Leezer

For those of you Googling “American Idol,” welcome to my blog.  As I’ve learned from my Stat Counter, there are many avenues to my blog, none of which I’m particularly proud.  Apparently, Googling, “Bleached Anus,” will get you here, as will “I ruv it asian,” as will “poop.” (No surprise there.)  I’m expiramenting a bit to see if I can win Time Magazine’s Blogger of the Year award just by using a common pop-culture term in my title.  Tune in later for the results.

In the mean time, I was tagged by Expat to complete the following exercise:

- Post the rules on your blog
- Write six random things about yourself in a blog post
- Tag six people in your post
- Let each person know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog
- Let the tagger know your entry is up

This is not going to be easy because I have no secrets to share. I’ve actually written just about everything there is to know about me, which frightens me into oblivion. 

Now, Expat indicated on her blog that we are virtual twins. This is true.  There are a few minor differences, however. First, Expat does not have the same hang-ups about religion as do I.  Second, Expat considers listening to others’ differing points of view as a challenge and a growing experience, while I consider the same experience merely annoying and a waste of precious time. Third, Expat is a true adventurer, having lived all over the world and having raised a kind, well-functioning family unit at the same time.  I could not do this.  Here’s to you, Expat!

Here are six random things, hopefully heretofore unpublished:

• Every night I wear a t-shirt to bed that says, “Ask me about my explosive diarreah.”  My husband thinks I’m irresistible.
• I scored in the thirteenth percentile in the Spatial Orientation section of the pre-college tests (this is out of 100, folks).  This is the exercise that requires you to figure out which way the wheels are turning. If you think THIS is bad, Leezerslawpartner, one of the best attorneys in the whole US of A, scored a SIX! He told me, “I didn’t even think this was possible.”  Adorable, that one.
• I secretly think I’m sort of funny-looking.
• I am so weary of telling my seven-year old, roughly seven times a day, how old our two-year old Shih Tzu is in “human years.”  Now I just tell her “Two. same age as he is in dog years.”
• My best friend Ruthie from childhood died in 1994.  She’s in nearly every dream of mine. Recently, in such a dream, I asked her,”why are you always here.” She said, “that’s our agreement. I’ll always  be here whether you need me or not.” It’s sort of comforting.  MCS reminds me a lot of Ruthie but I don’t tell her very often out of fear I’ll creep her out.
• In the fifth grade, I held two older girls hostage in the girls bathroom.  They couldn’t leave until they said the secret password, “shoes in your mouth, yeah yeah yeah.”  After the bell rang and we were discovered missing, the sixth grade teacher found us, sent the hostages back to class, and told me I would be the first female in Lake Youngs Elementary School history to receive a hack. He pounded the hack paddle into his palm, then at the last minute he let me go, sans hack. I’m sure a lawsuit from my parents was the only thing that stopped him cold.

Tagged:  Mae, Lisa, Lengli, Naynay, Pixie, Kitkat

• One rock-hard, half-eaten Eggo waffle;
• Seven year-old daughter’s prescription eye glasses;
• Fourteen miscellaneous Polly Pocket accessories;
• My flute;
• Three empty water bottles;
• One unread copy of “Navy Seal Workout Program,” to be returned to Barnes & Noble because, while I am happy to do the running part of the program, the obstacle course will be be difficult because I am without a ten-foot wall in my backyard;
• Blockbuster copy of “Spongebob - The Movie” which I now own because I rented it two years ago;
• Three (unused) tampons;
• Seven Hot Tamales;
• Five barrettes;
• Copy Junie B Jones is not a Crook;
• My PLU sweatshirt

My Mom’s high school principal’s name was Harry Dick.  Or Harry Balls, I can’t recall, but she reminds of this fact once a year or so.   Her point, aside from the obvious entertainment-value in the name itself, is of the importance in bringing a child into this world with a name that does its owner justice. 

We named our first daughter Georgia for a couple of reasons; first, my husband and I love the Ray Charles song, Georgia On My Mind.   The song is soulful and a bit mysterious - you don’t know if Georgia is a person or a place.  It doesn’t really matter.  Hearing the song always made me wish my name was Georgia. 

 Second, my husband  is from Virginia, and we sure as hell weren’t going to name our child Virginia.  (I once related this rationale to a stranger at a dinner party, only later to lean over with an outstretched hand, “by the way, my name is Lisa.  What’s your name?”  Her response: “Virginia.”)  Giving our precious girl the name Virginia would undoubtedly require us to console her on a regular basis when other children realized how much Virginia sounds like vagina. 

Georgia - the name and my daughter -  reminds me of a Weeping Willow -  lacy, feminine, strong, steamy, and ageless.  Somehow I knew this about her before she was born.  That, or I’ve projected onto her those traits I value.  I think it was also the only name upon which we agreed.

I’ve longed to name a daughter India, which was a common name in Victorian England.  Perhaps because England occupied India.   Upon further reflection, a British person naming a child India may be considered tasteless, like naming a child Appartheid, Harper’s Ferry, or The Killing Fields.  Some good things likely came out of the British occupation of India, but placing my child in the position of needing to justify her name seemed a tad unfair.   Our baby sitter’s name is Enola.  A few days ago my husband asked her,

 ” . . . like the WWII Enola Gay?  The one that carried the bomb that was dropped on Hiroshima?” 

I was afraid he’d ask.  During this questioning I implored him with my eyes, She’s only fifteen!  She didn’t give herself the name!  Leave it alone!

Nonetheless, India, like Goergia, is a strong, steamy, yet ageless name.  

When we adopted Anna from China, the name India didn’t make the short list because the last thing we wanted to do to our child who doesn’t look a thing like us was to saddle her with an oddball name.  So we picked about the least ethnic-sounding name we could think of:  Anna.  It was the perfect choice.  She loves her name and refers to herself in the third person:  “Anna wants wa-wa; Anna go nigh-nigh; Anna go poopy!” 

Expat Princess believes - and I whole heartedly agree - that a name should look impressive when printed upon a college or law school diploma.  I question whether the Shittheads, the Shanias,  and the Fantasias really want their names printed Harvard Diplomas.  But perhaps the names won’t be printed anywhere at all, or will be printed upon state liquor control-board operators’ licenses.  Not that there’s any shame in that.  Don’t send me hate-mail telling me how bougoise I am.  I just think a child should be given as much of a head start as possible. 

Speaking of names that do their owners justice, I know a woman who named her son Justice, but I believe she spells it differently.  What a wonderful name, Justice.  Unless the child becomes an adult-film star.  In that case Harry Dick is more appropriate.

[Scene: 7:30 a.m. Georgia and I standing in driveway while we say goodbye to Elliott and Anna, who are getting into the car]:

 Georgia:  Mom, look at you! You’ve got one sock on, leggings where one leg is pulled above the knee, the other below the knee, and a stained t-shirt that says, “ask me about my explosive diarrhea!  What if someone sees you?

Me:  Well that wouldn’t be so good, would it?

Butters:  Mom look what I drew.

Me:  Oh I see. What is between its legs?

Butters:  It’s a penis.

Me:  Show it to your Dad.

Butters:  Dad look what I drew.

Elliott: What’s that between its legs?

Butters:  It’s a penis.

Elliott:  Why does it look like a snowman?

Me:  Just be glad it’s not a graphic depiction.   Snowman is just fine.

Last May, I wrote this post concerning my daughter’s diabolical music teacher (hereafter “DMT”) and my efforts to verbally beat the teacher into the middle of next week.  If you’re too lazy to click on the link, here’s the poop:  Last year my daughter was in Kindergarten.  Two weeks into the school year, the music teacher “picked” about half of her class to be in the school play, 101 Dalmations.  My daughter raised her hand to be picked, but wasn’t.  She didn’t seem to care, so I didn’t make an issue of it.

Fast forward to last May during performance week.  The “picked” students wore their play costumes all day, attended parties that only the “picked” students got to attend, wore special T-shirts announcing their participation in the play, and were generally fawned over all week.  My daughter was crushed, as were many of the other non-participants.  So I had me a little talk with DMT.  For the gory nuts and bolts of that conversation, you WILL have to click on the link because it’s too tedious and painful to recount here.  But you know the joke about a guy who has a black eye and his friends go, “You look like hell, what happened?” and the guy responds, “I got in a fight, but if you think I look bad, you should see the other guy” ? Well, that sort of describes my encounter with DMT over her “teaching” methods. 

After the “encounter,” I wrote a scathing letter to the school principal and to DMT, I went to China to adopt a baby a few days after I sent then letter, and when I returned from China I moved out the school district.  (Our move had nothing to do with DMT).  My daughter is in a wonderful first grade, and I haven’t given DMT a thought for several months.

I have a colleague whose children attend my daughter’s old school and who is aware of the falderal of last May.  He sat amused as I described the fisticuffs between me and DMT, and cheered me on when I wrote my letter.  Apparently, there is quite a population of parents at that school who have silently wished for DMT to be brought down a few pegs. 

This morning that colleauge gleefully informed me that this year’s school play is going to be “handled much differently than in former years.”  In particular, “ANYONE who wants to be in the play - at least anyone of Kindergarten age - gets to participate.” 

There is justice in the world.  I may never win another case in my legal career, and that’s fine with me (don’t tell my clients )because I think a few five year olds are going to be a little happier this year than in years past.   Life is good.   

Georgia:  Lizzie is sad.  Her fish jumped out of its bowl and it died.

Me:  Oh, that’s too bad.

[Two hours later]

Georgia:   Good news!  Lizzie’s goldfish didn’t die! It’s just blind.

________________

Georgia:  Mom, I finished the list of chores I need to do for my allowance.   Want to hear what’s on my list?

Me:  Yes.

Georgia:  Clean room.  Set table for dinner.  Clean bathroom.  Watch for rats. . 

Me:  What do you mean, ‘watch for rats?’  We don’t have rats.

Georgia:  Sure we do.  They’re in the bushes in the back yard.

Me:  Oh.  Well what are you going to do if you see one?

Georgia:  Make a note of it.

________________________________

Me:  Georgia!  Quit bugging your sister!  Just leave her alone!

Georgia:  [heaving a big sigh]  Mom!  It’s just that . . . it’s just that . . . [puts hands on hips, shifts weight to one foot]  I’ve had such a hard day and I’m SO exhausted.  AND I can’t go shopping for a whole day!

One of the themes with which I have struggled my entire life is the wide-reaching benefits of anger.  By “anger,” I do not mean belittling or disrespecting others, or in bullying others in any way.  I mean the expression of a human emotion when that emotion is reasonably won.  I don’t struggle internally with this issue, but I struggle externally, which is to say that I don’t see eye to eye with many of those I am close to - including my Mother and my husband - concerning its value.   Those whose cloth is woven out the same bucolic and peaceful threads woven into my Mother’s and my husband’s psyches argue, “oh, don’t be angry when you confront so and so about such and such,”  and “remain calm at all costs because that is the only way to get your point accross,” or, “[insert a pronoun here] is/are generally uncomfortable with any passionate emotion so please continue to make us feel comfortable by not raising your voice or using sarcastic vernacular.” Etc, etc, etc.  Mother and husband, don’t think I’m picking on you, because Leezerslawpartner, a few of the Boobies, and perhaps many others fall into this category.  You know who you are.  Try as I might, I’m just not wired this way. 

Case in point:  my daughter’s school play.  The music teacher at the school where my daughter is a kindergartener announced, two weeks into Kindergarten, that she would put on “101 Dalmations.”  The older kids (read: everyone but the Kindergarteners) would audition for parts, but the music teacher would “pick” the Kindergarteners that she felt were “appropriate” to be the Dalmations.  “Hmmm…”  I thought back in September, “I wonder how this is going to work.”   I didn’t say anyting to my daughter, although I overheard other parents asking the teacher to please include his or her child.  But I didn’t play this game.

By December, the teacher “picked” about half of the students in my daughters class, and my daughter wasn’t among those chosen.  She didn’t seem too disappointed, so I let it go.

Fast forward to this week.  The play was held two nights out of the week for the parents and during one of the school days for the kids.  The kids in the play wore their costumes to school had a party, and were given hororary play t-shirts.   Not surprisingly, this made the excluded kids a little perplexed and disappointed.  My daughter cried yesterday after she got home from school, asking me why she wasn’t picked for the play.  Keep in mind that she asked to be part of it, and she was only five at the time the roles were “cast.”  I tried to make her feel better, perplexed myself as to why only half of the class was picked, and how exaclty the process worked.

I talked to my neighbor, a former sixth grade teacher about my frustration with the process, “wait until you’re not angry, then go talk calmly with the music teacher,” was his advice.  ”No one listens to someone who isn’t calm and professional.”

So today after school I cornered the music teacher.  I “calmly” and “professionally” explained to her that my daughter was disappointed that she wasn’t in the play and that I wondered what criteria she used to determine who was chosen.  “Well,” she said defensively, “I chose the most mature and confident of the kids.”  My anger started to make my face a bit red at this point.  “Well, how would you know, only eight weeks into the school year when you see the kids a half-hour a week, who is ‘confident’ and who is not?”  I countered.  She said, “well what do you expect me to do with 324 kids in the school?  I can’t include everyone?”  “So don’t,”  I said.  Have the older kids audition, but open it up to the Kindergarteners because five year-olds don’t quite understand the dog-eat-dog world you’ve set up for them.”  This didn’t go over well.  “If you can think of a better way to do this, go ahead,”  she said, defensively.  “Well, for starters, you might think of having a play without ‘101′ in the name,” and then I couldn’t resist, “and you might want to think of a better mechanism for picking the kids than parading them through a beauty contest.”

The foregoing was the calm part of the conversation. 

And what does this have to do with my introductory paragraph about anger?  First, I wasn’t exactly calm at the end of the conversation with the music teacher.  I think my parting words to her as she marched away from me with impunity were a sarcastic, “Have a nice day!”  I came home and drafted a pithy and pointed letter to the principal about the shallow caprice of his music teacher.  It was a masterpiece, if I do say so myself.  No swearing, no hyperbole, just a truthful commentary. 

Someone needed to do it.  And that is the bitter irony about anger.  Secretly, those who have something to say but won’t say it think, “Wow.  I’m glad someone finally said that.”  But outwardly they’ll say, “too bad she couldn’t be calmer.”  I know no one will thank me, and that’s o.k.  I feel better.  Much better.

Postscript: Boobie breakdown:  Comfortable with anger: Lisrod, Kier, Sher; uncomfortable with anger: Maynard, Connie.  Swing vote:  Frannie.

Hop on over to my adoption blog, (the link is in the header), I need help with names.

When I was little I used to love scavenger hunts. Usually we did them at birthday parties or slumber parties, and the participants were given a list of ten or twelve things to collect and bring back to the party.  The first person or team to arrive with a collection of all the items was the winner. 

While I loved the game itself, I usually thought the items we were supposed to collect were a little too easy, which made the game go too fast.   What eleven year old can’t quickly find a coat hanger, a pine cone, or an empty milk carton?

I’m going to give my daughter the best scavenger hunt ever for her eleventh birthday.  The mother of all  scavenger hunts.  The kids will have to bring back the following, in forty-five minutes or less:

• Spit-valve from Herb Alpert’s cornet; 
• Scaffolding;
• A lactating woman;
• A Dider Comes autograph (I’ll provide the hint that Dider Comes is a Belgian comic book illustrator);
• A cat-o-nine-tails;
• Ennui;
• An uncircumcised octogenarian;
• One smoothbore cannon from the USS Nyack;
• Apathy;
• A human head;
• A pinecone.  

 This seems a little hard.  Maybe I’ll wait until her twelfth birthday.