My apologies
The Tia is neck deep in poetry today. So, instead of an original post, I am giving you an early humor essay I wrote. (The writing quality is slightly embarrassing, but hopefully it will make you smile.)
The Great Child Migration
A significant population shift takes place every weekend, and scientists continue their research into the cause. Every Friday, children from all over the country pile into mini vans and SUVs lugging backpacks, suitcases, and schoolbags, bound for a different home, and a different set of parents. This change in habitat is short lived, lasting for just the weekend, but it reoccurs on a regular schedule, happening every week of the year. The exact cause remains unknown, but studies suggest this trend owes its existence to Joint Custody.
Initially triggered by the now common Divorce, Joint Custody affects many families raising children. Two or more sets of parents lay claim to one child. In this co-parenting set up, children live in one location Monday through Friday, but switch to a different home for the final two days of each week. The Great Child Migration, as scientists now refer to the phenomenon, poses many challenges to the families as well as those hapless individuals caught in this tide of domestic upheaval.
Problems encountered during this trek vary. The parent giving up the child suffers an extreme range of emotion, from overwrought hysteria to relief. The parent on the receiving end often struggles with the new responsibility, unprepared for the feeding and maintenance of the child. Commercial food establishments offer the best solution to their quandary. Fast food giant McDonald’s unofficially reports a 75 percent increase in the sale of the Happy Meal on Friday nights.
Traffic concerns also pose a problem during this time. Because the transfer of the children usually occurs in neutral territory, such as the above mentioned McDonald’s, lines leading into the parking lots stretch out like the flight pattern of Chicago’s O’Hare airport. It is recommended that all unnecessary visits to these locations are suspended until the migratory herds have dispersed. But transportation isn’t the only concern.
Children often struggle with this modern co-parenting arrangement. “Daddy always lets me wear what I want!” “Mommy never makes me go to bed this early!” These verbal explanations may or may not be true, but their meaning remains the same. The children are pushing their environmental limits, testing the resolve of their embattled temporary parents. In the interest of keeping the peace, adults often give way to the powerful childhood manipulations, thus setting the stage for a Joint Custody Showdown.
The migration repeats itself on Sundays. Like a submarine reversing its throttle for a “Crazy Ivan,” children are reloaded into vehicles and returned from whence they came. Throughout the day, exhausted parents filter in and out of the same location, dragging along children hopped up on sugar and treats purloined from the doting part-time parent. The children often tote lavish gifts, purchased and given as a peace offering to stave off the bad behavior non custodial parents are unaccustomed to handling. To the delight or consternation of onlookers, recipient parents often find great frustration with these bribes and arguments are common.
“Why did you buy that for him? He already has three at home now!” hisses from one mother’s mouth.
“He wanted another one. What’s wrong with that? Why do you stifle his creativity just like you stifled me for years? Is this fun for you?” a weekend father grates out his reply.
“Did you have to give her so much candy? She won’t sleep for days! Did she finish her homework? No? Do you want her to end up failing just like you?” a woman accuses her child’s part time father.
“Oh that’s just what your mother would want you to say, isn’t it? I heard the same thing for years!” The father tosses this gem into his child’s custodial mother’s face.
Such modern migrations show up all across the animal kingdom. Great herds of wildebeest take a thousand mile journey across Africa in search of greener pastures. Lemmings march towards certain doom in Norway. Locusts swarm in great clouds during their trip to maturity. So it is to be expected that humans will also participate in such mass migratory endeavors. While Divorce and Joint Custody contribute to the occurrence, are they solely to blame for this phenomenon? Can science discover a solution to the traffic concerns, malicious administration of sugar, gratuitous gift giving, and embarrassing Sunday public altercations associated with these Great Child Migrations? While scientists struggle to answer these questions and more, one piece of information is true. Don’t go to McDonald’s on a Friday night.
I JUST WANT TO SPEAK TO A #$&</;(!*^*%! HUMAN BEING!
My internet went out on Friday morning. Not directly out mind you, but intermittently off and on in short two or three minute intervals. A page would load, but anything else set off the modem into a chaos of angry red and green blinking lights accompanied by suggestions how to fix the problem. Following the directions, I rebooted everything several times. I unplugged it, I inverted it, I whispered sweet nothings into its dusty grill–nothing worked. So I called my ISP, the one with the voice recognition software. I hate automated voice systems, and long for the good old days when a polite man from Topeka solved my problems.
A kind voice answers, has me push a few buttons, then asks me why I’m calling.
“I have a problem with my internet.”
“Let me see if I understand you correctly–you have a problem with your internet.”
“Yes.”
“So I can better assist you…”
Casey walks into the room, “Honey, where is the letter about my student loan?”
“Okay, your telephone. What is the telephone number you are calling about?”
“No! My internet! Casey, it’s on the table.”
“Let me see if I understand you correctly–you have a problem with your cable.”
“Ahhh! NO, my internet! Casey shhhhhh!”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t understand your response. What is the telephone number you are calling about?” The kind voice sympathizes with my obvious speech impediment.
“No, my INTERNET. Not phone!” As I get frustrated, my voice increases in pitch and tone until I sound like the bad guy from Who Framed Roger Rabbit.
“What is the telephone number associated with your account?” I can see the smirking actress recording her kind sympathetic voice as she imagines the apoplectic customer screaming, “NO NO MY INTERNET DAMN YOU! NOT PHONE!”
“I don’t have a phone! Representative!” Saying Representative to a voice system is sort of like shouting uncle when bullies are twisting your arm behind your back. Maybe a grown-up will hear you and step in to help.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t understand your response. What is the telephone number you are calling about?” Surely the company must know how aggravating this is, how desperate I am to speak to a real person, someone who understands the nuances of the human voice.
“REPRESENTATIVE!” Droplets of sweat pop out on my forehead, and my death grip on the phone has whitened my knuckles into pale grapes of fury. Casey stares at me in awe.
“Please hold while I connect you.” This voice is far less kind and more annoyed, much like the woman who finally answers her toddler after the fifteenth “Mommy.”
Now I wait, forced to take a time-out like a naughty preschooler just because I can’t get a computer to understand the English language. Ten minutes later, a person answers my call.
“Tank jhu fur calleenk. My nem ish Akheem. Vhat ish da noombear jhu arrr callenk apoudt?”
Seriously?
Let’s Talk Yoga, Shall We?
I recently started practicing yoga. I love it, and it makes me feel pretty darn good when I’m done. But being an overweight 35 year old who hasn’t really taken care of her body can lead to some significant challenges. And for some reason, those uber-flexible monks who named the yoga poses weren’t really thinking of me during their creative process. Therefor, I have created a more accurate nomenclature for some of my favorite yoga poses.
- Here Kitty Kitty
My belly sags like an old Tabby cat when I do this.
- Super Tia
It’s a bird! It’s a plane! NO! It’s a woman trying to fit into skinny jeans!
- Push Up
Obviously, because that’s what it is. An old lady push up.
- Mission Impossible
No, I cannot lift my own body weight three inches off the ground.
- Downward facing-please don’t let me fart
Do I really need to explain this?
- Thank you God
Because I am eternally grateful to the powers-that-be for not passing gas in a nice quiet yoga studio.
- Please, not another school snow day!
Who doesn’t pray for this when they have kids?
- Boobie Balance
Can my sports bra overcome the laws of Physics?
- Reality Check
Like I need a close-up to see my fat belly.
- Nope gravity doesn’t make it look any better either
I’m always looking for a different perspective on my out-of-shapedness.
- Bag o’ Chips
I sound like I sat on my Cheetos when I do this pose.
- I’m too old for this s***
Because I can’t afford a chiropractor anymore.
- When hell freezes over.
‘Nuff said.
Disastrous Dinners
Pasta's not so bad...
Ask anyone who knows me–I don’t cook much. Unlike some teenage girls, I avoided the kitchen growing up, instead spending hours at the stable with my horse. I preferred shoveling horse poop over any hint of domesticity. Once out of my parents’ house, I stuck to cooking simple things like a chicken breast with some salt and pepper put in the oven to bake with a potato for an hour. I also contributed significantly to Kraft Food stock prices with my mac and cheese purchases. Even now, Casey does the majority of our cooking here at home. He makes a mean hamburger in the broiler, and I love it when he makes tacos.
But he can’t cook all the time. He goes to class one night per week, and on those nights, I’m on deck. Throw in a crabby kid, an overload of homework, and my general distaste for the kitchen, and the results are less-than-gourmet.
Last week, all I had in the pantry was pasta with no meat or cheese to spruce it up. I dumped the box of penne in to boil, then added some simple red sauce. Not wanting an entire pot of noodles and sauce with no cheese, I added the only thing left in the refrigerator–some cottage cheese. Yes, I know. Don’t be so judgmental–even Julia Child made a few flops in her day.
Aleesa’s first bite sent her running into the bathroom to perform her latest trick. She mustered a pretend gag, but by engaging the reflex, she managed to make herself throw up. I sat with my spoon halfway to my mouth. Seriously? Is this the level to which I’ve sunk? I’m an aspiring novelist, Dean’s list student, and member of the National Honor Society. I may not be a five star chef, but it certainly wasn’t vomitously bad.
“Aleesa, give me a break. It’s not that bad.” She shuffled out from the bathroom.
“The sauce makes me throw up. I don’t like it, Tia.”
I sighed. “Well that’s all there is. You can have an apple if you want, but no dessert.”
My little Oscar winner humphed her way into the kitchen. The light from the refrigerator shone on her pouty face as she picked out an apple. Coming back into the living room, she flopped onto the couch and sniffled her way through the fruit. I choked down the rest of my noodles in a stony peeved silence.
When Casey came home from class, he scooped out a generous serving of pasta into a bowl. After one bite, he went back into the kitchen and poured an atomic dose of Frank’s Red Hot sauce onto his dinner. Then next morning, the bowl sat on the coffee table, still mostly full.
“Wendy, you need to order groceries. We don’t have any food in the house, and I’m hungry.”
“Sweetheart I had dinner ready for you last night, but you didn’t finish it.”
“Yeah, Nasty Noodles with a side of hot sauce. Mmmmm.”
Put that in your cookbook, Julia.
Garden Apartment?
Why do they call it a garden apartment?
When I think ‘garden apartment’, I picture a quaint Italian villa covered in rusted ivy, delicate salmon stucco, and a high walled garden off the back, overflowing with bougainvillea, roses, honeysuckle, jasmine, lavender, and tiny fruit trees. I think of humming bees and floating butterflies. I hear wind whispering through the green while I sit at an elegant iron table sipping expensive espresso from a tiny china teacup.
In Chicago, a garden apartment has sealed windows so criminals can’t get in. Sometimes the view is blocked by those 1980’s wavy glass blocks, or with frosted glass welded shut by eons of paint. No matter how opaque they are, they’re always covered by iron bars like a prison cell, and they never open. The view is half dirt and half leaves, or grass, or dead rats, all liberally mixed with trash from the street. The apartments are dark and stuffy, no way to air them out on a spring day, or after a meal of refried beans with sauteed cauliflower and broccoli. You cannot hear a summer rainstorm, cannot see the flashes of lightening in the sky, or smell the rich scent of wet renewal filling the air. You never fall asleep staring at the stars, basking like a druid in the light of a full moon. The balmy air of a summer night never touches your skin.
The biggest problem with a garden apartment is the price. They are so darn cheap. Look at one and your first reaction is “I wouldn’t live in this grave if it were the last hole on earth.” Then you get the price. As an example, my current third floor walk up costs me a jaw dropping $1370 per month with free heat only. To the east, my view is totally open–four almost floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a pair of enormous chestnut trees. In the back of the apartment, the western view out of my office is bright sun and three pretty little maple trees whose leaves stay long into the winter because they are sheltered between the buildings. I get a breeze when it is warm, and I get sunbeams to dream in while it is cold. I hear the rain.
Freelancing is tough, so yesterday we went and looked at a “Garden Apartment” located in a wonderful neighborhood near a great elementary school for Aleesa. I felt my soul shrivel as we wandered around in the little cave. Don’t get me wrong, the place is clean, big, and comes with lots of amenities. A talented decorator could turn it into an art deco’ studio-type space. But the windows were the size of a tissue box. The master bedroom doesn’t even get light since its windows are completely submerged in dirt. $685 per month. All utilities paid, with free high speed wireless internet and basic cable. We’d save over $1000 per month if we moved there.
I’m sick about this.
They Call Me Tia 
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