Dinkin Mess

'Til Tuesday

And not the 80s band, though I always loved Aimee Mann's hair. Mostly because I, in a million years, could never pull it off myself, as my head is too round and I would have looked like a hedgehog, but I digress...

Soccer Chick has been on the "soccer tryouts for next year's teams and there might not be enough spots therefore someone's getting cut so you better play your best if you want to play but here's another club with spots open that you can try out for as a backup" hamster wheel for the last two weeks.

She finds out where they put her on Tuesday. After 2pm. Which could mean ANY TIME after 2pm. Which could mean NEXT FUCKING MONTH. Or NEXT YEAR. Or WHEN SHE'S HAVING HER 21ST BIRTHDAY PARTY AND IS TOO DRUNK TO UNDERSTAND WHAT THEY SAY.
I prefer things to be definite, you know? "Sometime after 2pm" is a BIT VAGUE.

Also? I have issues with patience.

Her current club has made some changes in how they do things in her program, and the stress has DESCENDED upon the girls. At the tender age of 10, life has now shown them that you don't always get to play and not everyone is equal. Personally, I think it's a little early for that brand of reality, but I don't run things.

Also, she did well and will get a spot, so I'm considerably more cavalier about the whole thing now. I have moved from pissed off about the developmental aspect of youth athletes to "WHEW! She did great! Too bad so-and-so didn't have a good tryout... oh well!".

Hey, I never said I wasn't shallow and self-interested. No surprises here, people.

But ANYWAY...
Dutch Oven is a paid, professional-type coach in this organization, which I figured entitled us to "the inside scoop" as far as who made the teams. I mean, they practically have their little coach's club, where they all get together and complain about the parents and talk about other clubs and their dastardly ways and compare Adidas product lines and Dutch coaching theories. I have a theory that they're really sneaking off to the nudie bar for these "coach's meetings," but I have to get confirmation.

Dutch Oven was scheduled to run Soccer Chick's group's session last night while two other coaches stood to the side and evaluated them. Therefore, he was INSTRUCTED, under penalty of not being allowed in the house until such information was secured:

1. Hang around afterwards while they're dividing the girls up "in case they need some input from a prior coach."
2. Fish for details.
3. If no details are forthcoming through subtlety, ASK.
4. If they won't answer, try to sneak a look at their clipboards.
5. If they keep the clipboards hidden so you can't see them, grab one out of their hands and run like hell. I'll have the car already running and ready to make a break for it.

And what did my husband do?
Hung around for a minute, and when his fellow coach said "You're a parent. Go away", he actually LISTENED.

Pussy.

Any thoughts I ever had of him being a KGB mole (because, you know, he is a Russian defector) and being here to secretly topple the good ol' USA through subterfuge and cunning cultivated through everyday life? Pretty much gone.

So now we're waiting like everyone else, despite my doing free graphic design work/genius-incarnate for people and him being on staff.
Just. Waiting.
And waiting SOME MORE. And neurotically checking the website JUST IN CASE.
Waiting. Like everyone else.
And in my world, I do not qualify as "everyone else." I am an arrogant little brat who expects special treatment, and I usually get it. The SQUEAKY WHEEL GETS THE GREASE, BABY. I see no reason why now should be different. NONE AT ALL.

And lest you think I'm a crazy person, the emails have been flying all day amongst the parents for ANY HINT AT ALL that Dutch Oven might have picked up about how their kids did, too.
And you wonder how soccer moms get the reputation...

So now, I'm torn. I really feel I should stick to my mantra of "not allowed in the house until you find out something," as it was laid out WELL in advance and he was FULLY aware of the consequences of meekly strolling away sans contraband clipboard, but there's a sink full of dishes and laundry to be done this weekend, and if he's skulking around the yard the whole time, I'll have to do all that stuff myself.

I did let him in last night, but that's mostly because he got inside before I got home and is larger than me and too hard to push.

Principles vs. Practicality.
I'm going to have to mull this one over a bit, I think.

Carbon-Based Noisemakers

I used that phrase last night in my tirade, and Dutch Oven found it amusing. Hence... TITLE!

Someone told me once WAY back before I had a kid that once I had a child and saw how it was that I would come to like children. I would love to hold them and think all of them are wonderful little beings that deserve to have their asses wiped with freshly-spun cloud wisps. I would revel in their new-baby smell (Is that like new car smell? Because it certainly wears off quickly.) and immediately become an estrogen-laden, baby-crazy, lover of all things toddler.

Guess what?
My kid's almost 10. I'm still waiting.

Now, don't get me wrong. I LOVE my own kid. I think she's the coolest person I've ever met, and I thoroughly enjoy every minute I get to spend with her. Truth be told, I'm already trying to figure out a way to keep her from going to college at all so she can live with us forever (which I know won't happen and I really wouldn't want to happen, but the whole "empty nest" thing seems very real, and I still have 8 years to go).

So when I keep going about this, keep in mind that I am in no way referring to her.

And also? Keep in mind that I'm probably getting ready to piss some of you off. But... here's my own little PSA, fresh from the oven:

People, if you can't shut it up, then LEAVE IT THE FUCK AT HOME during the hours of 6pm- 8pm. I am ONLY ASKING FOR TWO HOURS A DAY. THAT'S ALL.

Notice I call them "its." I've also referred to them as "thats." I can't even see them as little untrained PEOPLE- I see them as, well... CARBON-BASED DECIBEL-PRODUCING UNITS.

Now, during the day, when everyone's at work, take them out. That's fine. I realize that they have to be in public once in a while to hopefully eventually learn how to act in public and to try on shoes and shit. I know full-on confinement until the age of 10 is unrealistic.

But... for the rest of this entry... to the parents who insist on taking it to the store at 6pm...
(when all the people who have worked hard all day probably dealing with idiots are making a quick stop for something while trying to get home) and letting it wail ENDLESSLY about wanting this or that or who touched who or pull everything they pass off the shelf in the way of someone's cart or skate all over the damn store in their little Heelys while you chat on your cell,
FUCK YOU. YOU SHOULD BE NEUTERED.

And AGAIN to you, IDIOT PARENT (when I'm looking at you like I wish a ceiling tile would fall from the sky at Target and decapitate you) who just smiles at me as if to say, "Aren't my kids ADORABLE? Well, kids will be kids, after all, right?", here's my answer:
"NO. Your kids are in NO WAY ADORABLE. They're OBVIOUSLY going to grow up to be ASSHOLES LIKE YOU that well-behaved people have to learn to TOLERATE. LIKE YOU. And then they'll REPRODUCE."

And ANOTHER THING...
On weekdays, don't take the little things to restaurants where business-type ADULTS are dining. No one can possibly be expected to have a BUSINESS LUNCH with a screaming fit about chicken molded into dinosaur shapes in the next booth or an endless litany of "Do you have to go potty now? Let Mommy know- we don't want another accident, do we? Potty? Do you want to go potty now? Mommy can take you to the BIG BOY POTTY here!"
Ugh.
Take it somewhere with a fenced-in playground and a cartoon mascot, or don't take it out AT ALL.

Deep down, I do know it's not the actual child's fault. I do know that. I knew growing up that if I talked back or showed my ass in any way in public, the wrath of hell was going to descend on me at Satan's earliest possible convenience. And while my parents were pretty much disasters in the child-nurturing category, they did manage to raise a person who knew how to behave in public, if only out of sheer terror for my life.
When sober. But that's another entry altogether.

And before you call Child Services, let's be honest here, no matter how much we don't want to think it- teaching a 2-3 year old child is not much different than training a puppy. They have no concept of long-term consequences, they are focused only on themselves and what they desire, and their attention span hovers between 15-30 seconds. They do not understand sitting in one place quietly for 3 minutes (which I think really just gives them to time think about what shit to get into next), and no matter how many parenting books you read and how much it makes you feel better to tell friends at parties that you never spank your child, that shit doesn't work. Fool yourself all you like, but it doesn't. Like a puppy, when they fuck up, you have to put their nose in it and smack their ass. And BOOM- THEY GET IT. They understand short-term discomfort. They will avoid that, therefore they don't do whatever it was they did in the future. And you will find that you don't have to do it often after a few incidents where they find out you mean business. And after a while, you won't have to do it all.
And people in stores won't be giving you THAT LOOK.

Because when you take your kid out in public and people give you the decapitation look, they don't think your kid is cute. They're really thinking about buying a roll of duct tape and sealing off its airways. And yours. If you see that look more than once, you might want to reevaluate your methods.
And hanging up your fucking cell phone.

So I am considering starting a petition to ask retail centers to not allow children under 10 on the premises AT ALL for ONE HOUR each weekday evening. All I'm asking for is ONE MEASLY HOUR. I would HAPPILY negotiate my schedule to take advantage of that time, and I'll bet a MILLION BUCKS I'm not the only one.

Because if I "accidentally" run over another one's foot at Target with the shopping cart (loaded with 88 lbs. of dog food) just to give it something to cry about, I'm probably going to get into trouble. Not that I actually did that or anything. I wouldn't purposefully hurt a child.

But that mother sure did hang up her cell phone quick when it got her.
And I sure did feel better.

Give me 6-8pm, and I promise it won't happen again.

And honey, my dear husband, I didn't tell you that I did that during the tirade last night because, well, most husbands don't approve of their wives becoming shopping cart vigilantes. I wanted to remain somewhat pristine in your eyes. And also? I figured you wouldn't believe me, and I felt no need to explain endlessly how vindictive I can really be- I know it in my heart, and that's just going to have to be good enough. 

The Rebellion of the Ultimately Defeated

Tuesday at work is "Professional Dress Tuesday."

You know, like the opposite of "Casual Friday."

Does this give you any idea what this place looks like the rest of the time?
Trust me, it can be WAY worse than you imagine. WAY, WAY, WAAAAAAAAY worse.
I would post pictures, but I kind of need my job.
My camera is also lacking a wide-angle lens.

And today, I finally gave up. I wore a skirt.
See, I have been holding out on the whole "dress-up" thing because 1) I have a strange aversion to doing what I am told just because I was told and b) it always falls on the day after my soccer game (which usually means PAIN in at least one area in my lower extremities that absolutely will not tolerate any shoes that Carrie Bradshaw would have found acceptable for a minimum of 1-2 days- I'm rocking a pulled hamstring now).

When the whole thing was announced, after much whining, I was told it was "optional."
Which I took as "for everyone else."
I admit it- I'm a brat.

But today, I finally wore a skirt. A cute little aqua skirt. That I have already earned brownie points for because now, you know, I'm being supportive of company policy. They were so impressed with the whole skirt thing that they didn't even mention the overly-casual shoes. I also put on lip gloss and made a hairstyle choice that didn't involve anything resembling "ponytail," which is rarely the norm anymore, either.

But HAH.
There are SHORTS under my SKIRT!
It's a SKORT!
And SHORTS are TOTALLY against dress code policy!
So I'm receiving praise while being totally subversive!
I'm still cool and anti-authority!

And yes, I realize that generally only 9 year old girls wear skorts, but when you're 35 and a mom and a wife with a full-time job you need, you take your rebellion where you can get it.