It's Not Delurking Week...But I'd Love To Hear From You!

Tap. Tap. (on the microphone)

Is this thing on?

Silence.

Heeeelllllooooo?!

Crickets.

Is anyone out there?

My last post, obviously was a failure. Not ONE comment.

Did you all protest because I was picking on Mr. Schmitty's feet? FYI - He loved the post. Really, he did! He thought it was hilarious!!

So, no harm, no foul.

Or are the Internets too busy soaking up the sun and enjoying this hotter than hell summer to be sitting at their computers reading blogs?

To this I say, great! Just remember your sunblock!

Or worst yet, have I lost all of my loyal readers? Has this blog completely turned to fluff?

I don't like fluff. Mushy marshmallow on bread? Yuk.

Please let me know that someone is still with me. Tell me that you are lurking and still like me.

Throw me a bone, people!

Please?!

Honey, E.T. Would Have Called, But You Stole His Finger

My mother-in-law likes to reminisce about days gone by. She especially likes to talk about her children and I love hearing about Mr. Schmitty as a youngster.

One particular story involves a bit of a fetish.

As a child, my husband, well, he had a bit of an obsession, with his feet.

That obsession may have been the result of having to wear special shoes on his feet every night. Those shoes had a metal bar between them that would keep his feet from turning inward.

Poor guy. Can you imagine night after night, lying in bed, on your back, with your feet restrained?!

Um, wait...oh nevermind.

Anyway, my mother-in-law believes that because of this, Mr. Schmitty became very protective of his feet. He wanted no one and I mean NO ONE to see them.

Once, he was using the toilet, and like most children, he peed with the door to the bathroom left wide open. His aunt yelled from the other room that she could see his hiney. His answer? "But you can't see my feet!!!"

I also recall hearing that he bathed with his socks on.

Until recently, Mr. Schmitty wore his socks constantly. I teased him and told him that he was still slightly fixated on his feet issues. He would just roll his eyes and dismiss it as being ridiculous; his feet were just cold.

I had to draw the line sometimes. You know when...well, it's just not sexy seeing glowing white, over the calf socks making their way toward you in the darkness of your bedroom.

Ahem.

Lately, Mr. Schmitty has broken free of this compulsion to hide his tootsies. He proudly struts around barefoot, allowing all those in his path to gaze at his glorious feet.

I just don't get it, first the working out and getting all buff and now the sock-less feet. What's next? A speedo or worse yet, sunning himself naked in the yard?

Maybe it's a midlife crisis or something.

Whatever it is, I've come to realize, that though his mom believed those metal-barred shoes were the culprit, I believe differently. He hid his piggies because his feet are Uuuuuugleeee!

His toes are long and a bit hammered. And the toe next to his biggest toe? It reminds me of E.T.'s phone home finger; except, well, it doesn't light up. That would just be weird.


So, honey, don't feel subconscious about covering up. I completely understand, heck, I even encourage it.

Wanting Better For Her

I was a tomboy in my youth. I could take on almost any boy in the neighborhood. And I could whoop his butt.

That's what I envied about the boys. They'd have a disagreement, they'd tussle, and then they'd move on like nothing ever happened.

Not with girls. Girls can be mean. And those that are know how to drag a battle out and they usually bring in reinforcements.

Back then, I didn't know how to handle that. Hell, even now, I'm not so sure I could.

Unlike when I was around boys, if you placed me in a group of girls, I became a shy, much walked upon doormat. I was a total wuss because I wanted them to like me. I wanted nothing more than to feel included.

I usually wasn't.

Oh, I had my best friend. She was one of those girls that everyone loved. She was so full of personality that you couldn't help but be drawn to her. When I was with her, what others thought didn't matter.

But, unfortunately, she didn't go to my school. So, in school, I was on my own. In 7th grade I became part of a group. A group that made my life a living hell.

Well, let me correct that. They made my life a living hell approximately fifty percent of the time. The other fifty percent of the time, they persuaded me to make another "group member's" life a living hell. Those days were the only days I felt safe within the fold. Those days were the ones that the attention was off of me and on to someone else.

This poor girl, she was just like me, so in need of acceptance. I wonder if she felt the same way I did when it was her turn to be in their good graces. She and I, we took turns wreaking havoc on each other while the puppet masters stood by manipulating our strings, totally amused and entertained. I wonder if she felt as ashamed as I did that I allowed others to turn me a mean girl.

I wish I had been a stronger person. I wish I had stood up for myself. I wish I had stood up for her too.

I got into a lot of trouble that year. I did things I never would have done on my own. It was peer pressure at it's worst. And I succumbed to it so easily, merely because I wanted these girls to like me.

Lately, I have been seeing a bit of myself in my daughter. She is as tough as nails with us. She stands her ground and speaks her mind with her brothers. She is not a pushover to most.

But when I observe her with her closest of friends; I see a difference.

She too wants to feel included and accepted. She does not like when she feels left out or ignored and is devastated when her BFF is angry with her. She has a tendency to give in just to keep the peace.

I want more for my daughter. I don't want her to make the same mistakes I did just to feel like she belongs. I want her to feel strong and confident in her choices and decisions. I don't want her to feel that she needs to compromise herself to please others and I want her to know that a real friend will be there for her no matter what.

The little girl in me wants her to know that anyone would be lucky to have her as a friend.

She Can't Get Enough

Thud!

THUD!

THUD!!

That sound would be books hitting the hardwood floor in my daughter's room.

Every night, as I am saying goodnight to her, she collects a stack of books from her shelves. She climbs up into her bed and after I tuck her in, she proceeds to read each and every book in her pile. As she finishes, she tosses each one over the side of her bed, and onto the floor.

THUD!!

She has such a tremendous love for her stories. And at 6 years old, she has learned to read one year sooner than both of her brothers.

She does really well and I am quite impressed with her. As we say around here, reading is her thing, just don't ask her to do Math. But that story is for another day.

She reads in bed. She reads in the car. She reads in the loo. She reads walking up and down the aisles at the grocery store (that was fun and quite a sight). She even reads twirling around in the living room. Yes, that's right, she sometimes twirls as she reads aloud to whomever will listen. Being prone to motion sickness, I practically throw up watching her, so I choose to listen with my eyes closed.

As much as I love the fact that my daughter can't get enough of books, I am beginning to think she has an addiction. She may need a 12-step program.

The last night before school ended for the summer, she went up to bed at her normal 8:30 time. I kissed her on the nose and told her that her books needed to go away so she could get some sleep. She handed them to me, rolled over, and closed her eyes.

An hour later, she emerged from her bedroom and shouted down that she needed to use the bathroom. I told her okay and that I would be up when she was done to help her back to bed.

Quite a few minutes passed and she still did not come out of the bathroom. I went up to check on her and found her reading a book.

"Um, hi mommy. I really didn't have to go to the bathroom. I just wanted to finish this book."

I went into her bedroom and saw a half dozen books sprawled across her comforter. She had pulled over the curtain to let the last remaining rays of daylight in and when she could no longer see, she fibbed and said she had to pee.

It seems my little bookworm is hooked!!!

NJ State Trooper Marc Castellano

I never want to see a NJ State Trooper approach my front door unless my husband is home.

Without words being spoken, I would know. I would crumble.

My world would crumble.

When I first heard of the tragic accident, one that never should have happened, that took the life of NJ State Trooper Marc Castellano on Sunday, June 6th, I was at home. I heard the news from my husband.

After exhaling the breath I was holding, I felt a moment of relief.

Relief that my husband does not work on Sundays. Relief that he was not involved in the chaos that transpired that day.

And then my heart immediately grew heavy.

My husband told me that this young man, who was a mere 29 years old with only 5 years on the job, was leaving behind a wife, a four year old daughter, and a one year old son.

I could never imagine the sorrow that his wife must be feeling.

As I type this, my husband, wearing his dress uniform and his polished leather and brass, is helping lead the procession as Trooper Castellano is laid to rest.

Please take a moment, if you would, and say a prayer for him and his family.

And then....hug and kiss your family.


*I have placed information in my sidebar regarding the Trooper Castellano Children's Fund which will benefit Julianna and Vincent Castellano.

Because You Apparently Need A Diagram, Here It Is

Dear Parents of students in my children's school,

You are probably wondering what this diagram represents. If you scroll down, you will see that I have labeled certain areas within the diagram.

This is a diagram of the front of our school. Granted, it is a somewhat bland drawing, however, artistic ability does not matter in this instance.

I have labeled the school, itself, the walkway that leads to the front door, the sidewalk, the crosswalk, and the street.

Basic and to the point, no?

You might now be wondering what those colorful rectangles are at the bottom right of the diagram.

No, they are not pieces of confetti from a ticker tape parade we had in your honor.

Let me elaborate:

1 - 4: These images represent random cars on **** Ave. between 8:30 and 8:45 in the morning.

1-3 have let their children out across the street from the school, some on the wrong side of the car, right into the middle of the street. Said cars have then moved on without a second glance back and tried not to drive directly into the car coming at them from the opposite direction; all while drinking their coffee and texting on their cell phone.

4 is some dumb schmuck who either just moved to town and didn't know of the chaos that is morning drop off or...well, some dumb schmuck who enjoys getting stuck in the middle of a clusterfuck.

5: The mother in this car has stopped, put the car into park, gotten out of the car, helped little Johnny get his backpack on, stepped back and smiled at him, licked her hand and plastered down his cowlick, hugged him, and then waved goodbye with a tear in her eye. She stands proudly on the sidewalk until he has meandered his way through the front doors. Only then does she break from her dream and return to her car. Not once does she realize that she has held up a line of a dozen cars, all of which have children waiting to be educated, just like little Johnny.

9: I will skip to number 9 as an option for number 5. If you must cherish every waking moment, please, pull up to one of the ten open spots on the other side of the crosswalk. This will allow for a very productive flow of traffic. It will also help with my urge to fling my flip flop at your head.

6 & 7: These two go hand in hand. 6, like 5, gets out of their car but not to see their offspring off to the wonderful world of learning. No, 6 saw 7 behind her and, "HiiiiiiEEEEE!! Wait until I tell you what happened to Gertrude and did you see what Sally was wearing to the party on Saturday annnnnnddddd....."7 was so excited to hear the latest gossip she didn't even pull the car up to the curb. She just stopped right where she was and ushered her kids out of the door. Neither 6 nor 7 even knows if their kids went into the school or hightailed it to the swings to play instead.

8: Do you see that big orange-yellow bus behind you? Yea, that one. Did you feel the slight bump when you ran over the orange-yellow traffic cone? Yea, that one. That cone designates the area for the Special Needs bus. Douchebag.

10: This is me. You can't see it, but there is smoke pouring from the window. That? That would be the smoke pouring from my ears.

Please take a moment to study this diagram.

This may not pertain to all of the parents in our school. But, if the shoe fits? Please kick yourself in the arse with it and get a grip!

That is all.

Sincerely,

A fed up mommy

I Really Could Have Used This Information To My Advantage

My sister, who is older than me, (which is a point that has absolutely nothing to do with this story. I just like to remind her that she is indeed, older. Who cares that it's only by 11 months. And by the way, Happy Birthday!) was a freshman in high school when she had her first seizure.

K. has cerebral palsy.

We believe that there were some errors made in her delivery which may have caused the damage to certain areas of her brain. This damage does impact her physically. Her limitations are muscular and affect her legs and her right hand.

Her cerebral palsy does not hinder her mental capacity. At all. She has never had any learning disabilities and is quite honestly, extremely smart. She's got a photographic memory that amazes me.

However, because of the scarring on her brain tissue, she began having seizures as she approached puberty.

I remember, clearly, THAT morning.

She was finishing up her breakfast of scrambled eggs. She stood and suddenly, down she went. She began to convulse.

I began to freak the fuck out.

Being only 13 years old, I had no idea what was happening. I thought she was choking.

Yea, on small pieces of scrambled eggs.

And what made my panic worse? Pieces of egg had come out of her mouth covered in blood!! Well, no not really, it was only ketchup. But it looked like blood!

My brother, who was only 8 at the time, and I took turns running in and out of the front door as we shouted for the ambulance to get there.

Apparently, we are both very useful in panic situations.

Once she was diagnosed with the seizure disorder and put on medication, I learned what to do and how to react to any she might have in the future.

I learned that running around and screaming like a banshee was not productive. I learned that my sister was okay and not a monster.

Or was she?

Remember when I told you about this movie? Well, my father was not very good at monitoring what his children watched on television. As a matter of fact, he encouraged inappropriate viewing habits.

Wasn't he special?

In my house, we all knew who Linda Blair was, long before we should have.

It came to my attention recently, that my baby brother was convinced my sister was the Exorcist THAT day.

*snicker*

He continued to believe this for years.

*snort*

"Never mind the ambulance people! We need a priest - STAT!"

*BWAAAAAAHHHHHAAA!*

I wish I would have known. I SO could have turned that into a fun time.