On Weird Cats And Power Outages

Fortunately for my sanity, the power finally came back about 9:30 last night after being out for 2 1/2 days. When I returned to the house, I discovered this surprise waiting for me on the kitchen counter.  In case it isn’t clear from the picture, this is a perfectly unoffending loaf of sandwich bread that has been viciously attacked by a cat.

 Cats are obligate carnivores. Neither of my two should be remotely interested in bread! Darcy understands that he’s a cat, but we are not nearly so sure about Bingley. He appears to think he’s a dog and begs for everything that our dog wants.  I believe I’ve mentioned before that he absolutely loves marshmallows, which has our vet just shaking her head. Unfortunately, unlike the dog, he can jump up on the counters, so I guess we now have to start putting the bread in the refrigerator. *headslap*

Why It Rocks To Have Friends When You Live In The Sticks, Part Zillion

 Our house has been without power since Monday morning sometime. You may recall that when my house has no electricity, it is basically a nonfunctional shell because the water pump, the heat and air conditioning and the stove all run on electricity.  The power company that serves our lines has the distinction of being probably the worst for competence and communication in the entire continental US. If you think yours is worse, you’re wrong. I would bet you.  I live on the main county road for our town. Our road has been closed for three straight days because just north of our house, three powerline poles snapped off at the base in high winds on Monday and fell into the road.  Local people have been managing to detour around the road closure, even though it’s a pain. However, last night, a house not too far from us burned to the ground partly because fire trucks from other towns couldn’t get around the detours fast enough.

 The children and I stayed in hotels the last two nights. My husband, bless his heart, stayed at the house to take care of the pets. It’s cold. It hasn’t been fun for anybody. But this is where the friend thing comes in.

One of my fellow school board members heard me mention at last night’s meeting that I was taking my daughter back to a hotel and offered me his generator on the spot. I mentioned to the three guys we carpool with to Thing One’s soccer that he might not be at practice tonight because he might not be able to shower afterward.  All three of them texted me back within five minutes, one offering me a generator and the other two offering their homes to charge devices or shower or get warm, whatever is needed.  Two other friends have been texting me for the last couple days offering help with anything necessary. I just dropped a bag of laundry off at my best girlfriend’s house around the corner, because she got her power back today and offered to do laundry for the kids while I’m out running around tonight.   I’m not sure what I did to deserve this tribe, but I am one lucky lady and I am grateful.

Oh, and the people who run our power company? You guys can kiss my lily white butt. Your linemen are awesome. They work outside in freezing conditions all night long and they get the job done. Whomever didn’t see the storm coming and plan ahead for it, however, or organize the response once it hit, you’re dead to me.

New One On Me

I was in line at the grocery store yesterday and the lady behind me said something to me about her “carriage,” meaning her shopping cart.  Then I was talking to a friend on the phone last night, and he said something about a “buggy,” by which he also meant a shopping cart. I have heard the term buggy used that way before, although not often and not around here, but “carriage” was a new one.  Wondering if these are regional linguistic things.

So, out of curiosity, anyone reading this: where are you from and what do you call the thing you push around a grocery store to hold the food items you are buying?

Oh, and while you are at it, what do you call the thing that women carry around to hold their wallet, makeup and keys, etc?  Purse, pocketbook, handbag, or something else??  I’m not sure if that term is generational or regional or both but I have always called it a purse.

From The Mouths of Babes

Or teenagers, at least.

Thing One’s club soccer team played a tournament in Las Vegas last weekend, and he and I made the trip together.  My parents were able to meet us there, but the rest of my immediate family had to stay home because the other kids had sports and birthday parties and such going on.  Thing One has never been to Vegas before, so the whole experience was mind-blowing for him.  We took him to a Cirque de Soleil show and the Hoover Dam while we were out there (kind of like making sure he got to see Niagara Falls when they played in upstate NY last year), but what made the strongest impression on him was the Luxor, the casino in which our team was staying.  He was absolutely fascinated by the slot machines, the haze of cigarette smoke hanging in the air, the people who were visibly drunk at 9 o’clock on Sunday morning while gambling, the clouds of pot everywhere, and the signs on the Strip and in the casino regarding all manner of sex-related stuff.

As he put it, “This building represents everything that’s wrong with America.”

Pretty funny that that was his summary, but I guess it beats him deciding that UNLV is now at the top of his college choice list!

More Car Conversations With Thing One

On the way to soccer, as usual.

He asked why so many prominent men have much younger wives.  (The subject came up in the context of a conversation about American politics.)  I explained the whole concept of the midlife crisis and that the taking of a younger ‘arm candy’ second wife is actually relatively common among the powerful and privileged.

It absolutely blew his mind, as he put it, “that you could love someone for 25 years and then dump them.”  Hopefully he will still think that way when he’s 50, but I’m doing something right with this kid if this is where his head is at 15.  Actually, it isn’t so much that I can take credit, as that his father and I have been married for 17 years and that both sets of grandparents have been married for approximately forever.  (Just under 50 years in one case, just over 50 in the other.)  I suspect it’s more that he is assuming that the norm is what he’s grown up with, but that’s not a bad thing.

And I Missed It All. Dammit.

Yesterday, Thing Two was upset when he walked out to the parking lot after basketball practice.  Apparently some of the older boys on the team were giving him grief about his playing.  I am his mother and I love him more than anyone on earth, but I will freely admit that God love the child, basketball is not his best sport.  I'm pretty sure that he made the team only because he is nearly six feet tall in seventh grade, (I believe) the tallest kid in our tiny podunk little middle school.  To be honest, I also suspect that part of the issue is that he's still a little different, and middle schoolers in general just suck at being kind to those who aren't straight down the middle of the behavioral bell curve.  The first word in his official diagnosis is "social," after all.  He's made tremendous progress, but is he going to fit in with the "cool" athletic eighth graders at this point, especially if they pass him the ball and he misses a straightforward shot?  Nah, not so much.

So, I fire off an email to the coach right after practice to get some independent adult insight into the situation, which he has yet to answer.  (He has been responsive in the past, though.  I will give him that.)  Strike 1.  Then, of course, Murphy's Law being what it is, the kid has a basketball game today, away at the rival school.  Himself is (Murphy's Law, part 2), WAY out of town tonight, so I have to cover the night's kid detail all on my lonesome.  The plan was to get Petunia off the bus, head over to the rival school, watch the basketball game from 4-5, grab Thing Two, run home, feed all three kids, and then get Petunia to soccer training by 6:30 while leaving Thing Two at home with Thing One.  You know what they say about plans...but I'm getting ahead of myself.

Game starts.  It's UGLY.  The other team is kicking the collective butts of our A team starters, which means that basically no subbing is going on since by definition they are the best we've got.  We were down 25 or so in the third quarter and only two players had rotated into the game other than the starting five, neither of whom were Thing Two even though he often plays in A games.  (He's considered a "swing" player, meaning that he subs into A team games and starts in the very few B team games on the schedule.)  I'm having a couple of thoughts at this point: 1), maybe he really is playing badly, if the coach isn't playing him at all anymore, and 2), why the hell am I here on a busy afternoon if my kid isn't going to leave the bench?  Quickly followed by 3): Wow, the coach is visibly frustrated and snapping at the kids.  (Strike 2.)  I'm sitting two rows behind him, I hear and see it all.  I text Himself and say that all in all I'm glad Thing Two isn't playing because if they are going to get yelled at for a poor performance, at least he can't be a target if he's not in the game.  

Game ends.  We've lost, still by 25 or so.  Thing Two went into the game exactly once and played only the final two minutes and 21 seconds.  Mercifully, he didn't do too badly.  Whistle blows, kids line up for the ritual postgame handshakes, I go to grab Thing Two to leave.  Then I notice a few other parents just coming into the gym and realize, "Oh SHIT.  There must be a B game today too."  No way I can stay for it, either: I have to get Petunia home, fed and to soccer.  So, to recap, I have sat through a miserable stressful ugly hourlong game, of which my son played only the final 141 seconds, and now have no choice but to leave immediately before a game in which he will likely play a great deal, as a B team starter.  (In retrospect, probably part of the reason he didn't play much in the A game.)  After scrambling him a post-B game ride home,  I left, feeling much like I had abandoned him to the wolves.  After all, with an A team that good their B team would probably be pretty good too, and I'd already seen the coach's mood for myself.  Wasn't at all sure how he'd handle two rough losses in a row.  But I had to leave, so I left.

Run home, feed Thing One and Petunia, leave dinner for Thing Two, head to soccer.  Thing One had strict instructions that he was to text me immediately upon Thing Two's return home to let me know how the B game went.  Then I waited...and waited...and waited.  Finally, the text came in.  Those of you familiar with the texting habits of teenaged boys will not be surprised by its contents.  I quote it below, in its entirety.  

"W"

 (i.e., they won.)

Oh, another text.

"33-23"

Two texts, comprising a total of six symbols.  That's all I got.

So, I call home, gobsmacked that they actually won the B game but really wanting to hear how Thing Two did.  The answer floored me.  Six boards.  Nine points.  That is, he scored more than a quarter of the team's total points by himself.  And, as dawned on me belatedly, there are only two ways to score an odd number of points in a basketball game: you have to sink either a three pointer or a free throw.   Given that his position is right under the basket (and that he usually can't hit a bull in the butt with a basketball from more than fifteen feet, anyway), the three point thing was unlikely.  The kid made a FREE THROW.  His first one of the season.  Six boards. Four baskets.  And a mofoing free throw.  And I didn't see any of it because I was driving to soccer.  Bloody hell.

At least it happened.  And there was not a strike three of which I'm aware.  I'll take it.

Not The Answers He Was Expecting, I Guess

A good friend of mine called me this afternoon to relate a funny conversation he’d just had with our mutual dermatologist, a generally unflappable, slow-talking gent from Oklahoma.  For background, this guy is my usual geocaching companion, and although his hair is almost entirely grey and, as he puts it, he can eat off the seniors’ menu at Applebee’s, he’s not one to shy away from a physical challenge.

Which leads us to this afternoon, and him having the following exchange with the doctor during his regular annual checkup.

Doc: “What happened to your knees?”
Friend: “Oh, nothing major—those are just scrapes from climbing a tree.”

Doc: *prolonged pause*

Doc: “And WHY were you climbing a tree?”
Friend: “There was a geocache in it, hanging fifteen or twenty feet up.  Only way to get to it.”

Doc: *another pause*

Doc: “Well, did you get it at least?”
Friend: “Yep.”

Seems he then went on to tell the doc (who knows that we are friends) that I was waiting safely at the bottom of the tree while this was going on.  I asked if he happened to mention that later the same afternoon I crawled fifty feet each way through a dark concrete drainpipe to grab another one for us, but no. Sigh.  I carry my own weight on this team, thankyouverymuch.  Guess I’ll have to clear my name the next time I’m in for a checkup!