Tell It To COACHIE

I am not a super mom. I will never be, and never understand, one of those mothers who is endlessly amused and never annoyed by anything that her child does. My kiddies are my favorite people in the world. They are the funniest, the most fun to be around, the lowest maintenance and yet if I don’t get regular time away from them, I start to disintegrate. This summer was different, because at the beach there is always something for them to do, to keep them occupied while I have a little quiet. The school year is something else entirely, because the free time that we have is not free. In the four hours from when they get off the bus to when they go to bed, we’ve got to get through homework and reading and dinner and baths and playing and talking over the day, not to mention whatever appointments, lessons or meetings are scheduled for the week.

This week in addition to the regular mayhem we had 4 dentist appointments, church school and back to school night. Marty went to hourly care during the dentist appointments for obvious reasons, but since I had to pick up the girls as soon as I dropped him off, it didn’t really count as down time.

Today I was within reach of the glorious hour when Marty could be dropped off at hourly care for my 5-hour sanity restoration session. Then the phone rang. I was informed by the minion at the center that since Marty had already been in on three days, he wasn’t allowed to come in today. According to the hourly care in Kentucky, the limit was 5 hours per day and 20 hours per week according to the DA regulations.

Me: But he hasn’t been in 20 hours this week

Minion: We don’t do it by 20 hours, we do it by 3 days.

Me: Is this new?

Minion: No, it’s always been that way. For example, you could bring him in at 8 and leave him until 5 three days a week.

Me: I thought the DA regulation was 5-hours a day and 20 hours a week.

Minion: Oh, no, every installation has its own regulations.

Me (after quickly lecturing myself that the minion doesn’t make the made up rules, she just blindly and unquestioningly enforces them, and she likely would not have ever pondered the fact that if the DA regulations actually did differ across the country they would not really be DA regulations): (…)

Minion: So, I just wanted to let you know before you brought Martin in that you can’t bring Martin in.

Me: Okay then. Bye.

The main source of my rage in this scenario? The hourly care is never full. I wasn’t taking anybody’s spot or keeping anybody out. Many days Marty is the only kid there when I go to pick him up. The sterling administration at the center would rather inconvenience me and enforce the rule than help me out and make the money. That is always their philosophy – the rules are the rules, and even if only one person is being affected by them (and that person in a negative way) the rules will be followed. Because those are the rules. And they made them up. And they are in charge. And they will decide how to organize my life and what arrangements I need to make. And those are the rules.

As my sister pointed out – it’s called “hourly care” so shouldn’t the restriction be according to the hours not the days? Actually, the restrictions are by the hour in the DA regulations, just not in the despotic regime set up at our day care center.

And to be honest, the original DA restrictions filled me with rage too. I can only picture some middle-aged bureaucrat sitting in an office somewhere thinking, “Five hours is enough for a mother who’s not working. Anyone who wants to be away from their kids longer than that is self-indulgent.” The weekly maximum I can understand – if you need more than 20 hours, you should probably get into one of the full-time or part time programs.

I know it may seem high maintenance to complain about a place that actually offers affordable periodic care. However, the administration at this place seems to spend an awful lot of time making sure that we are not getting affordable periodic care easily. They seem to think that we should be willing to jump through hoops and follow inane policies just because their in charge (and don’t even get me started on the “no holiday observance” policy – not even Thanksgiving or Valentine’s day).

I do not understand this place. But until Marty is potty trained and enrolled in preschool elsewhere, I will likely continue to complain about it here. Enjoy!

When I was a freshman in high school, the Washington Redskins won the Super Bowl. That year, it was great to be a Redskins fan – they were talented, they were colorful, and they didn’t disappoint. I remember it vividly because it was the first time that I remembered rooting for a team that actually won. My mom was so happy (probably because she had endured more than her share of Redskins strife in her DC life to that point) that she even went out and bought all of us Redskins souvenirs to commemorate the occasion. The city threw them a victory parade in a freezing cold downpour (I was not there because the nuns had issued an ominous warning regarding the punishments that would be meted out to any young lady missing school to attend the parade. Of course, the Jesuits at my brother’s school gave their students the morning off), and for weeks afterward the paper was filled with the witty/drunken remarks of John Riggins and pictures of the Hogs.

Five years later, when I was a sophomore in college, the Redskins won again. I had bet a feeble-minded guy friend a case of beer that the Redskins would win. He called me repeatedly in the first quarter to mock the Redskins performance, but strangely in the second quarter, he disappeared altogether. Oh, now I remember, the five straight touchdowns that the Redskins scored must have killed his enthusiasm for heckling me. I was watching the game alone in my dorm room because none of my friends liked football, and almost no one on campus like the Redskins (of course, once I collected the beer, I was no longer alone since everyone I knew liked beer). I would have bet against Denver no matter who they were playing because I hated John Elway, but that’s another story.

During my first year of graduate school, the Redskins won again. I had two classmates from New Orleans, and they were very excited that the Saints were playing well enough to make the playoffs. When I attempted to show some enthusiasm for the Redskins, I was told that the Redskins were always good, so I couldn’t possibly be as excited as they were. Of course, after the Saints lost in the wild card game, I guess I was more excited than they were, but they did have a point. The 80s and early 90s were a great time to be a Redskins fan.

(Note: My father, brothers, brother-in-law, and possibly my future brother-in-law will not understand the next paragraph)

Because I got to live through those three Super Bowl victories, I don’t get as upset when the Redskins stink (and whew boy, do they stink). I already know that I will not die waiting for the Redskins to win. They did win. I can think back over those years and tell my grandkids about those Super Bowls. Granted, it doesn’t make the current Redskins any easier to take - I’d love for them to have another great stretch where they were the team to beat, but I’m not going to hold my breath.

What got me thinking about the Redskins was this weekend’s performance by the Philadelphia Eagles. The HP, his sister, his dad, and his friends are all Iggles fans, and over the past 10 years, the ineptitude of the Eagles has risen to a level where even I feel sympathy for them (the fans that is, and my mother-in-law who has to be around the fans while they thrash around in agony, cursing and throwing things). The Eagles don’t generally lose because they are less talented, they lose because they are less intellectually gifted. On Sunday, when they blew their 17-point lead for another unexpected and unnecessary loss, I finally understood why the HP is always pulling his hair out, whether the Eagles are winning or losing. He can’t relax even when they are up by 35 points, because they can always find a way to lose.

One opening day when the Eagles were on the verge of winning, the HP and his sister went outside to have a celebratory beer and enjoy the fall foliage. When they came back in and I told them the Eagles had lost, the look of shock on their faces was somewhat comical to me (Redskins fan that I am), but now I understand how long and deep their pain goes. During the fourth (and last) Eagles NFC championship game two years ago, I convinced the HP to take us all to the Embassy Suites so that at least I could have a few drinks, room service, and watch a movie with the kids while he was in the slow excruciating throes of watching the Eagles collapse again.

I have no idea how to help the HP or all of the other Eagles fans that I love (my grandfather for one). All I can tell you is that I now understand how hard it must be to follow that team, how you have to badmouth them continually because you can’t afford to let your guard down again, how you need large amounts of beer to even sit in front of the TV. And really, in Philadelphia, the pain is unrelenting, because the Phillies and the Flyers and the 76ers never do any better. If Smarty Jones had won the Triple Crown, I think the Philly people might have felt a little less cursed.

But he didn’t.

Going Postal

After the mailman offered me the bike, he avoided me for a full month. When we finally ran into each other again, he told me that someone had stolen it “right out of the yard,” at which point I breathed a huge sigh of relief. I don’t know that we could have forged a friendship based on the fact that he delivers my mail and once scared me with the doorbell.

The unlikeliness of a workable friendship was also apparent the day that the kiddies and I came back from the beach for school orientation, the mailman knocked on my door and said “If you had called me, I would have brought your mail today. The notice said you were coming back tomorrow.” I said, “Well, when I filled out the form, I wasn’t sure when I was coming back,” and he said, “If you had called me, I would have brought your mail today.” I wasn’t sure if he was looking for an apology or a promise to call him the next time I had mail held, and I wasn’t sure exactly why he thought I had his phone number, but if he is such a high-maintenance mailman, I can only imagine what sort of friend he is.

In other news, he’s growing back his ponytail, so I’m very curious as to why he cut it off (if we were friends I guess I could ask him). I wonder if it is a slow-moving (1/2-inch per month) defiance of the mailman grooming code.

Ole! Ole, Ole, Ole! Ole! Ole!

The US Team’s World Cup performance: P-U! P-U, P-U, P-U! P-U! P-U!

Even with the crappy refereeing, I still enjoyed the tournament, but Italy should never have won. Also, if a humiliating showing by the US was necessary to finally oust Bruce Arena (who I’m sure is a lovely man), I’ll put this World Cup behind me and cross my fingers for another four years.

Thomas Edison Would Be So Proud

My affection for the continuous spray sunscreen lasted approximately 3 days, which is how long it took the four of us to go through 2 cans. At that rate, we would have been through 40 cans by the end of the summer, and I likely would have had an annex of the Sussex County landfill named after me. I still wish sunscreen could be that easy, but if the can can’t be recycled, I can’t (Does anyone else have the can-can song going through their head?) justify it to my long lost chemist self.

In Search of a Perfect Snow Cone

While visiting auntie Erin in DC this summer, a trip that I started to chronicle prior to being sucked in to the wine bottle at my parents’ house, the kiddies had a chance to sample the Good Humor snow cone of my youth. I can report to everyone, that it has not changed in 30 years. At Aislinn’s insistence I bit into hers, and it was exactly the way I remembered it – completely disappointing. I showed the kids how to pull out the ice chunk and drink the juice at the bottom, but even the juice was tasteless. When I looked at the wrapper, I saw that they only have 30 calories, probably because more sugar would make them melt faster (ding!ding!ding!ding! the expensive college education pays off!). But the kiddies declared them delicious and powered through them, probably because they hadn’t eaten any lunch.

I was being annoyed by Miles O’Brien, so apologies to Shepard Smith. But he’s on Fox News so chances are he’s annoyed me too.

Dear Power Surge,

I had just convinced Marty that going back to hourly care was going to be a nonstop laugh riot. Why would you come through at exactly 9:00 and set off the fire alarm, just as I’m reaching for the pen to sign him in? On 9/11 no less? Clearly the power has gone to your head.

You’re grounded - Shannon

*******************

Dear Weather Channel,

Good God enough already! I think you can rest assured that all of America considers you THE HURRICANE AUTHORITY, and no little start up weather channel is going to try to steal your thunder (hah). No one is going to turn on ESPN or HGTV looking for hurricane updates. Although American schools may be failing, most people can probably figure out that when you want to hear about the weather you should look on the Weather Channel. Oh, and please, please, get Jim Cantore a hobby - no one should wear a look of such intense concern for such a long period of time.

Love, THE ANNOYANCE AUTHORITY

*******************

Dear Vacuum Cleaner,

I wish you were a person so I could tell you how much I hate you.

Hatefully, Shannon

*******************

Dear Roller Skates,

I know Lauren was getting too big for her britches, saying she had you figured out, but was that really necessary? To twist her ankle in a manner that makes the Joe Thiesman/Lawrence Taylor leg break look like a mere stumble over a bump in the sidewalk?

You are very lucky that she is made of rubber - Shannon

*******************

Dear Fly in the Kitchen,

How exactly has evolution allowed you to live, when instead of resting on a half eaten cookie, you insist upon resting on my head? That sort of behavior can only bring about a rampage that will be visited on your head (actually your whole self) and all of your ancestors/descendants.

When you least expect it, expect it - Shannon

PS. Whoever named you a “fly” was obviously a linguistic genius.

*******************

Dear Carroll,

Why do you hate me? Don’t sit there and pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. What possible other explanation could there be for leaving this open and running on the toyroom computer? That’s not what sisters do. I have a problem and you’re the one who gave me the crack.

My children are dirty and unfed, and it’s your fault - Shannon

*******************

Dear Spider Solitaire,

How can you consider yourself a game when there is no guarantee that you have a solution? How am I supposed to know if it is your fault or my fault when I can’t complete you? Why can’t you be more like your cousin Freecell?

Go away! - Shannon

*******************

Dear Hair,

What happened to you? My entire life is based on the fact that I can usually get you in order, even if everything else is a mess. Suddenly you have become some sort of humidity junkie and insist upon sticking out and being frizzy if there is a drop of water anywhere within a three mile radius. Can’t you read the descriptions on the product bottles? I’ve got four things at work trying to keep you down, and still you’re out there nipping at the humidity.

Cut it out - or I’ll cut you - Shannon

*******************

Dear Miles O’Brien,

I saw your staged dog rescue after Hurricane Katrina. I can still see you standing there, having your makeup retouched, waiting to go live while that poor dog was trapped. Do you think Walter Cronkite would have put on such a performance? Anyway, once you said: “What’s that? I hear something! I think a dog may be trapped in this debris pile!! Come here! Let’s check! There is a dog! Helloooo pupppeee!!! Good doggie!! Oooooo pupppeee, such a good boy!” etc, etc, you lost all credibility with me (granted, I had never seen you before, so I don’t know if you would have ever had any credibility with me). You are a twit.

The only reason I stopped on your newscast this morning is that I saw you were interviewing the HP’s boss from Afghanistan. First you quote an editorial saying that we do not have enough resources in Afghanistan. Then you asked the general how the poppy crop could have increased this year (in a manner, I might add, that seems to indicate that you think the American troops may have planted the additional poppy crops). Then when the general was attempting to explain the situation to you, you interrupted him to reask the question because you remembered you wanted to say “How could this situation literally BLOOM under your noses?” Sooo clever! That’s not “asking the tough questions,” that’s “being a moronic ass.”

Get Over Yourself - Shannon

*******************

Dear Erin,

How does it feel to have your signature blogging format unapologetically stolen by your big sister? Hee hee hee hee!

Update your blog - Shannon