Feculent maggots at the drive-in

I rarely get to the movies.

I don't like to take the Kid, because she likes to hop and scream, and I would feel bad for the people who made an effort to get out and hired themselves a babysitter.

So tonight we went to see Pirates of the Caribbean at the local drive-in. Yes. I just hyperlinked to a Disney website. I don't want to talk about it.

It was cheap. We sat in the car with blankets and snacks. The people next to us were funny and friendly. The breeze was warm, and soft, and some kids kicked around a ball under the screen before the movie started. I discovered that my child likes Sour Patch Kids. We sat together under a blanket and chewed off their heads. When she got whiny, I closed the windows.

If you're headed off to see this fine film, please do me a big favor and write down the quote about the yeasty codpiece. Leave it on my voicemail. Call me at 3am and sing it to me. All you'll get is roaring laughter, I promise.

Thanks.

How not to fill a kiddie pool with water on Memorial Day

Don't fill garbage bags with water from the bathtub on the advice of the 11-year old neighbor, and pull them out to the pool in your child's little red wagon, just because no one has a hose.

The bag will eventually break and fill your bathroom with three inches of water. Thank goodness the Ikea shelf holding up your towels came off the wall last week, leaving you with a stack of large, clean towels on the bathroom counter.

And of course, you won't be able to get the remaining, now dripping, giant bag of water in the little red wagon out the bathroom door while you're hopping up and down and laughing and screaming. All you need is a helmet and a big clock on the wall, and this would be just like an MTV game show. Damn enormous wheels and big ol' handle.

Count on the neighbors to suddenly all gather outside while you're running back and forth, throwing out sopping wet towels and screaming "ABANDON SHIP!".

At least it's Memorial Day. You still have a pool. And beer.

I quit, I quit, I quit quittie quit quit

It is with a song in my heart and a skip in my step that I am pleased to announce that I quit my County job today.

Pictured here is my resignation letter, complete with large bow, on the boss's desk, and the boss opening aforementioned letter (right after I screamed "WAIT! LET ME GET THE CAMERA!!"

The bow was returned to me by someone from HR, with the explanation that it was "too large to fit into my personnel file".

Whatev.

A little music for a little travelin'

I haven't yet handed in my resignation letter, so I'm just going to mumble a little when I talk about this. I got a new job.

Since I haven't yet handed in that letter, it still seems a little... nebulous. I need to do some traveling in the very beginning, and tonight I ordered my plane tickets (thanks to Kara's credit card and my excellent ability to type and spend other peoples' money). When my new boss outlined my upcoming travel, I was practically giddy with the thought of a new credit card, until he explained that all my travel would be reimbursed within a few days. Whothewhattheheh?

Seriously. What part of "single mother" is the rest of the world not getting? The Kid's camp bill is due any second now, and as soon as I pay it, our carriage will turn back into a pumpkin and we'll be on a streetcorner, selling matchsticks for a shilling and speaking with Cockney accents. Toasted cat for breakfast, toasted cat for lunch, toasted cat for dinner.

Although the small circle of people that I've whispered to about the new job (well, them, ...and the Internet) have been truly excited for me, everyone immediately recoils, gasps, and asks what I'm going to do with the Kid while I'm traveling.

I'm going to tie a feedbag around her neck and teach her how to drink out of the toilet. Or, I'll send her to my parents, where they will carry her around on a velvet pillow and spit her food into her mouth like a baby bird. It's a toss-up. Will I miss her? Yes. Have I had a day off since October, 2004? No. I will bring a photo. I will call her. I will also float in the pool endlessly, and sleep until 9.

And I will enjoy it.

When your child has a developmental arch-nemesis

City Hall (Rådhuset) in Stockholm really is a lovely building. I remember walking past it one autumn evening, and there being a fantastic ice sculpture outside that everyone was trying to photograph as it melted.

It was in 1901 that Wilhelm Conrad Röntgen was awarded the Nobel Prize in Physics for his discovery of x-rays (or Röntgen rays). Sexy bastard, isn't he?

I imagine that I will be back at City Hall again, in the not too distant future, when a small boy whom I will only refer to as "Egon" (for the sake of anonymity) receives an award for his work on quantum nanoparticle polarization. Which I should get partial credit for, as I just invented it.

He's two weeks older than the Kid, and yet, wiser than most people I work with at the County. He was recognizing letters when they were... not yet a year old, I believe. My kid was focusing her efforts on shoving peas up her nose. His mother said he loved these small foam letters that came in a plastic tub. I ran out and bought them; my cats ate them. The Kid also thought they were fun to chew on after watching the cats. I had to eventually collect them all and throw them away due to rampant germs and lack of interest.

Then we got into shapes. Egon already knew his colors from his earlier work with the alphabet -- I doubled up shapes and colors to try and catch up. I'd point to a triangle. "Baby, what's this?"

"Twiangle", she would gurgle. I was estatic. "And what color is it, baby?"

"GRANDMA!" she would shout, quite pleased with herself.

"No, it's red, baby, red. Can you show me the red triangle?" I would speak to her like she was a small Japanese tourist. She would point to a square. Egon, however, was quite fascinated with concentric circles. We were rapidly losing ground.

My child enjoys dancing. She dances to the radio, to cell phone ringers, to AT&T TV commercials... anything. Egon is researching two-digit numbers. He walks around with his little plastic numbers and announces "One seven. Seventeen. Seven one. Seventy one!" I asked the Kid what the first letter of her name was. She laughed and walked away. I am slowly acclimating myself to the realization that I have given birth to Boo Radley.

I fantasize about sending her to Egon's house for a few weeks, and having her come home, making math jokes and reciting poetry in Latin, like Little Man Tate.

We're going to go visit The Boy (and his new sister!!) in a couple of weeks. I hope the Kid takes notes.

You know, he would really be a much better arch-nemesis if he wasn't so delicious.

The resource that really isn't

Yesterday, I had to drop the Kid off at daycare a little late. Which I love, because it's relaxing not to be there at 7:15am, slowing down to toss her out of the car, and speeding off to my job. But I also hate getting there late.

At 7:15am, my car is usually one of two. Three, max. The other parents and I sort of half-wave at each other, and rush back into our cars. However, at 9am, the parking lot is PACKED with mini-vans and SUV's. And a Hummer or two, because you really need those here in suburban Florida, this war-torn Sahara.

The women pulling up or standing around chatting are wearing shorts. They're in no rush. They know all the teachers by name, and have playdates with each other's children. They send home notes in my kid's backpack, reminding me to stop by at 9:30am on a weekday to talk about some upcoming event over coffee. As if.

The school is closed Wednesday through Friday this week, partly because of some Jewish holiday I've never heard of, and partly because it's Memorial Day weekend. They were originally open on Friday, but since "most people" were going away, they decided just to stay closed.

I don't remember anyone asking me. Me, the girl who can't get alternative childcare three days in a row. Me, the one who wasn't there to ask because I HAVE A JOB.

Daycare is supposed to be a resource, isn't it? The Kid has been sick this year so many times because other kids come in sick. Then there's holidays. Then there's days the school is just closed, because, apparently, everyone else is packing up their minivan and heading out of town.

What kind of resource is it if it caters to the two-parent, one-income, free to come in during the weekday and voice your opinion-home, instead of the single-parent families that are dependant on the school being open?

I'm just askin'.

The sky is falling. Out my nose.

Since I reached my home pregnancy test quota for the week, I needed something else to focus on.

Luckily, clear fluid is streaming out my nose.

"Oh, you have a cold", you may be thinking.

Oh, no. I have a cerebrospinal fluid leak. I have no cold symptoms. Therefore, I must be leaking spinal fluid out my nose, because everything I know, I learned on Grey's Anatomy.

Was your first thought really "you have a cold"? Because my first thought really was "OH MY GOD, THERE GOES MY SPINAL FLUID!!!"

That's not normal, is it. Come on, you can tell me.

After three phone calls and way too much internet research and two old episodes of Grey's Anatomy (thank you, abc.com) and some champagne to dull my pain, my next thought was, "This is crazy. I must be some kind of hypochondriac".

"OH MY GOD, I'M A HYPOCHONDRIAC!!!"

When your biggest battles are with yourself, you just can't win.

A Mother's Wish

Having grown up on PBS, I am usually inclined to think that any PBS program would be safe for the Kid. I wasn't too sure about Caillou (you never know what those Canadians are up to), but she seemed to like him, so I let him slip under the radar.

She's 2 1/2, and just recently began having tantrums, screaming "NO!", throwing herself down on the ground, etc. I usually just grab her firmly, tell her to cut it out, and then ignore her. Sometimes I give her a hug, but she usually doesn't want one. She just wants to yell. Well, sometimes I just want to yell, so I can sympathize.

We took home a couple of Caillou DVD's from the library this week, and his whininess was really starting to grate on my nerves. He's frightened of everything, and constantly whines, "But I don't WANT to...(fill in the blank)". His parents never tell him to pull himself together or stuff a sock in it, they just entertain his creepiness, and I have realized that he is the most indulged and irritating 4-year old on television.

Then, the other day, I told the Kid she needed a bath, and she looked at me with a furrowed brow and whined "I don't WANT to take a bath".

Oh, hell no.

The weekend is coming, otherwise known as Mommy's Boot Camp, where I will re-educate my daughter, and Caillou goes back to the library, never to darken our doorstep again.

The bitch is back.

Jet slug

The Acting Director of the Division just walked past my cubicle as I was laying on the ground, making industrial carpet angels.

The real trick is to not be too embarrassed to explain what you're doing when someone asks if you're ok while they're frantically trying to remember where we keep the defibrillator.

"I'm making carpet angels", I said. Luckily, he has children.

The Kid and I have had jet lag since we got back on Sunday. I've been going to bed at 8 - 8:30 at night, and waking up at 5am. Everything seems kind of trippy, and I'm not too excited about eating. Both work for me. I'm actually dreading when things return to normal.

Yet another reason to hate it here

On Sunday night, the owner of my parent's favorite restaurant was shot and killed in front of his customers. The guy came in looking for cash, and after getting the cash, shot and killed Ray.

Ray was 28.

My parents were there Friday night, and they said everyone was teasing him and trying to get him to sit down. He was ever-friendly, always smiling, super-sweet to the Kid. The food is great.

His death was absolutely senseless.

http://www.sun-sentinel.com/news/local/broward/sfl-cbbq15may15,0,6719390.story

http://www.sun-sentinel.com/news/columnists/sfl-mayocol17may17,0,7413936.column