Ah, to be 16 again!

Just a few differences between my daughter, Ashlyn, who turns 16 today, and myself, who was 16, some almost 22 years ago:

Ashlyn: Scared to death of driving and has no urge to even begin Drivers Ed or her state-mandated 50 hours of adult supervised driving; would much rather mooch rides from me, Kenin, her grandparents, friends, or her boyfriend. This girl will be right at home in the back of a limo should she ever be able to afford one.

Me: Although I was in the nut house on my 16th birthday, at the age of 14 (or was it 15?) I'd already 'borrowed' my parents car (and one belonging to a friend or two as well) and had driven with only my learners permit (and certainly no adult) all around the city of Augusta (GA) and the confines of Ft. Gordon. No, I never got caught by the cops, but feel the need to apologize to my brother, Tom, who got blamed for the time that I parked too close to the curb and ripped the air plug thing from the tire, resulting in the flattest tire ever seen in Kings Chapel Court.

Ashlyn: Has a FABALUSS relationship with her mother (AKA me), if I do say so myself. We talk about EVERYTHING, we bond (particularly over TV and food), and we hang out. She actually likes me, so I've decided to keep her. At least until she turns 18.

Me: Had a not-so-good relationship with my step-mom at the age of 16. Not-so-good is actually much better than my relationship with her prior to me being in the nut house. Don't get the idea that she was an evil stepmonster or anything, because she wasn't. I was just a butthead. The big turning point for me? When Ashlyn was born, my step-mom (now just known as MOM, 'cause she IS) accepted Ashy as her own grandchild. She's a great lady, and I love her bunches.

Ashlyn: Petite, skinny, and disgustingly shapely little stick of a child who eats, or grazes, all the time. I don't know who she got it from, 'cause I never looked like her when I was growing up, or even anytime after that. Ashy actually TRIES to gain weight if she goes below 105. How cool is that? Anorexia is NOT in her future. Her typical order from McDonalds (her favorite food place and where she works. Convenient, no?) is a Southwest Chicken Salad with extra dressing if you please, a Hot n' Spicy Chicken sandwich (or sammich, as we Southerners like to say) with extra lettuce and extra mayo, and a large strawberry shake. She complains her boobs are too small, but I keep telling her that at least they won't sag to her belly button when she gets older.

Me: An average sized child until about the age of 10 or so, I began to pack on the pounds after my mother died. I was a plump teenager (having the munchies during my druggie years prior to the nut house years didn't help much, either) and managed to become a plump adult. With the exception of a year before I got pregnant with Ashlyn and the year before I got pregnant with Hunter, I've always had a little extra skin hanging around. Since I can no longer have kids, I can't imagine I'll ever be slender again. Not that I'm complaining (much). I have to admit, Ashy definitely got her enjoyment of food from me.

Ashlyn: Works at McDonalds and actually LIKES it, and not just for the almost free food that she gets. She looked for a job for several months before she could find someone who would hire her, since she was only 15 at the time, and was thrilled to finally get hired. She worked her first Mickey D's birthday party last weekend, and her manager said that she wants her to do all the parties from now on. She's also training people, so she must be doing okay. I'm glad she likes it, but will most definitely have a fit if she were to become a manager. She also VOLUNTEERED to work this summer with me during the last week of ESY (Extended School Year, or summer school) with special needs kids. How many 15 year olds do you know that have been hired by the 2nd largest school district in Colorado to work with special needs kids? Do you not see how wonderful my daughter is?

Me: Although I was in the nut house at 16 (are you seeing the trend?), my first job was at the age of 15 and was at one of the Augusta-based chain of KFC-type restraunts called Wife Saver. They had good food, especially their shrimp, which you might not expect at a chicken place. But, alas, the shrimp and paychecks were not enough to keep me employed there for more than a couple of months. The lure of hanging out at the bowling alley (Of course, I didn't actually bowl. That would have been un-cool.) and smoking on the steps of the skating rink with my so-called friends was too much. I was too lazy to want to work, and would have most certainly killed any children that came in for a birthday party had they offered that as an option.

So, as you can see, Ashlyn is an incredible young lady. She is the light of my life and I'm so proud that she is so much like me, but so much not like me, too. I love her more than anything, and hope that all parents are lucky enough to enjoy their own children as much as I enjoy mine. Ashlyn, you rock.

The Difference Between Absent and Gone

I really dislike people. Not all people, mind you, but a good many of them.

I work as a paraprofessional with severe special needs kids in my local school district, and one of my co-workers is a prime example of why I'd just rather not deal with folks. The Petty Miss M is just that, petty. Because we have to do a fair amount of diaper changing, our school is reimbursed by medicaid, but we have to make sure we document it so we can get paid. On the wall of the bathroom in our classroom, we have a list that we fill out with the date, who changed our kiddos, etc. One morning, when one of our kids was not at school, I wrote that he was 'absent'. A few hours later, I ventured into the bathroom and discovered that our young man was no longer absent, he was just plain 'GONE'. And he was not only GONE, but he was GONE via a bright purple marker. Because being absent in black ballpoint ink is no where near the same as being GONE in purple marker. I didn't know that. I THOUGHT absent was sufficient, but apparently I was mistaken.

I know that it's a bit childish to get upset about what happened. I will even go so far as to say that it's petty. But that's the whole thing that pisses me off, is the fact that Petty Miss M was just so damn petty to begin with. I hashed it out with one of my very favorite co-workers ever and decided to get over it. At least THAT time I did. I even managed to handle it when it happened a second time. But by the third time, I just couldn't restrain myself any longer. I stooped to her level and though I'm not proud of it, I will sing to the heavens because it felt SO GOOD to write ABSENT in big, bold, black sharpie. Aha! I won!

Just how black is black enough?

Yesterday evening, 50 youtubers got to put forth questions to the 8 democratic candidates for president. Though I didn't watch the debate personally, I understand that Barack Obama was asked something to the effect of if he was "authentically black enough" to be president. Now what the hell is that about?

Just how black does Obama have to be? Does he need to be involved in a drive-by shooting (as the shooter, not the shootee) to be black? Does he need to have a certain number of children born out of wedlock by multiple baby mamas? Would that make him black enough? Does he need to have been in prison or in a gang or be a high school dropout to be considered black? Does he need to live in the projects and be unable to speak eloquently to be black enough to be the president of the United States?

Though this may be an unpopular sentiment, I think that that blacks should be thrilled that they have an intelligent, articulate, well-informed candidate who has the chance of being president. Why are people bitching? I mean, he's gotten a whole lot further politically than either Jesse Jackson or Al Sharpton have. You ought to be thankful for what you've got instead of complaining because Obama's one of the more successful black Americans.

On a personal note: I really like Obama and the things that he appears to stand for. Unfortunately, he just doesn't have the experience that Hillary Clinton has. If he had waited until the 2012 election, you can believe that I'd be one of the first ones to back him, but as of now, he just needs more experience.

There were no witnesses

"There were no witnesses, so officials stopped short of saying the flaming bird was at fault."

I discovered this little gem while purusing todays edition of the Augusta Chronicle, my old hometown newspaper.

I don't know what school of journalism that reporter matriculated from, but I was surprised to see that single sentence was also an entire paragraph. That one line left me wanting so much more in the way of explanation. Why do they think the bird was at fault? Did it leave a suicide note? And if so, why didn't the note get burned, too? Was an avian autopsy performed? Did another bird whisper into someones ear that they had a terrorist within the flock? I don't know about you, but I'm a little worried. I mean, what if Hitchcock's The Birds was just a test run?

Just 'cause you've got CASH doesn't mean you've got CLASS

We were supposed to go to Hunter's rugby game Saturday, but his feet were hurting him, or so he claimed. I suppose if I'd had half the skin of both feet frozen with liquid nitrogen (warts, don't ya know?), I might be in a little pain, too. I also might have believed him a bit more had it not been over a week since he'd had it done. But I digress... I'll be honest--I didn't want to go sit outside with no shade for 2 hours in almost 100 degree heat. I hate summer. It sucks. So anyway, seeing as how the rugby game was out of the question, Kenin got the wild idea to go look at garage sales and see if anyone had any good junk they wanted to get rid of. Junk that might match our junk, as it were. So off we went, out into the nasty summer sun. And heat. Did I mention I really don't like the summer?

On our foray into the various areas of Highlands Ranch, I discovered that the $250,000 house that I'm renting in is in the slums of Highlands Ranch. I pay well over $1,000 a month for rent, but it's the HR slum. Not the Denver slum by any means, but most certainly the Highlands Ranch slum. But then, as we followed the signs for a garage sale into a neighborhood that was very obviously NOT a slum, I panted like a dog in heat (because it was really, really hot) and even got a little excited that someone in a non-slum area of Highlands Ranch was having an ESTATE SALE and I might be able to get some of their cast off junk to go with my junk and then maybe I wouldn't be living in a SLUM any longer because I finally had some non-slum stuff! And then I was disappointed.

Picture if you will, a beautifully modern, yet classical, 6,000 square foot home. It's got an incredibly manicured lawn leading to a wide row of brick steps that proceed to the front door. You walk into a large marble-floored entry, a curved staircase standing before you. To the right, a formal living room, to the left, a wet bar. You walk through the living room (which, BTW, is almost as large as the footprint to my entire house), around the corner and into the dining room where you see a beautiful antique dining table. Past the dining room you see a gourmet kitchen with stainless steel appliances and beyond that the marble floors continue into what in more modest homes might be called the family room. Looking through the french doors, you can see a built-in outdoor fireplace, a fountain, and a small pond. As you exit the family room with the marble accented fireplace and built in bookcases, you can go downstairs to the library or the fully appointed mother-in-law suite, or you could go up the wide, curving staircase to the second floor. If you chose to go to the second floor and to the right, you'd find a master suite, complete with bidet, that I swear is bigger than the entire second floor of my house. If you went to the left, you'd find 3 more bedrooms, each larger than any bedroom I personally have ever had.

Now that you have this beautiful home in your head, imagine it filled with junk. This place was really rockin', until you saw the crap everywhere. Where you might see a nice turkish rug, there was an old, stained, half-bare thing. The carpet upstairs was old, worn out, stained, and faded and the walls hadn't been painted since the house was built, over 10 years earlier. The lamps in the living room and family room were the kind from the 1970's (and I know... I was there) that hung from the ceiling with the cords hanging down. The TV in the living room was an early 1980's model, and there were old broken children's toys lying all around. The antique dining table I mentioned earlier? It was missing a leg, and someone had carved their name into the top of it. The library in the basement had the most gaudy 18th century reproduction light fixtures (maybe it was 19th century, I don't know for sure, but it was UGLY) and the mother-in-law suite had no less than 6 very large dead spiders in the tub. The upstairs was just as nasty. These people were even trying to sell half used bath and body products! And I don't mean stuff from Bath & Body Works, I mean half used no name brand crap. (Just for the record, it's just nasty to try to pass off (and want them to BUY IT, no less!) used personal hygiene products. Don't do it, no matter how broke you are.) I won't go into the old, broken kids toys in the back yard, or how the pond was green with scum and that there was almost certainly a mosquito sex orgy happening before our very eyes. All I know for sure is that you know their neighbors were having a party the day those folks moved out.

I guess the biggest and most important thing that I learned on my excursion was that just because you have a big ass house in a nice ass neighborhood, you still can't buy class. But you ought to try.

Kudos to US Weekly or I'm So Sick of Paris Hilton

I read today that US Weekly won't have a single mention of Paris Hilton, who was released from jail a couple of days ago, in their upcoming issue. The spokesperson said that the magazine felt the public was on Paris overload. All I have to say to that is AMEN!

I'm so sick of this stupid (she didn't even get a HS diploma), trashy (remember the nekkid coochie pictures?), fake hair-having (not only is it dyed, she's got extensions, too) party girl (isn't that what got her dumbass in jail in the first place?) being all over the news. And why is she in the news? 'Cause she's rich, and she's got nothing better to do than waltz around the red carpet pretending she's someone who's actually ACCOMPLISHED something. Give me a break. Wouldn't it be great if someone was in the news as often as she is for doing something good for humanity? I can at least stomach Angelina Jolie, she's a good will ambassador or something. But Paris?

And while I'm at it, what the hell is up with these girls like Paris, Britney, Lindsay, Nicole, and whoever the hell else, going around, getting trashy drunk, doing who knows what all kinds of drugs, holding knives to peoples throats...? These girls are on the way to a very public explosion, if they don't change their ways. And where the hell are their mommas during all this? Why don't they step in and snatch a knot in their asses? I mean, I know they're over 18 and all, but what were their mommas and daddys doing in their 'formative years', when they should've seen this train wreck approaching? What the hell? That's bad parenting, folks. Bad, bad parenting.

Too Feasible Not To Pass On

Got this in an email the other day:

Everyone concentrates on the problems we're having in this country lately -- illegal immigration, hurricane recovery, alligators attacking people in Florida.

But not me. I concentrate on solutions for the problems. It's a win-win situation.

+ Dig a moat the length of the Mexican border.

+ Send the dirt to New Orleans to raise the level of the levies.

+ Put the Florida alligators in the moat along the Mexican border.

Any other problems you would like for me to solve today?

Well it's about time...

Oh. My. God. It's finally happened.

Hunter, my adorable, semi-psychotic, sport challenged, video game obsessed son, has finally found a sport that he not only likes, but actually wants to participate in. And it's on a team. And it's RUGBY of all things.

A few days ago, Kat, the PE teacher at the school I work at, suggested that Hunter pop on by rugby practice to check it out and see if he'd be interested. I told her I'd talk to him about it, though personally not at all sure he'd even think about it since it would take away time from his precious video games. He seemed a little unsure about it at first, but said yes, he'd see what it was all about, so we made plans to attend the practice scheduled for last night.

As we pulled up to the school's soccer field, where practice was to be held, I was thankful (okay, more like practically elated) to see Kat there. Hunter, by this time, was getting nervous, and I was keeping my fingers crossed that he'd even go through with the whole deal. Since Kat had worked with Hunter over the school year, she already knew of his unfortuate absolute lack of physical sport-partaking ability, and I knew she'd be able to coax the best he had out of him. He followed her like a puppy down the hill to the field, and I sat up on the hill like one of the other moms, except my fingers were crossed and I was prepared for, if not expecting, the worst.

My heart went out to Hunter. I hoped he wouldn't embarrass himself, and that if he did, he'd be too ignorant to notice. Thankfully, there were 3 other kids that also had never played rugby, so they got to work together, and Hunter didn't stick out much from the rest of the kids. Although I cringed when he dropped the ball and felt horrible for him when he was the last one to cross the finish line when running (though I'm pretty sure he didn't even notice), he seemed to really be having fun. God knows it was certainly the most real exercise the kid's had in his whole life. Halfway through the hour and half-long practice, he came panting up the hill for his water bottle. "Sign me up, Mom!" he told me. I felt as though a weight had been lifted.

So, now we have rugby practice every Tuesday and Thursday and games every Saturday afternoon through August. Almost unable and certainly unwilling to wipe the grin off his face or stop talking about how cool rugby is, my little man fell asleep early, still wearing his new, 2-sizes-too-big rugby jersey. And even woke up with a smile this morning, still excited. Rugby rocks.