Finding Joy in Snarkville

You know there are times in your life that are frozen.  The people associated with them will never age.  The memory is like yesterday — though you have lived a lifetime since?

We tend to think of our school years that way.  I changed schools a total of five times (including going to college) and thus, I have frozen those people in my life at those ages.  My apologies to the folks I went to elementary school with, but you are frozen in your 7th grade selves in my mind — as are our teachers who seemed so old then.  I am stunned that any of them have children — though I have one of my own.  It doesn’t seem possible that my closest friend from junior high and high school has a girl child just three.  I can’t imagine the boys I dated to have grown up and been married with kids of their own.  But most shocking of all are the teachers.  I still expect to see some of them walking halls I never enter anymore.  They were part of the buildings themselves and thus should never have left.

I don’t expect them to have moved on; gotten married (who knew our kindergarten teacher married AND is now a grandmother to triplets?); or worse, they just aren’t allowed to die.

Perhaps I am so self-centered that I think that if I’m not in the room time for the rest of the world ought to stop; that people shouldn’t grow-up, grow older, grow on, without my presence.  I don’t really think that is it though.  This isn’t some warped Twilight Zone thing happening in my head.  It is the realization that our memories of people stop the minute they stop being in our lives.  Forever will they be in 7th grade, high school, or college.

And thus, I am rather stunned that the President of my university died today.  Oh, yes, I was stunned this May when he retired — because in my mind he ought not retire — was he even old enough?  But this morning, he died.  It was sudden and he was young.  But I remember him.

One winter term I took a class where we were asked to shadow someone we admired.  The Winter Term was a one class month long elective term where we encouraged (no, forced) to step out of our majors and do something different.  It had its roots in the 60’s, I’m sure, and has since gone the way of the dinosaurs.  Anyway, back to my class.  My classmates took on the ‘captains’ of industry (in DeLand) or various people in power — but none sought out anyone connected with the school.  I picked up my dorm room phone and called the President’s office.

It was a fabulous week.  I went to meetings that no student gets to see.  I peeked at the business of the university.  I did an alumni meet and greet (at which I met a couple who had met and married at Stetson and came back for their 60th reunion!)  I was in the paper.  Oh, it was a big deal.  I once asked Dr. Lee why he said yes and his answer was so simple, “You were the first person who ever asked.”

Years later, I met him again (he was unchanged I might add) in DC at an alumni function on Capitol Hill (which sounds cool, and was — though the cake was dry).  He remembered me on sight (nearly 10 years later) and spoke highly of our week together.  He told me that began a time when they invited students to meet him and shadow him.  More students learned there was more going on at college than the classrooms — because I asked.

His son is my age (or a year or two younger) and I hurt for him — because this is no time to lose a father.  And I’m sad.  But mostly, I’m hurt because my world view cracked a little today — people aren’t frozen in time.  And there’s one less person to visit at my university.

Last night I was so excited because one of my new friends is a teacher and has been calming my fears giving me advice about the upcoming school year.  After a kindergarten of ups and downs, I really wanted to give first grade a good shot.  To this end, I’ve been asking questions constantly.

(Mostly about stuff I’ve never dealt with before — like school supplies. And how can I make a teacher LOVE me — because it is all about me, right?)

Anyway, my friend, who is kind, gave me her cell phone number in case I freaked out had more questions.

So, I was telling Queen Mum how much better this made me feel and Mum asks, “Why does she think you’ll freak out?”  And I respond, “She’s met me.”  (Good thing, she’s met me and still seems to like me and my neuroses.)

But I didn’t have to call.  Today, when we went to see the school — I met the principle who said all the right things.  They shared all the right information.  And the best part, at no time was there an assuption that you ought to KNOW this stuff.

Thus, I raise my glass to my friends who ‘get’ me; to a school that ‘gets’ Duke (and me); and to a highly successful year.

So, I’m a wee bit scattered today.  I feel completely pulled in 1000 directions and none of them seem forward.  So I bring you just a wee bit of randomness today — and today, it is form of the open letter, because I feel like it.

Dear Mid-Snark-Target-Shopping-Cart drivers:

Ok, I realize that my manifesto on the proper driving of the shopping cart has not made it here yet, but please — for the love of all that is cheap — STOP parking your cart in the OPENING of an aisle.  Yes, it is always the aisle I need to walk down.  Yes, I expect you to move.  No, I don’t think I’m unreasonable when I ask you “May I PLEASE get my shopping done while you stop and do what???  Oh, yes, contemplate your naval.”

Yours,

The Queen

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Dear Squirrels:

I know you are mad because of the way cool baffle we installed to keep you out of the bird food.  Prince is considering installing a Squirrel Bungee — but that’s more for our enjoyment than yours.  But still — you will not win against my baffle.  Please stop trying:

Just remember you are not smart — and I am.

The Queen

PS Are you the one that was in my attic the other night?  If so, I have some yummy, yummy food for you.

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Dear Goldfinch Family:

Welcome to the neighborhood.  I hope you find that nest you are making comfy and want to raise some finchy babies here.  Do you want some yarn to make it complete or is that spider web working out for you?  Feel free to laugh at the squirrels when you grab a bite to eat.

Hope you like the food,

The Queen

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Dear Kids Camp:

Thank you so much for the fabulous summer you gave Duke.  He loved it so much and talks about it all the time.  However, would you take a few minor notes for next year?

• Move the vending machines and video games from right outside your room.  I spent way too much on that driving game that my son can’t really even reach the pedals.  On the upside, his goal of being a racing driver by age 8 will most certainly come true….as long as my quarters hold out.
• Perhaps you might want to rethink giving *MY* son a microphone.  Just saying.
• Thanks for the honorable mention in the talent show.  I’m thrilled he did such an outstanding job and I’m certain that his future as a stand-up comic will be waiting for him once he is off the racing circuit.  Also, thanks for planting that wee little seed into my son’s brain.
• Could you perhaps separate the girls and boys?  It was embarrassing to ME to have to wait for all the girls in his group to hug him good-bye daily.  Boy, who’d a thunk a group of 3rd graders would fall for him so quickly — it was the talent show, wasn’t it?  (So happy he doesn’t know his phone number yet.)
• Could you be less fun so that I wouldn’t have a ‘bored’ kid because there is NOTHING to do?

Thanks,

The Queen

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Finally.

Dear School:

Please start already.

Thanks,

The Queen

As I was about to retire last night, Prince heard a heart stopping sound.  He heard scratching above the bathtub in the hall bath.  Instantly, I went into full alert — doing all that you do to protect your family from such things.  I totally suggested we sell the house, move to Peru (I don’t think there are wild animals there — after all Paddington came from darkest Peru and he seems rather polite), and cried.  There might have been fretting, paranoid ramblings, and screaming — but really, who can remember?

So, I suggested that we relocate to somewhere that did not involve what is surely a raccoon in our attic.  Prince was unimpressed.  He shrugged, because he knows that every relationship is allowed one hysterical person at a time — and at that moment, I scored random hysterics, and kindly suggested that we in fact just call ‘a guy’ to relocate said beast.

(Let’s remember that it was merely yesterday when I praised my neighbors for being able to live in a house they once shared with a racoon mommy and five of her darling, disease carrying infants.  Because I was cocky and I have been smooten, ok?)

I do not sleep.  That’s not true.  I jump at every sound, like the dog breathing or a bug hitting the window outside for about 5 minutes — then I fall incredibly, totally, deeply asleep.  I do not move, stir, or merely breathe until this morning, when I sit bolt upright remembering that I have slumbered in a house which also has become home to a RODENT — probably a ROUS (Rodent of Unusual Size).

I log into my new favorite referral site for home repair (www.angieslist.com) and search for “Large deadly animal removal and killing service.”  I so wish I was kidding.  That yielded me nothing.  I tried again with “Rodent might kill me in my sleep.”  Shockingly, that also was without help.  So I settled on “Pest: Get it out NOW.”  I found the top rated pest company in my area that deals with everything from bugs to ROUSes — this was important because I have no idea what we actually have living in our attic, so I wanted ‘a guy’ to be able to do it all.

I call.  I speak to a nice man on the phone who tried to make me feel better and say, “Mam’ it is probably a mouse.  I know they are small but they can SOUND so big.”  I thought, through my haze, “What a nice man trying to explain to me that somehow a mouse is preferred to what is SURELY a very large, probably rabid raccoon.  Delusional, but nice.”

I waited.  I counted down the hours of my waiting until the heat of the day, when my door might right.  I was hoping for some strong, strapping exterminator guy who would say, “Step back, little lady, I’ve got this rabid beast under control.”  What I got at my door was “Harvard Hottie” from the Nanny Diaries.  Um, hi.  (Let’s take a small note that I was un-showered because there was NO way I was standing naked under the ‘Raccoon that is about to eat my house.’)

Well, HH was wearing nice khakis, a polo and um, are those dress shoes?  And he was here to take care of my raccoon?  It made no sense.  Perhaps they got my request wrong.  He insists that no, he is in fact there to figure out the animal and dispose/kill it for me.  Alrighty then, let me show you my closet.

HH climbs into the sauna feature of the house and climbs around.  Now, I sort of wanted to close HH into my closet so that when he was attacked by the raccoon, the animal would not descend into my house.  HH just laughed and said he’d be ok.  He went up into the attic with a winding flashlight and NO gloves.  I had to offer him my maglight just because I felt sorry for him not to have protection against the living beast in my attic.

While HH was inspecting the attic, Duke and I were discussing what might be up in our attic.  Raccoon?  No.  Squirrel? No.  Mouse? No.  Duke decided that we must have aliens in the attic — because he’d just seen the movie about it.  HH thought it was a mouse or squirrel and I was feeling a little faint when he PROMISED me that there was no way it was a raccoon.

We baited for mice, just in case.  Apparently, like this mythical snow people keep obsessing over here — squirrels and mice come and go from houses often.  OK.  We baited, we will have the only entrance that HH found that is possible fixed and we will attempt to sleep at night.

HH told Duke right before he left on his white horse — I meaning Ford Pick-up– “Dude, I think it is a mouse.  Let’s hope it is a mouse.  I can bait for a mouse — we haven’t perfected the bait for aliens yet.”

In another life, when we lived in Frankenhouse, we thought we had wildlife around.  We lived next door to chickens (who visited), we had birds a plenty in our yard (including a nesting hummingbird), we saw wild turkeys strut down the street, we saw deer so often that Prince ceased to share my joy in seeing deer (my thrill never ended). And of course we had our own zoo too.

Then we moved to Mid-Snark.  I don’t think that when Wild Kingdom was filmed they ever considered coming to Mid-Snark.  I know that this is not at all like New York City where the only wild life exists on the Upper East Side and in the Meat Packing District.  But I digress.  This is just not an area I thought I’d be seeing a ton of wild life.

When we moved in, we saw a single chipmunk in the yard.  I’ve not seen him again (though I think he relocated to my neighbor’s yard).  When my neighbors moved in, I met them as they were having a FAMILY of raccoons removed from their chimney.  (Yes, I’m serious — I don’t know how they sleep at night — but they had a mom racoon and her brood of 5 babies in their house — ICK.  I am glad they are made of stronger stuff than me — because I like them.

I saw deer from my window and took a photo of it.  I’ve seen them often but my neighbor has not — which I find funny and she thinks I’m making deer up.

So, finally, about a week or two ago, we hung up a bird feeder.  I had been driving through the neighborhood and saw American Goldfinches flying about — they are a sight.  So, we decided to feed them.  It took two days and the feeders were found and we took delights in the wildlife coming by to visit.  (No, I still have no idea what I’m looking at — but I’m slowly figuring it out.)  Then on Saturday, we noticed that there were a pair of squirels who found the feeders too.

These two absolutely PIGGED out.  I glanced out at one point and saw one swinging from the big feeder with his head completely in the feeder.  So, Prince and I decided it was off to find a solution to feed birds not squirrels.  I do have a strict no rodent policy in my feedings.

We went to a bird feeding store and got a ton of advice.  I do mean a ton!  We picked up the right things to make the squirrels mad and move along and the right food to attract the right birds.  We were also told to move our feeder from the tree — which I did.

Twenty minutes of work we loaded a total of four feeders (feeding different things), put together a new pole, and we waited.  Then…then… we began to see something.  (Can you find it?)

Then *MY* finches visited — they have been back a few times and I just KNOW that they are mine.

But, while protecting our seed from rodent, we weren’t ready for this little problem.

The good news is (Mum, take note) this animal is *NOT* mine.  The bad news is that he ran off before I could explain to him that I was not baiting traps of birds for HIM.  He will need to know the rules of this yard — perhaps the deer can explain it.

I have more to say about a few other things — but this will have to do for now.

First, yes, I’m a geek who reads Woot’s blog.  Um, yes — I know…you thought I was SO much cooler than that.  Funny, I hear that all the time.

Any way….

Dear Woot people,

This is not KNIT.  This is crochet.  Do not confuse them again, please.

Respectfully,

The Queen

I have a friend whose son is in <gasp> middle school, who tells my favorite kid/mom story.  This young man was in kindergarten or first grade and he told his mom one day, “Mom, I don’t think you should kiss me good-bye in front of the kids at school — it embarrasses them when you do that.”

She told me this story probably weeks after I met her, when Duke was just 2.  I know the day will come with a hug and kiss goodbye will be the worst thing I can do to him — up there with packing liver for lunch, I am sure.  But at the time I thought that was held for middle school and not early grade school.  So, of course I instantly took her words as cause for worry for how soon I’d be shunned from my son’s hugs and kisses.

Today, I took my newly minted six year old to the doctor for (ahem, I have something in my eye) a ‘physical’ — a school phyiscal.  You know, they call these visits Well-Baby (up to about 2 years old) then Well-Child (2 to 5 years old) visits until they start school….then we jump to ‘physicals.’  I have no idea when he is going to have an ‘annual check-up’ but frankly I think I’m not allowed in the room for that one.

The good news is that he is fine and healthy and growing.  There is no bad news, except I think I might be facing paying for med school since my son could not stop asking the doctor and the nurses about all their instruments, what they do, why they measure this or that.  He blew them away with his fascination.

Anyway, he is at summer camp this week and I had to take him late because of the doctor’s office.  I’d talked to the camp before and found out where they were going to be.  They weren’t there of course and I had to find his group.  He gets there and one of the girls asks him to join her team and he runs off.  I hand over the swim bag and the lunch and go to walk off.

Duke turns and chases after me.  He jumps into my arms and says, “I didn’t get my hug and kiss.”  “Buddy, I thought you didn’t need one, since you’d run off without it when we got here.  I’m sorry.”  “I can’t do this without a hug and a kiss.” Yup, I melted.

Maybe I have another year (two?) before it embarrasses the other children when I hug and kiss him.  But for now, my son still needs the power of a hug and a kiss to get through tough days at camp.

Happy Love Thursday.

I doubt it will come as any great shock that I have a love of the theater.  If I ever thought I could have made a living, or somehow liked to eat less, I would have majored in Theater in college and run away to become an Equity actor long, long ago.  Shocked, right?  I always seemed so sensible, right?  Well, it all goes out the window when I walk into the theater.

I think the first time I ever was on stage (that I remember) was my Kindergarten graduation.  I really don’t count that, as I don’t think I had a special part.  By 4th grade, I appeared as a cow — shut up, I was one awesome cow.  But my peak in performing in elementary school was as a bell in the Christmas play.  I was Beautiful Bell, I think — I know I wore royal blue tights and leotard, something that was a pain for my mom to find at Christmas time.  I had lines and I rocked the part.  My big line had something to do with telling another bell that he ‘had bats in his belfry.’ I digress.

Anyway, I performed as much as a small high school without a real drama program would allow.  I auditioned for a production my freshman year of college and while I didn’t get the part, I was pass on to the community theater for a part in ‘A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum’  — I wore a red wig and some peacock feathers.  After that production, I started to do far more work behind the scenes.  I stage managed, I painted, I helped with costumes, I helped.  I appeared on stage once more after that — a bit part, where I played a god in a production that was so not noteable that I do not recall the name of it.  But for most of college I spent a fair bit of time in a small theater.

Then I graduated and moved on to real life, thinking I’d return to theater at some point.  Oh, sure I’ve gone to see many plays, but I always thought sitting the audience was a poor substitute to being ‘involved.’  Don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen shows that have moved me to tears and some had me weak with laughter.  I love to attend, and don’t turn down chances — but if you asked me my preference, I’d be on stage or behind it over in the audience every single days (and twice on Sunday).  To me there is magic in the producing, not just the performing.  But I put that in the someday category….someday…

Well, it just so happened that with a certain child’s birthday, there was a production of Mary Poppins in the area.  With great joy the Queen Mum, Duke, and one (overly excited) Queen went to enjoy the theater.  I can’t tell you the thrill of watching something you love being loved by your child. It took every once of my mommy will not to get sucked into the play myself to watch my child get the same look in his eyes that I once got.

He was enchanted and thrilled.  We spoke of the sets moving and changing afterwards.  He was (like I have been so many times) literally a part of the play.

I remember the high and mighty theater classes I’ve taken.  They speak of the audience as part of the show.  They speak how the audience reacts as being a character itself and changing nightly.  I always thought that was weird.  I always thought the idea was just trying to make something so special have meaning it didn’t have.  Yes, as the audience you are asked to suspend disbelief. You are asked to react and engage — but you are not truly part of the experience.  From my point of view, the play is built in the weeks and months of work to get it ready for the audience.  It is in the blood, sweat, and tears of the those who work, not those who just show up and watch.  What did they bring to the table?  What work did they do?  Why are they elevated to participant when truly they are merely observers.

But then I watched my son.  I watched him not just suspend disbelief, but become part of the story.  He played with the children.  He ran away from nannies.  He flew a kite with Michael and fed birds with Jane.  He danced with statues and shook hands with Sweeps.  He was there and LIVED it all for those hours.

So, for a few hours the theory of theater was correct.  We played a key role in the production of this single performance.  And it was good.  It was really good.  Not because the singing was above par or that the dancing would put the Lord of the Dance to shame — but solely because we were there and we were enchanted.

For the first time in years, I’ve started to hear the sirens’ call of the theater again.  I just checked out an audition (and a few tech positions) and I may or may not pursue it.  I see volunteering again as a possibility.  But I might start exploring that new role I just found as audience with my son.  I wonder what worlds we will conquer together and where we might go.  But mostly, I wonder if he will love it like I do — and thus far, my magic 8-ball says — YES.

Why yes, I’ve started blogging regularly — what are you trying to say.  I think I just unpacked my muse again.

So, as some of you are aware we are no longer living in Frankenhouse or in Snark State. I’m thinking we shall where I am now mid-Snark.  And I’m so amazed at how the locals here are different than other places I’ve lived.

For the record, I’ve lived in 7 states thus far.  I’ve lived in 5 homes since I got married (10 years ago).  So, I think I’m going to get some life experience credits for observing locals in their habitats.

I bring you a list of my first impressions:

• People here appear to be moved by baked goods.  Apparently, warm brownies are of particular interest.  My next door neighbor moved in recently and going to my Southern roots, I baked and brought over food.  It seems that the wife (whom I like and have informed her that we will be friends) ran back to her old neighborhood and told her old neighbor about how awesome her new neighbor is who brought her WARM brownies.  Then she told old neighbor, “You might want to step up your game — I didn’t get baked goods when *I* moved into that house.”  Go me for showing up the old neighbors.
• People here don’t seem to be moved by the giant truck unloading furniture.  For the first time in all my moves, no one came out to say hello while we were unloading.  At first we thought, “How unfriendly of this crowd.”  Then about a month later, more neighbors keep stopping by to say hello and all of them say, “We saw you move in, but wanted to give you a chance to settle in before coming over.”  I think they might want us to remember their names.
• Twice since I’ve been here, I’ve heard locals refer to themselves as “Yankees.”  Since I’m from the South, I always thought that only Southerns called them ‘Yankees’ — I guess I thought that word had gone the way of ‘Ye Olde Times’ And in all my years of knowing the very Yankee Prince, I’ve never heard him call himself a Yankee.  Maybe it is because he is a New Yorker and somehow that trumps Yankee, but I have no idea.  It does seem slightly odd to be living amongst the Yankees.  I sort of feel I either should be MORE Southern (as if that is possible) or I should report my findings to someone — I just don’t know who.  (Well, I guess you — cause you are reading this.)
• Following that point, I’ve not been reminded that the North won the War of Northern Aggession.  Oh, what, you don’t call it that here?  Shocking. I’m teasing actually.  For the first time in all my moves, people seem unmoved by my answer to “Where are you from?”  I get no raised eyebrows that I’m from the Deep South nor snark-tastic comments about my accent or lack thereof.
• Also, it has been my experience thus far that I’ve offended no one by correcting them if they chose to give me the wrong nickname.  This shocks me to no end – it is like they totally get it and want to get my name right, not insist that I must be called something else.  Can we all say wow?
• There is an obsession with snow here.  I’ve started to believe that the locals only think in terms of snow or not snow.  I’ve joked that the funniest thing the locals like to do is remind us that it snows here.  They say this like they know some secret that I don’t know.  When I say, “I thought it might, I looked at the map before moving here.”  They say, “Well, you’ll see.”  Do you think they really do know something I don’t?

Thinking of this snow thing — can it really be *THAT* bad?  I mean — this isn’t Buffalo, right?

It doesn’t seem possible that my boy child is six.  I know for a fact that I have not authorized the advancing of his age, but sadly, my mommy powers don’t seem to have any effect on the growing up bits.

As with every year that has rolled past, I marvel at the boy and ultimately the man he is growing into.  I remember fondly explaining to him about age three that there were somethings that he couldn’t do anymore because that was for babies (i.e. diapers) and since he was a big boy he needed to step up his game.  Today, I’ve begun to talk to him about not about being a big boy, but about being a young man. (And for the record, young men have table manners that don’t include me seeing your knees.)

Every so often, I turn around and catch this glimpse of my young man.  The one who is helpful and kind.  The one who is sorting out his world on his own.  The one who confidently asks our neighbors to come out and play.  I see the early beginnings of a young man who reasons out why we can or can’t do things, instead of accepting them on face value (um, this is HARD on his mommy and requires the application of wine and hot baths to recover from).  I see a child who realized for the first time that he had things that others didn’t and WANTED to share.

I remember when he was a baby, and I was exhausted, how people would tell me that this time flies.  Honestly, I didn’t believe them.  A day is still 24 hours and frankly we have a lot to do.  But I look back on these six years and think about how far we’ve come.  I think how much I’ve grown up as a person and as a mom.  I see Prince swell with pride when he looks at his son.  I see the joy in both their faces as father shares some piece of geeky goodness with his son.  (The day that Duke asked to watched Star Trek went into the baby book, I think.) I watch my son as he learns something new and the pride he has once he has mastered it.  He is so like his mom and so like his dad — there are times I see each of us in him so clearly.  Yet he is totally and completely his own person — so different from both of us.

He crawled into my lap yesterday morning and he was more knees and elbows and a whole lot less squish than ever before.  I just held on tight to my growing little man and he hugged me.  Finally, he sat back and said, “Mama, tomorrow I’m going to be six.” “Yes, Buddy, you are.  Are you ready to be six?” “Oh, yes, I think six will be a good year for me.  Then I’ll be seven.”  “Can we just enjoy being six and not think about seven yet — I don’t think Mama can handle it.” “Oh, sure, Mama, when you are ready — we will talk about seven.  For right now, I’m going to be six.”

See what I mean — that boy is wise.  Wise beyond his years.