Close Enough Episode 3: Uber and Craft Beer

Close Enough Episode 2: Halfway to 70

Close Enough Episode 1: Don't judge me

Parenting DIY - Someone Is Going to End Up Going Blind

There are very few projects I love more than a good knockoff, DIY. I mean, I love finding life hacks and tricks that make life easier. Oh, and the total elation at recreating an expensive, store-bought item for half the price. Pinterest simply feeds my life hack obsession. However, there is a side of me that shares the underpinnings of the Steel Magnolias/Truvy philosophy: "I don't trust anyone who does her own hair. I don't think it's natural." Basically, there are just some things you have to pay full price for and leave to the professionals. There is no life hack for quality hair cuts, your health, and a string of pearls. Always wear real pearls. And now I have one more item to add to the list - parenting. I should really stop trying to DIY parent and leave this job to the professionals. My child is like a Pinterest fail waiting to happen.

So lately my kid has been sneaking and eating food. Mostly, I've caught her hiding and eating crackers in her room. Just the other day she came running through the living room with a chocolate pudding and I told her to haul her butt to the fridge and put it back. When she didn't return for a few minutes and it was totally silent, I knew she was up to something.

Me: Charley Thomas you best not be eating that pudding. 

Charley: (Utensils hit the floor, I hear the fridge door slam. Sounds of panic. She comes running into the room with chocolate all over her mouth and hands raised to show surrender). I'm sorry. Just punish me, momma. (Sobbing). I'm so sorry. I couldn't help it. It is just so yummy. Spank me. Give me timeout. I'm sorry. I ate the pudding. I did it. I had to. It was yummy....

And this is clearly where we should call A&E and host an intervention. Obviously THAT had to be her rock bottom. But while I tried to scour the Internet to research and find a way to approach this issue so that she isn't left breathing into a paper bag and twitching every time she sees a Snakpak, she had a few more incidents.

I went to eat dinner with some friends and Gary was left in charge. He allowed her to have ONE FiberOne Brownie and then he went off to work on his MMA radio show leaving the little angel alone in the living room. Three FiberOne Brownies later, my kid is a full fledge fiber addict and living in the bathroom. 

At that point we sat her down and had some real talk about what she was doing. Recalling a story some friends told me about having their children eat soap when they lied, I was inspired. So I made THE THREAT. If she was going to hide and sneak snacks, she was going to get a little Dial for dessert every time. Her eyes bugged and she expressed sincerely how disgusting that would be. Feeling really good about this approach, I felt, for once, I was a step ahead in the parenting game. And cue the face-plant. 

Last night Gary and I welcomed three extra kiddos into our home while their parents headed out for a date. Charley LOVED having other kids over, but kept tripping over her deeply engrained only-child tendencies (sometimes literally). Periodically through the night we had to remind her to 'go play' and 'wait on the others' which just made her finale all the more obnoxious. Gary ran out to grab some milk (we were clearly NOT prepared to bring little ones into our home) and he bought some gum for the two older girls. He gave Charley the two packs and told her to share. Later when our friends arrived to gather their herd, we reminded Charley to make sure Haddy had her gum. It was no where to be found. Of course, Gary and I both immediately turned to our kid. When asked where the gum was, she grinned, shrugged and looked shamefully away. Did you eat Haddy's gum? No answer. She was sent to her room to be dealt with after our friends left.

Gary lectured her and silenced all of her excuses and pleas, while I went to get the soap. I opted for a homemade variety (ummmm, not because I am fanatical about chemicals and such...I mean, I am, it wasn't main motivation. That was just the ONLY bar soap we had on hand). So with the drama one can expect from a kid who sobs uncontrollably when the puppies struggle to save Christmas in Santa Paws, we finally got the soap in her mouth. There was crying and pleading and gagging and spitting. Lord, the overly dramatic gagging. We eventually got a full minute of soap time and sent her off to brush her teeth and go to bed. As I was tucking her in she whimpered, "I just keep tasting soap. I thought you were just kidding about the soap, momma." As pitiful as she sounded, I just patted her head and told her "Momma, is never playing around."

Walking away I felt like THIS may actually have impacted her. The follow-through on the soap seemed just horrific enough to possibly make her think about this whole food-sneaking habit. Of course, she could always just get more elaborate in her schemes: cutting the pages out of a Bible to hide her flask of Kool-Aid, wall safes full of SnakPak's hidden behind her Crayola masterpieces...actually, we better start patting her down before she leaves the house. 

As I sat on the couch this morning feeling that all is well with the world. My house is clean. My little family is peacefully snoozing away in the other room. I have clearly figured out the perfect deterrent to my daughter's food issues. I mean, who needs to consult a professional - I obviously have ALL the answers. Parent Magazine should call me any minute. I went to finish up some laundry when my foot kicked something from under the couch.

Shit.

That package of gum we accused my daughter of eating? That pack of gum we made her eat soap for? That gum that was the catalyst for solving my child's food-sneaking problem and thereby, confirming that I am Super mom?

There it was. Still completely in its wrapper. Untouched. Not inhaled by my kid.

She was telling the truth. She, in fact, didn't eat all the gum. She only chewed two pieces of her own gum. She ate soap for nothing. I practically started sharing Ralphie's daydream about my kid going blind from a childhood soap-eating encounter.

So, I give up. Despite my dreams of DIY-ing and hacking my way through life, I need to keep my shortcuts limited to Ikea furniture and semi-homemade desserts.  I need to leave motherhood to the professionals...well, I shouldat least start a second job to afford to get my kid in real, professional counseling.

Permission to Twerk, Please.

At five, my kid knows what many adults don't - the meaning of the word, "twerk." Depending on who you are this either makes me a shitty mom, a liberal mom (to some of you those last two are synonymous) or a totally normal mom. Unintentionally, my daughter came across the viral video of the girl who twerked and then caught fire through a revine on my Vine account. She has since discussed the twerking incident at school with her teachers and at home has asked if she was allowed to twerk. By most people's standards I should be ashamed of my poor parenting skills, not publicizing them on the Internet. But if those are your standards, please take a second to come down from your high horse that prances through your glass house and bite me.  This parenting gig is hard as hell, so please cut me some slack. The fact that my daughter knows about twerking doesn't mean I have failed at life - I've still got her teen years left; I'm just warming up, folks. Rather I'll dig a little deeper into this particular incident. She, in fact, reported to her teachers her disgust, that the young dancer didn't stop, drop and roll when she caught fire. Furthermore, after talking about twerking with her dad and me she is pretty aware of its inappropriateness for a girl her age. We have talked to her about not twerking in public. So, it is completely normal for Charley to hear music at our house and ask her dad or me permission to twerk. Her version of the dance move is no more than putting her hands on her knees and shaking her butt - it's  like a really bad, drunk-middle-age-white-woman-at-a-wedding-doing-the-Cha-Cha-Slide kind of move. It's hardly promiscuous. I've seen those Gabba Gabba creatures do more suggestive moves.

When most parents may see total failure, I see a lot of success. First of all, Charley recognizes her father and I as authorities (it's about gosh darn time) as she asks us for permission. It's in the open - there is no secret twerking going on up in this house (unless...Gary?) Second, she is able to recognize the difference between public and private activities - Thank you, Jesus! and may this lesson last through her Twitter years. Finally, for the love of fire safety, my five-year-old knew a stop, drop and roll moment!

As a mom and a middle school teacher, I make it my job to stay relevant. I seek out knowledge of the latest apps, songs, fads and styles. Please note: I am not doing this research as a means to be a hip teen myself. Lord knows, I wasn't cool or stylish when I was a teen, so there isn't a chance in hell, the adult version of myself can be cool when it involves pants labeled "skinny" and dance moves that involve violently shaking my oversized, loose-skinned body against gravity. I simply want to understand the people I encounter everyday- including my own kid. I do not want to be that uninformed, naive mom who is honestly shocked when she finds out exactly which body parts her daughter has been Snapchatting since she was 9. You can put your head in the sand, but good luck keeping your kid's head down in that hole with you. Being a teacher several years before being a parent, I knew that I would have a lot of nasty demons to fight bringing a daughter into this world, and I could not fight them with blind folds and ear muffs. 

At the same time, I am not purposefully parading filth and sin in front of my daughter on flashcards in between sessions with her sight words. I am staying informed so when she (and she will) encounters some of the tougher topics in her life, I can tackle them without my mouth agape and eyes wide - the raised eyebrows and tears falling from your eyes, kinda screws up your credibility. 

So here I sit fresh from viewing the newest video from the queen of twerking herself - Miley's, "Wrecking Ball," and trying to decide how I feel about it. I am in the same place that I was a few weeks ago after watching replays of Miley's VMA performance and seeing her video for, "We Can't Stop" - I'm not affected.  Just hearing the song (without the image of a skinny, naked-girl on a huge metal ball before me) - I like it. But I am 32 and have a pretty solid grip on my self-image. I'm just over here wondering how she avoided some pretty dangerous chaffing, while also impressed with her inner thigh strength. Now, I'm not going to let Charley watch it, but it's not just the nudity that prevents that - what would my 5 year old know about difficult break-ups? So why would she even need to hear this song?  

So, I think I am supposed to be disappointed in Miley and admonish her for destroying her Hannah Montana image and leading thousands of little girls into the evil land on twerking with teddy bears. But I'm not. Miley isn't my kid's mom. Miley is a celebrity and she doesn't get a vote in my house. Charley doesn't ask for Miley's permission to twerk - she has to talk that over with her daddy. If Charley were older, much older, she and I may even chat about the obvious self-expression (and millions of dollars) this former child-star is trying to make. While I am disappointed (to put it mildly) in the irreversible effects Hollywood, Disney, Mattel, and Disney have had on the image and sexualization of young girls, I am going to avoid spending all my time tongue lashing them. I would love to unite millions of women and our daughters in a campaign against these God awful, dangerous images of girls in media. Alas, demonizing Disney is not going help me win my biggest battle - the vicious battle that is curled into a ball, snoring on my lap at this very moment. 

Making media the bad guy will not ensure that my daughter grows up to be a good girl. 

Constant conversations and realistic awareness on behalf of myself, her dad, and her wider circle of influence (teachers, coaches, youth group leaders, aunts, uncles) are what is going to shape my kid. So you can be pissed off at Miley while your daughter watches her lick a mallet or you can turn the channel to watch Diana Nyad kick ass. Either way, you are in the room with your child and you are talking about what you value. 

Maybe you still think I'm a shitty mom. As the kids say these days, #sorryI'mnotsorry. 

Shadrach, Meshach, and Malaprop

If I knew anything about babies prior to having a child, I knew that during the first five years of their lives their brains are little sponges, which is why these are considered the crucial formative years for our offspring.

As May approaches, we are about to enter the 5th year with our little sponge-head, and, so far, she has given us quite a demonstration on exactly how much information she can soak in. I've come to embrace the sponge analogy that is most frequently used to describe the brains of our little ones. In fact, I can take it a step further: not only are 0-5 year-olds absorbing everything around them, but like a real sponge, the information doesn't always come back out the same way it went it. So with a good hard squeeze of the sponge, the water comes out looking murkier or even mixed in with unknown particles. Sometimes when my Charley Anne gets a firm squeeze, her absorbed contents pour out that unique blend one can only get after swiping a publicly-shared microwave oven. You just never know what all has been spilled in there. 

Since March, Charley has taken an intense interest in reading her Bible. Her nightly readings may be partially responsible for her recent tantrum over not being able to physically see Jesus in her bedroom when she needed help to stop crying. It has been nice, though, to hear her discuss and ask questions about the Bible. I am impressed at how well her Bible keeps the stories perfectly age-appropriate - even for my kid who almost turned a question about Mary's baby-daddy into a complete discussion about where babies come from and/or an episode of Maury...Joseph, you are NOT the father! 

Additionally, our Spring Break trip to Tennessee intensified Charley's already existing love for music. After seeing a few live performances, she has taken a particular interest in the twangy sounds of bluegrass and folk. This has prompted me to play a little more Sara Watkins, Nickel Creek, Old Crow Medicine Show and Punch Brothers on our daily commutes. It's not much, but it's an enormous win for me. I may have to give up Bob and Tom in the AM, but at least I am not listening to Beiber, Nicki Minaj, or those god-awful Kids Bop CDs that pretend like it is totally normal for a 7-year-old to belt out "I Set Fire to the Rain." Ummm, please tell me how 1st graders can relate to tormenting love.

And this is where it gets tricky. 

As we rode home from Tennessee, I played a few tunes for Charley. She really latched on to "Wagon Wheel," or "Rock Me" as she mostly calls it. We still listen to that song. A lot. Do you know how many times you can listen to "Wagon Wheel" in a 45 minute commute from work to home? A lot. Other than the chorus, she has a few lyrics she loves to scream from teh backseat: "I pray to God I see headlights" and "He was headed west from the Cumberland Gap to Johnson City, Tennessee." (Amazingly, it is not "I caught a trucker outta Philly/ Had a nice long toke"). I know that she really likes the latter line because it specifically references Tennessee and she loves to talk about her family trips to Tennessee.

But pray to God I see headlights? I could never really get that one? 

Initially, I assumed that due to her recent conversations about God, she was just relating to OCMS for their recognition of God. (God? I know him!!) But she actually almost went Buddy-the-Elf on me when she heard him say the line. With her surprised face, "Mom! Did you hear that? Did you hear them? Pray to God! Headlights!"

So as the official English teacher of the car I did what I am best at and sucked all the fun out of the song by interpreting. I go into an explanation of how "praying for headlights" is another way of saying "I hope a car passes by soon." To which she cluelessly nods and continues to pick her nose, not caring one bit about what I just said. 

Fast forward to Monday.

I pick Charley up from school and get the usual 'smh'-look from her teacher. "Oh no. What did she do this time?" 

With a laugh she says, "She has been talking about dying and heaven all day. She kept telling people they have Jesus in their hearts."

"Ummm-yeah. She gets pretty passionate about heaven and angels and God." 

"Yeah. She told us all about the story of Shadrach, Meshach & Abendego."

"Oh, yeah. She's all about that fiery furnace." (So that may have got me on the short list of parents who need a visit from Child Protective Services).  

Of our friends and family, Gary and I are the least likely to be voted Most Likely to Raise a Evangelical-Bible-Thumping Daughter. Even so, I want to handle the conversation with her teacher and with her very carefully.  I had absolutely no issues with what she was talking about. I think it's kinda cool. Actually, it's awesome. So on our car ride home, I probed her regarding the day's events just out of curiosity. 

She rambled on about many of her favorite stories and then requested that we listened to "Wagon Wheel" - of course. As I fumbled with the cord for the iPhone, she continued her sermon and concentrated on her favorite fire tale trio. I'm half listening as she declares that Wagon Wheel is about God's people. Say what? And with utter disgust at my offensive ignorance, she throws up her hands and exclaims, "Headlights!" 

I'm lost. But quickly assume that she is not hearing the line correctly. "No Charley. He says 'I pray to God...' not people of God." The singing begins and she could care less about my explanations. Glad I can end my day with as much teaching success as I have throughout my day. 

About two "Wagon Wheels" later it hits me. Bless her heart. 

God's people. 

Headlights. 

Israelites.

Her Bible's exact words are "Israelites are God's people." All this time Charley thought ol' Ketch was praying to God he saw Israelites on his trek to North Caroline. Maybe he would have after that nice, long toke.

We have one more year to prime our kid's brain and build the foundation her future depends upon.  I resolve to be a little more careful with the scope and sequence at which I let her encounter new material. The last thing I need is for her to confuse Tom Petty's Mary Jane for the Virgin Mary doing a final waltz "once last time to kill the pain" of childbirth. 

Let us Give Spanx (Repost)

The following post is another little gem I found while sorting through my old Myspace blogs. It was originally posted August 2007 - back when I was just  flirting with Spanx, before I got into a long-term relationship with that thick, skin-toned, fat-hugging, elastic chubby chaser. 

I am pretty sure that aside from people showing complete & utter selfless love to their fellow mankind, nothing warms God's heart and makes him chuckle more than watching me attempt to shove my extra-extra large body into a pair of Spanx after a shower. The NASA-quality Lycra fights like a burmese python when it comes in contact with human flesh forcing me to yank, jump, bend, and squat my way into my undergarment.

They should change that Biblical proverb about a rich man getting into heaven and the camel going through the eye of a needle. Well, the wealthy man's path to heaven may be slightly easier than me ever getting into a pair of those mothers in under 30 minutes. I am pretty sure if that if I have to take a break and rest while I pull on an article of clothing, I need to call Jenny.

Bippity, boppity, boobies!

From the moment my family saw the movie preview for Oz the Great and Powerful, plans for a movie night were made. The Wizard of Oz is one of my all time favorites. I still like it even after Charley Anne has watched it 1000 times and dressed like Dorothy this past Halloween and always demands I play the part of Wicked Witch when she acts out the movie. Yes, I am fully aware of the door I am leaving open by freely admitting to 'acting' the part of the witch. What can I say - the kid has great intuition.

The movie proved to be fabulous. It was awesome and lived up to our expectations. Granted, our expectations are set pretty low by overexposure to all those stupid Barbie and the _____ movies (fill in the blank with any adjective-noun combination: Wicked Unicorn, Happy Hamster, Deadly Virus).
Initially, my husband and I feared that Charley would be disappointed, or even worse - BORED, when she discovered it was not full of her familiar, favorite characters. My maternal instinct even kicked in (delayed  as usual) sometime during the previews as I considered how insanely horrifying modern cinematography and computer graphics could really make the those flying monkeys. This would obviously lead to my kid having some wicked nightmares (that would ultimately, and most importantly, affect my future sleep cycle). However, the kid never flinched. She was completely mesmerized and sat through the whole movie in complete awe. I was so impressed with her attention span as we chatted about the movie. We even held hands as we discussed characters and plot points. This beat the hell out of the last time we watched a movie together and it ended in sobbing as Charley flipped her shit when one of the Santa Buddies was temporarily paralyzed and the spirit of Christmas was compromised. Who the hell thinks of these kids' films?

As delighted as I was with Charley's behavior, I was floored when, with one small question, a teachable moment presented itself. A night of entertainment and a life lesson with my kid? Pinch me, the teacher-person in me was dreaming. With wondrous innocence Charley asked, "Why did the witch with the red hat became so ugly and mean?" [She is referencing Theodora's transformation from the innocent, kind sister into the classic wicked witch that we know from the original Wizard of Oz film]. A simple question to most people, but you need to first understand some background to know why I suddenly felt, for a small moment, I was starring in my very own Lifetime Original movie.

For several months now we have had the overwhelming task of explaining inner vs. outer beauty to Charley. Last Spring she sat on the table in her gymnastics leotard, smacked her belly and asked me if she was fat -like the girl at school said she was. Shit. Shit. Shit. It's way too soon for this.
I suppressed my gut reaction to teach Charley to just start saying, "Your mom is fat" when she was confronted by rude, little demons. However, I decided to not screw up this moment - mostly because I teach middle school and have witnessed too many little girls with unnecessary body issues. Not to mention, there is no way I can afford the therapy later on if I really blow this. After a long sigh, deep breath and quick prayer - the best I could come up with was a small explanation about the meaning of the word "fat.  I ended up just emphasizing that, above all else, what counts is how beautiful a person's heart is. Hokey and cliche, but she got it. We've since had many talks and reminders about the measure of beauty being in our hearts - with no help from Barbie, Bratz and all those damn princesses!

OK, back to the Lifetime movie...

I stood poised and ready to carefully guide Charley through this very real and timely connection to a really tough topic. While lights shone down from heaven and a piano played somewhere in the background, I squatted down with Charley and explained how Theodora lost her beauty and kindness only when her heart became evil and full of hate. With brilliance I effortlessly transitioned into addressing Glinda's role and how caring and loving she was. The moment was glorious. It was the stuff mother-of-the-year awards are based on. My heart was full and I was already planning my outfit for the Parents magazine photo shoot. I brought our conversation to a close by asking Charley to recall what made Glinda so beautiful. I gently placed my hand on Charley's heart and softly whispered, "So kiddo, what did Glinda have right here [tapping her heart] that made her such a beautiful person?"

With no hesitation, my daughter raised her hands to her chest and replied with her sweet voice,

"Her boobies hung out."

Dammit.

You win again, Disney.

Bippity,  Boppity, Boobies.

Two cars, one tow truck.

My husband says you 'can't script' the situations in which we often find ourselves. But, just in case, I'm going to write down some of this nonsense in the event someone actually does want to script it and can pay us for it. That'd be especially convenient since 87% of the crap we deal with is generally related to our lack of funds.

It is the lack of funds has consumed us lately, but I will forgo my sob story. The truth is -most of us are struggling with money - it's just the manner by which Gary and I get slammed into financial conundrums that is more interesting than most.  

Getting a lil' extra cash is among the reasons my husband traveled to Bowling Green Saturday night. He went to judge a Hardrock MMA show. He could go, carpool with some folks and gain a small profit- basically enough to pay our gas to work and back a couple times this week. I stayed home, even though Gary originally planned to drive us both to Bowling Green. I had mentioned the need for a MMA fix since I hadn't seen people bash each others' bodies in a while, but fiscally it was totally irresponsible, so I was going to have to get my violent, aggression-voyeur fix elsewhere. Hey, I'll go visit my parents! Kidding. Totally joking. 


So I hung out my parents and played with Charley until she finally crashed at 11 PM. Sometime around 1 AM I woke up, took her to bed and called Gary. I can never sleep when he is on the road after fights.  Mostly because I am certain something bad will happen.... call me Miss Cleo. 


Unable to sleep and without TV, I played on my phone and did laundry while I waited for Gary to get home. I called him at 2:30 to see where he was- he'd made it Mt. Sterling and he was stopping for a drink. He promised to call me when he got to Bath County and again when he got to Rowan County. I requested something in the chocolate candy department and went back to my chores. Looking back, I realize my body stress eats, even when it senses stress in the near future. (Do you like how I say 'my body eats' as though I have no control over it?! Ha!)




At 3 AM, as I am organizing my kid's closet, Gary calls and says: "Bad news." Please judge accordingly, but I swear before he uttered his next sentence I thought for sure he was going to say: I forgot and/or ate the chocolate you requested. If only it were that simple.




Gary was stranded on the side of the road in Bath County. Complete and utter destruction to his tire, wheel and fender. We had been planning to take his car in for maintenance after our next paycheck - too late.




Charley was asleep, so I made the decision to not take her with me on the road. I called my mom and planned to drop her off there so she could sleep and I did not risk her waking up mid-trip and asking 4500 hundred questions that all begin with 'why' - and her safety, of course. Of course, I was also considering her safety. In addition to being on the interstate in the dead of the night, watching her mother and father lose their sanity could lead to years of therapy we clearly can't afford.




I get to my parents and shamefully walk into their room to dump my kid on the bed. My dad is sitting straight up with his AAA card in hand. I grabbed the card and I felt like I'm 10-years-old all over again, as he had been hounding us to get Gary's tires fix for awhile now. He mumbles something about a free tow and off I go to rescue Gary from the side of the road. Rescue is a strong word. Honestly, it was not as if  his situation was incredibly urgent. Only my husband could be on the shoulder of the interstate at a very safe distance, with cell service, a wi-fi-connected computer, his dip, and plenty of snacks. So, he is basically in his recliner at home.


I almost grabbed my mom's keys as I walked out because my car was about out of gas (and I love her Sirius radio), but feeling like the biggest burden in the world already, I jumped in my car and searched for a 24-hour gas station. 



I hit 64 and said a prayer- Lord get us home safely, without further incident.

Now, 
Gary says I mumble. He can never hear me. I contend he is a poor listener. Tonight I confirmed God is male- he only heard half of what I said.


At mile-marker 130 I started losing speed and I heard a loud whirring behind me that interrupted The Doors (stoners take over the radio at 3 AM). 

The repeated thud from my driver's side back tire confirmed God's incredible sense of humor. 


I pull over as far as possible, but I was seconds away from the Bath County line, which crosses a bridge over the LIcking River. I get completely off the road with only a foot to spare. (Did I really just say spare?)




Completely manic and hysterical - I called Gary sobbing and cussing. Other than telling me I have to calm down and shutting down my irrational suggestion we just walk 'til we meet each and watch the sun come up...he convinced me to call my mom.




Lord. It's that phone call to your parents where you're telling your mom what happened and your dad starts asking questions and commenting from the background, so then my mom is talking to two people trying to relay messages and give instructions all at once. She spends majority of the phone call trying to clarify to whom she is speaking. Never mind, me folks, Ill just sit here on the interstate while we work out this convo. Their only advice 15 minutes later: "Call AAA, you have the card for free roadside assistance. See what they say and call back."




A girl takes one customer service professional development and she becomes an expert- AAA is the worst service I've yet to deal with. 


My favorite question was her first one- 'Are you in a safe location?'


'Why yes, ma'am. I am on the side of the interstate at 3:30 AM near a wooded area watching semi's whiz pass me at 80 mph. I've never felt safer. Matter of fact -I should open a preschool for visually impaired children in this exact location." Seriously?




Even after being as detailed as I could, Rhonda Roadside could not figure out where I was located. Apparently, I needed the longitudinal coordinates of my location because if she was not precise this whole deal was off-- i.e: 'ol girl couldn't move on 'til her computer allowed her.

I calmly endured the 15 minutes of her fumbling around with my location. I didn't snap when she thought I was in Connecticut. I said nothing rude when she asked me to list all the major roads I was near or just passed. When the woman told me the services could not be offered unless I could get 'my friend, Charles' to confirm my use of his card, I apparently became (as Kathy Griffin would say) a strong, black woman.




No way was I going to play phone tag and take more time for the already estimated hour until I receive assistance. I explained to her it was unsafe as it was, I was his daughter, and he is watching my 4-year-old as I was in this predicament because my husband was stranded on the side of the road (albeit comfortably) 6 miles ahead of me.




When she suggested I calm down and call the police if I felt 'that unsafe.' I lost it. 




'Ma'am at this point my safety is not my biggest concern, so unless the police drive up here passing out new cars and/or wads of money to fix this mess - I don't need the po-lice, I need to get to my husband and back home." And with the enunciation of po-leese, I was suddenly pretending to be a member of Honey Boo Boo's family on an episode of Cops. God help us all. I plea insanity.




Alas, I was approved for roadside assistance (she must've known I was hardcore). But by assistance - she meant a guy from Steve's Towing would be there in 45 minutes to get me and charge me $3 per mile after the first 5 miles, all due at the time of my tow.



Umm, no. Not happening.




I called my dad asked about the free tow? (Keep in mind, we have ruled out the spare. A. Not sure that I had one. B. I didn't want to be responsible for someone changing my tire while in the right lane of 64 at 4AM. C. The tow was supposed to be free). 


Irate and crazy, my dad sent my mom out the door to get me, wrote down AAA's number and promised to inform Rhonda Roadside where she can go and what she could do to herself. New discovery: I turn ghetto, while my father goes Clint Eastwood via RNC upon dealing with incompetent service peoples. Oy.




Remember Gary? Yeah, his car was completely dead at this point, but he was still perfectly entertained. Grasping at straws for a ride home, he decided to call his folks to get him, since my ETA was very uncertain - he made this decision prior to my dad losing his mind on AAA. Also, my mother is a nervous driver so with the fog and dark night she could've been a while. I decided to settle in sans snacks or computer hook up.




In the meantime, a very nice off-duty, MSU police officer stops and checks on me. Officer James. He offered to either drive me to Gary or get Gary and bring him to me, but since both of us had rides coming to us we declined.  Before he left, though, he flashed some light on my tire to expose to me what was left of my tire. Ugh. He was nice, but offered me no money or a new car. 




My mom finally made it to me. We passed Gary on the interstate. His dad was just ten minutes behind us and since he did not own a cell phone, we couldn't call him off his rescue mission.




Gary and I made it home, safely. Without incident? Hardly. 




Mom just called an Charley sounds horrible- coughing and complaining of a sore throat.  But, God love her, she is worried about how we are getting to church today. I am worried about how we are all getting to work tomorrow. We have a few hours to figure out how to get our cars off the interstate and fixed.




We are safe and (despite bouts of obesity) physically healthy. I think our emotional and spiritual health is compromised some- but by now we know the drill. We have been here before -often, too.damn.often. Nevertheless, we always seem to get exactly what we need to make it. 

Well, except that chocolate. I never got my chocolate. 

There's no swagger in my wagon, but can I offer you a seashell?

Four years ago Gary allowed me to make a pregnant lady decision. I insisted we needed a new car and it needed to be able to ride 7 people because we were adding just one small, tiny person to our family. I guess the enormity of my  personal weight gain during pregnancy made me miscalculate exactly how large my newborn would be and exactly how much space she'd require. Assuming I'd be chauffeuring Charley plus a small herd of wayward highwaymen daily,  we bought a Chrysler Pacifica. It was spacious and had a family car feel without that godforsaken sliding door that I will spend my life trying to avoid. I really enjoyed the car when I wasn't dealing with air conditioning, tire, wheel, tie-rod,  radiator, alternator, or remote-start issues (let's hope the dealership people don't read this). My love for the car mimics the similar feelings I've expressed for my daughter - she is perfect... when she's asleep (that car is incredible...sitting in my driveway). An increased commute has solidified  my desire to trade-in  the Silver Spaceship. 

Shopping for a new vehicle requires a lot of work. No, not researching and looking for deals- the Internet has made that a no brainer. I now realize the hard work apparently comes the night before when you have to clean out your old vehicle in a desperate attempt to slick 'er up and pretend you've kept it in pristine condition all along. 'No...that's not melted chocolate and dog hair permanently hardened into the carpet.' This is especially difficult when you've been using the vehicle as an extension of your home for 60+ minutes a day. By that comparison, I'm not sure I am willing to publicly admit which part of the home we use our vehicles for. 

I will say that the deep cleaning and total purging of my car has made me consider a few rules for my next car. 
Most people enact the standard no-eating-in-the-car rule, but that alone would not encompass the entire problem- even though I now know how Charley ate all those yummy sweet potato fries so quickly last month. 

I'm extending the ban. Based on the recent findings in my car the following will be forbidden in the new car: 

1.  Phone chargers. I may not be able to offer your car battery a jump, but I can give your cell some juice- Nokia? Nextel? Apple? Pick a cord...any cord. 
2. Straws- especially those that come with juice boxes and will stab your hand as you blindly reach beneath the seat.
3. Anything that has the potential to melt: crayons, chocolate, cough drops, suckers, raisins, ice cream, my kid without a nap...
4. Cups with lids
5. Cups without lids
6. Removable straps  that are supposed to keep certain 'cups' comfy and secure.
7. Bottles with caps- the caps are everywhere.
8. Bottles without caps- too many spills related to excess tobacco juice. (Our daughter knows to cautiously ask before drinking from any bottles...life lessons from her daddy). 
9. Anything that can be crushed: cookies, crackers, goldfish crackers, biscuits, cereal, chips, my hopes & dreams...
10. Discount/club cards for stores I frequent maybe every 6 months and never have with me in the store, but I still get the discount because I punch in my phone number- genius!
11. Hairbows, hairbands and bobby pins- I could open a Claire's from my backseat.
12. Shoes that can not be tied and double knotted to the wearer's feet. 
13. CD's both with and without cases- and especially burned CD's wherein the creator assumed it would not be necessary to write a title, date or other info- because accidentally popping in Gary's angry-teenage-boy mixed CD instead of Charley's Kid's Bop is never unsettling to my passengers. 
14. Anything that can easily rest above the sun visor without being seen and then unexpectedly attacks  my face when I go to check my make-up
15. Important papers that have clearly expired, but because I'm fuzzy on the time period in which they should be kept, my console becomes napkin disposal and an ancient artifacts museum. 
16. Clothes hangers: wire, plastic, children's -"Nooo wire hangers!!"
17. Baskets/crates/tote bags  that are suppose to be organizing the crap all over the car. Good effort guys.
18. Stickers.Especially those shiny ones of cartoon characters that are obviously made by the Gorilla Glue Co. and obviously belong on a window.
19. School supplies- pencils, pens, highlighters, paper clips, paper, post-its, textbooks, binders, common core standards, curriculum maps, etc. Just in case you wanna align curriculum on the go. 
20. Wallet sized and mailed holiday photos (including/especially-those featuring my own daughter).
21. Seashells. I was driving around with a box of seashells? 
22. Toys and dolls. The time will come when I am mistakenly arrested because someone saw Polly-Pees-Herself strapped in the back seat and reports me for leaving a baby in the car. 
23. Tampons/pads. Regardless of how or where they are stored they always wind up in the passenger side floor board, mangled and fully unwrapped (usually on days I have to cart a guy in my car).
24. Chapstick/lip gloss. I have it for two days, but inevitably open it after it has sat in 90 degree temps and it liquifies all over my lips or lands in gob on the floor mat.
25. Pennies. Sure they add up, but even if I have 300 and take the time to collect, roll and cash them in- I still don't have enough to cover the price at my next car wash vacuum session. At 75 cents a session, I need a small loan to tidy up my upholstery.  


The list could go on, but ultimately I should probably just ban people (at least my filthy lil family) from my car. While I'm ranting and raving over the disaster our vehicle, Gary stands by and dreamily lists the great times the car has seen: the first Thomas family vacation to Florida, a couple of trips to TN, Sunday trips to visit family, bringing our daughter home from the hospital...

'Are you going to miss it? It was our first family car with Charley.'

When you have scrubbed chocolate milk on the verge of spoiling from the carpet right below your precious offspring's seat in 90 degree heat, or sat uncomfortably behind the veil of tinted windows in the Target parking lot trying to breastfeed at midday despite the clear view offered to people passing the extra wide front window, or listened to your child scream from Owingsville to Christy Creek, or driven 25 miles with a crazy-terrified cat clinging to your steering wheel while your 100lb dog wants to climb to the front seat to lie in your lap, or sat in Lexington traffic 9 months pregnant when the AC goes out and the power to the windows stalls during abnormally hot temps for April...you somehow block out the sweet car memories. 

'Oh, this car can only transport one person? Where do I sign?' 

So they loaded up the truck and moved to....Clearfield.

. 

Almost four years ago exactly, Gary and I hammered a couple of 'For Sale' signs in our neighborhood and yard. I'm think I'm supposed to remember the hope and excitement we had that day, but mostly I just think about how clean my house was. Seriously, my house was so clean the day the realtor came over to take pictures. We even really mopped, and not just Swifter mopped. Actually, that may have been the last time we really mopped? I remembered it smelled so freaking good.

---------------------> Fast forward 4 years. 

I think it smells like wet dog, foot, and apple cinnamon in here. We are clearly trying to cover up the smell with every Glade product on the market. 

For every single item I pick up, Charley drags out four equally or larger sized items. Isn't that a Newton law or something? 

Hang on. Charley just ran into the living room to ask me if she can help cut daddy's hair - she is wearing high heels and underwear. Awesome - this means hair all over the bathroom floor and/or another trip to the ER. Shout out to Gary. It's good he is teaching her a trade. Maybe beauty school will keep her off the stage. But really, today? We need to do this right now???

You know back in 2008, when our house was immaculately clean, moving would have been a breeze. I hadn't gone back to grad school yet. Gary wasn't neck deep into operating a MMA media business in addition to his real job. Charley was a tiny little infant confined to a crib and had tiny little toys instead of a 75 lb music stage. 

It was all too simple. 

So here it is, March 31st. We finally sold our house. It happened very suddenly and unexpectedly. Technically our house wasn't even on the market, but through word of mouth and God's wicked sense of humor we finally sold our doublewide to a sweet elderly couple, who really need to live here. 

Yeah, sure. I should be jumping up and down and crying tears of joy. This is everything I've wanted! But all of that is a little suppressed right now as full on debilitating panic sets in. Here's the catch: 

                                                                  We have to be out by April 15th. 

15 days. 15 days to pack and move almost 10 years of our lives. 

Add in the following: I am recovering from strep. I have 495 assignments to do for grad school and my job. Gary is preoccupied with a MMA fight this week.  Charley is, well - a pain in the ass. She's acting like an emotional, bipolar 13 year old. She goes between full-on euphoria that we are moving, to crazy-sobbing depression that we are leaving her 'house, her home, her Baff County." Plus, she is extra pissed that we are, in fact, not moving into a castle. When she's not going full-on Lindsay Lohen crazy she's just being 3 and making messes. Everywhere. 

Yeah. This is more like it. This is exactly how I dreamed our moving day to be: the hope and excitement all buried deep beneath dysfunction, chaos and dirty laundry.

Pictures of our house - Pre-Charley. 

That rug was destroyed a few months later in a candy corn meets Gunner vomit incident. 

Whoop-dee-do and I love you...

I wrote the following memoir  in 2006. I was working through the realization that my Mamaw was starting to battle dementia/Alzheimer's. Mamaw died last night at the age of 86, but I feel as though I have been saying goodbye to her for years now. The Mamaw I remember is strong and funny and loving – not the frail, quiet lady I said good bye to last night. Many of you may remember Mamaw at her most famous station - the Walmart service desk. I remember my Mamaw in her chair.

Last week, my husband Gary and I made our first adult purchase together and bought a brand new leather couch. As we spent our first Sunday sprawled on the new monstrosity that barely fits in our small living room, I noticed that we had claimed our sides. I prefer to lounge on the end that allows me to reach the nearby shelf so I can spread my clutter all around, and Gary sits on the opposite end for optimal remote control use. As I looked at our defined positions I was amused by how quickly we surrendered to this seating arrangement, but really not all that surprised. I don't know about my husband, but I am, in fact, genetically predisposed to such territorial behaviors. Most people claim a place in their home, but my Mamaw Gib, is someone I most associate with distinct pieces of furniture.


I can remember hazy summer days in the old brown house. My Mamaw arranged her body and most necessary belongings at the kitchen table. Mamaw controlled her domestic universe from this common location. As though she wanted to make sure we knew she was chore ready, she'd be dressed in ragged, bleach-stained shorts and an oversized sleeveless, yellow, cotton T-shirt with elbows carelessly on the table. Her back grazed the washing machine and dryer, while she was within a few steps from the stove and, most importantly, only a flick of the wrist from her Merit Ultra Lights and a worn deck of playing cards.


I don't know what drew me to her side at the table, whether it was the leftover biscuits that hid under a paper towel or the easy view of Pappy Duke's blaring TV, but I found it so comfortable to plop myself at the table, still damp from the dish rag she swiped across the surface to remove sausage gravy. She would scurry around the kitchen folding underwear and dropping dumplings all at the same time, while I just rambled about my 8-year-old dramas: mean teachers, unfair parents, and best friends. In between her hurried tasks, though, she would always rest back into her chair, shuffle the deck of cards, and sometimes even deal me in a hand of Double Solitaire.

The first time I saw my Mamaw cry was at that very table. We were watching the final episode of The Golden Girls and I looked to my right to see a tear drop quietly from Mamaw's eye just as Dorothy hugged her girls goodbye. Without skipping a beat, Mamaw huffed, slapped my shoulder, and let out a "Well, shit, Ab!" (her favorite phrase, beside "Whoop-dee-do") as if to curse away this frivolous TV indulgence and instance of weakness. This moment creeps back into my memory each time I watch the Lifetime rerun of that very episode. I am not touched at the sentimentality of the episode, rather the tenderness of my Mamaw.

When I was in the sixth grade the small city of Morehead was deciding to develop its budding commerce. This meant that the beloved old brown house behind the Pizza Hut would be demolished and Mamaw's kitchen table was to be moved all the way across town to Clearfield.

The new house, though, was perfect. Mamaw could still sit comfortably with her back to the washing machine and dryer and she still was just a shuffle away from the stove and sink, There was one distinct change that incurred at this new residence, which ultimately affected her favorite furniture inclination. Due to breathing problems, my Pappy Duke was forced to rely on the clear plastic tube of his oxygen machine. This meant Mamaw would have to enjoy her Merit Ultra Lights outside in order to avoid the disastrous explosion that could transpire if Mamaw and her lit flame came too close to Pappy and his relaxing breathing aid – I knew about this dangerous fusion between these two, long before the oxygen machine moved in. Quitting her habit was never really an option because being a woman of habits it was much easier for her to simply occupy a new site. She chose the white wicker rocking chair that sat in the corner of her small front porch.

At this time I was devoting my winter schedule to basketball practices and games; therefore, my visits with Mamaw were more frequently in the summer when I could keep her company during long and frequent smoke breaks. Somehow, with the razing of the old house, my Mamaw's chores were lessened and we had more time to just sit and chat, which was good, because now a teenager I had more serious problems to tend to, even though mean teachers, unfair parents, and best friends still remained on the agenda.

Mamaw would rock and I would talk as neighbors walked through the street in front of us. Despite the constant traffic just a few feet away, I always felt secluded on the porch with Mamaw. Maybe it was because we were away from the chaos of the blaring TV that hadn't been turned down since they lived on Barber Court and that we were not near the heavy humming of Pappy's newest noise maker, but it was out on that porch I suddenly started talking of things more feminine despite my desperate attempts to remain the resident tomboy. On that porch one late summer afternoon, Mamaw became the first family member to know about my first serious boyfriend – a taboo subject I had avoided much longer than my two cousins who have talked openly about the opposite sex while I was still passing boy cooties to my neighbor in the lunch line with ‘no-take-backs.’ Giving a comfortable shrug, Mamaw just rocked back in her chair, ashed her cigarette on the concrete and asked questions about his family, while I slowly gushed about my secret crush.

The evening chat about boys on the porch suddenly became a childhood memory, as it wasn't long before I walked up the porch step, looked at the empty rocking chair to realize I was a 20 year-old college student. Mamaw no longer had any time for that front porch post, as she was forced to quit her nicotine addiction and move inside where she was needed by my Pappy Duke. Pappy was diagnosed with cancer in late July that year and Mamaw forgot to smoke as she gave her every second to her husband. She perpetually sat in his recliner beside his hospital issued bed until his death in early November of the same year. As it was for my entire family, those brief months centered around Pappy, so I honestly can't recall any significant moments with Mamaw; she became displaced during the shuffling of doctor appointments, pill bottles, home health nurses, and everyone's last visits with Pappy. Somewhere in that house she just sat quietly to the side while we all dealt with Pappy's death in our own ways.

Had I not been so overwhelmed and focused on Pappy during his last days, I'm pretty sure I would have laughed at Mamaw who was courageous enough to settle into Pappy's massive recliner that boasted a structure and aura much larger than the fragile lady relaxed in its sunken seat. The recliner was Pappy's place and for anyone to sit in it, especially with him in the same room, was a blasphemous sin comparable only to not cleaning your plate at mealtime. It wasn't until months after the chaos of Pappy's death that I even noticed Mamaw's new, absurd location.

At this very moment I can walk into the living room to find Mamaw dressed in loose cotton PJ's, cross-legged, and hunched in Pappy's recliner under a sour cloud of cigarette smoke. Mamaw may have abandoned her former seats, but she soon reunited with the familiarity and comfort of her embrace with that long, smooth stick.

Despite the several years that I have had to adjust to her new furniture preference, I still get the feeling that the scene is just out of place, like a curious toddler who slips on daddy's giant work boots. It's sweet that she sits in Pappy's room, but this is not her place. Mamaw now faces the less used washer and dryer and doesn't even bother with stove or sink a room away. For the past three Christmases I have bought her a new deck of playing cards, but they remain unopened as she no longer has the sturdy kitchen table always before her. The TV plays on loud as ever, but even she will admit that "it's just for the noise." I am slowly coming to terms with the realization that Mamaw's new chair extends beyond just a change of scenery.

It is no secret, nor is it a surprise, that Mamaw's memory is fading. Somehow her sharp tongue, coinciding chores, and patient flips of playing cards have become lost somewhere in this life long game of musical chairs. The odd appearance of her latest arrangement is sharply outlined by the ever progressing derangement of her mind. The repetitious questions have the warmth of my caring Mamaw, but they lack the sincerity of the woman who has always sat close by to listen and hear me my whole life. Over the years it has become my habit, my inclination, to turn to this woman as my confidant and close friend. Now I have to share my seat with the uninvited consequences of aging.

(Sidenote: The couch that referenced in the first paragraph is now, 6 years later, worn, ragged and sagging – but, dammit, isn’t that what Time does to us all?)