Freak Magnet

Some people collect pets or antique bottles, or books or dolls.  I know one psycho that collects clown paintings.  That guy is part of my personal collection of broken people.

I went to a psychic once who told me that I have the same kind of aura that doctors have...it makes people tell me things.  And then I am burdened with the knowing of these things and often with the faux-friendship of the madmen who felt like it was okay to tell me and only me whatever it is that they just couldn't share with anyone else.  These people tend to never ask me anything at all about myself and I don't offer anything.  I am a keeper of random confessions.  Such a lucky duck.

They say you never forget your first.  My first weirdo was a boy named Brandon.  His parents knew my parents because we came from the same adoption agency.  Brandon and I assumed this meant we were some kind of cousin.  He was a nice kid but by the age of 6 it was obvious that he was going to have trouble finding a prom date.  We both had horrific hair cuts, truly unfortunate glasses, and we were terrible at running.  We spent a lot of time having deep discussions.  When we saw our younger siblings eating boogers, it was Brandon that suggested that we might be missing out on the best food group in the world, simply because our mothers told us that was gross and we blindly obeyed.  He made a decent argument but I did not try them.

Odd kid.  Good kid, but odd.

Brandon was susceptible to ridiculous injuries.  He gave himself a tonsillectomy when he tripped while running with a ruler.  I remember another trip that he made to the emergency room when he blew a giant bubble with his gum and it stuck his eyelid shut.  That peanut butter trick?  Doesn't work so well with eyelashes.

If it sounds like I am being unkind, I'm not.  Let me even the field by self-reporting that I stabbed myself in the eyeball while trying to open the spork package when I was in kindergarten.  And someone in my family still cautions me every time we go to a KFC.

I don't know where Brandon is anymore.  Facebook might, but I'm not really into that.  Besides, I have my hands full juggling my current crackpots.  (That was crackpots, not crackheads.  Crackheads intimidate me with their jitteryness and unpleasant odor and I avoid them as much as possible.)  At the moment I am fostering an aging alcoholic who favors late night phone calls, a newly single mom acquaintance who insists that it is not fair that she's the only one going through a divorce, and a guy that has George Washington's wooden smile and even though he talks a lot I don't know what he's saying because all I can think about is those teeth and how I totally thought they were in The Smithsonian with Mr. Rogers' sweater.  

Good ol' Brandon.  He trained me well.  My tolerance for the bizarre is high.

WHAT is that SMELL?

I've said it before, and I'll say it again.  When Brad dies I am going to buy a tombstone that reads "What is that smell?" because he's my little sniffopotamus.  Sweetpea is going to get one that says "Wait, what?" because she says that a lot.  Like, a whole big fat lot.  If I die first and Sweetpea picks my stone, I imagine mine will read "Ya'll."  That's my all purpose phrase and depending on the tone of my voice, it could be short for "you all" or "guess what," or "omigosh" or "knock that stupid crap off right now."  

Side note to my mother: if I go away for a weekend and Brad installs a new patio and then writes the words"NOTHING TO SEE HEAR" in the wet cement, start digging.  And you should probably wear a mask because he misspells stuff when he's nervous.

Since I'm not dead yet, I like to try new things.  And if I buy something new, I like to use a coupon.  That way if it sucks, at least I've only lost a minimal investment.

So the other day I was at a drug store and I grabbed a package of what I thought were panty liners.  It was a new brand, one geared for women over 40.  They were called Panty Fresheners.  It wasn't until a couple of days later that I realized I had not purchased mini-pads.  What I bought are little round stickers that smell like church lady and they go on the outside of your underwear and claim to provide "up to 4 hours of freshness."   

I'd bought pootie diffusers.

If you think I could hold in my hilarity, well, I appreciate the vote of confidence but you are wrong.  Dead wrong.  I brought them to the dinner table. 

"Ya'll.  Look at these. Smell them." 

Brad was all, what is that smell?  and Sweetpea was like, old lady stickers? why?

And I asked Brad, "Remember when you said someone should invent breath mints for your butt so when you fart it would make a cool refreshing smell?  I think this is the same thing, except completely different.  This will instantly mask your toots.  The picture shows it on the front of your undies but I think you're really supposed to wear it over your tailpipe."

Brad was still staring at me but Sweetpea got it right away.  "So like you walk by someone and you hear 'pffftt' but then *sniff sniff* you're like, Morning Breeze!"

I was all  "EXACTLY!" and Brad was all, "Guess that'll go good with the Fiber One cereal."

Honestly, I don't know what the heck these things are for but they have been cracking me up for days. 

Super Bowl Smacktalk...But Not About The Teams

I love my Brad.  I love him because he makes me laugh and I love him because he is every bit the good dad I always thought he would be.  I love him so much that I usually don't comment on his dreadful Yankee family.  But today, those people have gone too far.  They ruined my Super Bowl.

Buncha jerks.

Super Bowl is a holiday at our house.  It's the one school night of the year that I serve junk food for dinner and everyone stays up as late as they want.  We have chips and dip and cheeses and meatballs and those little wienies and caramel apple dip and mac and cheese and crab dip and bacon and cookies and beer and soda.  Just the three of us.  It's the only holiday that we don't have to make something and traipse across town to someone else's house for pot luck.  Super Bowl is mine, all mine, and I do not appreciate it being taken from me.

Sadly, one of Brad's nephews has a birthday in February.  Brad's sister and parents tend to think the rest of the human race is as enamored with that unfortunate creature as they are.  And today we have a command performance to come and celebrate the anniversary of that child's birth.  Even though there is a game on.

I hate them.  It is mutual.

Even so, I spent my morning wrapping Christmas presents for his parents.  They did not want to see us in December, electing instead to visit Thomas Jefferson's estate.  Again.  In lieu of seeing their only son and granddaughter, they mailed checks.  Mine came in a card that was signed only with their first names.  No "Merry Christmas" or "Love," or "Happy New Year."  Just their first names.  Which I'm pretty sure means, "Cash this quickly because if we find out that our son has finally taken our advice and left you we will stop payment."  Fair enough, because every year I totally scour stores looking for a Mother's Day card to send her from Sweetpea that says something like, "Happy Mother's Day. I hope it does not rain." or something equally vague.

I bought the nephew a gift card.  And this morning, I did my dutiful rounds, shoving the birthday card in front of Brad and Sweetpea for their signatures.  Sweetpea asked me if she should write her last name.  I told her I didn't care, just please use her best handwriting because they will be grading her.  Brad wrote "Uncle Brad" and drew a smiley face.  I wrote my first name.  I feel awful, disliking a child, but I cannot find one redeeming quality in that kid.  He's violent, he's unattractive and he's good at math.  The math thing is almost cool, except he'll probably spend his teenage years developing computer viruses.

As for me, I am armoring myself with the only tools I have: cosmetics and clothes.  Eyeliner is not going to help, but I'll feel better if I give them less to criticize.  I've carefully chosen my outfit: jeans and a cardigan.  Brad's mother and sister will give me a thorough look as soon as I get there.  If I look too nice, they'll make some dig about how it must be nice to buy so many things for myself.  If I look too casual, they'll ask me if I slept in my clothes.  No matter what I wear, Brad's dad is going to ask me if I'm keeping my weight off.  I am.  Not that he is.

These are not nice people.  They have no friends and none of their relatives speak to them.  They are mean to my husband and my child.  I often ask Brad if he remembers any other kids at his house when he was little because I know they weren't allowed to have friends over.  He says no, but I wonder if there were other siblings, and maybe Brad and his sister were just the strongest ones.

And at the end of the day, when we're back at home catching whatever is left of the game, I know I'm going to love my husband a little bit more, for getting out of that OCD, ADD, A-S-S-H-O-L-E house and growing into the good man that he is today.  Until then, I'll be the quiet blonde wearing muted colors in the corner, humming "We Shall Overcome."

Saving Grace

I am not built for speed.  I am tall and awkward and gravity is not my friend.  Sweetpea once said that gravity isn't anyone's friend; gravity is a total loner.  I agree with her.  What I remember most from PE classes in elementary school was that it seemed ridiculous to run SO HARD and not be able to catch up to the fat kids.  I remember that, and the laughter of my classmates.  I don't know if it's because I never figured out what to do with my arms, or if my knees move weird, or if it's that my feet are so big, but I have concluded that I must run funny.  Not surprisingly, I stayed away from sports.

Physicality notwithstanding, my competitive spirit remains in tact and sometime around age 12 I began to shop.  I learned from my mama who is a damn good shopper in her own right, and then I surpassed the master.  I shop furiously.  I have been known to smack talk other shoppers.  Just when I thought I had peaked my shopping game, I learned to coupon.

Figuring savings into a shopping trip adds a new element of difficulty.  I have a goal of 50% savings per trip.  This means if I do pay full price for something that I absolutely need, like milk, I have to make up by saving more than half on other items.  My weekly grocery trips are tinted in a new light.  I prep up the night before in order to stay focused as I turn up and down the aisles.  I have learned which stores are friendly, which are understocked and which ones detest people with coupons.  I am polite to retail employees, I do not cause arguments, and in the case of a pricing discrepancy, I draw heavily on my southern accent and something else I learned at my mother's knee:  passive is the best kind of aggressive.  I usually get my way and everyone parts friends.

Seriously, ya'll.  I rock at the shopping.
 
Drug stores are my new playground.  They just give stuff away.  It's amazing.  It takes a little bit of work and some organization but if you're like me (our family nose-dived off the fiscal cliff two years ago), it is totally worth the effort.  By investing an hour a week I can afford to be brand loyal again.  Even our dogs are eating better these days.  And one of the side perks of playing the drugstores is that you often get to try new products for pennies.

Just yesterday I ripped open a new razor.  I purchased this particular razor as part of a package deal and I think I ended up paying $.75 for it.  The box says, "Discover the confidence that comes with all-over smoothness and a neat bikini area." I remember reading that in the store and thinking a promise like that was totally worth a dollar.  I used my new razor-with-built-in trimmer yesterday and so far, I do feel pretty confident.

In fact, you should probably stay out of CVS today because I am sassy and soda is on sale.  I am going to beat CVS and make it cry and then I am going to celebrate by drinking a lot of Diet Coke in the can.  Nothing tastes better than victory and aspartame and aluminum. And a neat bikini area.

I bet if I'd had this razor for Field Day in the sixth grade, I would have done better in that 50 yard dash.  Then the gym clothes that I buy from Old Navy wouldn't feel like such a lie.  But that's cool...I bought them on sale. 

Christmas Rehab

                We spent days celebrating Christmas.  It was exhausting.  We had Christmas with Brad’s family earlier this month.  Starting Christmas Eve we had Christmas with my brother and then Christmas with my dad’s family.  On Christmas morning we (Brad, Sweetpea and I)  had our own small Christmas, followed by  Christmas without my brother and we wrapped it up with Christmas with my mom’s family.   We’re in Christmas rehab now.  Brad’s watching TV.  Sweetpea is gaming.  I’m wrapped in an electric blanket hoping that the heat will unkink the knots in my neck and back.  No one in our house is speaking to anyone else.  We smile and nod at each other in the hallway, like acquaintances passing on a busy street.  We’re eating candy for dinner.  Sweetpea once said, “In this family, we eat our feelings.”  She was right.  We each have a bag of Hershey kisses.  Oh, the irony.

                I meant to enjoy the holidays.  I meant to take time to feel the excitement in the air.  I don’t think that happened.  Remember those old-timey cartoons where some girl found herself tied to train tracks and the train was bearing down but the ropes were too tight and she couldn’t get free?  I had that feeling.  I am pretty sure it wasn’t eager anticipation.   Felt more like a panic attack.  During an episode of extreme claustrophobia.  With a sprinkling of acid reflux.  Under an umbrella of dread.

                This is starting to sound like a cry for help.  I want it to be perfectly clear that I love my family.  I love all of them, with all of their weird little quirks and sillinesses.  I just think sometimes Christmas wants too much from me.  On Christmas Eve Eve, my brother and sister-in-law got here from Greenville.  We gave my parents a fire pit and made s’mores.  We laughed at the way my mom called them  “samoas.”  She is a southern lady and very easy on her vowels.  My darling yankee husband kept teasing her about Pacific islanders and my dad and brother teased Brad about not knowing how to build a proper fire.  My little sister started streaming Christmas music through her cell phone and my sister-in-law made her family’s secret eggnog recipe.  The girls took turns holding the new puppy on the swing as we sat outside and burned Christmas tree debris and Sweetpea ended up looking like a hobo with burned marshmallow all over her face.  When I think back to Christmas this year, those are the memories I want to keep.  

 

 

This post originally appeared in Irregardless Daily.

WTH

What are they teaching kids these days?  Sweetpea is not learning cursive.  She’s not refusing - the school isn’t offering.  I guess everyone types and texts these days so they have deemed cursive antiquated and unnecessary.  WTH.  How is she supposed to sign a check?  Okay, so she’ll have debit.  But what about a deed?  How is she going to buy me a mansion with her singer/songwriter money if she can’t sign her name? 

She is struggling with division.  I asked her what part she was getting stuck on and she said, no joke, “Well, Dirty Monkeys Smell Bad, but I don’t know what to do after that.”  Sometimes I forget and curse right in front of her.  Turns out DMSB stands for Divide, Multiply, Subtract and Bring down and Dirty Monkeys Smell Bad is a study strategy.  Unfortunately, we Blake girls are easily distracted.  Don’t try and get me to focus on math by talking about monkeys because I am not that interested in numbers in the first place.  Monkeys on the other hand can provide me with hours of daydreaming entertainment.  If we had a monkey I would name it Spunky…Spunky Monkey…and she would wear dresses the color of orange sherbet…what about that lady who got attacked by a chimp, I wonder if Oprah still talks to her…do they use shampoo on the monkeys at the zoo and if so, is it Pert Plus, because I somehow think it might be…are girl monkeys moodier than boy monkeys because I think Brad would move out if there was one more drop of estrogen in this house…you ever notice how the gorillas at the zoo stare right back at you with pity…. Hours.  I could ponder monkeys for hours.  Looks like Sweetpea can too, because while she is sure monkeys stink she has no idea what’s going on with long division.

Her teacher is adorable.  She’s petite and postcard cute.  Like Skipper, Barbie’s little friend.  She’s really nice and she doesn’t take too many deep breaths during our conferences, which I personally appreciate.  Brad and I can come on a little strong.  I never quit hating school but I don’t mind teachers.  As far as I’m concerned, they are like cops - I don’t want that job but I’m glad someone’s willing to do it.  Brad never quit hating teachers but he likes school.  He has issues with figures of authority and don’t get him started on cops if you have any place to be for the next two hours.  I try to nice Sweetpea’s teachers to death and send in a lot of supplies to make up for the fact that I am not one of those class volunteer moms.  It’s not so much that I don’t want to be involved as it is that I don’t like strangers’ children.  It’s no coincidence that of my three children, two of them are imaginary.  But I digress.

So Brad and I conferenced with Sweetpea’s darling teacher who has eyes that are still full of hope and we voiced our concerns that Sweetpea  just isn’t digging math.  We inquired about extra work, flash cards and tutoring, all of which were acceptable education supplements when we were in school.  Apparently our suggestions were trés last century.  Instead, we were given some websites to hit and an app to put on our phones. 

Sweetpea may struggle with math and her signature may be mostly block letters, but she’s learned this lesson: when things get tough, Apple has the answer.



This post originally appeared in Irregardless Daily.

Chick Date

I was nineteen years old the last time I went on a first date.  Had I known it was a first date, I probably would have paid more attention to my appearance.  Tipped off by my incessant whining and cursing, Brad knew that I was less than thrilled with our small college town and he offered to take me out for pizza to assuage my boredom.  When the waitress asked what to do with the leftovers Brad told her to put them into two boxes.  That's when I figured out that my good buddy Brad was on a different program.  By the time our waitress had returned with two boxes and one check, at the end of our date, my nerves kicked in.

The other day I met a fellow mommy and blogger for brunch.  It was a chick date.  This time, I had the good sense to be nervous from the beginning.  I went so far as to solicit Brad's opinion on my outfit.  This is a futile exercise in which I typically refrain from engaging.  He did not disappoint.  "I don't understand the difference between skinny jeans and leggings anyway," he said.  "You look nice in both."  Thanks, Dude.  Helpful. 

I got to the restaurant first and then committed to a table.  I was terrified that she was going to come and horrified that she had forgotten to meet me.  I ordered a Diet Coke and mentally reviewed a list of topics that I should NOT bring up...politics, religion, bladder retention, and that weird charcoal smell that I can't identify but permeates my master bathroom.  Finally, I saw her curls through the window.  I waved, like the big fat dork that I will always be, my butterflies kicked into high gear and then...she smiled.

The rest of brunch was amazing.  Conversation was easy and I managed to suppress all of the creepy things that usually pop out of my mouth at the worst possible times while the rational part of my brain screams, "SHUT UP!  STOP TALKING!" before it moans, "There goes another one..."  It appears that she had a good time too.

There is nothing left to do except to wait for her call.  What's the rule?  Two days?  Seven?  Ya'll let me know when to get worried.