Not My Kind Of Tea Party

Sarah Palin

Christine O'Donnell

Sharron Angle

Joe Miller

Rand Paul

When Dubya was "elected" the first time around, I was astounded at how easy it was for the a large segment of the American public to accept an ignorant, woefully inadequate and polarizing figure as their president. When he was put back into office four years later, I was schooled on the power of money, misinformation and Karl Rove's mastery of spin.

When McCain picked Sarah Palin, another ignorant, woefully inexperienced and polarizing figure to be his running mate in 2008, I thought the world had finally tipped off its axis.

Now, we face a political climate so partisan that nobody even pretends to be there trying to legislate ideas that might be good for the country. Instead, we have asshats like Mitch McConnell who, "feels his “single most important” job is to defeat President Obama in 2012" (Think Progress via Gawker). Nice.

Look at the list of people above. I can't imagine that a majority of people in their congressional districts think the way that they do. Come Tuesday, we will find out. It makes me shiver a bit.

With dread.

Lunch with Liv

Today, I had lunch with Olivia at her school. The flexibility of working from home enables me to do things like this now, which is pretty amazing.

I arrived a few minutes before her lunch was scheduled and waited at the end of a long corridor. My daughter's classroom was at the very end of this hallway. When her door opened, I could see the children line up, waiting to be dismissed for lunch. Because Liv is her class's "Star of the Week", she stood at the very front of the queue.

She didn't see me right away as she was engaged in an animated discussion with one of friends but when she finally looked up and recognized me, she lit up like a Christmas tree. I watched her chatter with her friends and all of the sudden, several pairs of hands were waving. Liv jumped up and down a few times, unable to contain her excitement.

I understood then, how important our little lunch date was to her. At the entrance to the cafeteria, she patiently took my hand and led me through the lunch line. She proudly punched her student number into the machine and introduced me to the cashier. We sat and as we ate, she told me about her morning, pointed out her new boyfriend and informed me that immediately following lunch, we would go outside for recess. What struck me the most was her gratitude. She thanked me over and over. At one point, she confessed that she thought I'd forget and continue working through lunch, which broke my heart just a bit.

Hopefully, our short time together today went a little way in repairing her faith in her mama. I know it made my heart sing.

Haloweenies

It's that time of year again and in an effort to blend in with all the other mothers who stay at home and raise these incredibly well adjusted children, I took a page from their book and went pumpkin shopping with my kids this weekend.

I don't know why I feel such a sense of accomplishment in performing mundane tasks like picking pumpkins, but I do. I guess it's because I am not the type of mother to whom crafty, creative pursuits comes easily. My childhood memories are not dotted with pipe cleaner and finger paints. Instead, I bonded with my father over a clean toilet and perfectly ironed collars.

So Sunday night while I prepared dinner, my children sat at the kitchen table enthusiastically gutting their pumpkins. Dylan helped Liv get the last slimy bits out of hers and together they compared their individual sketch plans, laughing and giving each other suggestions. I marveled at all of that sibling civility. I wanted to bottle it because it's a rare commodity in our house. Silently, I congratulated myself for enabling such a Norman Rockwell-worthy domestic scene. Parenting win.

This is Dylan's work of art. The Zombie. Dylan pointed out that his pumpkin had bags under his eyes. Notice the vomit spewing out of his mouth and nose and the errant eyeball nearby. Nice. I do, however, appreciate the Michael Jackson eyeliner action.

This is Liv's gory version. I especially like the Harry Potter mark on the forehead and the other scars littered on the poor bugger's face. Apparently, her pumpkin is a pugilist as evidenced by his nose, which is alarmingly skewed to one side.

This is Olivia's girlie girl version complete with sparkles. Something tells me that she might end up being one of those mothers who has a craft room which makes me happy because one day, when they stuff me into a retirement home, at least my drapes will match my bedspread.

It's Only Thirty Hours, Right?

Saturday morning, as Dallas and I were lounging in bed with coffee and iPad in hand, my cell phone rang. "Unknown" popped up on the caller id and I let it go to voicemail figuring it was a telemarketer. They've become really ballsy lately, ringing at the oddest times but this one left a message. Odd.

Turns out, it wasn't some college kid trying to lower the interest rates on my credit cards after all. It was United Airlines calling to let us know that we had a change in our itinerary.

Well, crap.

Back in early June, we booked our flights to New Zealand in an effort to pay as little as possible while trying to maintain a reasonable schedule. Originally, we were going to take a late afternoon flight from Tulsa directly to LAX where we would have approximately two and a half hours to collect our luggage and get checked in with Virgin Australia Airlines. Then, we would spend a delightful fourteen hours and forty five minutes flying to Sydney, where we would experience a rather long layover (4 hours, 25 minutes), before boarding our final, three hour flight to Auckland. All told, it would take us TWENTY SEVEN HOURS AND SIX MINUTES.

With two children. (I'll give you a minute to let that gem sink in so you can get a clear understanding of my affinity for rum....)

Our return journey was even worse, clocking in at a mere twenty nine hours and eleven minutes but we comforted ourselves with the knowledge that at least we had a direct flight from LAX home to Tulsa. In early September, we got the first bit of bad news.

Virgin Australia called to tell us that the itinerary had changed. Our layover in Sydney increased to over six hours and the return trip now included a five hour pit stop in Melbourne. A journey that had once seemed to be manageable was quickly spiraling out of control so I booked a hotel in Sydney with the idea that a nap and a shower would help take the edge off the fatigue. I've traveled across the Pacific enough to understand the power of clean underwear.

My husband is not happy with this plan, however. He is loathe to leave the airport for fear that we will somehow miss our connecting flight. "Six hours is not a lot of time," he says. Really? My guess is that the second he lays his gorgeous head down on that hotel pillow, he will think six hours is an eternity.

What stuck in my craw was that Virgin really didn't give a hoot about the added inconvenience. They basically shrugged. No lounge passes, no free alcohol, NOTHING except for, "Sorry, mate", which was about as palatable as Vegemite. We saved about $6400 flying with them instead of Qantas or Air New Zealand Nightmare and that is the mantra I kept repeating to myself when I thought about it.

Then, United Airlines called.

Our direct flights were no more.

Just like that.

*Poof*

But they did give us four travel vouchers that we will be able to use within the next year, which goes a long way in helping to swallow the whole situation.

So as not to bore you with the crummy details, the summary is as follows:

Trip to New Zealand: 34 hours, 2 minutes
Trip home from New Zealand: 32 hours, 33 minutes
Cost: A boob job and some spot lipo or 7.25 years of Botox.

In spite of the fact that the travel piece will really, really suck.....

watching my kids play with their cousins, learning to make proper scones with Grandma Rhodie, eating my father in law's mussel fritters, meeting Gilly, waking up to share coffee with my equally hung over sister by a different mother, feeling the scratchy, impossibly fresh excellence of my mother's in law's towels, fishing off the Gay Gwen, navigating the roundabouts, BBQing with Mark, Claire, Rod and Lee, having tea with Grammy June, chatting with Lloydie and Lesie, taking pictures and making memories....

will make every second of it worthwhile.

Today marks 50 days until we go.

I cannot wait.

Brace Yourselves

I have very vivid memories of my first visit to the orthodontist. I was thirteen, a walking hormone and the doctor was smoking hot. (I must have a thing for doctors.) Anyway....

On the ride home, my father made it a point of telling me how bloody expensive it was going to be to put the braces on and that I should be grateful, kiss his feet and worship his most excellent dadness for the rest of my natural life. He didn't actually say that last bit but you catch my drift. Like any self respecting teenager, I looked out the window of the car rolled my eyes and mentally calculated the days left before I could legally leave home. What did I care about the cost? My dad was rich in my estimation. Braces were my birthright, I thought.

A week later on they went and for the next two years, two months, twenty days and one hour, I endured pain, headgear, elastic bands, broken wires, shredded cheeks, raw lips and absolutely the grossest oral hygiene experiences known to mankind. NOBODY should have to get that intimate with their food. I brushed. Maniacally. Flossing took me half and hour. Taking a deep breath in the harsh Ontario winter with all that metal in my mouth made my head ring.

I.Hated.Wearing.Braces.

Fast forward thirty years.

It's time for my kids to join in the fun. My sweet baby girl, with her teeny tiny mouth and her father's rabbit teeth is a dental sight to behold. While only eight, current research shows that early orthodontic intervention will likely prevent us having to break her jaw later on. The x-rays revealed that her mouth is a crowded, twisted, gnarly mess. Dylan has already been through a first phase of braces and now, three years later, after successfully treating a recessive lower jaw and losing all of his baby teeth, the time has come to finish the process.

This week, I took them both to an orthodontist here, who came back with exactly the same treatment plan as had been discussed in Bentonville. It was comforting to get a second opinion that concurred with their old orthodontist.

And then the money lady came in to share the numbers.

You know it's going to be bad when you try to discuss cost with the doctor and he bolts like a spooked horse with a headless rider.

$9460. NINE THOUSAND FOUR HUNDRED AND SIXTY FUCKING DOLLARS!!

And this only includes Olivia's first phase.

Sweet baby Jesus, Joseph and Mary.

"It's an investment in their future," money lady said as I stared, unblinking, heart racing, mouth agape. "Dr.___'s rates are very competitive". Still, I could not speak.

"You seem shocked," she said with her head tilted in what I can only describe as bewildered sympathy. I wanted to punch the condescension right off her face.

After that, I didn't hear much of what she said. Still mute, I accepted the green folder from her which contained the quote and a few sheets of fluff about the doctor, his staff and their commitment to our oral health. I felt ill.

On the drive home, my mood could be best described as agitated. Silently, I vowed to get the cost from at least two other providers just to be sure. Out loud, I ranted on about chores and homework and flossing and DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW EXPENSIVE THIS IS? I blathered about what a financial burden this was going to be and how I hoped they appreciated that it would be Dallas and me who would bear the brunt since their own father refused to participate.

Yes, I know. BIG parenting failure.

Awful. I'd somehow morphed into my father when nobody was looking.

In that moment my son, because he is lovely and evolved, sat up and quietly said, "Forget about my braces. It's more important to start Olivia's teeth right now. I can wait."

Damn! I was happily bathing in all that self pity. Why did the boy have to pipe up and help me remove my head from my ass? When we pulled up to a stoplight, I turned to the kids, apologized and told them not to worry. Both of them would have their braces before Christmas.

As the light turned green, I looked up into the rear view mirror and said, "When you grow up, you both are going to be orthodontists. Do I make myself clear?"

They solemnly nodded and turned their heads to look out their windows. I think I saw my son roll his eyes.

At Home In The City

I love living in a bigger city again.

Bentonville was lovely with its pastoral setting and gentle, country attitude but after nearly twelve years of mind-numbing routine, I was surprised to find that moving was not as bad as I had first predicted. Oh, the actual mechanics of it was horrible but once we got here, it wasn't nearly as upsetting as I thought it was going to be. Change has a way of making you reassess exactly what ranks and what doesn't on your totem pole of priorities. It also illuminates the adaptability of the human soul.

For instance, I have learned that I don't give a flying fig about impressing anyone with the size of my house or the acquisition of material stuff. I'm ashamed to admit that there was a time when the model of the car that I drove and the square footage of my home helped to shape my self opinion. I was such an ass.

Today, I live in a big house and guess what? It's just more to keep clean. I'm not any happier in this place than I was in Bentonville although I am able to hide from my children more effectively here since it takes them longer to find me. The downside is that the rent is ridiculously large and I just know that every month when I am writing out that cheque, I'm going to be shaking my head wondering how many margaritas we could be buying on a Mexican vacation instead.

I have learned that working from home is like tasting beer for the first time. You sip, conclude it's not THAT offensive and agree to give it a try. Pretty soon, you find yourself buying it by the case and talking knowledgeably about hops and microbrews. I was worried that I'd be lonesome in a home office. I fretted that without the structure, I'd become untethered, distracted and ineffective.

Now? Well, let's just say that I cannot imagine going back into a traditional office. I am a far more productive employee. My day used to start at 4:50am. It still begins pretty early but instead of spending two hours showering, eating, packing lunches and driving, I roll out of bed, grab a cup of java and start. Some days I actually brush my hair and throw on a pair of pants. The flexibility enables me to be the kind of wife and mother that I couldn't seem to manage before, which has introduced a balance that I've never had in my life. I am a better employee today than I was a month ago because I am no longer forced to choose between my children and my job. Why don't more companies offer this option or at least the ability to telecommute several days a week?

I have learned that good shopping and the other amenities that come with living in a metropolis with a million people are as important to me as breathing, which leads me to the part about how adaptable we are as humans.

The shopping in Bentonville was adequate, at best although, I always felt that we were lucky considering the size of the area. We managed and it wasn't really all that painful. I never felt deprived, especially with the surge in the online marketplace but now...

Oh baby.

Saks, an Apple store, Smashburger, Macy's, a CHL hockey team, Whole Foods, Runner's World, Macy's, Restoration Hardware, the Philbrook Museum of Art, the ballet, the opera, a zoo and an aquarium. There are the coolest neighbourhoods scattered all over the city like Utica Square, Cherry Street and Brookside, where tony little shops are nestled beside some surprisingly fabulous restaurants. The place is renowned for its art deco architecture and there are breathtaking examples everywhere. My kids have a multitude of choices in regard to their music lessons, athletics and the arts. If you can imagine it, it is available here.

I have missed the diversity of experiences that a bigger city has to offer but didn't realize how much until we got settled here in Tulsa and I started to explore. There is definitely country girl blood coursing through my veins but she will always do battle with the the woman who appreciates the feel of concrete under her feet.

Moving Blows

We have moved.

Every box (except one full of Olivia's dust-infused stuffed animals that I'd really like to burn) is unpacked. Pictures are hung. Most mornings, we are able to find everything that we need (except for Olivia's supply of jeans which have mysteriously disappeared).

This move has taught me a few things but the most glaring reality is that I am most definitely NOT an organized person. Admittedly, I am a bit OCD but I have learned that I really shouldn't confuse my need for absolute control with being orderly and methodical.

For example, I began filling boxes the second that we decided that the entire family would be moving to join my husband. I was disciplined in how many would be packed each day. I took my time to carefully wrap breakables and label according to room and contents. I anointed myself the "Moving Queen" and expected all in my immediate environment to bow down and worship my single-minded pursuit of packing excellence. On moving day, we were going to wake up, throw our bedding into a pre-assembled carton, empty the fridge and be on our merry way. DELUSIONAL.

When the moving truck showed up, I was in the kitchen, hair wild, gulping coffee and frantically throwing dirty dishes into a box. What I had eyeballed as being a few things turned out to be EIGHT last minute boxes of stuff. The movers were very patient with me because I suspect that they could smell the crazy in the air.

My plan was to finish the last minute stuff, leave with the kids and cat and make a fifteen minute stop at Bentonville schools to formally withdraw the children and make our way to our new town in time to register them at their new schools. My car was stuffed full of all my compulsive weirdness (toilet paper, rags, Comet, the vacuum, lamps and an outrigger canoe paddle), the children and the cat. I was managing in spite of the fact that my head is buried up my arse.

My second organizational failure was during the withdrawal of my children from the Bentonville school system. Apparently, I am still living in the June Cleaver era where women did housework in pearls and pumps and everyone said things like, "golly" and "shucks". I thought I could show up at the office of each school, tell them we were moving and have them give us a wave and wish us good luck. Not so.

We pulled up to the junior high so Dylan could clean out his locker. The cat was warbling in this weird throaty voice which caused the kids and me to laugh. I didn't give it a second thought figuring he was unused to the carrier and would settle once we got on the road.

We walked into the school to speak with the registrar. She informed me that Dylan would have to go to each of his eight teachers and have them sign off on his departure. Textbooks would have to be returned, library and lunch accounts settled and ALL FRIDAY ASSIGNMENTS TURNED IN. Gulp. What I believed would be a simple process took an hour and ten minutes to accomplish. My head was throbbing and the cat's communication had turned from cute into a steady, baritone whine like something you'd expect to hear emitted from a house possessed by demons (think Amityville Horror). It began to worry me. He was clearly distressed. I kicked myself for not getting him some kitty Valium for the ride.

We drove to Liv's school and went through a similar albeit shorter process. Mission accomplished. Finally.

As we drove out of the parking lot, the cat's pitch elevated and then abruptly stopped. Dylan howled, eyes scrunched closed, mouth a puckered, white splotch on his face. The cat had peed.

In the ballistic nylon carrier.

Not waterproof like the cheapy plastic carrier WE DIDN'T BUY.

Oh. Dear. God.

To make matters worse, the cat flicked the offending liquid from his paws out the mesh part and onto Dylan's face and torso. I gagged. Dylan came unhinged.

We were a freak show on wheels.

And we hadn't even left Bentonville yet.

My third and final organizational miss was locating my son's immunization documents. I meticulously went through every single paper I had in my possession looking for his shot records. I had love letters from my university days, pictures from high school and car payment receipts from the FIRST automobile that I owned. I found phone numbers and addresses of people I couldn't remember but no little yellow card detailing the torture I put my kid through during the first five years of his life. And without this record, the school district would not enroll him.

I'd like to tell you that the day got better from there, like it HAD to, right? It sort of did:
-The cat passed gas, which had us all panicking but luckily, a fart was just a fart.
-I did not get the children registered for school which turned out to be fine because I drank beer instead.
-The house was dirty but I cleaned before the moving truck arrived which satisfied the overwhelming nesting urge that took over the moment I walked in the door.
-Our stuff arrived intact and only three pieces were damaged. Yeah us! Small note to self: DO NOT LEAVE IT UP TO MOVING MEN TO ARRANGE FURNITURE. EVER.
-The smell of cat urine did not linger in my car once the carrier and my son were removed from it.
-Olivia made six new friends within two hours of being at the new house.
-I slept in the same bed as my husband with the knowledge that we wouldn't have to say goodbye Monday morning.

All in all, it could have been worse, I suppose.

Moving is just a little bit like giving birth. There are months of anticipation leading up to the event, the chaos of the day itself and then after a few weeks, the horror of it all begins to fade and you tell yourself it really wasn't that bad and that you could do it all again if need be. I'm not quite there yet.