The Little Tikes Battlefield is not for everyone…

Last week I heard on CNN that the owner of McDain’s, a restaurant in Monroeville, PA, has completely banned kids under the age of six from his establishment.  “Their volume can’t be controlled and many, many times, they have disturbed other customers,” owner Mike Vuick said.

Preschoolers…prohibited?  Finally, someone has the guts to take action for an underserved, downtrodden, and unappreciated population…the parents of young children (PYC).  You see, Vuick has just given PYC an excuse to get a sitter, go out, relax, and ENJOY dinner.  He is your friend and advocate, people!  

I admit that I have never been in the running for Parent of the Year.  That auspicious title always eluded moi.  So my ten-year-old son Wesley has only recently been allowed to grace the doors of a “sit down” restaurant.  As a matter of fact, I avoided taking him out in public, except for limited appearances at family functions, until North Carolina General Statue forced me to register him for Kindergarten.

Infants and toddlers are just not pleasant, nor fun to be around.  They are unpredictable, egocentric, violent, and, well, stinky 90% of the time.  Thank God they are cute, or the lot of us bipeds would go extinct.  

I realize that the first five years is extremely important in brain formation, learning, blah, blah, blah. I also recognized my limitations as a parent in the area of brain formation, and entrusted Wesley to the professionals. Weekends, said professionals were Vincent Van Goat and Bard the dragon, of Baby Einstein’s DVDs--Baby Van Gogh and Baby Shakespeare, respectively.  During the week, I worked while Wesley’s brain formation continued at an endorsed, licensed daycare facility.  I found that learned sages at daycare centers and other child development agencies have extensive training in instructing, guiding and directing tiny tyrants.  These people have CHOSEN to work on the front lines of the Little Tikes Battlefield, so our species will survive.  It brings a tear to my eye just thinking about the unselfish sacrifices.  They are unacknowledged martyrs, our clandestine SEAL Team 6…Ooo-rah, Able Annie’s Daycare and the Rockingham County Partnership for Children!

 

And just like there are experts in bambino tutelage, there are also communal venues specifically designed for children, and yes, these include eateries.  You know, Chuck E. Cheese, where a kid can be a kid…unpredictable, egocentric, violent AND stinky. (The franchise should consider this more accurate tag line.)  Regrettably, again because of legalities, we can’t just drop off our toddlers at Chuck E. Cheese and go grab a latte at Starbucks.  Yes, we are tagged with matching bracelets upon entrance and forced to endure that gi-normous mechanical rodent that spontaneously breaks out in song, screeching children, the dings of trillions of electronic games, and, of course, the insidious stench of pre-schoolers.  Fortunately, the management understands how adults are debilitated by Suck E. Sleaze and serve beer.

Other restaurants have subtlety made dining with your toddler manageable.  Case in point, Chick-fil-A, whose company owners are surely closet advocates for PYC.  An observation unit with toddler-enticing equipment is located inside the restaurant, where you can peacefully watch your child, with those of his own kind, reeking havoc and general mayhem as you enjoy your meal.  You cannot be any taller than 42” to enter the transparent, sound proof padded exhibit room.  In other words, no parents allowed!

In my opinion, there are too few places that preschoolers aren’t allowed:  Strip clubs, bars, and now McDain’s.  Those little crumb catchers have the run of our world!  And if you are a PYC, you know I speak the truth.  Now we all know those Queens of Denial who may say, “But, I love to spend time with my two-year-old, Ballerina!  I just have to be a stay at home mom, for I can’t imagine being away from Junior one second!”  Stop the lies!  Stop the cover up! Junior knows two words:  “Dad,” whom he never sees during the work week, and “No,” which is his response to everything.  He still poops in his pants, but now has the capability to reach into his Pull-Up, grab a handful, and smear feces on your freshly cleaned walls. Yes, while your exhausted ass is boiling and pureeing fresh zucchini you harvested from the garden planted so he can have nutritious, organic, meals, Junior is spraying Febreze Air Effects into the dog’s eyes.   Let’s face it:  It sucks being home with Junior, that’s reality.  Again, thank God he’s cute or you would eat him.  And taking him out to a restaurant?  A Bengal tiger or Black-backed Jackal would be my pick before a toddler. 

I have now come to the end of my ranting, so I will leave you with this final question:  When is your child fit for public restaurants?  Perhaps when he or she stops finding the box more interesting than the toy in which it came?

A. Ballerina

Melanoma Mildred or Freaky Freckle…It’s a Fine Line, People.

Last Sunday, as I was ritually examining my face with the magnified mirror for new age-related flaws to obsess over during the coming week, I spied an interesting dark splotch beside my nose at 5 degrees northeast.  Hmmm.  Upon closer inspection with my industrial strength magnification device, I identified these nasty spider-like tentacles branching from the center.  Yow! This cannot be good.  My thoughts started to race, my genetic-based defense mechanism to generalized crises.  Automatically, I was tumbling down the sudden, yet predicable path to a full-blown Paranoid Delusional Episode.  In a nutshell, this winding road begins with “woe is me” and terminates at “ironic death imminent; commence funeral preparation.” 

So the warped thought process goes…Well, doesn’t this just beat all?  I spend over five grand to reverse the 40 years of sun damage. I endure facial laser strikes akin to the epic Battle of Endor (The Return of the Jedi...Star Wars IV).   I spend seven days as a “hide-your-face-lest-you have-to-explain-excessive-peeling” recluse, appearing only at night like a psoriasis-ridden vampire. And finally, there was the PAIN. The facial bombardment HURT LIKE A MOTHA!  AND, I had not one treatment, but THREE.  Yes, THREE.  When I had healed properly for the third time, I actually had to darken my roots to provide some contrast for my ashen cheeks that were slathered daily with 70 SPF sun block! So my bleached blonde hair and suntanned face were sacrificed for fewer wrinkles and NOT GETTING SKIN CANCER.  And now I am staring at Melanoma Mildred, whose grapnels have most certainly snaked into my nasal cavity and are heading post haste to my brain…

I have had trouble breathing lately…and the dizzy spells?  Yes, Mildred has metastasized and I have a brain tumor…definitely.  Probably two months, maximum.  I want Steve Perkins and Debbie Joyce to sing a duet at my memorial service, perhaps Amazing Grace. No, too trite; that is the fallback tune when no one really knows the deceased...when they are a recluse…a paranoid recluse…a paranoid recluse targeted to die because she valued her looks above all else!!!!

The weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth come next, and it is too pitiful to even describe in print.  Let’s just say there were excretions from every orifice and I am grateful that I was in the bathroom while convulsing. Suffice to say I was now on the tile floor in a fetal position reeking of vomit, my mega magnifying device grasped tightly in one hand as the other hand made the sign of the cross.  I confessed my laundry list of sins.  I was a chaotic, hypocritical mess.  Hell, I wasn’t even Catholic.  

The next day, I awoke with a little more sanity, or perhaps a more accurate word would be clarity, on the subject, and decided that, for insurance purposes, I probably needed to make an appointment with my dermatologist so she could confirm my undeniable diagnosis.  Hopefully she could see me in the morning, so I would have the afternoon to fill my prescription for Oxycodone, quit my job, gather my family, and begin living out my remaining days on the coast of some island near Belize.  Peace out! 

Once in the dermatologist’s office, I pointed to Mildred, and wept, “It doesn’t look good.”  She responded, “What doesn’t look good?”  “This spot on my face,” I replied impatiently.  “I don’t see anything,” she said, handing me a mirror, “show me.”  “Right here!  It has tentacles!  Like Ursula, the Sea Witch, only a smaller, deadlier dermatological version.”  “Ah, yes.  The freckle-looking spot?  (Not a very medically term) I don’t think it is anything to be concerned about.  I can cut it out now and be done with it, or we can wait a month and see what it looks like then.  If I cut it out it will leave a scar.  I would wait a month.” Obviously my medical degree from the University of Unreasonable Suspicions has not prepared me for this response.  “Don’t you want to take a sample for biopsy?” I said.  “There’s not enough of the freckle to get a testable sample,” Okay, her emphasis on the word “freckle” was completely uncalled for at this juncture.  She requested that she examine my entire body for any other suspicious spots, probably wanting to avoid another impending visit that would not be covered by insurance. 

She then announced that everything looked fine and said, “Could I ask you to try not to get as much sun?”  Sober reality had dawned again, coupled with the return of my smart mouth. “Why, yes, of course, you can ask.”       

In summary, it turns out that Mildred’s tentacles were probably tiny blood vessels that my electron microscope, had morphed into tentacles.  And my stuffy nose was a nasty symptom of Afrin withdrawal.  In my hysterics, I had completely forgotten about working my internal Twelve Step program for Nasal Sprayers Anonymous.  The stuffy nose will go away, and my chip is just around the corner… The dizziness, well, hadn’t eaten the day before in an attempt to slay those last two pounds I had been battling for three months.  According to the experts, you know, the ones with degrees from those accredited universities, a lack of nutrition will cause a drop in glucose which most likely will lead to syncope. But what the hell, I would rather be neurotic, skinny, ashen and dizzy with a runny nose than have to laser another facial scar! May the Force (of Youth) Be With You!

A. Ballerina

E…O…G? O...M...G!

EOG...The three most dreaded letters of third grade.

Hello, blog world! I return to my13 fateful cyber followers after a whirlwind month of marriage, moving, and mayhem.  My schedule is becoming somewhat stable now…well, as stable as it’s going to be for me…and I am ready to be irreverent again!

I have been dreading this past week for three years now.  Yes, it’s the first year my son Wesley had to suffer through EOGs.  End Of Grade testing is the equivalent of the bird flu in elementary academia, bringing about mass hysteria with communal symptoms of fear, anxiety, and frustration.  It knows no boundaries, infecting teachers, parents, and students alike.

EOGs are the gateway into fourth grade, and there is no other route.  We have pre tested and practiced all year.  There have been bench marks, parent meetings, accelerated student tutoring, and even community forums.  Preparation has been ceaseless and involves every aspect of the student – mind, body, and spirit.  No stone was left unturned.  Prior to test week, reminders for what the children need during these critical testing days have peppered my fridge.  I have flyers on healthy eating, lowering the stress in the home, exercise routines, adequate hydration, and, of course, plenty of sleep.

Instead of falling prey to the disease, I initially chose the stance of a celebratory observer.  Yes, akin to a spectator in Madrid’s Running of the Bulls, I tried to actively ignore the scholastic anarchy.  Needless to say, I failed miserably and contracted the eog bug.  As a matter of fact, a week prior to testing, Wesley was eating broccoli, getting daily massages after his yoga sessions, drinking eight glasses of water per day, and doing 20 push ups before bed at 7pm.  

I have never been a standardized girl, EVER.  Big shock.  I somehow managed to jump those hurdles throughout my academic career, however.  Truth be known, my moral compass completely shut down when it came to these tests.  Cheat sheets, cliff notes, and self help books were used without hesitation.  From “Standardized Tests for Dummies” to “How the Pass the SAT using Ancient Mayan Predictive Techniques,” I desperately searched the shelves of Barnes & Noble for the easy way out.  I had no problems skimming the edge of ethics, because coloring outside the lines makes a much more interesting picture.  Speaking of pictures, I remember after the first few questions on my first attempt at a satisfactory SAT score, I sooooo lost interest that I began filling in the bubbles to form the outline of pop icon Billy Idol.  My GRE was an on-line assessment, and I chose the answers based on the names of animals formed by clouds outside the window beside the computer cubicle.  Fluffy Ants and Dingos…that was my strategy!  I managed to get into both undergraduate and graduate schools by the skin of my teeth.  Thankfully, other criteria were also used to evaluate my potential success.

Today, scholastic requirements are much more stringent. And Wesley not only possesses my personal preference for “coloring outside the lines,” but has a brain that does, as well.  He socially and biologically functions against the Bell curve, because dyslexia and assimilation are oil and water.  Besides the aforementioned, the federal government has created more pressure on school personnel by warping “No Child Left Behind” into some teacher-evaluation-incentive debacle, and the Great State of North Carolina opted to use third grade EOG test scores as the sole Gatekeeper to fourth grade for students.   Academic chaos has thus infiltrated elementary school life!

All year practice tests have come home with Wesley.  I have tried to assist him, but the rage takes over at the seemingly endless stream of ridiculous questions, logic, and answers.  I cannot follow institutionalized bread crumb trail to the standardized logical answer. My chaotic aura of being just can’t.  The result:  I never choose the correct answer.  Sometimes, there are even two equally appropriate answers from which to choose.

Example of the ridiculous Question-Answer set: 

Fatima and Ty-Chen have a busy day!  After breakfast at 8:00 am which lasts 1 hour, they have to help their mother in the garden for 2 hour at 10:00 am, clean their room for 2 hours at 12:00 pm, and attend a family reunion at 4:00 pm for 3 hours.  When is the best time for them to have lunch?

A.  11:00 am

B.    9:00 am

C.    2:00 pm

D.    7:00 pm

Standardized appropriate answer:  A.  

WTH!  They are eating lunch 2 hours after they have breakfast!  Childhood obesity is running amuck, and THIS is the official answer?  What happened to Dick and Jane?

And whose mother actually gardens?  And what children actually help in this said fantasy garden?  For the record, it does not take an hour to eat a Hot Fudge Sundae Poptart.  Cleaning their room for two hours is possible, however, where is the 2 plus hours allotted for the whining and stomping of feet followed by some consequence--perhaps NOT going to the reunion--for using a disrespectful tone to the parent who asked for the task to be completed?  Hell, by the time the room cleaning festivities are over, it’s past everybody’s bedtime and the reunion is over.  Lunch/Dinner, therefore, is eaten at 9:00 pm and consists of a couple of Ritz crackers and some grape jelly beans dug out between the mattresses during the waterboarding/cleaning fiasco.   And, 9:00 pm is not even an OPTION.

But logic and reason are forever lost in the rote, mechanical world of EOGs.  So, I, along with hundreds of other parents will submit to the Academic Overlord during the month of May.  We will feed our children broccoli, force them to go to bed while the sun is still up, encourage them to use their strategies, and make June appointments with child therapists specializing in Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

A. Ballerina

Singing The Refi Blues

One of the most humiliating experiences I have had lately occurred this past summer when I made the decision to take advantage of the historically low interest rates.  As you may know, I am not a fan of anything that requires me to do even the simplest mathematical calculations, but I have People.  Said People advised me to refinance...blah, blah, blah…fixed rate… blah, blah, blah…lower monthly payments…blah, blah, Excuse Me?  Lower monthly payments? 

So, potentially, I would have more available cash for the things that make me happy; that make my life meaningful and complete?  Like Stein Mart fashions, Sona MedSpa procedures, Key West excursions, Ben and Jerry’s Coffee Heath Bar Crunch, Skinny Girl Margarita, etc?  All of a sudden I was listening attentively.  My financial People, okay, Julie, scribbled a few numbers and pronounced that I could probably free up about $100 per month to invest in my future.  Now Julie, I-can-dig-up-enough-cash-in-the-bottom-of-my-Vera Bradley Clutch-to-buy-a-small-Caribbean-village, you’ve known me for how long? Invest in my future? Please!  How can I even think about my future when I am in desperate need of these adorable mustard-colored patent leather wedges I saw last week?  Needless to say, I decided to check into this “refi” business. 

Being duly diligent, ‘cause Julie said I should, I contacted three different banks.  All the loan officers were very professional and courteous, but they all talked a little too much about financial matters…blah, blah, blah….mortgage equity, blah, blah, etc.  However, I did remove the pencils out of my nostrils and switched the telephone off speaker mode when one of them starting blabbing about a “cash out” concept.  It seems that, depending on the amount equity you have in your home, you can actually borrow extra money to make home improvements.  Home improvements…like additional closet space? More room to house my wears?  A place where my Ann Taylor slacks and Jones New York blouses could freely roam and graze in the pastures of closet vastness?  Oh how happy they would be…and so would my son Wesley, who was currently sacrificing one third of his wardrobe to the Vera Wang dress gods.

Granted, this refinancing process began very well.  Miracle of miracles, my credit score was really high….the first time I have ever been measured by a number and liked it! Apparently, my lifelong obsession with not disappointing anyone, including the faceless masses at Chase and CitiBank, had paid off.  By my warped calculations, I deduced (math word!) that I had been paying on the house for four years and had lived frugally, relatively speaking.  Well, not really, but God and NeNe and Bill had been really good to me. I had been making a mortgage payment of $600 per month for 48 months.  So, $600 times 48 is $28,800.  Wow, close to $30,000 built up; fashion pastures, here I come!

I made my appointment with the loan officer a la carte after gathering all the requested pertinent documentation, and entered the bank with my near “excellent” credit score, a low debt-to-income ratio, and a sense of entitlement.  Hey, they needed me, I thought, I am going for a 3.5%, and take no more than a 4.0%.  I mean, look at all of the stimulus money I, as the taxpayer, had given these morons.  Geez.  They owe me.  So, strutted in, shook the loan officer’s hand firmly, and sat my cocky ass in front of her over-priced oak desk.  Little did I know I was about to be brought to my knees by the ghostly presence of the Fiscal Grim Reaper.   

“So, do you have your last two banking statements?” she asked.  What a pretty lady—so sophisticated.  Of course, I thought, and handed them over with a smile.  “Where is page 7?” she asked.  My, that dress may be a knock-off.  “What?” I said.  “Page 7 of 7?  Where is it?,” she queried.  “Oh, that page didn’t have anything on it…just an advertisement for a free ham if I charged up the bank’s MasterCard.”  She just sat in silence for several moments, then looked at me over her glasses.  Wow, I hadn’t noticed that wart on the side of her nose.  “I need the complete statement.  The entire document.”  Her hair is kinda messed up, stringy, snake-like, even. “But you have it!” I cried.  “No…I… don’t…I have pages 1 through 6 of 7.  I need PAGE SEVEN OF SEVEN,” she spewed.  Don’t look into her eyes…don’t look into her eyes, lest ye be turned to stone!  “But, I threw it away!” I bawled.  I am certain that her head swiveled 360 degrees as mine hit the shellacked surface of her desk.  And things rolled down hill from there. 

Despite my stupor, I managed to make a list of everything I needed for our next visit, including the original page where my name was written in the Book of Life.  A PDF copy could be substituted if sent electronically directly from Heaven along with a certified, verified list of all of my aliases for cross-referencing.  As I was leaving, I caught a glimpse of the Refi-Underling I had met first.  She walked me to the door, put her arm around my shoulder, and whispered, “I know all these requests seem unbelievable, but everything has to be perfect for the,” she looked nervously from the window to the door and lowered her voice even more.  “The, the… Underwriter.”  At that moment, I could have sworn I heard Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor playing through the bank’s sound system.  

I ran from the FDIC-insured institution, clothes disheveled and mascara running; cursing the liquidity shortfall in the United States banking system that triggered the scrutiny which now plagued me.  For the next month or so, the All-Powerful Underwriter became a source of intense pain and frustration. Not to mention, a serious threat to my wounded self-esteem.  I couldn’t chose my own appraiser because “The Underwriter” wouldn’t allow it.  I had to explain all deposits into my checking account, as well as how I paid for my child’s after school care, in writing, because “The Underwriter” needed verification.  I had to bring my mother into the bank to swear the $3,000.00 she was giving me for closing was a gift (even though I was giving it back to her when I got my tax refund check), because “The Underwriter” demanded it.

The end result was this:  I received my refinancing at 4.3%, barely escaping the dreaded PMI and had NO money for my ubercloset addition. “The Underwriter’s” appraisal came in $10,000.00 below what I actually paid for my domicile, and my tax refund vanished.  Thus far, the brief therapy sessions for economic-related post-traumatic stress symptoms have eaten up my extra $100 dollars a month. And last week at a Chamber Coffee, I found out the elusive “Underwriter” is actually a paid employee of the bank.  Go figure.  Apparently, it is all a deranged math version of good cop/bad cop designed to make the loan seekers submit to their demands.

So, my Donna Karans and Liz Claibornes are still spooning in my closet, and my Ralph Laurens still remain hostages in my son’s repository. But, life goes on. The therapy is working, the embarrassment is subsiding and I even managed to scrape up enough change for my mustard wedges. Of course, I have to wear them every day because there is no place for them to live, other than my feet! Oh well, live and learn and buy new shoes…because looking good is an investment in your future!    

A. Ballerina

Baby, I Was Born This Way

Hi. 

My name is Angie.

And I am a Consummate Consumer.

I own it.  I embrace it.

Baby, I was born this way.

I am infamously hailed the premiere professional Domestic Purchasing Specialist, but that wasn’t always the case.  The road that led me to this title was a long and sometimes treacherous one.  My story is about overcoming the odds, sacrifice, listening to that inner voice, and never giving up on my dream. Here is the story of my ascent from the family farm to the peak of Kili-Mall-jaro.

I grew up in a now foreign land that my cousin Beth affectionately dubbed “Hooterville,” where I was deprived of the simplest shopping opportunities that others enjoyed.  Throughout my childhood, there existed inside my core a retail void I could not fill.  It wasn’t until many years later, through valid experiential testing, that I learned my condition was biological.  During my formative years, the closest country store, an arduous ten miles away and a full day’s travel on foot, did not satisfy the lusty procurement hormone my spend-gene released.  Hoop cheese, cow feed, and Pointer overalls just wasn’t enough of a selection.  I always left Olson’s Mercantile with a bolt of fabric and cabbage seeds, feeling empty.  Wasn’t there more?

 Why, yes.  Yes there was. 

Upon release from Little Penitentiary on the Prairie, I moved away to a college located in the heart of Shopportunity.  Commerce freedom…the sights, sounds, and smells of the big city trade. Shopping centers, plazas, mezzanines, complexes, emporiums, and marts abounded.  I quickly adjusted to these surroundings that nurtured my internal Shopeteer, and it was magical.    

  

I rapidly moved through the first levels of shopping forums—shopping centers and malls. I mastered the art of lay aways and credit cards.  I could quickly calculate complex percentage off formulas.  Amazingly enough, my math headaches remained at bay during shopping-related computation.  I was in training, rigorously perfecting my skills daily for the Retail Olympics, held at the final forum…Mac Daddy Malls. 

Only available in metropolitan areas, these colossal purchasing arenas were challenging and dangerous, the perfect complements to my passion. Places where all my training for risk-taking retail would be put to the test…. And I excelled in my element.

I learned that preparation was vital, and like any Shoplete, I created an emergency backpack stocked with supplies in case I found myself in the vicinity of the Super Mall.  In fact, I still have my kit neatly stowed in the trunk of my VW.  It contains all the necessities for a successful mega mall outing:  Special K protein bars (in case I inadvertently stray into an artificial labyrinth of flora, fauna, and fountains and experience weakness), bandages (for shopping injuries, such being trampled by a Power Walker, and I speak from experience), water (hydration is imperative), flip flops (in case I break a heel, or need speed that my 3” peep-toed pumps just can’t deliver), nitroglycerin tablets (to be administered upon the onset of sale-induced chest pain), ammonia inhalants (in case some Shop Zombie wanders in front of me, suffers syncope, splays out, and blocks my path), ibuprofen (for those little aches and pains), hair ties (in case profuse sweating causes my hair to fall and obstruct my vision or I experience Shopper’s Hair after trying on numerous pullover shirts), and incontinence pads (for loss of bladder control when I spy a much desired item or unbelievable deal or for the dreaded Shopping Pee leakage I experience when I don’t want to stop shopping to take a potty break.)

Mega mall shopping requires focus, intense concentration.  It is not a team sport, although it is not uncommon to encounter groups of aisle salmon, heading against the obvious stream of traffic. Fortunately, I carry a laser pointer, perfect for safely guiding the spawning school out of my path.  Yes, the urban shopping jungle is a dynamic place.  To stay on top of the game, I must constantly hone my skills for securing the Gold.

Recently, I experienced an epiphany after watching an episode of Pitbulls and Parolees, Survivorman, or Say Yes to The Dress….I can not recall which.  Whatever the impetus, I am now opening a school for aspiring shopletes, as a way to give back to the community that has nurtured me.  It is time for me to light a path for neo-phyte shoppers that they, too, may reach their full retail potential.

Shoplete Serenity Prayer

Grant me the serenity to accept when the price of merchandise cannot be changed; the courage to negotiate charges which may apply, and the wisdom to recognize the knockoff from the name brand.

A. Ballerina

Math: The Naked Truth

My son required assistance with his homework last week, and thus began our journey to the edge of numerical sanity.  Math…you would think I would have known better, given my propensity for math headaches.  It’s third grade, I erroneously thought.  Surely the edicts of addition and subtraction I learned eons ago are still applicable. After all, Archimedes, the Father of Mathematics, lived 300 years before Christ, and we still use his stuff. 

Upon reviewing the GEOMETRY worksheet, my intense hatred toward this absurd, seemingly pointless subject quickly reared its ugly head, not the mention the utter shock and outrage with the PREMATURE INTRODUCTION of this particular strain of arithmetical virus.  Geometry…in third grade…Holy Algorithm, Batman!

My animosity was apparent to Wesley during the tutorial, and I use that term loosely.  He became aggravated when I gave him my dubious and uncertain responses to his repeated homework query “Is this answer right?”  I wanted to say, “Who the hell cares if that is an obtuse or acute angle?  Is the answer going to bring about world peace?  End the massive consumption of energy and resources? Bring a conclusion to racism, sexism, hatred of homosexuals, anti-Semitism? Stop the global unequal distribution of financial resources? or Make liposuction affordable?...At my kitchen table?...Tonight? I think not.”

Yeah, I know on some level that it’s good that we have nerdy people who reap pleasure from mastering jagillion-page equations.  I mean that’s probably how we got to the moon in 1969 and why we now can breeze effortlessly through grocery store check out lines with our bar-coded condiments.  But, these inventive techies, most of whom lack any inkling of social proficiency, are well-scholared ADULTS.  Does my third grader really have to know the applications of the Pythagorean Theorem? What purpose does it serve for him to mechanically spew out the names of triangles?  (There are three, by the way, and they are NOT bandage, Bermuda, and love, as I originally thought.)   I am grateful that due to the mastery of algebra, jumbo jets don’t fall out of the sky, but let’s be realistic; I don’t want a nine-year-old designing an airliner that I board for any flight, domestic or international. 

Meanwhile, back at my kitchen table…a dull ache had begun at the base of my skull.  I knew we would have to clear this geometric hurdle to advance to the fourth grade, and I had to turn to the World Wide Web for the decisiveness my now frustrated child required.  Upon my announcement that I would consult the endless electronic pit of knowledge, my son cried out, “Ugggh!”  And thrust his head on the table’s surface.  Drama…I can’t imagine where he gets that inclination.  In Wesley’s defense, however, I tend to become attention deficient when I plug in.  One tidbit of information points, or links, to another, and I just follow the virtual bread crumbs to wherever they lead…it’s very Zen like.  Example:  I start searching for patient reviews and coupons for the new Sona MedSpa radio frequency treatment for cellulite, and two-hours later, I am reading some conspiracy theory document on the connections between Lucifer, the Masons, and the Statue of Liberty.  Anyway, Wesley is well familiar with my proclivity to wander in a super-stimulated haze both online and in Stein Mart, and wanted to get his assignment completed before midnight.  I could appreciate his predicament, but my quest for the scalene triangle had become just too Google-licious to pass up.

Several hours later…Wesley went to bed and I had learned some cool facts about Archimedes.  Archimedes discovered a method for determining the volume of an object with an irregular shape while taking a bath.  He was trying to figure out if King Hiero II had been duped by a goldsmith who may have mixed silver in his gold crown.   For whatever reason, Archimedes took this crown with him to the tub.  Element density, blah, blah, blah.  Water is incompressible, blah, blah, blah.  Crown was tainted.  Blah, blah, blah.  He was so excited about his discovery that forgot to toga-up and took to the streets butt naked yelling "Eureka!"

Poor Wesley.  The next morning, we rushed through the assignment, and I wrote a note to his teacher explaining that we ran short of time because it was our turn to volunteer at the local soup kitchen.  Yes, I lied.  Sue me.  I am not the one pushing the world to in utero pre calculus tutelage.  Weigh that on your moral scale.

All this math hullabaloo did get me thinking, though.  If there is going to be such an elementary school math emphasis; hell, why start there?  Let’s have a “My Baby can do Trig” or “Hooked on Polynomials” program.  Dr. Seuss could get on the bandwagon, and create a math-focused book series for preschoolers.  “Hop on Plot,” “Green Eggs and Pi,” “Don’t Fidget with my Digit,” and “Norton Needs a Numerator” could skyrocket to record sales.  Of course the more meaningful books, “If I Ran the Financial Analysis Division” and “Oh, the Congruent Parts You’ll Bisect” would top the charts.

I am in the throws of a full-blown math headache, now.  And the guilt from my documented lie has just added to the intensity.  I don’t know whether to take to bed, or run out of the house naked.  I guess it’s simply a sine of the times…

A. Ballerina

WARNING: Doing The Best I Can!

Last week, I was busted…by the principal while dropping my son off in front of his school…at 07:30:04 am...Oh Happy Day.  Although, in my defense, I would like to point out that my infraction was executed for the express purpose of furthering my child’s education….and perhaps, motivated in part, by my ego. 

Here’s the skinny…In order to avoid the shame of Wesley arriving late for his tutoring session, I decided to break the rules. Rather than wasting precious seconds snaking my way through the bowels of the elementary school’s rear hallways, I decided to I let him out at the main entrance. Wesley’s classroom is on the far end of the main building, on the opposite side of the “official” drop off zone.  Besides, once you do arrive at the designated “drop off zone,” more valuable time is wasted as the New Vision Welcome Wagon-ers open the car doors and assault the students with their cheery “good mornings.” Then, the uber-prepared parents take their annoyingly sweet time exiting the zone, politely allowing THE BUSES to cut in front of them.  The entire “official” drop-off would have taken at least five additional minutes. Unacceptable, when you consider the hallowed nature of instructional time, in the context of third grade EOG tests. When you are battling for your right to ascend to fourth grade, each minute of tutoring is akin to those ticking seconds before defibrillation begins on a patient experiencing cardiac arrest.  Oh, yeah…and that particular morning my hair was also dripping wet and I was wallowing in fashion ensemble limbo, i.e., sporting sleepwear. 

With my metaphoric back was against the wall, I made a hasty decision….neigh, a parenting decision….to choosing the educational success of my child (okay, and my dignity) over the directives detailed in the student handbook.  Given that this was not our first early morning rodeo, Wesley has trained well for Operation Emergency Unload (OEU).  Typically, Wes is like a miniature Green Beret on a reconnaissance mission; in one fluid move, my precious child unclasps his seat belt, dons his backpack, and poises his hand on the car door handle.  He can accurately predict the precise moment when it is safe to open the door as the vehicle comes to my infamous rolling stop.  Whatever! Call the damned Department of Social Services, ye who never run late. Jeesh!  “Have a good day, Mom,” he says, and with lightening speed, enters the school.  I glimpse the gray blur of his backpack as the glass door closes, and I am pulling my Bug onto the street headed home to continue getting ready for work….okay, to begin getting ready for work. Whatever.  Mission Accomplished. I don’t usually even tap the brake pedal.  Sweet. The entire assignment takes less than 45 seconds…typically.

However, on this particular day, Mr. Baez, our principal who graduated from VMI, was standing on the steps as the front door closed.  Stunned, it took me a few seconds to realize what was happening…an unanticipated glitch in the exercise. Oops…Giant OOPS! With my window pane retreating into the slot, Mr. Baez enumerated, in detail, the morning drop-off protocol, by rote.  Amazingly, I was speechless. I couldn’t even collect my wits quickly enough to get my Grinch on and think up a lie.  Numb, all I could do was point to my sopping wet head, brandished with headband, and purse my lips indignantly. “My HAIR,” I said, with the “Duh Huh” clearly implied.  He cocked his head sideways, in confusion.  I jump in….“I realize this is not the appropriate drop-off location, but look at me.  My hair is awful.  I have no make up on.  I can’t be seen like this!”  Then, it was his turn to be speechless.  Finally, he said, “you look fine.” 

Pathetically, I am ashamed to admit that for a nano-second I was comforted by his kind words.  But, alas, I caught a glimpse of myself in the rear view and quickly realized that he has lobbed a compliment, purely out of mercy.  The raw facts were reflected in the side mirror.  Trust me, when you have achieved 44 years of age, there are universal ethical principles which transcend the rules that maintain social order. For example, under no circumstance can you be seen with no make up, much less with your wet hair pulled back from the face! This is not appropriate for family members or loved ones…and certainly not for perky, twenty-something first grade teachers doubling as Morning Greeters! I promptly ended the conversation by apologizing for any action on my part that could have potentially jeopardized student safety.  I subtly refrained from pointing out that I had single-handedly saved the vision of several of his faculty members, and neglected to share my sincere hope that he would be able to stumble back to his office, given that he had most probably suffered a horrible, albeit temporary, optic impairment.

Honestly, I think that once you reach 40, you should automatically be issued a placard by the North Carolina Department of Motor Vehicles. It would be hooked onto your rear view mirror for the purpose of avoiding such awkward incidents as the one I described above. This notice would alert people to the erratic traffic movements and parking faux pas indigenous to egotistical forty-somethings who arrive somewhere ill-prepared. Fashioned after the handicap license plate (which, of course, would continue to take precedence and offer the best parking spots), my placard would read F#*k  It! I am Doing the Best I Can and would serve as a warning to the general public during times of bad hair, no make-up and unshaven legs in July. It could also be used for having had no shower, overdue manicures, Spanx-less-ness, wearing navy slingbacks with a black skirt, or upon discovering that an earring has been inadvertently left out of an earlobe. 

Emblazoned with the international symbol of bitchiness and repugnance, a witch silhouette, the F#*k It placard would allow women such amenities as driving while wearing a cucumber, pore-tightening mask, driving while hunched over a fast-food bag, and/or bolting into parking spaces at Target parking in front of waiting vehicles signaling for the same space. It would allow Moms to throw moldy Goldfish crackers out the window while en route to any destination, lay down on the horn in front of the church to summon their offspring from Vacation Bible School, and, of course, allow for dropping off said offspring anywhere in the vicinity of their instructional facility.

But the placard’s perks would not be limited to use in vehicles. In fact, you should be able to grab that sucker off the rear view mirror, and mobilize its power in the office, at various sporting events or at family gatherings. Provided that the placard is clearly displayed, you could feel free to say exactly what was on your mind in a variety of setting.

I was fantasizing about the potential power of the F#*k It endorsement when I picked up Wesley from school that same afternoon.  Heroically, I faced the principal…although if I had not been driving the same Bug, I am not sure he would have recognized me behind my shield Paul Mitchell’s Freeze and Shine Hair Spray and my mask of Cover Girl Cream to Powder Foundation. As it happened, he opened my car door for Wesley and obviously still struggling with some depth perception issues, he smiled and waved in my direction.  Mistakenly I had assumed that Wes was ensconced inside the building during the morning tete-a-tete until he boldly declared, “Mom! You got busted by Mr. Baez! OOOH!”  WTH? Where did proper parental respect go?  After my “rules must be followed, parents are fallible, and Mom made a mistake” diatribe, Wesley says, “Mom, why didn’t you just tell him you were dropping me off for tutoring?  He would have been okay with that.”  Wow, I guess that extra instruction is really starting to show promise…for us both, it seems!    

A. Ballerina