Last week Meredith came home from school with a note that said something like “Scouting Registration Night! Wednesday! 6:00!”
I talked to Meredith for a bit, and she expressed an interest in scouting. So, I called the school.
Apparently, Scouting Registration Night is for Boy Scouts only. The administrative assistant at the school told me that registration night doesn’t exist for the Girl Scouts and that she doesn’t have any additional information about Girl Scouts.
I should have let it die right there. BUT, because I’m nothing if not tenacious, I called the Girl Scouts of America to try to track down a local leader.
The Girl Scouts of America told me to call the Girl Scouts of Greater St. Louis (GS-GSL) for leader contact information. Okay! Now we’re sort of getting somewhere maybe.
I eventually reached Cindy from GS-GSL. After babbling on about how old Meredith is and what school she attends, Cindy said the following.
Cindy: Okay. Your troop coordinator is Bonnie. I will call her and give her your information. If she doesn’t call you within two days, call her and leave a message. If she doesn’t return your call, call me back.
Me: Well, that’s sort of weird, but okay.
I waited two days. No call from Bonnie. I then called Bonnie, left a message, and waited two days. She never called back.
Cindy: Okay. Since Bonnie didn’t call you, I’d like you to call Victoria. If she doesn’t call you back, I’ll ask you to call Sheila, who is here at the GS-GSL.
I called Victoria. She didn’t answer the phone. Within two minutes of me hanging up, my phone rang.
Victoria: This is Victoria. You called me?
I told her the whole story, and she told me that she would call me back. And she did. Five minutes later.
Victoria: I’m going to ask you to call Bonnie.
Me: I called Bonnie. Cindy at the GS-GSL called Bonnie. Bonnie doesn’t return calls.
Victoria: Well, Bonnie is definitely the person you need to contact. Do me a favor and leave Bonnie another message. Dawn and I will see Bonnie on Thursday, and I’ll let her know that she should return your call. Then, Dawn will call you on Friday.
(I have no idea who Dawn is.)
I *do* know that I’m no longer excited about Meredith being a Girl Scout.
And I’m wondering why everyone seems to walk on eggshells around Bonnie.
Why should Victoria have to tell Bonnie that it’s okay to return my call about Girl Scouts when Bonnie’s job is to return calls about Girl Scouts?!
I know you hate me for saying this: I’m done with these women. And if they were men, I would say that I’m done with these men.
Do you want to know who else I’m done with? (I recently read that it’s okay to end a sentence with a preposition, especially if moving the preposition would introduce awkwardness.) I’m done with the Tuesday night ballet/tap moms. (I’ll talk about them some other time. Or maybe I won’t. Are you bored by stories of moms who sit around bashing other moms because of their socioeconomic status? Yeah, me too. And although life is too short to sit in a room full o’ ugly, Meredith really loves to dance. So, tonight I shall wear my Don’t Talk to Me clothes and try to look as invisible as possible while the Mean Moms torch another friend who lives on the outskirts of Easy Street.)
And this is what I really wanted to tell you: Harper’s been throwing really amazing tantrums lately. They’re completely unpredictable, and they involve kicking, hitting, throwing things, and screaming. Oh! The screaming! This morning’s tantrum hit right after I turned off the shower water. Apparently, she wanted to watch me take a shower and “I WANTED TO WATCH YOU TAKE A SHOWER!!!! EEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!” And she threw her cereal and Jeff carried her (kicking and screaming) to sit in The Thinking Chair, which is sort of our clever version of Time Out, and gheez. The tantrum never ended. They never end! They’ve been going on for over six months and are getting worse instead of better and the doctor thought it was reflux, but it ended up not being reflux, and gheez.
Sometimes when you’re really not in the mood to witness a man and a woman asking God’s blessing upon their holy union, you find yourself sitting in a pew in a chesty black dress holding a wedding program and praying for time to pass quickly. Last Saturday afternoon, Jeff and I attended a wedding. And because I was feeling sort of sad and Jeff was feeling punchy, we turned down the class and turned up the smart assidity.
Jeff (pointing to the line in the program that said Communion): So, I suppose *that’s* going to happen.
Me: In these shoes? I don’t think so.
Officiant (who I suspect had been drinking a wee bit): I hope we can all get together to celebrate the bride and groom’s fiftieth anniversary on October 30th, 2059.
Jeff: I thought this was August 30th. 2008. Time keeps on slippin’, slippin’, slippin’ into the future.
Me: It’s just a jump to the left, and then a step to the right. Actually, he’s talking about their 51st and 2 Months anniversary. I think that’s a big celebratory wedding anniversary day for the Catholics. They call it The Big 51-2. I’ll Google it when we get home.
Officiant: I’d like to read to you from 1 Corinthians, Chapter 13.
Jeff: I’m going to pretend I’ve never heard this before.
Me: First Corwhathians?! Wait. What is that smell? Could it be an overdone Bible verse?
(Sometimes Jeff and I are real jerks. You heard it here first, folks!)
Officiant: This time around, I’m going to shake it up a bit.
Okay. He then inserted the bride and groom names into the verses.
And when he was done, I mentally inserted OUR names into the verses.
And it went a little something like this:
Angela is patient, Jeff is kind. (Well, one out of two isn’t bad, right? Jeff really is sort of kind. You should meet him someday.)
Angela is not jealous, Jeff is not pompous, Angela is not inflated. (Okay. Yeah. Jeff is not pompous. Also, stop looking at my butt.)
Jeff is not rude, Angela does not seek her own interests, Jeff is not quick-tempered, Angela does not brood over injury. (I don’t brood over actual injury, but I *DO* tend to overreact to things I don’t understand. Like the cyst thing above my right ear. In my mind, my swollen brain has busted through a crack in my skull and is planning some sort of gushing escape with the permission of my semicircular canals.)
Jeff does not rejoice over wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. (Gheez. I really *did* score a gem.)
Angela bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, and endures all things. (I suck.)
And because we weren’t good citizens during the wedding ceremony (Don’t worry. No one heard our utterances. We are not unlike mice! Muffled mice!), the DJ at the reception paid us back by playing nothing but Enya.
Me: When I was in college, I once invited a boy over so we could make out to Enya. When that got old, we made out to The Lawnmower Man.
Jeff: I’m just hoping we’re able to Cabbage Patch to an extended mix of Brahms’ Lullaby before the night is over.
You know, it’s sort of funny. When I have something Yarn Related to tell you, I always hesitate. In my mind, 83.9% of you are NOT knitters/crocheters. Bang. I just had a quick explosion of inspiration to assemble a survey so I can find out how many of you dabble in the fiber arts. However, my quick explosions tend to fizzle, and right now I sort of lack the energy to Google “free do-it-yourself survey”. So anyway. (I just stepped away to make a waffle. I have the energy for waffles. Multigrain!)
To those of you who really don’t get this yarn thing, come back early next week, where I will talk about how I stood less than 50 feet away from Bruce Springsteen and how he has rocketed to the top of my Do Boy List. Actually, I should probably rework that entire list. Seriously? If John Krasinski landed in the same room as me, I really don’t think he would feel even the slightest urge to make out. It’s time to be a bit more sober, don’t you think? John Krasinski, I hereby release you.
While I’m jumping around, let me take a moment to tell you that I’m really digging crumpets lately. Who would have thought?
Okay. Last Friday we picked Tempe up at 4:30 in the morning. (We picked coffee up at 4:15 in the morning. I love you, you stinking 24-hour Starbucks, you!)
(The six hours between Leaving St. Louis and Arriving in Schaumburg were mostly uneventful. I ate an egg and cheese biscuit. So there’s that, if you’re interested.)
After The Fold, things get blurry. Let’s see. If you want to see the yarn I purchased and what each skein will eventually become, you can head over here.
Oh! Do you remember that episode of Dawson’s Creek where the kids were heading out to a rave and they had to go get an egg before they were given directions to the barn where the rave was to be held and Dawson was questioning the whole egg thing and Pacey said something like, “Don’t ask questions. We just need to find an egg!” and Joey got really wasted and now that I’m typing this really long sentence I’m wondering if this episode ever aired. Am I making this up?! Anyway. During our second pass of The Fold, the fabulous Knitting Hawkeye yelled, “Hey! Fluid!” (I’m really NOT making that up!) She then told me to go to a certain booth and grab a pin. THEN, head to the Malabrigo booth. The pin will serve as a tip-off, and if you play your cards right you will be handed some back-alley sock yarn that has not yet been released in the states. The three of us earned our pins and headed to the booth where we were given two skeins of the yarn. Three people living in three separate houses were told to share two skeins of yarn. Ah, well. At least we had what I believe was a Dawson’s Creek adventure. But maybe it wasn’t.
Long Story Shortened: We each purchased all of the yarn that we needed and headed out into rush hour traffic. We met some really nice knitters. We wore our shawls. And the day? It was good. And on the way home Tempe received a shocking telephone call that put Everything into perspective. The yarn? It’s not important. The two skeins for three people thing that I chose to harp on for at least an hour? Not important. (I really need to dump out that big pot of Grudge that’s been simmering in my head for so long. I’m constantly adding to it. Such a waste of time. Grudges? Go hang out with John Krasinski! You are released!) What’s important is the time spent with the people you hold dear. And you might think that’s hokey, but believe me: It’s So True.
So now I’m back. And I’m closing in on finishing my August BlogHer socks. (Progress thumbnails are in the left sidebar toward the bottom.)
And Meredith is loving kindergarten.
And Harper is loving preschool.
And I’ve got great friends and a first-rate family.
(I’ve also got a little crush on Bruce Springsteen. And Jeff doesn’t mind, because he digs Mr. Springsteen, too.)
The winners of the M&M’s Giveaway have been notified, and all but one has responded. (If you are Betsy who guessed the winning M&M amount at the shower, please shoot an e-mail my way! You’re a winner!)
Anyway, this morning I lugged four boxes of M&M’s to the post office. And I’m exaggerating when I say this, but: each box weighed about eighty pounds.
Post Office Guy: Do these boxes contain anything liquid or perishable?
Me: Well, each box is filled with M&Ms. But I’ve packed them with weird bubble wrap stuff. I just need to send them all as inexpensively as possible.
Post Office Guy: Do you want insurance or confirmation of delivery?
Post Office Guy: You don’t care if they get there, do you? You didn’t even put a return address on these boxes!
Me: I sort of want them to GET there, but if they don’t, I definitely don’t want them back. I really can’t be trusted with M&Ms in the house.
Post Office Guy (using his Sly Hopping Eyebrow): So you’re kind of Whatever about the delivery, and you don’t want them back, right?
Me (proving that my eyebrow can jump higher than his): Truer words have never been spoken, Mr. Postman.
Post Office Guy: Thank you for the M&Ms.
Me: Enjoy them. I liked the raspberry ones the best.
Post Office Guy: You know, when you leave this building, I’m going on an M&M break.
Me: If you have to suffer a break, I hear an M&M break is the best kind.
Later this week I’ll update you on Stitches Midwest and Bruce Springsteen.
Ah, Bruce Springsteen.
After nine months of not going to a Weight Watchers meeting, this morning I experienced the urge to go to a Weight Watchers meeting.
(I still have a few free days before my freelance project is delivered. As you can see, I’m taking full advantage of my free time. Weight Watchers Meeting! Falalalala! Jealous?)
When I walked in the door, the receptionist greeted me with a big, “Welcome to Weight Watchers!”
Me: Actually, I’ve been here on and off for the past five years.
Receptionist (scanning my bar code): Oh, yes! I see you haven’t been here for nine months! What have you been up to?
Me: I had a baby?
Receptionist: Ooh! Really?
Me: Nope. But it sounds better than, “I received a big stupid box of M&Ms, and someone needs to step in.”
Receptionist: We’re running a sale on 2-point bars!
So I bought a few boxes of 2-point bars, and I headed into the meeting, where the topic was Interim Successes.
The gist: If you spend all of your time stressing about your final goal, you’ll miss out on celebrating each tiny success! And each tiny success will carry you onward through the journey to the final goal! So focus on the tiny successes, and eventually you’ll be able to say something like “Eureka! I’ve reached my final goal! ‘Tis a gift to be simple!” (I tend to poke fun. I’m ridiculous.)
Anyway, the most curious thing happened right at the end of the meeting.
Weight Watchers Leader (WWL): So, we all have big goals. And we also have busy lives. Tell me, what keeps all of you coming to these meetings every week? What keeps you on track?
Someone named Karen: I know that journaling keeps me on track.
WWL: Excellent. Yes. Jennifer?
Jennifer: Snakes in my garage.
WWL: Yes! Actually, I think that sums it up perfectly. THAT is the secret to keeping up with Weight Watchers! Okay then! Keep that in mind, and I’ll see less of you next week!
So, after putting it off for nearly two years, I think it’s time to have my hearing checked. I’ve noticed that I spend a lot of time cocking my right ear toward whomever is speaking. (Side note: I’m only 43% sure Whomever is correct in that sentence. Also, when I see Whomever in writing, I mentally pronounce it as wah-mehver.) My father wears hearing aids. I’ve reached the point where talking on the phone is sometimes difficult. Argh.
Snakes in my garage.
Not completely unlike bats in my belfry, I suppose, but come on! Sixteen people now know the secret to keeping up with Weight Watchers, and I’m walking away scratching my head and wondering if Jennifer chooses to park on the street.