...so I booted his ass into the ditch.

Connor has to run a trivia game in one of his classes tomorrow. I insisted that he take candy for the winners because how can a game that ends in candy be anything less than kickass? So I picked up some Jolly Ranchers for him, Nerds for me, on the way home from his hockey practice. By the way, convenience store? You're welcome for his stinky self not coming in with me.

I tossed them into his lap when I got into the car:

Me: I got a whole ton of them. Might as well give them to everyone... You can make it raiiinnn. *rainy fingers*

He: Should I stand up on top of one of the desks?

Me: Duck and cover, bitches!

He: You're gonna get a call from my teacher if I do that.

Me: I'll just tell him, "It was funny at the time!"

And then after we giggled over this conversation, he had the nerve to try to hold my Nerds hostage...

Cate Just Brought Something to My Attention

In response to yesterday's post, I found this:

Call Me Cate said...
So what happens when he googles the right combination to find your blog?!?!?

...

...

...

Sonuvabitch.

Great. Now I have to figure out how to preemptively block a site that is not specifically associated with pornography. Thanks for giving me more work, Cate.

I am so not overreacting.

As a good parent, you're supposed to monitor your children's computer activities. This is what "they" say, right?

Well, anyway, part of the new protection software that Sam installed for all our computers was monitoring software. Which we don't hide. In fact, the first thing we told the children upon them getting computering privileges was that we were monitoring every single thing they did- every single keystroke! Which was a total lie- by the way, free parenting tip- lie to your children. Seriously that "never lie" stuff is bullshit. There are some times that lying is not only the "easy" choice, it's the right one.

Where were we?

Spying. Right.

So he installed this software, and I figured it would be limited to monitoring their internet use. No. Apparently it informs on everything. And I'm not really sure how I feel about that. I mean, I do know how I feel. The only thing I really need to know about is whether they're giving out personal information or talking to strangers on the internet. Guaranteed? These kids are going to be doing things that I do not like. On and off the computer. Guaranteed? I absolutely did things that my mother did not approve off. But it didn't harm me. I am alive and healthy today. I swear.

So, yes, I want to know what they're doing online. Out of pure curiosity, I of course want to know what else they're doing. Who here wouldn't want to see every iota of what their spouse does? And then kill them for it. So it's probably a bad idea. Same thing goes with kids. I know Connor swears (yes. he has me for a mother. you can all just shut up.). But he's smart enough not to do it in front of me. And I'm okay with that. Because- and here's that defining line- it is not going to harm him.

And this is not denial. It's not "out of sight, out of mind". It is the fact that they are separate-and-apart-from-me human beings. And as much as I want to be up in their business at every possible moment, growth requires space and freedom.

Thus! I take that step back.

Most of the time. I'm also nosy as hell.

So I scanned Connor's internet use when Sam first presented this new ability to me. And it's searches for cheats (for video games, people!), searches for online games, nothing surprising...

And then.

"Well this just pisses me off." I stabbed my poor laptop monitor with a finger. "Oh... no...", Sam said, peering at my screen. There, glaring up at me from a list of benign search terms like "poptropica" and "hulu", was the offense.

"how do you get the peanut butter crackers on big nate island in poptropica"

What. The. FRIGGIDY.

Anyone remember this? My own child! How could he!

There will be blood. There WILL be blood.

I admit that the song is catchy. At least, it's better than a lot of the other crap they play- also ad nauseum.

Scarlett Johansson was on Ellen today- singing. I didn't realize she was a singer. Sam's response was something along the lines of a muttered, "She fancies herself a singer like all the rest of the actresses, huh."

But apparently I did know she was singer because once she started the song I realized that it was, indeed, from a CD that my store plays ad nauseum (this is latin for "until I (yes, me, specifically) vomit"- appropriate because that's what I want to do the third time this song comes on in a single shift).

During the follow-up interview, Johansson's partner in the duet album gave his reasons as to why he chose her to work with. This is when Connor piped up with, "It's just because she's hot!"

So later this evening, I was telling Sam about the fact that I knew the song, and I finished up with:

Me: Oh, and Connor thinks she's hot.
Connor: Am I not allowed my opinion?
Me: 'Course you are. I just find it funny that you find a woman older than your mother "hot".*
Sam: #snort#
Connor: Age is just a number, Mom.

*Okay, yes, now I realize that she is, in fact, five years younger than me. I think this undeniably qualifies as beside the point. Also, it ruins the story. And she looks older than me. Or at least more used. Whatever. Just shut up.

A banana was not one of the things to go into the lunchbox.

This morning, Connor was putting his lunch... bits? containers? food stuffs?... into his lunchbox. "And to think," he said, "that I only have this *indicates lunchbox* because of cheating."

I gave him a glare. "At bible camp." Yes, bible camp. I know. Long, boring story, don't ask.

"Yeah," he said, then he smirked. "I'm going to hell." And off he flounced.

I? Stood there with my mouth hanging open. There's not much of a response for that- mostly because I'm sure he got the attitude (and, yes, okay, the phrase, too) from me.

Oh, wait. Here's my wine!

So, my kid. The oldest one. He turned twelve recently. Twelve. What the hell? I'm not sure how all that happened, but it did. My friend, Cassie, passed along birthday greetings:

Flutterby: your kid!
had a birthday
happy birthday to your kid!
me: didn't we already talk about his birthday?
Flutterby: we talked about that he was going to have one!
and then i forgot
me: oh
okay!
Flutterby: and i don't wanna lose my place as favorite online flutterby/cassie
me: happy it's-been-12-years-and-you-still-haven't-lost-the-weight to me!
Flutterby: woohoo!

It's been a very long and a very short dozen years. I was reminded of just how long the journey has been when a customer came in today, close to tears. It seems that she had just had to ditch the grocery store because her two year old terror angel had refused to sit in the cart. She was, at that moment, still in desperate need of food because the cupboards were bare- all young-mother-hubbard-esque. And also he refused to get dressed for twenty minutes this morning- what she was waiting on him for, I don't know.

Poor woman was at the end of her rope. I did not ask where the kid was, at this point, or why he couldn't be wherever the hell he was now while she ran to the grocery store. I also did not point out that the terrible-twos are far outawfuled by the terrible-threes. (No one ever mentions this to first-time parents of two year olds because we're all afraid they might decide to just cut their losses now.)

Talking the woman off the edge made me grateful to be past those early stages, but it also reminded me... oh shit, y'all, I'm about to have a teenage boy. I am so screwed- where's my wine?

Hey, yankees? Y'all have annoying accents, too.

I spent a good chunk of my childhood in the south. As a navy brat, moving around a lot has given me an odd accent. Now, by "odd", I don't mean you hear me and think "this bitch is nuts!"... okay, you might think that, but not because of my accent. It's simply of indeterminate origins. That being said, my father retired and we moved up north and I was teased from moment one for my southern accent. So I fixed it. I scraped every bit of south out of my voice- all except "y'all". There is no good northern substitution.

The second exception to my "no twang" rule is when I get really angry. When I have lost all semblance of a temper- really, really pissed, which seems to happen less and less as I mellow with age (yes, this is me mellow)- Ah will poke mah fingah in youah chest as I screahm in youah face. (And, honestly, my accent is not nearly as genteel as I just represented.) This results in Sam grasping his sides and rolling on the floor with laughter. This leads to him grasping his sides and rolling on the floor with pain from my kicks to his ribs.

Exception number three! When I listen to a southerner, whoops! The accent pops right back out if I'm not paying enough attention. It's not heavy, but it is sometimes noticeable. This is seen as patronizing, unfortunately, when I am speaking to someone who doesn't know me. (There is the occasional customer who maybe gets a little insulted.) Two of my sisters have maintained a slight drawl, and when I talk to either of them, Sam instantly knows. "You just get off the phone with Christine? Your southern is showing."

This all leads to the reason Connor is now grounded for the rest of his existence. I was watching Ruby today. "Come on, Connor!" I whined. "If we just pick things up instead of leaving them lying around, this clean house would be easy to maintain!" Maintain, however, came out mahyntahyn. Little brat jumped on that quick.

"Mahhyyntahhyyn? Mahhhyyyntahhhhyyyn? Right, Mom, let's mahhhhyyyyntahhhhyyyyn the house."

"Run. Before I kill you. Quick like a bunny! Go hide!"

I am, in Fact, Typing This From the Roof

A few weeks ago, Sam and I noticed some damage to the ground all around the downspout of the front gutter. It goes directly into a drainage pipe that runs underground for... well, for the sake of brevity, let's just say forever and all distance. Point being, if it's clogged up under there, and the water is backing up and damaging the ground like that, our front yard is screwed. And so are we. Because we'll be digging up the entire distance from our house to the road. Or maybe we'd have to shove some kind of scope or rooter or something down there. Except that it's sealed up, downspout to drainage pipe, where they meet. So we'd have to ruin that, first. Or something. I have no idea. It just all seemed like it was going to be horrible.

But then came the good-news-bad-news situation. During the next heavy rain, we looked outside and discovered that the water wasn't backing up. It wasn't going through the downspout at all. It was pouring like mad over the edge of the gutter. So, yay! No damage to the underground drain! But, crap. It's blocked up at the roof. So we've got to go on the roof. Which we've never done. In the almost four years we've lived here. Because we have no way of getting up there.

Have I mentioned the bit where Sam's afraid of heights, and I'm terrified of falling?

We purchased an extension ladder for this express purpose, and this is where we discovered the downfall of living on a double-directionally-sloping lot. It was near impossible to get the ladder positioned with any stability to reach the proper spot of the gutter on the back side of the house (we did, though, and Sam discovered all was clear upon mounting the ladder- woohoo!), and was quite literally impossible to do so in front of the house.

Flash to the argument scene. Sam throws the ladder up, gives it a shake. I yell and show it lean precariously to one side with a single foot placed on the bottom rung. Sam shoves a rock under one leg of the ladder. I yell some more. Sam repositions repeatedly. I yell again. Sam gives it a shake, gets both feet on the bottom rung, I threaten to not hold the ladder in any way because I am not participating in this sham of safety and there's no way he's not going to fall anyway so I might as well not be under him when he does.

Anyway, we figured out that there's no way in hell to get to the bad-pain-in-the-ass-trouble-making-gonna-have-to-kick-it-repeatedly-if-only-I-can-get-to-it part of the gutter without actually climbing on the roof, so we might as well go to the flattest part of the ground and climb from there. This was okay because, in an interesting bit of team work, Sam was willing to work from the ladder but not climb on the actual roof, whereas I could not work from the ladder but could happily walk all over the roof like a mountain goat on acid.

Envisioning the absolute nastiness of a clog that a full waterfall from the gutter would entail, I demanded a glove and something pointy, which, to Sam's mortification, I promptly shoved into the waistband of my pants. I could see him imagining me gutting myself on it. Then he'd be a widower with three children. It was his turn to yell. But, really? There was going to be yucky stuff. And possibly bugs. The pointy thing was going up the ladder with me, one way or another.

I climbed the ladder, staring straight ahead. I got to the roof line, staring straight ahead. I contemplated how I was going to hoist my ass over the top of the ladder and onto the roof. It took a bit, but I managed to get on the roof. Oh! And safety stuff. I was totally safe about it all. Harnesses and ropes and... stuff... Don't yell at me, Mom and Dad.

I climbed over the peak of the roof, down the other side, got close to the edge, peered into the gutter. Nothing. Not a single leaf. The entire length was spotless. Huh. I moved right to the corner of the roof. The hell? There, settled right into the mouth of the downspout, perfectly wedged in, was a tennis ball. ("Oh," said Connor, later. "I wondered why that never came back down.") It was damn good on my part that I didn't leave my pointy thing behind because I needed it to lever the ball out. Then, because I'm me, I threw the ball at Sam.

After one or two more bits of maintenance things on the roof, I sat down, top of the ladder before me. Crap. After the trouble getting from ladder to roof, I had no idea how I was going to get roof to ladder.

"Coming?" Sam asked.

"Don't rush me!"

Because god forbid we don't try to put our mother over the edge with our constant fighting.

Ethan: Yeah, well you can't do that, Connor. (Because god forbid something comes to pass without our making a comment.)

Connor: Ethan! MYOB! (Because god forbid we speak nicely.)

Ethan: What does that mean?

Me: Mind your own business.

Ethan: But I wanna to know!

Car: Beeeeeeeeeep! (Because I just face-planted into the horn.)

Apparently this is often his chosen answer, and it never gets marked wrong?

For once, Connor forgot to throw away shared with me some of his work from school.A 95 isn't a bad score, especially if you consider the gross negligence that is his handwriting and organization. I guess it's all correct since nothing is marked wrong.

Wait just one bloody minute.
The hell? I'm pretty sure, since this is not the Bible, that there is at least one wrong answer.

The Origins of "My Drunk Monkeys"

Welcome to another edition of "here is a piece of my life that I already shared with Cassie, and would like to now share with you through copy/paste":

me: Emily: "there's no such things as ghosts"
Connor: "oh yeah? prove it!"
hardly fairFlutterBy: that's wrong
shouldn't it be
there ARE no such things as ghosts?
grammar failme: yes
AND they're arguingFlutterBy: i'm not sure how one would prove that, exactly
i think there's some sort of "burden of proof on the side of the accuser"me: but she said "I WILL prove it! I'll stomp on every part of the kitchen!"FlutterBy: it's as good as any defense!
i'm not sure what it accomplishes exactly but at least she's a woman of actionme: C: "so! maybe the ghost is invisible!"
E: "but i don't FEEL anything!"
C: "maybe you DON'T feel anything from a ghost!"FlutterBy: poor emmy
she's not gonna be able to win this one so muchme: it's like living with drunk monkeysFlutterBy: ahh, but at least they're YOUR drunk monkeysme: well, so THEY claimFlutterBy: no child birth memories to go by?me: come ON!
if i had memories of those things, would i have had a second or third child??? i mean, who's crazy enough to DO that???FlutterBy: "they" say you magically forget
that it's one of those nature's miracle thingsme: it's a defense mechanism... like ptsd

For Sale: Two Boys, Slightly Beaten

Me, to Ethan: Do you need it or not?

Ethan, sarcasm dripping: Maaaaybe.

Me: And you think that's an okay way to talk to me?

Connor: I'm so proud.