, cards, and toys. Every day he comes home with something new he’s received from a friend. I know he gives stuff away too, but he usually doesn’t tell me. Once in a while he’s mentioned that he’s given his friends football cards, coins, McDonald’s toys, or little squishy characters, but other than that I don’t really delve into this network. It seems to be self-policing in that there is enough back and forth that no one feels shortchanged, and the items exchanged are always of nominal value.

First grade boy treasures.

This illicit market (and it is illicit because Justin very seriously explained to me how they have to sneak stuff to each other during class or his teacher will take it for “THE REST OF THE YEAR”) has picked up this week. Today he has a container of some “Mexican” candy. It’s some red powder pop rock-like substance that tastes like cinnamon and cayenne pepper. It’s truly awful, but he seems to have acquired a taste for it. And yesterday he produced a shell casing. He was quite proud of that.

“Mom, guess what this is? It’s from a pistol!”

I don’t really care that he has it, but I am confiscating it because I just found it in his backpack after I explicitly told him NOT to take it to school. I don’t need to risk any “zero tolerance” shit coming down to bite us in the ass.

He’s brought home baseball and hockey cards, candy, fancy rocks, Lego guys, a golf ball, erasers, a comic book, little action figures, Pokemon and other trading cards, gum, a rubber bracelet. It’s kind of funny. I think it’s pretty cute because the stuff he comes back with is ALL boy. It’s an interesting peek into the mind of a seven-year-old boy’s idea of “cool.”

© Jennifer Alys Windholz, 2013

Alarm Fatigue

I came across this article titled ‘Alarm fatigue’ can kill, hospital group says, and smiled knowingly, thinking it’s about time someone finally said it. The premise is essentially that there are so many different alarms going off (for valid reasons and for malfunctions or errors) in a hospital patient’s room at one time – for heart rate, blood pressure, fall sensors, you name it, that medical staff just become numb to their sounds, and like the boy who cried wolf, when there truly is an emergency, they are ignored because there are too many false alarms.

My own personal experience shows how ridiculous some of these controls are. I delivered Alex via c-section at around 10:00 in the morning. He was my fourth c-section so I pretty much knew the drill. I’d be fairly intensely monitored overnight until IVs, monitors, catheters, and all the fun stuff was removed. I knew that I’d be interrupted every couple of hours for vital signs and some poking and prodding. His was a planned procedure so it really wasn’t fair that I had gone into mild labor the night before, and not wanting to disturb anyone, stuck it out until it was time to go to the hospital in the morning. So by 10:00pm it had been about 40 hours since I’d really slept, unless you count a half hour or so in the recovery room many hours earlier. I was exhausted.

I’m a model patient. I’m polite to nurses, aides, volunteers, doctors, lab techs, and housekeepers. I follow orders. I don’t ask for help unless I really need it. I’m not demanding. I don’t have hordes of visitors in and out disturbing the floor at all hours of the day. I clean up after myself. Really I’m a nurse’s dream.

But at 10:00pm when I just wanted to sleep, and the drugs are making my eyes so heavy, and I’m about to finally drift off for a moment’s peace, knowing that when I go home I’ll have four children to contend with, and I’m thinking of my new sweet little Alex resting quietly in the nursery, and BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP! Holy CRAP, what is that??? Some fool alarm is going off, I don’t know why. It takes ten minutes to get someone in my room to reset it.

Repeat this scene three times and you’ll turn an upstanding patient into a snarling monster. The aide explained that it was a pulse ox monitor, and that my oxygen saturation was supposed to remain above 90. Turns out I’m a shallow breather when I sleep, and every time I drifted off, my sats would drop to 87 or 88 and set off the alarm. The third time it happened, I begged her to just turn it off. She couldn’t, so I asked her to send my nurse in.

When my nurse finally came in around 11:00, I asked her why the monitor was necessary, as I didn’t recall being monitored previously. Apparently I was given subcutaneous morphine during my surgery, which required my O-sats to be monitored continuously. Great, that’s fine and dandy, but obviously the threshold needs to be lower  because I’m setting the alarm off every time I fall asleep, but I am fine. The nurse was a total bitch. She would not listen to my reasoned argument that a.) I’m never going to sleep if this stupid thing goes off every time I fall asleep, b.) Your staff is going to be in and out of here all night turning this damn alarm off, and c.) Since every time it goes off it takes someone at least ten minutes to respond to it, if I were truly in respiratory distress, the alarm wouldn’t be serving any purpose anyway.

She had no solutions, was unsympathetic, snotty, offered no comfort, and wouldn’t hear me out, so I had no other option to start hysterical and hormonal sobbing, demanding to speak to her house supervisor, and telling her she was a cold-hearted bitch. Finally she relented and agreed to lower the alarm trigger to 88. I knew this wouldn’t be effective, but I’m smarter than everyone in the room, and carefully watched as she and another aide recalibrated the monitor. When they left, and the alarm went off again because I’d dropped to 87, I pulled the monitor over to my bed, and reset that bastard to 50. I was determined that this alarm wouldn’t go off again unless I was fucking dead.

When I woke up in the morning I quietly reset the alarm back to the original level before the nurse came in to check on me. And then I apologized to her for being difficult, because that’s what I do, even though afterwards I was pissed off because she should have been the one apologizing to me.

So anyway, yeah, alarm fatigue. It’s real. It’s dangerous. And hospitals should find a way to make alarms actually serve their real purpose.

© Jennifer Alys Windholz, 2013

 

 

When No Means No

Back in my corporate days I did a lot of work with sales. As in the sales people were usually calling me about ten times a day begging me for something that they had already promised to a broker before clearing it with the underwriter. And since I was the boss of underwriting, they’d come to me when they were told no. And I’d tell them no again. Or depending on the situation, would begin a delicate negotiation dance. What always amazed me were the reps who would ask for the same thing a million times. And even when I said no, they’d keep asking. And asking. Sometimes demanding. Sometimes pleading. Maybe one out of ten times I’d cave in and throw them a little piece of something to make them stop. And that was enough to keep them coming back. All. The. Time.

Anyway, I was always amazed by the audacity it took to do that. I’m not naturally a people person. And I have a really hard time asking for anything. And if I do ask for something, and am rejected or told no, there’s zero chance that I’m going back in there to ask for it again. But some people apparently stopped developing around age 10 where it’s socially acceptable (though exasperating) to ask for something you want upwards of 500 times without caring about how pathetic or annoying you are.

My point in all of this is, I can take no for an answer, and it pisses me off when others can’t. And I bring it up because David and I went shopping this weekend. Yes, I know that sounds like an unlikely scenario, but he wanted to look for a new baseball bat, because the one he has is perfectly legal for his league in terms of specs, but because it was made before a pesky USSSA label was affixed to it, which is ridiculous, but don’t even get me started on that. Anyway, I made him run a couple of other errands with me at the mall.

Our next stop after we found a bat was Sears. I never go to Sears, but I happened to be in there the day before with Justin and Alex because we were walking past and some dishes caught my eye. I’d bought a set of cheap plastic plates, cups, and bowls for the kids to use, hoping to cut down on the epidemic of broken glass and ceramic when they make their own lunches. When I bought them I didn’t realize they were on sale, and I decided to pick up a few more.

All I wanted to do was pay for the stupid things and be on my way. Instead the transaction went a little something like this.

Cashier: “Our votive candles are half price, would you like to pick up a few today?”
Me: “No thanks.”
Cashier: “Will this be on your Sears card?”
Me: “No.”
Cashier: “Are you interested in applying? You could get your whole purchase for free!” (My purchase totaled less than $8.00.)
Me: “No, that’s okay.”
Cashier: “It’s really easy, and only takes a few minutes.”
Me: “No. I’m not interested.”
Cashier: “But you can save 15% on all of your purchases for 60 days.”
Me: “Yeah, that’s great, but no, still not interested.”
Cashier: “Are you sure?”
Me: “Uh, yeah.”
Cashier: “Okaaay. Can I have your phone number?”
Me: “No, that’s okay.”
Cashier: “It’s for our rewards program. Are you signed up for our rewards program?”
Me: “No.”
Cashier: “Do you want to sign up? You’ll get special offers and discounts.”
Me: “No.”
Cashier: “It’s completely free and I only need your phone number to get started.”
Me: “No, that’s really ok. No.”
Cashier: “Are you sure? You get coupons and points for every purchase.”
Me: “No. I really don’t want it.”
Cashier: “But it’s a really great deal, you could save a lot.”
Me: “NO.”
Cashier: “All right. Sign here. Would you like your receipt with you or in the bag.”
Me: “In the bag is fine.”
Cashier: “You saved $6.60 with us today!”
Me: “Great.”
Cashier: “Be sure and fill out our survey for a chance to win a $100 gift card.”
Me: “Yeah, sure.”

Just kill me now. It’s like I was being held hostage. She pretty much sealed the deal for me not to step into Sears again for the next two years. It’s not worth it. You get the feeling that these poor sales clerks are going to be put into a medieval torture device if they don’t get x number of customers to sign up for their stupid programs.

I find that it’s the business who are under the most economic pressure that pull this kind of stuff. Just today at the post office I experienced the same thing to a lesser degree. I just needed to mail one little package. “Would you like to get that there tomorrow with overnight delivery for $19.95?” Um, no. Even he laughed at that. But it didn’t stop there. “Do you need insurance or a signature?” No. “Would you like to stock up on stamps today?” No.

This is why brick and mortar stores can’t compete with the likes of Amazon. You enter your payment information, click a button, and you’re done, without the relentless sales pitches, chitchat, and bullshit that introverts like me absolutely loathe.

Rant over.

© Jennifer Alys Windholz, 2013

 

Mean Babies

So a trending topic today on a few soft news sites is a research study conducted by some Canadian psychologists that seems to indicate that babies have a mean streak. You can read about it here. A couple of my own observations now. First of all, I don’t see how you can draw any hard conclusions from some play acting with a limited number of subjects. Really all this proves is that psychological experiments are fucked up. There’s something inherently sinister about puppets messing with babies’ minds. And secondly, anyone who has spent any amount of time around them already KNOWS that babies are mean. They’re self-absorbed master manipulators, and by the time they are five years old, they are nothing short of terrorists.

There is a whole industry out there – books, classes, blogs, websites – that targets expectant parents who are worried about bodily changes and the birthing process. This is fine, but no one tells these poor people that a pregnancy lasts only nine months. And giving birth is only one day of your life. And with some help from medical professionals and a supportive partner or family members, you’ll get through it just fine, with or without all the intense prep work.

What parents-to-be should really be doing during this time period is paramilitary style training in hostage negotiation, covert operations, SERE, all the tactics that will equip them to survive sleep deprivation, interrogation, and psychological torture, and to keep them from breaking you. Because once they’ve got their hooks into you, you are as good as gone. You’ll spend the next 18 years as a POW in your own home. And the first and foremost rule should be to take a Reaganesque stance on negotiating with terrorists. Meaning you don’t negotiate. Ever. Not once.

Unfortunately we didn’t undergo this training before our four sons were born. And my husband and I live every day in constant fear. Our captors know no mercy. And they can be seductively charming one moment, and a minute later turn on you because you forgot to buy Lunchables at the store. The entire house is under surveillance. A private conversation is impossible, and hushed tones only make them more eager to listen. Functions that civilians take for granted, like using the bathroom or shower alone, are no longer permissible under our current camp commandant, Alex, whose reign is as ruthless as his three predecessors.

Their psy ops program is brutal and relentless. From day one our senses are assaulted with continuous white noise in the form of electronic toys, singing stuffed animals, recorders, makeshift drum sets, ungodly music from their underground sources with names like Kidz-Bop, One Direction, and Macklemore. We’re forced to watch recorded propaganda in the form of an ongoing loop of Spongebob and Yo Gabba Gabba! on their state-run television station called Nickelodeon. We’re slaves in our on home, expected to wait on our guards hand and foot, we require permission to leave the house, and often are not permitted to leave unaccompanied.

We have managed to revolt and exercise a degree of control at times, but it’s often short-lived as they have learned how to band together to defeat any uprising. At the first hint of insurgence, they circle their wagons, and we are put under lockdown. We are under assault night and day, and there is no hope of escape in the short-term. I urge new parents to save themselves. Do your research. Dig in. Establish your defenses early. It’s not too late for you. But only God can save us now. Humanitarian agencies have given us hope, hinting there is a rescue operation being staged in the background, but it will be a long time in the making, and that our liberators, in the form of grandchildren, will someday conquer our captors, hold them accountable for what they’ve done, and release us from our struggle.

Until then, God speed.

© Jennifer Alys Windholz, 2013

Opening Arguments

David and Cameron will argue about anything. It’s exhausting. A sampling below. I especially love how in one breath David dismisses something as being “stupid,” and then in the next, claims that he’s better at it.

David: “Cameron, why do you have a website for your drawings? No one is going to see it.”
Cameron: “People see it. I have a real artist who’s following me.”
David: “A real artist? I doubt it, Cameron. Whatever.”
Cameron: “He is. He has a website with his drawings, I’ve seen them.”
David: “I doubt it. Anyway, it’s stupid to have a website.”
Cameron: “Shut up, David. Name one thing you’re good at besides sports.”
David: “Ah. Cameron. I’m good at everything.”
Cameron: “Name something.”
David: “Pitching. Catching. Hitting.”
Cameron: “I said besides sports.”
David: “When I was in second grade I drew all the time, the only reason I’m not good at it now is because I haven’t done it. I’m way better than you.”
Cameron: “What? Uh, David, no way. There’s no way you’re better at art than me.”
David: “I’m a lot more creative than you.”
Cameron: “YOU ARE NOT! Not at all.”
David: “Yes I am. You’re not good at anything else.”
Cameron: “I’m in Choir. Singing.”
David: “Oh, Cameron, you sing terrible.”
Cameron: “I do not. And so, you’re not even in Choir.”
David: “Because Choir’s stupid.”
Cameron: “So, I’m still better at singing than you.”
David: “Oh, NO. NO. NO. Mom! You have to agree with me on this.” (I’m not getting involved. I’m trimming chicken breasts with laser sharp focus.) “Mom?”
Cameron: “No you’re not, David.”
David: “Ugh, Cameron, yes I am. Mom even says I have perfect pitch. MOM!”
Me: “That’s true, Cameron, he does. But I don’t think it really counts since he never sings.”
David: “It does TOO count.”
Me: “Well, you can’t really brag about being good at something if you have a talent and never use it.”
David: “Whatever. I’m still a better singer than you, Cameron.”
Me: “You know what you BOTH have a talent for? Arguing. If Arguing were an Olympic sport you’d both come away with a gold medal.”
Cameron: “That is true. I’d totally win.”
David: “No you wouldn’t.”
Cameron: “I would too.”
David: “No, because it’s not even REAL.”
Cameron: “So.”
Me: (Head. Wall. Repeat.)

© Jennifer Alys Windholz, 2013

For My Birthday

Near verbatim phone conversation with my five-year-old. I don’t think he took a breath.

Alex: “Mom. I have to tell you this. I need to tell you this. For my birthday I want you to get me a new umbrella because Cameron broke my Spider-Man umbrella. For my birthday. He broke it. It’s like a broom now. And, for my birthday, I want you to call the lady from the witch house and ask her to make me more cookies for my birthday. Because I gave my Dorothy cookie to Karlie. And Justin and I ate the Glinda. So for my birthday I want you to get me more cookies. And a new umbrella. And other stuff too. For my birthday.”

Me: “Ok. I’ll do that. I love you.”

Alex: “Ok. Love you too. Bye.”

Incidentally, his birthday isn’t until April.

© Jennifer Alys Windholz, 2013

Have A Meh Valentine’s Day

Pretty much I’ve never had what I would call a “nice” Valentine’s Day. At least not in the traditional sense. It’s not like I’ve spent a lot of time wallowing in self pity or grief or anything, but it’s never been something I look forward to because I can’t recall one, single or otherwise, that hasn’t sucked. Part of the reason is because it’s smack dab in the middle of February. And really, unless you live in the tropical latitudes (and I never have), nothing good can happen in February. If there were any month I’d want to be completely wiped off of the calendar, it would be February. Apologies to some very dear individuals whose birthdays are in February. You would be given the opportunity to choose a new month. May I suggest a nice April or September?

I’ve never had particularly high expectations either, which is almost even more frustrating. A nice box of Godiva truffles. Maybe a pretty but small plant or flower arrangement that involved more effort than stopping by the supermarket. Dinner reservations. Never happens. Not that I even care, but it just becomes comical how things seem to get worse every passing year.

This morning I had high hopes. I ordered all the boys, Barry included, gourmet Valentine’s Day sugar cookies. Alex’s were extra special because they were characters from The Wizard of Oz. I was greeted this morning with a kiss and compliments telling me how sweet I was. Of course I had been sleeping, and since I haven’t slept well lately, would have preferred to keep sleeping instead of being woken up at 5:30 am, but whatever. Everyone was surprised and happy, the day was going well. I even got David to shovel the driveway and sidewalk with very little fuss.

I had planned on making calzones and salad and tortellini for dinner, something everyone would actually eat. And just as I was about to start on dinner, the phone rang. It was Barry, he was still at work and the car wouldn’t start. So off I went, and before I left I asked Cameron to empty the dishwasher, to which he protested, and I made it clear that I was going to be in no mood to do it once I returned home. So after driving to my husband’s office in rush hour traffic, I found that his friend was already there, they jumped the car. Thankfully it was nothing more than the battery, but as far as romantic things we could have gotten each other for this trite holiday, a car battery was pretty far down on the list.

When I finally got back home, hungry, and ready to start on dinner, I found that the dishwasher hadn’t been emptied, and flew into a rage, slamming cabinet doors as I ranted about how it’s pretty pathetic that I wanted ONE thing for Valentine’s Day, and that was to come home to an empty dishwasher, and my child was too selfish to make that happen for me. Maybe an overreach, but I was pretty pissed.

Barry didn’t get home until after dinner was ready because, predictably, he’d stopped by the grocery store to buy a sad little bouquet of daisies and carnations for me. They were nice, and I appreciated the gesture, and thanked him, but even Alex understood that I was underwhelmed. “I thought you’d be happier,” he said. By then Justin was acting all kinds of crazy because of a Valentine’s Day candy sugar high and fatigue, everyone was at each other’s throats, and all I really wanted to do was finish up with homework, watch The Big Bang Theory, and put everyone to bed.

Thank God tomorrow is just an ordinary day. Holidays are too much damn work.

© Jennifer Alys Windholz, 2013

A Full Of It House

My kids occasionally watch Full House on Nickelodeon. I can’t say I ever watched much of that sit-com (the one that gave rise to the Olsen twins) when it was on in the early 90′s, so I really had no idea the depth of its cheesiness. Which is interesting, because Bob Saget is one of the bluer comedians out there when he’s in the wild. Hope he cashed some really big paychecks from that, because he sold out on a grand scale.

My tastes have always leaned more towards groundbreaking material like Cheers and Seinfeld, the first two shows that didn’t require the audience to learn a “lesson” at the end of every episode. So refreshing. Anyway, the morals of the story and the lessons on Full House come at you fast and furious. In the snippets I hear in between doing whatever around the house, I can always tell when an important plot point is developing because of the dramatic and slow piano chords that play as Uncle Jesse looks off into the distance, gravely considering the consequences of buying the wrong kind of peanut butter.

Of course whatever crisis they face gets wrapped up into a neat little bow at the end of 22 minutes, and life can go on again as normal in the Tanner household. But my ears kind of perked up the other night as I sat reading my book while it was on. The drama started when Michelle, the saccharinely sweet three-year-old, apparently had some issues at pre-school. She didn’t want to go back because the kids were mean to her on her first day. Of course Uncle Joey and Uncle Jesse were ready to go in and kick some little pre-school ass in her defense until cooler heads prevailed, and they decided that it would be too heartbreaking to make her go back and face the kids who were mean to her. But her Dad, Danny, being ever rational, made her get back up on the proverbial horse, and takes her to pre-school to face her fears. And to make it easier, they go armed with a guinea pig, which Danny bought for her to donate as the class pet. So he went in to talk to Michelle’s classmates first, and Michelle came in with the guinea pig, and her teacher told her new friends to thank her for the generous gift, and all of the kids thank her, and are nice to her, and ask her to read together on the “sharing mat” or whatever the hell thing she was ostracized from the day before. All is happy, there is much rejoicing. Roll credits.

So, I did miss the first half of the episode, but unless there was some major story arc I wasn’t aware of, the message I got out of that, condensed into a nutshell is: If someone doesn’t like you, buy their affection.

Huh.

I think maybe I like the life lessons on Spongebob better.

© Jennifer Alys Windholz, 2013