Blog 4-9-09

I have two kids. There’s the little one and there’s the big liar.

The big liar worries me and I’m mad at him for that. The only way I seem to be able to not scream at him like I want to do is to get creative. And by “get creative” I mean get even.  I find little ways to get even.  The littler the better.

My most recent creativity is to walk by the bathroom door when he’s in there on the toilet and jiggle the knob like I’m gonna walk in. The door doesn’t lock so it’s a real threat. “Hey, hey, hey, I’m in here.” I smile and try not to laugh. I do it again a minute later on my way back into the kitchen. “Jesus! Someone’s in here.” Now it’s not him, it’s someone. Gee, could that someone be you, the liar? Is the liar having a moment of truth? Did someone almost see you on the toilet?

I’ll admit, after that one I did have a moment of feeling sorry for him or maybe it was the onions I was cutting. All I know is that I got a warm feeling inside and the anger was gone. Getting even takes the edge off.

It’s not something I’m proud of. My higher self tells me I’m being a baby and I’m supposed to be teaching my kids and what does that teach him?  And to my higher self I say, “C’mon. Didn’t you feel joy when you heard the “Jesus I’m in here” line?  Don’t you feel like a weight has been lifted? Look, I’m not mad at him anymore.” 

What is wrong with getting even when it’s so beneficial to me? It’s good for my health because it’s a great stress reliever, and no one gets hurt? It’s like money in the bank because the next time he lies, cheats, deceives or sneaks I react more calmly knowing he’ll have to use the bathroom sooner or later. I highly recommend getting even. I mean creative.
 

Hi Everyone,

So, my five-year-old (he says he’s five-and-a-half) calls me into the bathroom, as he does every day, to wipe him. He is a clean freak. So, this time I ask him, “Who wipes you at school?” He tells me he does it himself at school.  I said, “then why don’t you do it yourself at home?” He said, “Because you do it better.”

My other one, a teenager this year, is sickened by it all. He says, “Make him wipe himself.”  I nip the family drama in the bud by telling the older more perfect one, the teen, to mind his own business.  He keeps it up so I remind him he’s not that good at it either. I’m the omniscient one; I do the laundry. 

So I have a five-year-old who admits he’s a lousy wiper and a teen who’s a lousy wiper in denial. It occurs to me I might be doing something wrong because my kids can’t wipe. I have an emergency on my hands. I call my mother to ask her opinion. She’s raised six kids (four girls, two boys) all of whom I assume can wipe like the pro’s.

I asked my mom, “When do boys learn to wipe?” She said, “When they’re about twenty-six.”  I said, “I might have to get my own place, then. I can’t wait that long.” And I certainly can’t wipe that long. 

Then I remember a mom I used to know who’s nine-year-old still had accidents. She’d sit down with tears in her eyes. “David shit in his pants again. I just can’t take it anymore.  I had to ride in the car with him and the shit in his pants all the way home.” 

To that mom I say thank you. Thank you, thank you, and thank you for having it worse than me. Personally, I couldn’t do it.  From one mother to another, there’s always some poor mother who has it worse than you do. Be grateful.

This has been Margaret Smith from the bottom.

   

Blog 3-11-09

Teachers

Miss Dobson bowed forward when she stood. I don’t know if it was her skinny legs that bowed or if she had a natural pelvic thrust. I suspect her bone density numbers were low. She held one arm up with the other, which crossed over her chest. I’m not sure if she had breasts because the arm was always there. The hand that she rested on her arm held her glasses, which were secured with a chain around her neck. She chewed on the end of the glasses. The ends were gnarly from her chewing. She was my first grade teacher. I was six and she, I believe, was one hundred and six.

My eighth grade teacher Mrs. Carey had a permanent look of distain. The only time I saw what I thought was a smile on her puss was the day we graduated. The smile was eerie, as if to say, I let you live and now you’re free to go. 

Those two teachers book-ended my elementary school years. In between I had teachers that were happy to be there. My Favorite was my fourth grade teacher Mrs. Heineman. She was kind and creative. She had a reading club. I still love her for that. On the backs of the reading club chairs were Annie Oakley, Wyatt Erpp, Daniel Boone, Roy Rogers, Dale Evans. When I sat in the Dale Evan’s chair it was so special I could barely concentrate on the book I was reading. I hope she made more money than the rest of them, or at the very least, more than Miss Dobson and Mrs. Carey.

I was listening to NPR and how our president, Mr. Obama, wants to give teachers their raises based on their merit and performance. I like that idea. Based on my experience, most teachers should get more money. It is a labor of love to go into teaching. If you stop loving it, you’re not going to be a good teacher anymore. Kids can’t perform when they’re in the presence of grown-ups that don’t like them.  Based on my experience, if a teacher is happy to see the kids, the kids are going to work hard to please her.

How do we know who’s working well with our kids and who isn’t? Evaluations by superiors, class averages, teacher cams? I’m not sure.  But base pay should go up. I wouldn’t mind splitting the bill with all the people in the form of higher taxes. It’s better than the tens of thousands of extra dollars I spend on private school for my kids.

Did I mention Miss Dobson used to shake kids (mostly boys) by their ears? One day she shook David Meinke by an ear and his head hit the metal file cabinet. There was blood all over the place. I hid under the stairs at home after lunch when it was time to go back to school. Miss Dobson was still there the next day and continued her teaching career.

Where will the money come from? Let’s start with a freeze on congressional wages, CEO wages and keep talking.

This has been Margaret Smith from the bottom. 

Blog3-8-09

Octomom

Right now my partner and I have two kids, two of them and two of us. We’re bigger and smarter. We win. For now, that is, we win. We have a plan as they get bigger and smarter and can outrun us. On paper it looks a lot like a football play. Keep them going in different directions and we run up the middle… each with a ball. That’s right, we cheat. When it comes to kids, you do whatever it takes to stay one step ahead of them. Not easy with the Internet telling them how to build a bomb and informing them how to frame us in a court of law. 

I was one of six kids. We outnumbered my parents three to one. Let’s just say we all lived in fear. Us of them and in hindsight, I bet, them of us. At any given time my Dad could only be one of four places, home, work, helping a friend or the tavern. On Sunday add church and subtract work. My mother was never far either. She had three places, home, grocery store or at her sister’s beauty shop getting her hair done.  She was “Octomom” because she seemed to have six extra hands although she constantly reminded us, “I only have two hands.”

Now there’s a new Octomom on the block. And by the way Octomom was coined by a reporter for one of the tabloid papers. Brilliant, and this time they’re not making it up. Octomom is real. Octomom, already a mother of six, gets eight embryo’s implanted and gives birth to a litter or eight. When a human being has a litter it is always man made. Much like Lake Meade, the Hoover Dam and the Washington Monument. People will do anything to get into the Guinness World Book of Records but that is not Octomom’s goal. What then is it? What sane woman with six kids tries to have eight more? That’s an entire soccer team plus a bench warmer.

I’m a little jealous. I haven’t been able to get a pitch meeting with Mark Burnett. You know he’s going to call her personally? She could do a season of Survivor with just her and the kids. People are outraged. I’m not outraged, I’m curious. Remember the Hugh Grant debacle? The first thing Leno asked Hugh Grant was, “What were you thinking?” What would Leno ask Octomom? Even the Catholics are going “damn”.  If you think about it, she did use birth control. And, well, they did vote “Yes On 8”. Careful what you pray for.

This has been Margaret Smith from the bottom.

Blog 3-2-09

Hi Everyone,

I was a houseguest this weekend and I loved it. Why have I always been reluctant to accept invitations? It’s like staying at a hotel for free. They made a room up for me with my own television and reading material. They let me sleep as long as I wanted. It was the end of the month and they paid the whole rent.

All I had to do was listen to a few stories about their childhood, hear about their medical conditions with a concerned face, and look at every picture on every wall and hear every story about the people in them. It’s a good thing I like stories.

My first day as a houseguest, I was afraid to ask where “the old country” was. I know the old country is Europe but where is her old country at in the old country? I couldn’t place the accent. She said she was from Lithuania, which I had always pronounced “Luthuania” because I got it mixed up with the Lutheran religion, but said she grew up in England. Honestly, she sounded Irish.

On the second day I took my kids snow boarding. I really wanted to snowboard because it looked like fun. It wasn’t that cold, sweater weather. I didn’t go because I had a cold and could barely walk a block without getting tired. It was one of those times that I thought it was important for the kids to have fun than for me to be sick. I tried to downplay the fact that my ears were plugged up and my balance was fuzzy.

We’re back home now and as always we talk about what our favorite part of the “field trip” was. My little one calls it a field trip. His favorite part was playing video. My oldest one’s was snowboarding and mine was watching them snowboard. Oh yeah, and the stories.

This has been Margaret Smith from the bottom.

Blog 2-22-09

Hi Everyone,

I am going to watch the Oscars tonight, how about you? I’m getting ready for them. I’m not getting ready like they’re getting ready at the Kodak Theater. I’m doing laundry. I hate to be so unglamorous as to admit it but that’s what I need to do before the Oscar party I’m attending tonight. I’ll be at a friend of a friend’s house named Tony. And no I’m not in New York.

In the past I usually had the Oscar party. Not so much since I had kids. After kids, when all my single friends vanished like Girl Scout cookies at an AA meeting, I watched them with the family. And guess what? I liked it a lot. Gone was the pressure to make my famous hot wings. Gone was the running out to Circuit City the day before to buy a bigger TV. Gone was my friend Cindy (now Luc) who talked incessantly through the best parts. I never heard Sally Fields say “You like me. You really like me.” I’m paraphrasing because I didn’t actually hear her.

Tonight I’m putting on some lipstick and taking my well-behaved kids to an Oscar party at Tony’s. My kids will go into another room that Tony’s setting up for “the kids” who’ll be attending. Don’t you love Tony? I will once again be with a group of people to watch the Oscars. I’m really looking forward to Hugh Jackman. He’s so cute I don’t care if he falls off the stage in one of his dance numbers, I’m gonna say nice things about him.

I have changed since the good old days of being single at the Oscars. It will be a new experience for me. I have more patience for young people and less patience for adults. I’m told Luc (formerly Cindy) will be there. Surely he will not be as chatty as Cindy was. I will not weather it well if he so much as utters a word during a Hugh Jackman moment or any of the acceptance speeches. He can talk all he wants if Sally Fields is on during a commercial talking about Boniva. Then he can let it rip. But don’t mess with my Jackman or my speeches. I’m bringing a tazer just in case.

This has been Margaret Smith reporting from the bottom.
 

Blog2-21-09

Hi Everyone,

Here’s what I’ve learned about jobs this week. There are a lot of jobs out there and they all pay ten dollars an hour. And the lower the pay, the more you have to reduce yourself to get the job. For the first time in my life I had to get a drug test to be considered for a position. This job is definitely not about the money I’ll make. The only reason I’m interested in it is because I think it will be fun.

The drug test was not fun. They frisked me before I went into the bathroom to pee in a cup. Then they drew a line around the cup about a third of the way from the bottom and said, “Don’t fill it any more than this.” I wanted to go, “Or what? You’ll stick me with a shiv?” But I didn’t. I went in the bathroom and peed in the cup.

I don’t know if it was a throwback to my bartending days or what but I filled that container right to the line with one try. I felt like putting a little umbrella in it and handing it to the phlebotomist.  I didn’t because, I don’t know if you know this but phlebotomists don’t have much of a sense of humor.

The best part of my day was taking my son to the doctor to get four vaccination shots. Wow, maybe I’m having a bad day. We laughed so hard in that doctor’s office.  My son was wincing in pain one moment and looking at me and laughing the next. I had written on a board in big letters the word OUCH and every time he’d get another shot I’d tally it up under the OUCH. The size of the tally was relevant to how much the shot hurt.

The tetanus shot was the worse.  I know because I got one recently for another job. That brings me back to where I started. Here’s a thought. Maybe I should stop looking for a job and let a job find me.

This has been Margaret Smith from a third of the way from the bottom. 

 

Blog 2-19-09

Reinventing Yourself

Hi Everyone,

Did you ever wish you could climb inside a comfortable machine, put some headphones on with your favorite music, push a button, drift off to sleep and wake up eight hours later totally reinvented? “You’re now Jim Smith with a whole new set of career skills and a complete new group of professional friends. Welcome. “

You went to sleep poor-bastard-without-a-job-Jim and you woke up Jimbo with ten job interviews scheduled back to back. You programmed the machine to your field of choice and bingo you can now prosecute Bernie Madoff personally.  And when he’s in jail you can reinvent yourself again.

When I was a kid I saw my Dad, who actually is Jim Smith, lose his job to a new thing called sheet rock. He was a very gifted plasterer and it seemed like in one day he was without a job. So, he did what any one would do in his shoes. He went to work in a prison for a while. He told me he was in charge of counting the silverware after dinner. Eventually he retrained and became a pipe fitter.

We’re all so identified with and defined by the work we do. It’s the first thing you’re asked by a dating service, (not that I would know) or someone at a “Reinventing Yourself” seminar, (not that I would know) or even a party. (Not that I would know.)

So who are we now, all of the jobless people? I am in between jobs, wondering which direction to go in. I’m doing things that are an about-face for me, but that might just be because I’m 50. (And so you know, I’m fifty until I’m sixty. That’s the way I’m doing it.) I’m taking classes just for the challenge. Tonight I went to a get-to-know-your-neighbor mixer. I’m having as much fun as I can have in order to keep the fear that seems to be gripping the developed world by the larynx at bay. 

I’m not sure who I am but I’m going to act as if I matter and I’m gonna try to treat the people I meet along the way like they matter.  When the dust of Wall Street and Main Street settles, I have a feeling we’ll all be reinvented.

This has been Margaret Smith from the bottom. 

What’s In Front Of You

Hi Everyone,

When I was a kid and I was upset, my Mother used to tell me to “walk, move, tire yourself out, go until you can’t go anymore. Then you’ll be able to sleep.” I don’t sit down much. Movies, reading and writing is about all I’ll sit for. 

Right now what’s upsetting me is how much change there is in my small part of the world. I’m told it’s happening in your small part of the world too. I’m talking about this whole, “IT’S-GONNA-GET-WORSE-BEFORE-IT-GETS-BETTER” movement that’s happening.

One friend called today just to tell me, “Do you believe this weather? It’s crazy everywhere. Tornados in the winter…it’s as volatile as the economy.”  I wouldn’t have called her if I knew how to do Microsoft Excel. It seems to be required for every job that doesn’t involve digging a hole and filling it up again. After listening to her for three minutes, I wondered if I should bother learning Excel. What good is Excel do me if California is just gonna snap off the end of the continent and sink.

So, my question is, if you’re presently not working at a job right now, as I am not, what then should you be doing besides looking for one? There’s a lot of time in between interviews.  What has worked for me in the past and what I shall continue to do is what’s in front of me. And, I’ve added something to that plan, which I’ll get to in a minute.

What’s in front of me are my two kids. I’m doing more for and with them, and it doesn’t revolve around buying things…except Lego’s. We can’t go without a five-dollar Lego once in a while. We go for hikes on sunny days and when the weather is crazy we play Monopoly. My five-year-old son who loves jewelry always wins. My teen son who loves to read will cheat if I’m not watching.  (It started when my Mother, his Grandmother visited.) I am the banker.

Service is always in front of me but when I work I have to say “no” a lot. It’s nice to have the time to say “yes” when a friend asks for help with something. I take pride in my work no matter what it is. I am a pretty good wood worker, a skill that I developed during other down time in my career. I can make a new front door for a friend’s house or put up blinds or build a bookcase.

That brings me to the “something” I’ve added to the “what’s in front of me” plan, and that is to learn new skills. Don’t lose your childlike wonder because you’re too busy wondering when the shit is going to hit the fan.  Instead learn to fix a fan so when the shit hits it, there’s something to see. 
Take a class, teach a class, don’t stop until you’re tired enough to sleep tonight. 

This has been Margaret Smith from the bottom.  

 

FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH or VALENTINE’S EVE 2-14-09

Hi everyone,

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to discuss Friday 13th or Valentine’s Day. Then my son told me an incident that happened during his day and I decided his story was about both Friday the 13th and Valentine’s Day.

My son got into our car after school and asked, “How was your day?” I said, “My day was okay, how was your day?” He said with great enthusiasm, “I had a really good day.” I caught his enthusiasm and asked him, “What happened!” He said, “I made fifty dollars.” It was more than I made that day, so I was suspicious.  “How did you make fifty dollars?”

He said, “I don’t know if I should tell you.” I said, “what am I gonna do call the police?” He said, “Okay, I won it in a bet.” “What bet?” He said, “I bet my friend Keon that his girlfriend was gonna break up with him and she did.” I said, “Well, Keon had a bad day didn’t he? He lost fifty dollars and his girlfriend.” My son said, “I guess so.” A moment passed then he added, “He bet me one hundred dollars but that was too much so he’s gonna pay me fifty. Two dollars a day.”

I felt bad for Keon. I asked how long they had been together as a couple. My son said, “Something like three weeks.” Long term just as I had thought. Neither of us said anything for a while. We took in the gravity of Keon’s world.

My son had just gotten a girlfriend a few days earlier. I suspected something when we were at the Glendale Galleria a few days earlier and he bought a bag of See’s Red Hot Hearts and didn’t eat them. It was a small bag that cost him five dollars.

I said, “How’s your girlfriend?” He said, “Oh, her. She’s not my girlfriend anymore.” I said, “I’m sorry to hear that.” He said, “It’s okay.” I said, “At least you didn’t loose fifty dollars too.” He said, “Yeah.” Poor Keon. He said, “I guess when we get home we can eat the hearts.” You’re just like me, I thought, looking for the silver lining in everything life hands you.

When we got home I went to the corner hutch and there were the Red Hot Hearts looking out the window at us. I took them out as if it were part of a ritual. It was his first girlfriend. She had put a spring in his step that wasn’t there before. She had somehow made him stronger, more sure of himself. I liked seeing him that way. Will it stay, I wondered as I handed him the bag of hearts.

I said, “You should be the one to cut the ribbon.” He got the scissors and cut the ribbon. The two ends fell to the floor. He then did something I had never seen him do. He bent down and picked them up.

And so it was on Friday the 13th. We ate the hot hearts of my son’s first love, lost on Valentine’s Eve.  Just so you know, I will not post this without his permission.

This has been, Margaret Smith. Happy Valentine’s Day.