January 31, 2013

Musings from the Social Security Office

A couple of days ago, Doodle and I headed to the closest Social Security office to us, about 15 miles away. Doodle needed a replacement social security card, and since she is over the age of 12, I had to physically take her in to request one.

Since the government offices don't open until 9 am, Doodle was going to miss a little less than 2 hours of school. Most kids would be excited. Not her. She was miffed that she was going to miss the first day of the new quarter. Seriously? I guess I should be glad that she is so concerned with her grades but come on!

We get to the s.s.office about 853am. There is a line up at the door of approximately 15 people. It was a wet, rainy, blustery day here in Washington State.... and these people were happily standing outside. Not me. I told Doodle we could wait in the car until the doors opened. Standing out in the cold to get in front of 2 or 3 people wasn't worth it to me.

The doors open at 9am on the dot, and the people start to shuffle in. Doodle and I make our way to the door, and wait. There were about 6 people left in front of me who were still getting checked in. As we stood there, this canary yellow, 2 door Mercedes pulls in. Older gentleman driving. Vanity license plate that reads "shrink". He is the only car in the lot that will fit in the smart car sized parking spot right in front of the door. He pulls in, and misjudges the curb. Hits the curb with the front bumper, and proceeds to rip it off. Right there, IN FRONT of everyone.

Several of us in line chuckled at his misfortune....... I mean really? Convertible EXPENSIVE car, vanity license plates, and not only can he NOT park it correctly, he can probably afford the repair TODAY. Ugh.

Anyway, Doodle and I finally get to check in, and the over attentive security guard posted at the door wants to know what we are there for. I told him I am capable of reading the machine and selecting the right ticket for myself, along with the right forms, but Officer Over Achiever insisted on pressing the button for me. Apparently the outfit I wore that day made me look like I needed EXTRA special help. F.M.L.

We take our seats in the now crowded lobby, and proceed to wait our turn. There are more people coughing, sneezing, sniffling and generally spreading their nasty germs around then I care for. In an effort not to co-mingle their air with mine, I immediately pulled out my hand sanitizer and doused Doodle and myself. And I didn't touch A SINGLE THING in there.

When our number finally gets called, some 45 minutes later, we make our way to the little cubicle. We can barely hear what the nice young lady is saying to us through the 5 feet of bullet proof glass, not to mention she had to be the most soft spoken person there.

We are just getting in to the nitty gritty with her when all of a sudden, behind our chairs we hear the unmistakable sounds of clanking chains. Doodle and I turn around to see a prisoner, escorted by 2 plain clothes policemen, being followed to the cubicle next to us. The nice young lady helping us looked up at what was going on, looked back at us, and I swear I saw her eyes grow about 5 sizes bigger.

Apparently said prisoner, offenses unknown, was there to get a replacement social security card, just like Doodle. He proceeded to LOUDLY give his date of birth, social security number and prisoner id number. If I had a pen and paper handy I so would have taken it all down, just to find out who the guy was, because I'm nosy like that.

3 long minutes later, our clerk turns her attention back towards us, and we get the new card requested, and hightail it out of there. Doodle was full of questions, asking who the prisoner was, what he did, etc. I wish I could have told her. To be honest, I was just glad to be out of there! Doodle's card should be here in a week. That was probably the most exciting government office experience I have ever had.

One that I don't want to repeat anytime soon!

January 23, 2013


What does that stand for? Well other than my love/hate relationship with my Ford, F.O.R.D. stands for:

Found On Road Dead

That is how this past week I have felt.

Like the nastiest, most foul, totally emaciated roadkill.

When I retract my claws from the ceiling, I will share more.

For now, the boy child is hanging on by the SMALLEST thread. Ugh.

January 7, 2013

Boy child: For Sale or Trade

Do you have a teenager at home? If not, want mine? Sale/Trade/OBO

I don't remember being this awful when I was a teenager, go figure. I am sure my mother felt the same way I feel now, maybe worse who knows?

The attitude, the constant arguing, the nasty looks, the horrible comments mumbled under his breath, the belief that he knows EVERYTHING and I know NOTHING.


The worst part? Duking it out with the kid, only to have him pretend an hour later nothing is wrong.

Reason with him you say? Uh huh........ that would imply that he UNDERSTANDS rational thought. Not applicable here. There are so many things that "you don't understand MOM". God forbid I bring up the fact that I am adult, I have been through this EXACT SAME conversation with my mom, and that because I am older, might have some valuable advice to offer. But what do I know? I am just an "old" mom.

Some days, its a wonder I don't duct tape his mouth shut, just so I don't have to listen to the nonstop tirade, since he isn't getting his way. Even better than having to listen to the endless diatribe is the whining, needling and heaping guilt if I don't stop what I am doing to take care of whatever he needs at the PRECISE moment he has asked for it,

Before you ask, and to go on public record, I was WAY worse to my mom. That fact does not have me thanking my lucky stars. I still want to tear my hair out on a daily basis.

So, sale or trade. At least until this attitude goes away. I definitely miss that sweet little boy. I would like to have him back until this mouthy teenager exits my house.

January 4, 2013

Bah Humbug, 2012 Edition

Another holiday season is over. Another year of sharing my kids at Christmas with HeeHaw.

I almost wish people wouldn't ask me how my Christmas was. I don't want to sugar coat it. So when I say "OK" or "It's over", everyone wants to know why. Then I have to go through the whole process of explaining why.... when I should have just lied in the first place and said how "GREAT" it was.

Every year, well since the divorce, its the same thing. Figure out how to make the most of "MY" time with the chitlins before they go back to HeeHaw's. Figure out to split up the holiday traditions. Figure out how to hide my disappointment when the kids tell me they already did the activity I had planned with their father.

Once I have shoved those feelings down, WAY DOWN, usually buried under a plate of some kind of baked goods (it IS the holidays after all) I then have to deal with how to answer the damn question "How was your Christmas"? Ugh. It's like being the only pregnant women in a room full of 20 somethings, or being seen by the bitties in the grocery store. For those mom's in the crowd, you KNOW what I'm talking about........... they will come at you, hands outstretched, rubbing your belly, offering unsolicited advice.

If you have EVER been that women, you know, the only thing you want to do is remove the strangers hand from your belly, tell Grandma to get a life, and march off in the other direction. Yep. That about sums it up.

So, how do I get through it? Alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol. Its like camping: you wake up with a cocktail in your hand, and you go to bed with a cocktail in your hand. It stems the emotional flow, and makes all the hurt quite fuzzy around the edges.

Amongst the other issues of a divorced holidays, I forgot to take ONE, SINGLE picture of my kids and I together. EPIC. FAIL. Added to the FAIL list:

Missing the lights at Warm Beach............. again
Not making our traditional Christmas morning breakfast
Getting to the house up the road (that has lights to music) too late to enjoy the show
Forgot the Santa gift

Other than that, everything else went smoothly. Ha. Like I said, I am glad its over. Maybe when my kids are older, and out of the house, it wont hurt as much as it does now. Oh well, another 11 months before we have to start thinking about it again. I'll drink to that!