DMV Express

Among other things that are crappy about this particular year is The State had to further drive home, so to speak, the fact that I am aging by sending me a reminder that my driver’s license was about to expire. Instead of the usual filling out a check and sending in the paperwork, they now require multiple pieces of documentation to verify your identity and that you submit this information in person. I did my usual efficient thing and procrastinated until the day before it expired. I prepared myself that today would be devoted to visiting the DMV (that department that has now taken on the role of proctologist).

The second I walk through the door, I take a number, expecting it to be number 408 (cursing myself for only bringing a book and my iPod and not the laptop, too). I look at the ticket—C09. I look up at the counter—05. What? Is that like as in A05? Do we go through each letter of the alphabet, so I have A and B yet to sit through until they come back around to C? Or could it possibly be the letter is superfluous? I sit down, start to settle in and decide I’ll wait to see what they yell out.

I’ve been there a total of maybe 2 minutes, and they yell out in rapid fire succession,

“Number 6…number 7…number 8.”

What? I haven’t even unraveled my iPod earbuds yet. I figure number 8 will be the kicker. There’ll be something ridiculously complicated about number 8, like that person in the express lane that buys 200 dozen boxes of Kleenex and has a coupon for each one and doesn’t understand that “15 item limit” doesn’t mean 15 different kinds of items and that the operative word in the phrase “express lane” is EXPRESS. Just as I’m finishing this thought,

“Number 9.”

That's me !?! I walk up to the counter, submit the required DNA, urine and feces samples to verify my identity, and that yes, the Department of Motor Vehicles’ records are correct—I have been a licensed driver in this state for the last 24 years.

“That’ll be $39. Go ahead and take a seat and they’ll call you for your picture.”

AH-HA! Now comes the interminable wait. I give up on untangling my earbuds and take out my book.

“T.M.”

I look around the waiting area to verify that they are indeed calling MY name. No one else seems to be responding, so I wisely surmise they must be calling me.

Two minutes later, I’m standing outside the DMV with a temporary driver’s license in hand, admiring my fetching new photo.

For all the appearance of an anal exam, I didn’t feel a thing.

My Grown-up Birthday List

I have declared a moratorium on all acknowledgements of my birthday this year…except for presents. I’m not totally cold hearted. I’m doing this for Dave’s benefit because I know how disappointed he gets when he can’t buy me gifts. I’ve been submitting my ever increasing birthday demands throughout the last month or so “You mean for the birthday we’re not acknowledging?” After 18 years of marriage, I have given up the stupidly romantic notion of leaving Dave to his own gift giving devices. I pretty much do everything except pay for the gift. This time I have left him to pick out the specifics. With each passing year, my present requests have eerily come to resemble my every practical mother’s, “Just get me a laundry basket for Christmas.”

This year I’ve requested a tripod and a handheld recorder. I have long since abandoned being the recipient of baubles and bling. After Dave bought me two different pairs of sapphire earrings and I lost both, I determined that I cannot be entrusted with any adornment over $30, and even then…

Oh, I need to add interlocking exercise mats to my wish list.

FYI

I don’t know if this sign is legit or not, but for those of you who share my thirst for knowledge, here you go. I may have just created a sorely needed new ASL hand sign. The beauty of it is one could easily misinterpret it. Make liberal use of it with my blessing…and you’re welcome ;o) I give and I give…

Now, Teacher has a simple task for you: See if you can figure out what makes this the “I hate you,” sign and why. What are the differences? Discuss...Tick, tock, tick, tock…

Stinkin’ Thinkin’

What’s the sign language for “I hate you,” or does the middle finger suffice? You know, for those times when you want to convey to someone from across the room that you wish them a slow and painful death, something along the lines of “May the fleas from a 1000 camels infest your nose hairs for all eternity.” A hand signal that you could take a picture of and send to someone’s Iphone. I just think the middle finger is overdone. It’s become so ubiquitous it’s lost its bite. It’s like the equivalent of giving someone the raspberry (which you can’t really do in polite company without looking like a first-grader). I need something more obscure. Something only deaf people know, but the intended victim could look it up. Huh…maybe I’ll look it up.

Mommy Got Her 6-Pack Back

Finally!! And without any butt squeezes in the car sitting in traffic. So there, Denise Austin! Now I have to work on my bum, which is going south for the winter. Hmmm…Maybe I should revisit those butt squeezes.

PS: To my niece and her father (my brother-in-law) who might take issue with this post because of their concern about the dude in Sweden who is obsessively cyberstalking me through my blog: This post has been approved by Dave (including the picture), and I quote, “Yeah, absolutely! *lasciviously grinning* Why would I have a problem with it?”

Paradise Lost Sock

Did you know that there are actually mommies that will stay up late at night, even into the wee hours of the morning, to catch up on laundry? I did not know these creatures existed. Well except on television, and then I thought they were some kind of freakish aberrancy. Far be it from me to discount the joys of laundry folding nirvana, but as long as I can dig, climb or otherwise escape my bedroom through the mountain range of clothing, I’m not withdrawing from my sleep account. I have my principles.

Just a Minute Janet

Vaughn has discovered that there are 60 seconds in a minute. This is unfortunate because one of my favorite phrases since I was at least his age, if not younger, is “just a minute,” and I still make liberal use of it today. Not as a specific measurement of time, but more as an arbitrary, vague, abstract state of existence, something akin to “sometime this century.” I did not realize what was going on at first when after I said to him “just a minute” he started counting under his breath. I had a vague awareness of him looking over my shoulder breathing “1-2-3-4-5-6-7…,” but didn’t pay it much mind until he screamed, “THAT’S IT! THAT’S A MINUTE.” I still didn’t quite get it until he further illuminated me by sharing this little nugget of wisdom, “Mommy, did you know that there are 60 seconds in a minute?” Even then, I was so engrossed in what I was doing after I had just uttered my trademark “just a minute,” only peripherally registering the fact that he was counting again “…55-56-57-58-60! THAT’S IT! YOUR TIME IS UP.” It was at that point I pulled my head out long enough to connect the dots and realize that my son had become a walking egg timer.

Vaughn Vogue

“You see this guy on this CD?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That’s a friend of Mommy and Daddy’s. That’s where we went last night, to go hear him play piano.”

Vaughn peers critically at the CD, leaning in, carefully examining the CD picture.

“He needs a better haircut.”


Picture from Randy Porter’s new CD “Thirsty Soul.” Buy it. NOW. (He’s the pianist on my T. sampler CD, and Reinhardt, the drummer on his CD, is the drummer on my CD.)

De-Dooced

Whatever happened to Dooce? She used to be funny. I don't know... I'm wrestling with taking her off my recommended blogs. I'm sure she'll get the message (given my readership of one). Is this what success does? Ironically kills your ability to write anything anyone would actually want to read? It's very odd to me. There are fairly obscure blogs that you actually look forward to reading (like Dooce used to be), and then they start getting a cult following and word spreads and readership grows...BAM! You're on the Today Show. You have, on average, over 100 comments a day on any given post, and you have this loyal following that's reading what? When you last peed? Actually, back in the day, Dooce could have made that funny. Unfortunately, I don't think she writes about peeing any more.

Maybe it's because it's an election year. It makes everyone rabid, although certain individuals are perpetually rabid.

PS: I read that trashing another blog writer increases your readership.

PSS: These are the 3:12 a.m. ramblings of a woman that is going to have to get up to work in a little over an hour to transcribe what might possibly be your permanent medical record. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

PSSS: (Is there such a thing? I just like PSing) This is actually a current post, as in today's date, as in 10/03, but I'm predating it so I don't screw up my backlogged posting system. At what point does this no longer make any sense?

The Joys of Pet Ownership

Nothing like cleaning up dog vomit early in the morning. Poe's third favorite chewing toy is my earplugs. Back when Dave's daughter was living with us, I took to wearing earplugs at night to block out the incessant pounding of what she liked to call music. I have been dependent on them ever since to block out the ambient nighttime noises (Dave’s snoring). When Vaughn was born, my sister-in-law told me that would be the end of earplug wearing, but frankly, with Vaughn sleeping in our room for the first 4-5 years of his life, I relied on them like never before. Unfortunately, I soon discovered they had their limitations, especially when it came to maternal superhearing. They actually seem to amplify any noise emanating from one’s child.

As to the dog, if she chokes and dies on one of these earplugs, I will chalk it up to natural selection. The only being in this household that has a more particular palate than Vaughn is Poe, so if her peculiar tastes cause her to turn her nose up at all things vegetable (and peanut butter and grain products) but cling to earwax, so be it.

A Rose By Any Other Name…

Dave and I were having a debate as to when Prince, The Artist, changed his name to a symbol. Dave, who has an even worse sense of the passage of time than I, said he thought it was “A few years ago.”

“Really? I thought Prince changed his name a lot longer ago than that. You mean like just 5 or so years ago?”

“Yeah. I think that’s when Prince changed his name.”

“I think we’d better consult Google.”

Vaughn, overhearing this conversation: “WHAT? Grandma Nimmie’s dog changed his name?”

And This Month’s Germ Is…

Vaughn has received his first contagion of the month. So much for community sanitizing. This one appears to be of the sore throat-clingy variety. On the bright side, he voluntarily passed out on the couch, performing a striking impression of napping.

PS: Thank ye gods! He will now swallow pills.

Praise Be To Gaia

I’ve missed my Nia class for the last week. As odd as this class is, I must say I truly enjoy it, and it’s so good to be back. However, I often feel as though we are conjuring up some pagan goddess with our "positive female energy," what with all the gyrating and organic primal music that the instructor plays. Well, the little idol she hauls out at the end of class and the incense burning and blood of the firstborn doesn't help.

Those Horrible Lunches

Because of last school year’s lunch drama, the prospect of creating some kind of substance that Vaughn might actually lick, much less digest, was immobilizing me with terror as the first day of school was approaching. As a matter of fact, I chickened out and resorted to Lunchables for his first 2 days of school (since everyone knows those days don’t really count). However, I couldn’t help but feel terribly inadequate as a mother (which seems to be a constant state of existence for me) as I was preparing Vaughn’s lunch this morning, which consisted of slapping 2 pieces of cheese between one folded piece of bread and slathering it with fake mayo. Throw in a juice box and 4 slices of apple, and that was the material that was to sustain him through his mentally taxing first grade curriculum, after a filling breakfast of a chocolate chip waffle and one sausage. Every time I am forced to scour my brain for nutritious fare for my resident food critic, I can’t help but reflect on my lofty ideals of how he was going to have the most rounded palate of any child known to humankind. Instead, somehow my efforts mutated into him having unpredictably distorted food idiosyncrasies. For example, I don’t know a child in existence that doesn’t love mashed potatoes. Not mine, unless they are sweet potatoes. And God help you if you put butter on his toast. I am at the point where I am teetering dangerously close to the edge of paying for the school lunch program, yet another ideal about to be dashed on the sharp rocks of reality.

Teacher Hottie, Too

Yay! There's a new Teacher Hottie. I christen him Teacher Hottie2. I have discussed his many and varied assets with Dave, trying to determine if he is indeed hotter than Teacher Hottie, The Original; but Dave (and I concur) thinks it is just a different kind of hotness. The first one was dark haired. This one is blond...There are other differences. I'm just too blinded by the hotness at this point to differentiate.

And Now our Featured Presentation

After interrupting the family movie for the umpteeth time, I once again pause the DVD after Vaughn has been looking up at me from his spot at the side of the bed, smiling and patting my leg.

"Well...what? What, Vaughn, what do you want now?"

"Um...Nothing."

"It must have been something. You were tapping my leg. You couldn't possibly have been doing it for nothing."

"Um...I was tapping it for...just for delightment."

Carry on.

Maxitize

A couple of weeks ago, Vaughn’s school sent out a list of items he would require for his first day of school. Among the multitude of things was one bottle of hand sanitizer. (I know...my how things have changed in our now very health conscious society. Still doesn't stop Vaughn from contracting his contagion-of-the-month.) Now, the check list didn't specify a size. In looking at my multiple options at Target, 8 oz generic, 16 oz generic, 32 oz and finally the mother load of hand sanitizer, the 42 ouncer, (being very economically minded) I chose the largest option possible, heaving the hefty bottle off the top shelf, nearly crushing my petite self in the process. Evidently, Target applies inverse marketing strategy: Put the cheapest (and quite often largest) items on the top shelf rather than the bottom. I guess the general logic is rather than risking a shopper actually spotting the cheaper item on the bottom shelf whilst gazing down at their attendant offspring, “Let's just put that bugger in plain view,” on the top shelf, thus discouraging said shopper (who is typically too worn out or just too lazy) from risking a hernia hauling the precariously positioned bargain bottle off its ledge.

It wasn't just sheer economics that caused me to make this choice. Being the savvy back-to-school shopper now of a first grader, I recalled that last year the hand sanitizer was community property, so I felt good about not just saving a penny or two but also contributing to those less fortunate than I by perhaps making up for those children whose parents might not have the wherewithal to provide their needy babes with germ protection. That, and I felt Vaughn probably used more than his fair share, given his propensity for picking his nose.

I didn't give the matter a second thought until I arrived at the checkout and the cashier grunted as she heaved the bottle across the scanner, "That's the biggest bottle of hand sanitizer I've every seen!" Call me a community sanitizer. Hey, it's not an easy job.

Two weeks later, as I'm settling Vaughn into his desk on his first day of school, I look around at his fellow classmates' desks with their supplies piled on top, and I notice all these cute little 8 ounce bottles of Purell that, I am now starting to estimate, fit neatly into their individual desks. How very capitalistic. My eyes then rest on Vaughn's "community property" hand soap and realize that that motherlover is never going to fit inside his desk, not without forfeiting space for all his other educational needs. I feel my stomach clench, and then think in true slacker mom fashion, "Screw it. It's the teacher's problem now," and don't give it another worry.

A blissful 6-1/2 hours later, I engage in the timeless motherly tradition of afterschool debriefing. I don't know why I do it. It must be some hormone that is excreted after you give birth. My mother did it to me, and I hated it, and it never yielded any fruit for her either. After asking the perfunctory questions and receiving the perfunctory "I don't remember,"s from my senior citizen/grade-schooler, I give up and release Vaughn to his own devices. A couple of hours later, he corners me in the family room, a.k.a., the bathroom (and no, I was not on the throne and I was fully clothed—this time at least), having recalled a significant detail from his school day:

"Mommy...I had the BIGGEST HAND CLEANER BOTTLE IN THE CLASS!"

That's my boy!

DICKtators

I have a new pet peeve to add to my infinitely growing list: biker boys. You know, the ones suffering the grand delusion of being the next Lance Armstrong, squeezed tight like a little pork sausage in their neon yellow spandex casing. Having experienced being a cyclist and a skater, I feel I am qualified to pontificate on the finer points of cycling etiquette. Look, you grade A arses: I don’t know if you get some kind of sadistic pleasure in sneaking up on some unsuspecting skater/pedestrian at 25 mph, whizzing by, hoping to startle them onto their unprotected derriere or if you’re just so into “the zone” that you can’t be bothered with a quick “on your left” announcement, but don’t be surprised if you get whacked in the back of your pointed little head by a flying skate boot the next time you buzz pass this particular roller girl . You are #2 on my sh*t list, surpassed only by doctors who slam the phone down after dictating, ensuring that I will be deaf by the time I’m 50.

Paper Not Plastic

Evidently my mad dash to escape the middle-age spread is paying off. While I was skating alongside the Columbia River that borders Marine Drive I got two driveby horn beeps and my first wolf whistle in I don't know how long. I honestly cannot recall when the last time was that I was whistled at. In my hyperacute state of denial, I figured all the male chauvinists had morphed into politically correct prepubescent emos (that’s emo, not a misspelling of Elmo, although I find that there is more than just the striking name similarity to the cloyingly emotional furry red creature from Sesame Street with a falsetto voice). I didn’t want to face the fact that it had anything to do with my being the anti-MILF.

I must admit, male sexuality is still a bit of a puzzle to me. Not being born with a penis might be somewhat of a learning obstacle, but the power of the visual to men never ceases to intrigue me. I mean, my head will turn at the occasional flash of flesh. I’m always pointing out women’s boobs to Dave, maybe because I wasn’t born with any of my own and they have yet to sprout, which reminds me of a particularly disturbing detail about the “Magic Hands” church movie. There was a female character that very obviously got aroused (or very cold) every time she was in the presence of Jesus/Joseph, evidenced by the two hard points protruding from her sheer blouse. It was very distracting to say the least. Even Dave couldn’t miss them (something he confirmed when I began to bring it to his attention). I guess they were on a shoe-string budget and couldn’t afford properly padded bras, or editing.

Anyway, back to the male visual response. I don't dress particularly seductively when I skate, and frankly, I am armored to the teeth because I don't want to have to be careful and risk a fall from the odd piece of debris laying me up for an indeterminate period of time because of a broken bone or, worse, strained tendon or ligament, so I don't deem myself terribly sexy in my skate gear, but certain members of the male species evidently disagree. I have gone into great depth with Dave on this particular topic, seeking to understand just how males can be sexually titillated by a mere glimpse of the female form without seeing a face, hearing a voice. Brings to mind a charming male turn of phrase Dave introduced me to—a double bagger—and yet if there is the opportunity for sex...

Well, regardless, I find it infinitely satisfying these days to get the periodic wolf whistle, and I chuckle to remember how 20 years ago I would have found it extremely offensive. Stupid youth. It is only the taut self-righteous 20-year-old that can indulge in being offended by vocal male appreciation. When you get over 30, what once was an insult to your sensitivities becomes a compliment to your vanity.

Strawberry Shortcake Jesus Saves

As I was driving from my parents’ house to the beach, I passed the above comment on the marquee of a roadside deli. I then spent an inordinate amount of time pondering the meaning behind this cryptic phrase. Was this some kind of attempt at redeeming the cute little pink 1980s animated character, as in, “Strawberry Shortcake, Jesus saves.” Or was it being used more as an expletive, “Strawberry shortcake! Jesus saves,” or is there some deep Christian kabbalistic-type connection I have yet to understand between salvation and this tasty summer dessert. Hmmmm…deep thoughts.