life with WE

Days at the days inn.

In college I worked at the Days Inn.  The Days Inn was one of about 5 hotels in town.  The hotel had previously been a holidome - and if you remember what those are/were, well then you are at LEAST as old as me.

While working there I worked with a cast of characters.  My most favorite was a manager brought in from God knows where who chose to LIVE in the hotel rather than find a place to live in town.  He spoke with a southern twang and I don't think he did a darn thing the entire time he was there.  Other than drawl on occasion and tell me he would not be available for support.

Awesome.

So there I'd be, trying to explain to someone that they did indeed have a reservation however we were indeed out of rooms and no I could not do anything about it and yes I did know it was graduation and no I am so sorry there are no other rooms anywhere and no my manager was not available, just me, all of 20 years old making minimum wage trying to sneak in a little studying for Intermediate Accounting Two.  And that guest would rip my head off and leave in a rage.

And I'd be there until 11:30 at night and then back in the morning for the 7 a.m. shift, eating the free breakfast buffet, and begging the kitchen to make me something fresh PLEASE.

I had to wear this ridiculous gray paisley vest.  

I had to tell people they could NOT have a room with a pool view even though they had requested it.  I had to charge five bucks more per guest.  I had to explain how we did not have enough towels for the hotel if it was full, never mind pool towels.  Once a manager went to Wal-mart and bought like 20 more towels and that still wasn't enough.  I think the hotel only had 300 rooms people.

I had to explain that housekeeping was running behind and then turn around and kiss housekeeping's butts so that they would move it move it and get the rooms cleaned.  Yes, check in time is 3 pm.  Yes, I see that it's five and your room still isn't ready.  No I cannot offer you any discount on your room or at the bar or anything.  Why?  Because I have no powers.  None.

The manager once told me that if the fire alarms went off, I was supposed to CALL ALL OF THE GUEST ROOMS, and then grab the guest files before evacuating.  Are you kidding me?  I made minimum wage people.  I was going to be the first one outside.

There was a fishbowl of jelly bellies on our check in counter.  I used to eat those for dinner - I mean I was a college kid and I needed some food people.  Then the health inspector came, and told us that we needed to remove the jelly bellies as they had tested for high levels of URINE and FECES.

Awesome.

And that's the most important thing I learned at that job.  Never never stick your hand in a fishbowl of unwrapped candy.  If you do, you'll just be eating jelly beans, pee and poop.  And that my friends is not so awesome.

Sometimes you just have to stalk people

The year is 2001.  The company I am working for at this time is in financial straits.  I'm scared of the future with the company so I begin looking for new work.  I interview and land a job at a larger company, which I'm sure is more secure.  (Turns out later, it won't be, but whatever.)  The position is for a Systems Analyst in the IT department.  I'm not sure really what that means, but I'm sure I'll figure it out.

Turns out I never really did.  But that is beside the point.

While I worked there, I was extremely lonely.  Let's just say that IT generally does not attract the most social types.  And I say that as an IT person and a former Accounting major.  I'm not saying there aren't social people in IT, there just wasn't a plethora of them where I was working.

I scoured the area and set my sights on making friends with Melissa.  She seemed to be about my age, and was social, and cool.  I know, I was 26 years old and looking for the cool group.  But let's be honest, finding some sort of friendship or camaraderie in the workplace is essential for surviving work on a daily basis.  To make a long story short, I began stalking Melissa.

She was not so receptive at first.  But I was determined.  (Just go ahead and say it, I was a stalking freak!)  I told my husband about my plans.  I told my mom about my plans.  My mom told my aunts about my plans and at the next big girl dinner, my aunt told me to get a life and leave the poor girl alone.  But I persevered! 

By way of a college connection with her friend Mike, I got her to warm up to me.  And soon, we were work BFFs.  I made it into the cool group there, finally having people to eat lunch with and chat with.  I got pregnant with Warren while working there, the 9/11 attacks happened, and the company's IT department got a new head honcho who was reorganizing things.  Didn't bother me, because I had a friend.  WOO HOO!  Turns out we liked a lot of the same things - food, music, freaking out about random stuff - you name it.

My water broke at work while pregnant with Warren and it was Melissa who drove me to the hospital.  (A co-worker brought it to my attention that while I was not in labor at the moment, it could happen on the drive so perhaps someone might need to drive me.  Good call.)

I went back to work for a short time before we moved to Kansas.  I kept in touch with Melissa over the years.  She left the company were were at and secured a job at another large company while pursuing her dream of owning her own business.  She quit the solid job and jumped into her company head first, taking a risk but realizing she had to give it all of her attention if it was going to work.

And work it did!  And does!  Now she is the successful owner and CEO and queen of her castle!  She is the stationery master - creating beautiful stationary for weddings - from save the dates, to invitations, menu cards, thank you cards, programs, favors etc.  And I work for her!

See how that stalking worked out?  Got me a friend and a job. 

Sometimes you just gotta stalk people.  And thank goodness I practiced on her before moving to Kansas.  I had to use my same stalking skills to make friends there.  More on that later.

If you'd like to learn more about Melissa and her work, you can visit her website here.

Of course, I highly recommend her!  After all, I only stalk the best.

Little House, Snickerdoodles, Daycamp and Bikerides

In grade school I was shy.  Well at least at the beginning of grade school. 

I think it was around third grade that I became friends with a girl named Cindy.  Cindy was kind, popular, and friends with lots of people.  Through Cindy I came out of my shell.  Through Cindy I was part of a core group of friends.  Friends that I would remain with through high school and on.

Cindy lived in a neighborhood near me.  Her parents were nice - Bob and Ruby - and she had two older brothers that could not be bothered with us.  Of course, the feeling was mutual.  We were very busy.  Cindy was a good role model.  She followed the rules, got good grades, respected her parents, etc etc.  If I was with Cindy, my mom had no need to worry. 

When we were younger, we rode our bikes EVERYWHERE.  Places we would not let kids ride alone today.  We rode on the shoulder of busy streets.  We crossed even busier streets.  Our bikes were like cars - offering us total freedom.  We'd ride our bikes to the Chinese place for crab rangoon.  Then to Dairy Queen for a Mister Misty (remember those?).  We'd visit my aunt at the hardware store, and then stop at the Corner Drugstore for stickers and candy.  We'd be home before dark.  No cell phones.  No helmets. No worries.  We did have emergency quarters in the zipper pockets of our Kangaroo shoes.

Cindy and I liked to bake.  We'd bake snickerdoodles, cakes, anything!  We watched North and South, Little House on the Prairie and Dirty Dancing.  We had sticker collections.  We had crushes on the same guys - writing their names all over our folders.  Our grade school was a small Catholic grade school.  When it came time to choose a high school, my mom said, "we'll just go where Cindy goes."  And that was that.  We wrote marathon notes to each other, and then had marathon phone conversations in the evening.  We were cheerleaders together.  We were daycamp counselors in the summer together.  We wore bubble skirts, units and swatch watches.  If Cindy did it, I did it.

Through the years there have been times when I've lost touch with Cindy.  But it seems that anytime either of us makes the effort, we catch right back up to where we were.  She remembers my birthday and I hers, as she is 11 months and 10 days older than me.  Almost every year, I get an email from her, remembering the Sesame Street birthday song we used to listen to.  "A cat had a birthday and all the cats came.  To eat cat cake and to play a cat game.  To open cat presents and when they were through they said a happy birthday the way cats do..."

Cindy is good people.  I hope my kids have a Cindy in their life growing up!

Purple people eater? Please go away now.

Today's the day.  The big day.  The 1:15 appointment where we find out if we get to remove purple people eater/casty/the monstrosity that is Elaine's left arm and hopefully swap it out for a smaller, waterproof cast.

I don't think I have to tell you how important this day is to her.  Or us.  Or the makers of vodka who are clearly hoping that the non waterproof purple people eater will stay.

Every day this week at some point, Elaine has become exhausted of her cast.  Not whiny about it.  Just tired of it and done.  "I wish I could just get this off of me now."

You and me both sister.

Cross your fingers.  Say a prayer.  Make a wish.  Send good vibes.  Whatever.

I'll keep you updated.

UPDATE*****

We are back people.  Good news!  It's healing well, and she has a lighter, shorter, waterproof pink cast.  Still no sand or ocean, but pool is good and showers - oh blessed showers!  The not so great news, but not the end of the world news is that she will be starting school with something on her arm - a cast or a brace or a sling or something.  No PE/gym class for awhile.  That's a bummer.  You know starting kindergarten with something on your arm and not being able to do PE.  But it'd do-able.

I'd take a picture, but she's very busy playing outside now and can't be bothered to stop!  :)

A little patience, yeah, yeah.

I'm in desperate need of patience lately. 

And there seems to be a shortage of it in me.  Maybe I've left it somewhere.  Although I've looked and I haven't found a thing anywhere.  Maybe it's wherever I lost my sanity.  I bet those two hang out together - my patience and my sanity.  Yeah, I bet they hang out and have a good old time.  They probably drink wine and chat and chill.  Sons of bitches.

I need patience because my children are once again, shall we say, challenging.  Either they are super whiny and needy or I've just now noticed how they are so NOT independent and can't speak in normal tones.  Elaine is so far up my butt I can't see her.  She's near me at all times.  She NEEDS me.  Warren can't go upstairs by himself to get clothes without someone waiting for him on the big step.  People, our house is not that big.  I am always somewhere near Elaine and Warren has nothing to be afraid of in this house.

Neither of them listens to a thing I say.  They act like complete jerks sometimes - to each other, to me, to the neighbor kids.  They try to demand that I do things for them.  Get your own damn clothes.  Open your own string cheese.  For the love of Pete!  I say no to things and they keep asking for them.  "No Elaine you can't have any gum."  "Mom, can I have some gum?'  "No Elaine, you can't." "When can I?  Can I have some gum?"  And on and on it goes.

They are bored.

They are hungry.

They don't want to play outside.

They don't want to run errands.

They don't want to do chores, but they do want some allowance.

I need a drink.  A stiff one.  Is it five o'clock somewhere?  Five in the morning is good, right?  Perhaps I could go meet sanity and patience for a drink somewhere.  I bet they know where my marbles are.  I haven't seen those in years.

I know this is motherhood, but somehow it seems harder lately.  WTF?

Three dozen

Thirty-six years ago today, my main man was born. 

He's my partner, my one and only, my hero, my confidante, father of my children.

He's the yin to my yang.  The milk to my oreo cookie.

I don't tell him often enough how much I appreciate him and love him.  So here you go - I love you.  You are the best.  You rock!

Happy Birthday Mike!  I love you!

PS - Also a happy birthday shout out to Jen who shares this same great bday!

Who is this?

We have been butting heads nonstop lately.  And I'm sure it's not all his fault, it's mine too.

He wants me to spend more time with him, but when I ask, he says no.  He sure knows how to lay on the guilt though when he wants to.

And then there's the attitude.  It's constant.  He's bored.  I'm mean.  He doesn't want to do that.  We never do anything fun.  Why can't he play wii all day every day?  And while he plays wii, why can't he have every friend he's ever met over and can at  least three of them spend the night?

He wants everything done for him.  He doesn't want to help with a thing.  It's so opposite of who he was just a few months ago.

It's driving me BONKERS!

I'm a walking tennis ball head.

Me:  Warren, what's wrong?

W:  Shakes head, won't answer.

Me:  Are you awake?

W:  Yes.  No.  Yes.

Me:  I realize his eyes aren't really focusing, it's as if he's looking past me.  Okay, you aren't awake.  Close your eyes so you can get back into your sleep.

W:  Shakes head NO violently, and speaks in crazy gibberish.

Me:  What?

W:  Your head is a tennis ball and there's another one behind you.

Me:  Huh.  Hey, close your eyes and let's count backward from 10.

And then he's back to sleep.  But now I'm wondering, what's so scary about a tennis ball headed mom?  Sounds kind of fun to me.

It's a fastball straight over home plate.

He pulls the bill of his Cardinals baseball cap down low.  So low I can barely see his brown eyes.

He bends at the waist, one leg back.  His right arm swings like a pendulum.  On the left is his glove, slightly worn.  He looks left, to first base, and nods.  He looks back to the catcher, shakes off the sign and waits for another.  He nods, and then rears back to pitch. 

3rd strike, batter out!  He pumps his fist in the air.

He removes his hat and trades it for his batting helmet.  He puts on his gloves, first the right then the left.  He grabs his bat and takes a couple practice swings before stepping into the batter's box.  He waits for just the right pitch before swinging for the rafters.  He drops the bat and runs around the bases.  It's a homerun.  Why wouldn't it be.

Only the field is our cul-de-sac, or my kitchen.  The pitcher, the batter, all the players are Warren.  But as he plays each position, he narrates as if he is Al Hrabosky and refers to himself as each appropriate Cardinal player as he fills their positions.  "Skip throws the ball to Pujols for the easy out."

I can't comment on it, or take pictures of it, because if he sees me looking, he quits.  He's in love with baseball.  In love with the St. Louis Cardinals.  In love with watching the Cardinals with his dad while eating peanuts.  Questioning, absorbing, learning, commenting.

It's summer as it should be for a seven year old boy in St. Louis.

Well hell Sylvester.

At one point in my life, my family moved in with my grandpa.  His name was Sylvester Francis - how old school is that - and he was my dad's dad. 

Grandpa Syl was getting on in years and needed someone there to keep an eye on him/help him out/keep him sane.   I'm trying to remember how old I was when we moved in - 13 maybe?  I'm not sure.  The house we moved into was the house my dad and his MANY (11 I think, maybe more) siblings had grown up in.  My parents had lived there when they were first married and pregnant.  The house, it has some history.

While we lived with Syl, I was nothing but resentful.  I thought he was annoying.  I thought he was critical.  I thought he was racist.  His nuances bugged the crap out of me.  I was a teen girl and needed to be on the phone at all times.  He thought that every time you picked up the phone it cost money and proceeded to say that to me each and every time I was on the phone.  He didn't want my mom using all the water, and wanted her to wash clothes on his old ringer washer.  She'd refuse and get up late at night to do laundry so as not to deal with his aggravation.  He thought my mom would quit buying groceries I guess because he started sockpiling food in his room.  Guess what?  If you leave bananas in a bedroom long enough, they'll rot and you'll get fruit flies.  He used the n word.  He said if any of us brought home a "black kid" well, that would be the end of it.  He read the obituaries over breakfast and told us who died.  He said "well hell" a lot.  It was his catch phrase.  He was as stubborn as a mule.

My couins, aunts and uncles would come visit him from time to time, and he was nothing but nice to them.  I'd watch as Bill or Angie (cousins my age) would visit with him.  They never seemed annoyed.  They found their time with him special.  And I'd hate myself.  But I couldn't change.  Well I wouldn't change.

There came a time when we moved out, and my aunt and her family moved in with him.  Later, he passed away.  And after the estate and whatnot was settled, our family moved back into that house. 

Only this time he wasn't there.

And I missed him.  And I instantly regretted all the stupid crap I allowed to get in between us.  I hate many of the things I did as a teenager, and this is one of them.

He loved Cap'n Crunch as much as I did.  And when we ran out, he usually had a box stockpiled in his room.  His hand was so shaky, he'd clang the spoon all over the side of the bowl - but I'd make fun of him for it and he'd laugh.  He was raised in a different time than I, and I eventually got him to watch The Cosby Show with me.  And I believe he liked it.  The obituary reading?  I think that just gave him validation for living.  From time to time when we have a paper, I find myself skimming the obits, and thinking to myself, "well hell, that poor guy was only 36 years old".

My mom still lives in that house now.  And I swear, when the weather is just right - meaning kind of stale and humid - you can smell the skin bracer in the bathroom.  I've searched, there isn't a bottle in there, but you can still smell it.

I wish I would have taken the time to appreciate him while he was here on Earth.  He may have been as stubborn as a mule, but that mule had a kind heart.  Hopefully he realized I was just a stupid teenager - too caught up in my friends, and making my hair poofy.  Hopefully he realized I loved him.