Mamaneeds2rant’s Weblog

I got my first pair of bifocals I’d say about 6 years ago. My vision had always been perfect, but at that time I was needing to hold the paper further away from my face in order to read the print. For the longest time, I only wore my glasses when I planned to do a lot of reading, or if we were high up in the bleachers and I wanted to be able to better discern which of the running figures on the soccer field was my son. I now have three pairs of glasses laying around, and I alternate wearing them by whichever pair happens to be handiest. But lately, even with them on, I’m having trouble making out some small print. “Is that an 8 or a 6?”, I’ll ask one of my better-sighted family members. And last night, I think I finally figured out one reason why it takes so long for me to read the paper. I doze off on my recliner quite often while reading. I thought that was another sign of aging, and that’s probably a part of it. But I noticed I was having trouble focusing on the words. I started closing one eye so I could see better. And it started to be more trouble than it was worth. I finally have time now to read, and it’s just too hard to do it. I turned the light off and went to bed.

Another thing that really bugs me is the way my middle-aged body likes to store little pockets of fat. I was blessed with a really high metabolism, so most of my life I could eat pretty much whatever I wanted in whatever quantities I wanted and stay thin. Birth control pills kind of slowed things down, but I could still look pretty good with a little aerobic exercise. I never had to diet, although after my third child I started using low fat dairy products and skim milk. Now, however, I exercise more than I ever did in my entire life. I take three-mile runs, I’ve started using our weight machines, AND the most torturous thing of all–I’ve cut down on snacking. And I’m still fighting the bulges. My poor mom was lamenting the same thing yesterday when she stopped over. She takes a good half-hour walk almost every day and barely eats anything anymore. But if we don’t wear our Spanx-like body shapers, we look like a roller-coaster track under our dress clothes. The thing that’s most annoying about this is they always said women need to store fat to have healthy babies. Well, guess what? Neither one of us is having any babies anymore!! Shouldn’t we be shedding the fat? It’s just…not…fair.

I’ve finally reached the age where I know what’s going on and have learned many of life’s lessons. But the youngsters don’t always want to listen to the wisdom of some old middle-aged mom. They’d rather listen to their peers or find out the hard way for themselves. After many years, I finally feel very content and comfortable in my own skin. Sadly, however, that skin is just not as taut as it used to be.

I was kind of a bad girl this weekend.  I piggybacked on our community garage sale.  There were several reasons for this.  First of all, with Soldier Son being on leave, Middle Son J originally scheduled to ship off to Germany (now postponed by the Army for at least a month), and other hectic things going on, I wasn’t even sure if I’d be able to schedule the time to get ready for this.  Another big reason was how much the organizers were charging.  Although I admire their entrepreneurial spirit and agree that they did deserve some compensation for their effort, they wanted $20 from a minimum of 20 participants (at least $400 if you do the math) to put a $30 ad in the paper, tack up some cardboard signs and directional arrows, and print up some maps.   I think at ten dollars I would have taken the gamble, but I could have put my own smaller ad in the paper for $20 and directed the folks right to my house.

I still had some bins of stuff accessible from my last garage sale.  When I saw that no one in the family had anything going on except for sleeping in Saturday morning and that it was supposed to be an absolutely perfect day weather wise, I made my decision to put some of the merchandise out.   This is a big garage sale area, and I knew the traffic would be heavy.  Someone else on my street signed up for the community thing so there was even a directional arrow pointing down my street.   People would be stopping by.

Early birds started driving by around 6:00 a.m. (it was scheduled to start at 8:00).  These were mostly men in pickup trucks asking if we were selling trains or musical instruments. (Must be some big money potential there).  I could see them stopping at the neighbor’s house down the street also.  I was setting up my merchandise, but started having people stop by and browse before 7:30.  It was a little hectic trying to set up, keeping an eye on my merchandise and on the money I had for change, and interacting with the customers by myself out there, but most people shopping at garage sales out here are like me, just looking for bargains and having fun.  And if they’re ready to help me get rid of my clutter and actually pay me to do it, I am going to be ready to accommodate them.

It’s fun chatting with the people stopping by to shop.  I don’t feel so bad about getting rid of the kids’ old toys and clothes when I see the excitement of the new kids that will be using the stuff.  A little boy started swinging the oversized plastic bat that his parents bought for fifty cents.  The young mom and grandma were thrilled to get the cute Little Tykes golf set for only three dollars.  A  teacher scooped up my neatly bagged assortments of educational toys and blocks, explaining that she taught preschool and special ed, and was tired of asking and not getting supplies she needed and was taking matters into her own hands.

You never know what’s going to sell at these things.  It all depends on who drops by that day.  Children’s things usually sell quickly.  I once made over $150 just selling baby clothes and small items.  But one time I didn’t feel like putting out a lot of household items, and several people stopped by looking for them.  One was a mom about my age with her newly moved out son, looking for things to furnish his new place.  It’s kind of heartwarming to think of your stuff being used and enjoyed all over again.  Guys are almost always looking for tools, or sometimes sporting goods.  Big Daddy, who is not at all into shopping, has managed to get all of our golf clubs (some very decent sets) at unbelievable prices by scouring garage sales.

And now phase two begins.  I’m going to finish cleaning up the rest of our clutter by throwing out the real junk, giving away the completely usable stuff that just didn’t sell, and saving the more valuable and vintage items for e-bay.  And maybe someday, I’ll be blissfully clutter-free.

I am no big fan of Senator Barack Obama’s political ideology, being that of entitlement and socialism.  I think most Americans realize how the stifling of ideas and ambition leads to failing economies and substandard living conditions.  Look at the former Soviet Union and Cuba.

Perhaps someone whispered in the ear of Senator Obama and informed him that most middle-class working Americans still believe that personal responsibility and  hard work will be what keeps our country great, not inefficient expensive social programs, because he surprised the heck out of me when he gave a recent speech extolling the virtues of staying in school and of fathers being involved in their children’s lives.  This is good advice to all Americans, not just African Americans, although with estimates at around 70% of black children in single family homes, he may have been trying to send a message to them.  I firmly believe my sons stayed out of trouble and became the accomplished caring people they are because of the time and influence of two parents.  Well, they probably would still have been pretty awesome, but the fear of Big Daddy’s wrath and the ability of one of their parents to work part-time and therefore be very involved in their wonderful little lives certainly played a huge role in their development.  I think this is the point Obama was trying to get across.  Taking responsibility and leading your children out of poverty, toward college and away from gangs, will keep them out of jail and off welfare.  Successful African Americans like Bill Cosby, Walter Williams, and Thomas Sowell have been promoting these values for years.  The Reverend Jesse Jackson would rather perhaps put all the blame on everybody else, since he thought Obama should be railing about the problems black America has rather than what can be done to improve the situations.

Activists like Jackson and Al Sharpton are part of the problem.  They are not helping their fellow African Americans when they tell them all their problems are due to “white America.”  They are merely spewing hate and keeping themselves in the limelight.  Everyone, black and white, needs to enable themselves to earn their share of the American dream, not wait for someone else to throw them a handout.

I usually read just about every inch of the newspaper, which is why it takes so long. My guys make fun of me, but I am a walking font of useless trivia because of this habit. Twice this week, in the Annies Mailbox column, a wife wrote in about her troubled marriage. Both columns dealt with money issues.

The column today talked about the wife’s inability to find a job making more than minimum wage, despite the fact that she had some decent job skills. Her husband chastised her for not “pulling her weight” because he made about 5 times more than her in income. First of all, when did marriage become solely an economic arrangement? I would bet the wife contributes more than her fair share in other ways. Despite some big advances in the past few decades, women still do well over 50% of the household chores, and they still make less pay for the same jobs. And what about moral support? The woman works in and out of the home, is looking for a better job, and still gets no support from her spouse. What a pathetic marriage.

The second column was almost more than I could believe. Like, why would this woman even be asking for advice? What she should do is get herself to the nearest lawyer. Her Neandethal of a husband was cleaning out their joint checking account, transferring huge credit card balances onto the wife’s individual credit card accounts, and making sure he was living high on the hog on his much higher income while she paid all the family bills with her much smaller paycheck. Then he would take the kids on lavish vacations without her, knowing full well she couldn’t afford to go. Is this beyond sick? He is either a miserable nasty lout of a person or he hates her guts. Why wouldn’t you just go to a lawyer and claim your fair share of marital assets in divorce court? Would you even want to share a home or life with someone that treats you so horribly? I’d rather live in a shed.

Perhaps marriages today don’t last as long because they are more of a business partnership than a loving commitment. When Big Daddy and I get money, we put it into our joint account and build for OUR future. We’re not hiding or separating assets because we’re planning on being here together way after the grandkids are born (despite the occasional times I get pissed off and rant about “Stick a Fork In Me, I’m Done”). I understand having separate accounts if your spouse has addiction or spending problems. Some economic advisers even recommend all couples to have separate bank accounts. But I’m happy to say we’ll keep our joint bank accounts open, and I have no need to write in to Annie’s advice column at the present time.

Ok.  It’s hard to rant too much when Soldier Son is safe at home here for a couple of weeks, but my bubble’s just been burst by some nincompoop on the other side of the country.  And Youngest Son has no idea where his last paycheck went.

Right after we got our new 50″ plasma TV late last month, I went online and ordered a new lower entertainment center with shelving to accommodate the new TV and receiver we bought.  I couldn’t wait for it to get here because we temporarily had the TV sitting on a too-low coffee table in front of the old entertainment stand.  It was crowded and not sitting at the right height.  I tracked the shipping from Redmond Washington through a stop in Illinois and even though the approximate arrival time was placed at July 10, I was hoping it would get here earlier.  And it did!!  This meant it could actually be assembled and set up before the cable guy comes on Wednesday to hook us up to the new Comcast HD package.  We rearranged the old furniture, opened up the first box (it came in a shipment of 2) and the cherry colored sides and doors were unpacked.  Then we opened up the next box and noticed the pieces were black.  “Does this thing have black shelves?” Big Daddy asked.

Ummm, no.  Clear as day on the boxes, the colors were listed, in English and in French.  One box was clearly labeled cherry/cerise and the other said black/noir.  The one has a LARGE C in front of the item number, while the other started with a BIG BLACK B.  Ze cerise will not look good with ze noir.  Do people not check their work?  How many more weeks will this transaction take?

Meanwhile, Youngest Son decided to have his store job direct deposit his paycheck because this job is a good thirty minutes away and he only works there on weekends.  He brought in a voided check like they requested so that they could set up direct deposit into his checking account.  On Saturday, he received a non-negotiable pay stub showing how much he had earned and the net amount deposited into his bank account, but when he went online to check his account, the deposit had not been made.  At least not into his account.  We’re worried it’s been put into someone else’s account, because supposedly it was paid out on June 27.  But it’s nowhere in Youngest Son’s possession.  Since he gave them a check to copy the number from, I know it’s not a case of my son writing down the wrong number.  Anyway, he wouldn’t do that.  He’s too much like me.

So, if you work in a warehouse in Washington state, or input bank account numbers for direct deposits and you think you’re not getting paid enough for your efforts, think about whether you’re the numbskull that doesn’t match part numbers on shipments to Pennsylvania, or transposes numbers from a poor hard-working college student’s checking account.  And be grateful you even have a job!!

So.  We were given a vague date about when Soldier Son would get home on leave from Iraq.  He was supposed to leave around July 1, so we took that to mean he would definitely be home for the Fourth of July.  Of course, the family wants to see him, so I planned to have a holiday barbecue here and kill two birds with one stone.  Well, I finally (after days) caught Soldier Son online today, and he will be held up in limbo at least until tomorrow.

Meanwhile, I offered to make a fruit salad for this picnic that my oldest son won’t be here for.  I’ve just spent a good hour and a half cutting up freaking fruit, and the stickiness is on me and the kitchen counters.  I like fruit, but it’s not worth the pain in the ass it is to cut it up to eat.  Tonight, I’ll be putting chicken pieces on skewers and no doubt stabbing my fingers in the process.  Something else miserable to look forward to.

But by far, the biggest pain in the ass is the very real literal pain in my ass.  Youngest Son served as my weight trainer yesterday and he showed no mercy toward his 50 year old mother.  I had run earlier in the day, but I’ve resigned myself to believing all the literature out there that says you must mix in some weight training along with your cardio to get rid of that ugly rounded middle-aged shape.  And now today it feels like a mule kicked each ass cheek.  And yesterday, I had to actually sit on my butt to go down the stairs.  It hurts to go up the steps, but it’s almost impossible to go down.  And my guys inform me that it will be even worse tomorrow.  Just in time for the guests.  I’ll be the hostess with the mostest.

A few weeks ago, Youngest Son was playing basketball in the driveway and shattered one of the small windows in our garage door. Luckily, it was the same one he cracked a few years ago, so we still only have to replace one window. My cousin gave Big Daddy a spare pane of tempered glass to cut down to size and use. Big Daddy checked out a few You Tube videos to see how to cut the glass. Here is an example. It’s pretty slick how easy the glass breaks.

I was amazed that all you had to do was score the glass and just snap it in half. Big Daddy was pretty impressed by the video, too, and went down to break it along the score lines.

Before you know it, I heard the Shop-Vac running. Big Daddy was cleaning up a million pieces of broken glass. He told me to write a post advising people not to use tempered glass. We have another old piece of glass that is not tempered, and he’s going to try it one more time.

When thinking about whether you should marry a potential spouse, a very important question should be considered before making a commitment. Especially if there are certain things you just can’t do. Like handle vomit.

I really just lucked out because Big Daddy has a much stronger stomach than I when it comes to gross bodily functions. I didn’t really think about it before we married except for the fact that I thought it was sweet that he did actually hold my hair out of the way more than once when I was blowing chunks and then still married me even after seeing me in such a state. And I did notice that he rarely ever pukes himself, which may have scored some subconscious points.

Once you get married and have a family, you are going to have to deal with vomit. So you may as well decide whether the issue is important enough to set guidelines. I didn’t think about it before we had kids but when he insisted on getting the dog, I let him know up front that he would handle all the gross stuff since he’s the one that wanted her. (Of course, when he’s not home, I have to gag through clean-up myself).

Tonight, I’m finally relaxing in front of the TV doing a Sudoku. And Youngest Son notices our Boxer, Sky, walking kind of weird. Then I see a spit bubble coming from her mouth. Before we could figure out what’s wrong, she pukes in front of my chair. Then, the entire rest of her dinner ends up in the next room on her way out to the porch. And I fetched Big Daddy from downstairs, because after all, he wanted her.

“Looks like a small animal,” he said about the last huge pile, as he got the clean up bucket. I went to another part of the house, because I didn’t want to gag anymore.

So remember, before you have kids, before you get a pet, get it in writing if you need to. If you hate vomit like I hate vomit, make sure your spouse is on board with cleaning up the messes.

I’m a believer in Murphy’s Law.  If things can go wrong, they certainly will. This is especially true when you think things are going smoothly.  I usually expect the worst, and then I am pleasantly surprised when things actually turn out a tad better.  That’s how I live my life.

I met my husband the night I was determined to lay off guys for a while.  I’ve screwed up tests I thought I aced, and aced tests I thought I failed.  Actually, when I feel cocky, I get scared.

That’s why, even now, I’m not counting 100% that Soldier Son will be home within the next couple days.  There are still too many things that could go wrong.  The army could decide it made a mistake.  Another sandstorm could delay his departure.  I’m not getting my hopes up until I actually see him in the flesh.  What is even more amazing is the timing.  He was supposed to come home on leave in a few weeks.  By then, however, his brother would have already left for his year-long deployment to Europe and they would have missed each other again.  But, all of a sudden, and with no warning, they moved up Soldier Son’s leave date so he will actually be home before his brother has to leave.  He’ll be home with us to celebrate the Fourth of July with the whole family, by the pool.  That is, if Murphy’s Law doesn’t screw things up.

What separates a civilized society from the Troglodytes of prehistoric times:  The ability to thrive and survive no matter how physically strong one is.  Society flourishes when all members, weak and strong, can share the gifts they have.  Back in the day, the physically strong ruled the clan.  The weaker members yielded or died.  But physically strong doesn’t always equate to mentally strong, or morally sound.  So as society advanced, laws were enacted to protect the physically weaker, but still vitally important, members of society.  But even then, sometimes the bullies would prevail.

Some members of our society think if you ban all handguns, then this will level the playing field.   However, a 100 pound female is usually not safe against a 200 pound man with evil intentions.  A physically disabled homeowner may find it difficult to protect his home against even an unarmed intruder.  A gun in the hands of one of these potential victims may preserve their rights and save their lives.

An even more probable scenario is that the “bullies” will still find a way to get a hold of guns.  So even the physically strong, but law-abiding citizen will be at a disadvantage when faced with an armed intruder.  Drug laws have not stopped addicts from obtaining illegal drugs; gun laws will not stop thieves, rapists and murderers from obtaining illegal guns.  The rest of us will be sitting ducks waiting for the armed maniacs to take possession of all we’ve earned and value.

Five members of the Supreme Court have upheld our Constitution and paved the way for citizens to protect themselves and their families against the more criminal elements of society.  Most of us don’t want to have to use a handgun against another human being, but if the choice is between a thug or my kid, guess who I want to win?