See-ya

I just put in an application at a new preschool for Vaughn. Admittedly, I only looked at two this time again, but The Analyst convinced me that you can only research preschools so much and then the rest is largely luck and chance.

With that sage advice, I decided, "Screw it," very much reminiscent of how he got into his current preschool. Probably not the best sign. I did check this place out. I'm not knocked out by it (however, my standards are considerably higher this time round), but there are more kids, it's nonco-op, two caring teachers, fairly structured, a big huge gymnasium for recess, and a large campus for outdoor play. Plus, as Vaughn put it, the view is "beautiful." Hey, can't argue with that.

This all of course came on the heels of me picking Vaughn up from school and finding out that they watched a video, AGAIN, for recess. Lord God Almighty, these kids would never see the outdoors if we kept them in every time it drizzled. We live in OREGON, for God's sake. As one person put it, "The armpit of the United States," and I would add to that, "The very cold and clammy armpit of the United States."

Then Vaughn told me that they had "treats" for snacks--gummies and punch. Is it any wonder these kids are sick all the time and will eat absolutely nothing that even slightly sniffs of any nutritional value? This was on Tuesday and he informed me that they again had gummies on Thursday for lunch. I don't know if the parents have just resigned themselves to catering to the depraved appetites of these little anorexics or what. I bring in fruit cups for my days and only one kid will eat them. That's right: Vaughn. The rest of the kids shove their fruit cups over to "Mikey" for consumption. This is fruit in syrup, people. But oh, what's that? They detect trace vitamins in there, so it is not fit for their discriminating palates.

On top of this, I did my "job" at the spaghetti feed under the preschool administrator's watch (a.k.a. the Preschool Nazi). My shift was supposed to go from 4-6:30, but around 6:30, when I'm getting ready to depart with my family, she informs me that I'll be there until 7-ish. Ish? Ish!!!!????? I guess this was her way of penalizing me for getting to my shift late, but in my defense, I wasn't even supposed to have to do a full shift. This was the conversation back in December:

I was doing the stocking stuffer job at the time and was goodnaturedly bitching to another mother in front of the Preschool Nazi's office (admittedly unwisely) about how time consuming this co-op thing was. When we'd registered, I had stupidly signed up for every job available over the year, not understanding that I only had to do one 3-hour job for the year. After the mother left, the Preschool Nazi calls me into her office and said she couldn't help overhearing (yeah, what with the bat ears and all) my conversation and that she wanted to clear up any confusion I might have. I told her that it was my stupidity that caused the confusion and that I was perfectly prepared to keep my commitment. She told me that she keeps track of all the hours the parents put in and that she "wouldn't allow anyone to go over their 3 hours." She asked how much time the stocking stuffing had taken me, and I stood there calculating outloud, coming to the conclusion that it was about 2-1/2 hours. She said that in that case, I could probably just do 1/2 hour on the cash register for the rummage sale and my commitment would be fulfilled. Of course, at the end of this conversation, as I'm leaving, she adds, "Let me know for sure how much time the stocking stuffing took you." Jeez. I'm sorry. I thought I just did that? Whatever.

Fast forward 2 months, and here I am slopping overcooked spaghetti and serving senior citizens last Thanksgiving's pumpkin pie, chanting over and over in my brain, "Vaughn's outta here. Vaughn's outta here."

Now I just have to break the news that he's not coming back next year to the Preschool Nazi. *shiver*

Apology

Okay, so now I feel like a real poopiehead [trying to clean up the language for the boy. I said trying]. After my scathing comments about Sheryl Crow and Lancelot and gloating over their breakup, I now hear she has breast cancer. A thousand apologies, Sheryl, for calling you a band whore. Clearly, I was wrong to say that, and again, sorry [Band Slut].

See Spot

I think it is truly a toss up whether Walmart or Target attracts the most odd people. My latest excursion to Target (blissfully childfree) is at the top of the list currently, though.

I'm in the makeup section, and I can hear this woman over on the other aisle keeping up this constant chatter:

"I know, Honey. Mamma just needs to get this one little thing. I know you're tired, Baby, but Mamma's almost done. Okay, Baby, I just need you to move over here. Okay, move for Mamma, Sweetie. I know, you're tired, Baby, but just move for Mamma."

I'm hearing none of the squeals and screeches that one would usually associate with a tired and irritated child; so, I take a peek. I see this woman with her back to me in a scooter (need I say more?) with a golden retriever at her side. Okay, I've heard of those helper dogs, so I figure that's what this dog is. You know how people in scooters need a dog to retrieve their blush and what not. Help with the infinite choices between Loreal and Cover Girl. I see none of the typical alerts on the dog indicating that it is one of these animals, but whatever.

The one-sided conversation continues along the same lines (Mamma chastising her wayward pup), and despite the scooter, I continue to give the woman the benefit of the doubt, thinking she is in her right mind and these helper dogs are just very intelligent and can understand these very subtle "commands."

"Move to Mamma's right, Baby. No, Mamma's RIGHT, Baby."

I then finally hear another voice, male, begin to converse with her. Now assuming this isn't a talking dog, which would really make a lot more sense based on the way she was talking to it, I figure another human has now joined her, and I hear her telling him in an exasperated voice just how stressed out the dog is making her. Jeez, lady, you need a kid! I'd take a mute dog over a belligerent preschooler ANY day.

Okay, exit Lulu Land. I move on to another part of the store. Unfortunately, so do they. We're both in the pet section. Surprise, surprise! Evidently, Baby needs a new leash. I now see that this woman has a Chihuahua perched in her lap besides "Baby" at her side.

Okay, now as far as I know, Chihuahuas are not one of the top breeds for assistants to the disabled. I'm a big fan of the whole Taco Dog and all, but come on! I now have given up the benefit and come to the conclusion that this woman is pure, unadulterated nuts. As for her significant other--likewise.

The really weird thing is here's this woman spending all this time in Target with two dogs, and not exactly being subtle, and nobody is saying a word about it. I then start thinking, "Wait a minute. Is this one of those hoax things?" You know, they hire some actors to behave outrageously and at times insane and then film your average bystander's reaction for millions of viewers to see and scoff.

If you see me on 20/20 or one of those shows, I'll be the woman who is pretending to not notice the two freaks and their doggy companions shopping in a Target store.

More Restaurant Adventures

Once again we had another restaurant invitation to a totally inappropriate site for a soon-to-be-4-year-old. Fortunately, my mother-in-law reserved one of the back rooms, so it actually worked out pretty well. This time I came prepared with various distractions for Vaughn to keep him from using the table as a trampoline, but let's face it, coloring can only enrapture a preschooler for so long. Certainly, not long enough to make it through an adult dining experience. At the very end, Vaughn decides he's had enough and thinks it is a very good idea indeed to go out and meet the people. So, he makes a mad dash out to the dimly lit, very populated, intimate main dining area. Once he catches a glimpse of me in the Crouching Tiger position, he screams, "You can't catch me!" Oh, the game is on.

We enter into our Monday night football moves, weaving between tables and astonished looking diners, and I tackle him, now kicking and screaming (him not me). Trying to maintain what little composure I have, I kneel down into the "I'm-now-going-to-reason-with-you-you-little-maniacal banshee" posture, all the while gritting my teeth so hard, I know at any moment they will shatter, sprinkling Vaughn with little shards of sparkling white enamel.

After the hissing of many threats, I calmly escort him back into the room full of family members (cousins, grandmother, aunt and uncle) at which point Vaughn (arms crossed and in a very huffy tone) loudly announces, "I'm not very happy with your behavior, Mommy."

Of course everyone thought this was very cute and entertaining, as my blood pressure peaked and my head exploded.