Hair in low places: A conversation with the boy
16 Jan 2012 1 Comment
“Mama, I’m a man.” (This seemed random, because this is exactly how the conversation started following another about Power Rangers then a long silence in the car. I’m sure in his head, it wasn’t that random.)
“Oh, honey, you’re going to be a big and strong man.” (Good mommy. Ego-boost to the kid.)
“I’m a man now, Mama.”
“Dude, you’re 6.” (Reality check?)
“And I’m a man.”
“Really? Do you have a job? Do you pay bills? Drive your own car? Live in your own house?” (Might be sliding into a bad-mommy moment, here.)
“I have a job.”
Mommy-pause. “OK, you’re right. You do have a job.” (Since I told him that his job is going to school, learning lots, and getting big and strong, the boy has a point. Re-route the Mommy argument.)
“See? I’m a man.” (Score point to the boy.)
“Do you have hair on your schmekel?” (When in doubt, use humor — even if it’s funny just to Mommy.)
“What?”
“You’ll get back to me, then?” (Score point to Mommy.)
“Yeah.”
(We’ll call it a draw.)
“… and I have more insurance.”
16 Jan 2012 2 Comments
In 1994, my then-husband and I moved to Monticello, Ark. As is required to establish residency, I went into the DMV to get an Arkansas driver’s license. I walked in with my Texas license, my birth certificate and marriage certificate (’cause I hadn’t changed my name in the six months I’d been married).
At the time, Arkansas law required that because I was from out-of-state, I had to take the written portion of the driver’s test. The lady behind the counter held out a handbook and asked me to come back when I had studied. I said, “I’ll take the test now.”
“Without studying for it?”
“Well, yeah. I had the test in Texas already, and most of it’s common sense,” I replied.
She looked at me askance and handed me the test, giving me 30 minutes to complete.
Ten minutes later, I waltzed back up to the counter, handed it over then sat down to wait a bit. I was called to the counter again and asked, “Are you sure you didn’t study for this?”
I had gotten a perfect score, and she didn’t understand how.
Fast forward about 12 years. The insurance carrier that represented the company I was working for required all of us who drove for company business take a defensive driver’s class. It was schedule first thing in the morning for four straight days. I had a schedule and loads of work to do. I showed up, signed in sat until my first appointment, then left. (That means I was in that class about a total of 2 hours.)
The last day, the test was given. I showed up, took the test and left. Two hours later I went back for my results and certificate. Out of 40 or so folks who took that test, only four got perfect scores. (Can you guess my name?)
Here’s the thing … I paid attention the FIRST time.
Do I necessarily follow all the rules? (Yeah, okay, if you say so.)
Driver’s tests aren’t “What would I do?” Most of the time, it’s common sense. You know, green means go; red means stop. Look both ways before pulling into an intersection. Duh.
Bad driving isn’t just about skill. It’s about understanding and acknowledging that there are other drivers on the road at the same time as you, most likely, if you’re in town, about three feet away. (And the way some folks pull up behind one, about six inches.)
I asked my mother one time why she drove so slowly and why she was looking everywhere but the road (it seemed). She told me that she sees everything that’s going on around her. (Consequently, I drive more like my dad. Well, more like Dad used to drive. ‘Cause you know I love taking shots at Dad in my blog! … nothing I wouldn’t say to his face, mind.)
When a compact car (me) is parked between two SUVs — which, by the way, are wide enough to go over the parking lines on both sides of them — I CAN’T SEE YOU coming up the aisle from either direction. I nudge back very carefully. I know I can be seen with my back-up lights on, gently pulling out of the space, because I can see them backing out of spaces when the situation is reversed.
What I ask of you who are guilty of not paying attention … PAY ATTENTION, honk your horn and SLOW DOWN. Give me time to stop, or if you’re feeling generous, wait for me to finish backing out. Swerving around me could cause an accident with a third vehicle or even a fourth.
All drivers have to do is pay attention. Remember the rules of the road. Want to know where soaring insurance rates come from? Want to know why folks feel safer in SUVs and are willing to pay untoward amounts of money in gas?
Bachelor files: Mr. Dismal
15 Jan 2012 Leave a Comment
Smart guy. He’s studying his PhD in biology, teaches at the university and manages his money well. The same age as me, Mr. Dismal owns his house, his truck, his motorcycle and a dog. I was able to meet the dog — a sweetie that wanted to lay down all 75 pounds of herself in my lap for a belly rub. Very friendly and lovable.
He has tattoos and is a member of a couple of biker clubs. A little bit of a bad-boy type — just enough to potentially keep things interesting.
An hour was spent with a slide show. He whipped out his IPad and started showing me pictures of an academic excursion to Africa, being sure to pause long and comment on every butt- and genetalia-shot he had of various African mammals he saw on that safari. Disturbing, at the least.
As I would recognize a lot of the animals, I would comment (you know, participation in conversation), and he would frown a little then move on to the next slide. Apparently, despite my time spent volunteering at a zoo and paying attention to what the zoo housed, I’m not supposed to recognize a dik-dik when I see one.
Dik-dik butt
Not once did he ask me a question. Not once did he attempt to get to know me. Not once did he laugh at any of my jokes (and I damn well know I’m funny). He did smile fewer than half-a-dozen times, though. Does that count?
Before an hour had passed, I was attempting to conjure a reason for leaving. Uncharacteristically, I had foregone my normal request of friends that they text or call me about 30 to 45 minutes into a date to give me an out.
Fortunately, I was inadvertently saved.
Having dinner plans at a friend’s that evening, said friend sent me a text to let me know what time dinner would begin. (Chad, I love you soooo much!)
On my way out, Mr. Dismal chooses that moment to tell me that he’s an alcoholic.
How can I say “no” to all this?
Too bad, really. I liked that dog.
Guest post with Seba
14 Jan 2012 Leave a Comment
Y’all don’t miss out on my guest post on Southern Kitchen Witch: Southern Pride & Texas Roots, Pagan-style!
Cam’s rant: Generational fail
11 Jan 2012 3 Comments
In the grocery store the other day, I was standing at the self check-out, finished up, getting my bags together and wrangling the son. It was busy, and there were quite a few people waiting in line to use the self check-out. With my bags still sitting on the scale and my son and me standing in front of the scanner, a woman in her 60s (I’m guessing) came right up on us, put her things down on the shelf next to the scanner and began scanning her groceries.
I said, “Excuse me. We’re not quite finished.”
She didn’t even look at me. I know she heard me, because she hesitated.
I did say something about her being rude, finished gathering my groceries and left. Then had to explain to Ian why the woman was behaving poorly.
Here’s the rant part: I’ve heard many older folks complain about the lack of manners in the younger generation, the lack of individual respect just for being a person and the narcissism of younger folks (specifically actions, in this case).
Guess what? You can’t have it both ways.
I’m not saying all older generations say or do these things. Far from it. But the ones who do insist on acting antithetically to their professions of public behavior make my butt itch.
I am constantly reinforcing expected behavior in my son, differentiating between what is acceptable in public and what is acceptable at home. I am constantly having to explain to him why this person or that person is being rude, because, in fact, they are by word or by action.
He has learned to say, “Yes, ma’am,” and, “No, sir.” When ordering at a restaurant, he starts with, “I would like … .” There’s “please” and “thank you.” He knows to sit up in his chair or booth at a restaurant with his butt on the seat, not run around the isles and not stand up in the seat. He knows to say, “Excuse me,” when moving around someone. He asks, “Would you please … ?” instead of, “Hand me that.” He hears me say occasionally, “Not everything is about you.” And I lead by example.
This instilling of the value of respect takes work. This didn’t happen overnight; it didn’t even happen over the course of a year. Teaching kids respect in all its forms takes some serious work and constant reinforcement and correcting.
You want to bitch about the younger generations lack of respect? Then prove to them that there are still respectful people in this world. Prove to my son that you respect his existence. Prove to me that you’re not that cynical and give me a reason not to grow up to be like you.
I patiently wait my turn at the grocery store check-out. I will not push you out of my way, no matter how much of a hurry I’m in. I’ve even been known to wait until the person in front of me is completely out of the line, bags in hand and walking away before I walk the two more steps to stand in front of the counter proper, just so you can have your full turn.
If you’re in that much of a hurry at the grocery, you should have gotten there sooner to do your shopping.
Shove me again, lady.
Righteous commenting