Did I Ever Tell You the One About...

When Hubba-hubba almost died because of Depeche Mode?

No?

Well, sit back and let me tell you small tale, and obviously one with a happy ending.

Back in the halycon days of New Wave, living in Los Angeles was an exciting, heady time.  Famous bands, and not so famous bands played here, visited here for talk shows and the like, and of course, what used to be a very Big Deal, the new album release.

Sometime in the late 80's (I'm guessing 88 and Hubba-hubba is at work and I am too lazy for fact-checking) Hubba-hubba and some friends went to the Virgin Megastore in Hollywood for a big release party/signing for the Depeche Mode album.

Sigh, back when it was ONLY albums.  Or tapes.  But mainly albums.

Does anyone even use the word albums any more?

The security bigwigs at the Virgin Megastore had erected plexiglass barriers between the crowd and the limo in which Depeche Mode planned on using for departure after their event transpired.

As I wasn't there, I'm not sure if they got there late, or why they were over by the limo instead of where the band was performing/signing.  Suffice it to say that for whatever reason, he and his friends were the first row of the plexiglass barrier line.

But that doesn't really matter.

Hubba-hubba claims that it was he himself who uttered the fateful words, "There they are! Depeche Mode!"

What happened next was something he claims he will never forget, as the surge of hundreds of people toward the plexiglass began inexorably pushing his group up against the barriers themselves.

At first they tried to keep their hands on the barriers and "push" off of them so as to not be squashed, but of course, that was fairly futile against the number of people that were there.

One of his best friends was thrown down on the ground from the pressure.

Hubba-hubba could no longer brace himself against the plexiglass and began to feel his body being crushed, air forced out of his lungs.

He had no breath to cry out.

He told me that he honestly thought he and his friends were going to die, right there, in view of Depeche Mode, whose members were finally making their way into their limo.

And then suddenly, miraculously, the limo drove away and the crowd lost interest.

There was a loosening of bodies and Hubba-hubba gasped for breath and searched for his friend on the ground.

His friend was trampled, with bruises and cuts, but he would be fine.

So would Hubba-hubba.

But to this day, he REALLY dislikes crowds.

The Secret to a Successful Marriage

"Never share a bathroom."

Spoken like a true rich person, that.

Supposedly this one was attributed to one of the Real Housewives of Where-the-hell-ever, who are all rich.  Or at least doing a sufficient job of pretending to be rich for the cameras. 

At first I pshawed like an old grandmother.  Ha! How could you NOT share a bathroom at some point with your spouse?  Even in the swankiest hotel room I have graced only has one toilet.  A damn fancy one, but one nonetheless.  But maybe the really rich people have access to hotel rooms beyond my ken.

I am one of those people who prefer to keep the door closed whilst doing whatever it is I need to do in there. My motto is that if Hubba-hubba can't see it, then it never happened.

Then I got to thinking about it, and you know what, this woman might have a point.

I mean, not to get too TMI, but there is a certain agony of having to wait for someone else to finish using the bathroom when you need to urgently go yourself, is there not?

And let us not speak of directly following someone who made the unfortunate (for both people, as it turns out) decision to eat the double beef burrito with cheese.

And also let us not complain even more about how it seems like an impossible task for men to actually direct the pee-pee INSIDE of the toilet instead of other various places.

I have always had two available bathrooms when living with Hubba-hubba, so I have tried to avoid any unpleasantness as much as possible.

But I still refuse to clean the toilets, because between Hubba-hubba and Mr. P, let us just say that I am certainly not the one who is placing pee on the sides of the toilet and god knows where else.  I am resentful like that.

So yeah, there is definitely something that would be kind of great about having completely separate bathrooms. 

Throw in a maid to clean them both, and I think you might actually have a pretty successful recipe right there.

Make Mine Chubby Hubby

It never fails.

I took Ms. P to get her hairs cut the other day.  It is all one length with no bangs, and I don't get it trimmed all that often because a) it saves me some money and b) she isn't a huge fan of getting her hair cut.

Anyhoo, when we are in a situation where she might freak out a bit, I try to warn the person we are dealing with that she is special needs and may not truly understand what the person is saying to her, and that she has difficulty communicating verbally.

If I had a buck for every person who says, "What, this adorable angel is special needs?  Are you serious?  She certainly doesn't look like a special needs child," I would have the money for that very expensive purse I've been eyeing lately.

And this is where I have to keep my eyes from rolling far, far back into my head because I want to ask them what exactly does a special needs child look like?

Why does a child have to look like they have a disability for people to accept that they have one?

I suppose in my pre-special needs child past, I wasn't as aware of the huge and broad spectrum of disabilities that children can have, but I certainly wasn't stuck in a place where I thought only kids who were in wheelchairs or who had Down's Syndrome were the only ones who qualified as special needs.

This probably plays into the whole stigma our society has against disabilities that involve the brain and not the body.  Because she certainly does look perfectly healthy.  And my own family has even accused me of "wanting" something to be wrong with her.  Does no one realize how difficult it is for a mother to look at her child and admit that there might be something "not normal" about them?

I am truly lucky that my daughter's prognosis is fairly good, and that they expect her to be at peer level in a few years.  But oh, the effort to get her there.  The hours and hours of therapies that she has to endure.  And yes, they are structured in a way that could be construed as play, but have no doubts that she is expected to work during her sessions.  Two days out of the week she has a one-on-one session with her speech pathologist as well as turning around and attending her speech-immersive preschool.  I can tell that she is more exhausted at the end of the day on these days, and my heart hurts for her a little.

But maybe it shouldn't because she doesn't look like there is anything wrong with her.

Jeebus, I need some ice cream.

Frozen

Last week, it was my turn to be "snack mom" for my son's volleyball team.

Turned out that he was too sick to play that day (as has been the story of our lives since December) but we only live about ten minutes away from the gym, so I called the coach on Friday to let him know we would still be delivering the snacks despite Mr. P's illness.

It was shaping up to be a hot day, so I had the bright idea to put the Gatorades into the freezer to give them a really nice coolness.

Except I wasn't feeling all that great, and fell asleep.

Which meant that the Gatorades stayed in the freezer a bit too long, and wound up being sort of frozen.

Not completely frozen, but very close.

I let them sit on the counter for an hour before Hubba-hubba left to take them, but I wasn't sure if it had been enough.

When he got back, we all decided that it was warm enough that those semi-frozen Gatorades would hit the spot perfectly.

And I admit, it took quite a bit of poking the Gatorade with a straw in order to do anything with it, and it actually took us about an hour to drink/poke through the entire bottle.

Hubba-hubba was complaining about it the entire time, and telling me that all the other moms were making fun of me because I was the sucky mom who gave their kids Gatorade that they couldn't drink right after the game.  My son complained about it too, mostly because he now thinks it is fun to gang up on me with his dad.

I told both of them to shut it.

Anyhoo, during the week he would tease me about it off and on, and I developed a bit of a complex about it. I vowed never to breathe a word that I was the mom who brought the too-frozen Gatorade.  It would forever remain a mystery.

After the next week's practice, Mr. P told me that one of his teammates asked if his mom was the one who gave everybody the frozen Gatorade.

I held my breath, thinking that it couldn't possibly be true that this thing was coming back to haunt me.  That it was SO BAD  and traumatizing that the effects of it were still being felt almost a week later.

The child apparently told him that the drink being frozen was the BEST THING EVAR because the weather was so hot, and thanking me for thinking of such a good idea.

Take THAT Hubba-hubba.

Haven't you learned yet that I am always right?

Hey There Ho There

Small doses today.

-I don't know what minor, easily-annoyed god I have angered, but man, we cannot stop getting sick over here.  Poor baby girl went to the ER last Tuesday because the advice nurse didn't like the sound of her four days of high fever, vomiting, and facial rash.  There's a meningococcal outbreak warning in these here parts, and I KNOW that's what she thought it was, because it had crossed my mind as well.  So, instead of making a possibly large mistake by not taking her, we made only a small mistake in taking her, as all she apparently had was a virus.

Which of course, she promptly gave to the rest of us.

- I find it very strange that two of the most violent children who live in our area have been girls.  Should I find it strange?  I mean physically violent and making threats like, "I'm going to kill you" and things like that.  Has happened to my son more than once, which is disturbing no matter who does it to him.

- I was THAT mom and told my son's volleyball coach that I straight out disagreed with a tactic they were using on serve return.  I told him I felt the kids weren't old enough to judge which serves they should set (which even TYPING those words fills me with rage) as more and more of them are serving overhand.  And trying to set a ball that has been served overhand will just result in injury.  What are these people thinking?  As they progress to the upper levels, NOBODY will be serving underhand, which means NOBODY will be setting off a serve, which means why the hell should they be doing it now?  Sorry if that makes not a lot of sense to people, but it just made me so angry that they weren't taking the time to teach the kids how to properly pass the damn ball, which is the cornerstone of good volleyball.

I think I convinced him I was right.

- My daughter's IEP was just changed so that she will be attending the Special Education version of summer school.  Almost four hours a day of free preschool in the summer!  I am fainting with happiness.  Although as my husband stated today, there is definitely a price that has been paid with our daughter, it just wasn't money.  More like sanity, maybe.

-  That makes me sound like a bad mom, doesn't it?  Well, I guess it's my fault for having a shitty support system.  Well, I didn't think they would be shitty, but they certainly turned out that way.

- Do you know that my sister has probably been one on one with my daughter for less than ten hours of her entire three and half year life?  And that she only lives forty minutes away?  And that she is a teacher, so obviously kids are OK with her?  If she thinks she is going to waltz in and start hanging out with her when she is older and more "normal" she can kiss my ass.

- I just downloaded a Green Day song for my son, because I have some free Amazon MP3 credits, and I was thinking that perhaps I should key him in to some "pretty" songs instead of all the angst-filled punk and rock he's got.  I mean, angst is fine but I think I should temper it with something different. I'm thinking "Linger" by the Cranberries.  I mean, the kid falls asleep to Enya, so it isn't as if he has something against those types of songs.  But Linger is pretty without being quite as wimpy as Enya.  Don't get me wrong, I like Enya!  Anybody?

- Does anyone ever look at their kid and think, man, I named this child all wrong.  I think I did that with my daughter.  But her current name is not the one I wanted, which I think would have fit her much better.  I blame the husband, of course, who hated all the names I liked but failed to come up with any alternatives.  Of course.

The Dastardly Easter Plot

Scene: Miss P's preschool, staff sitting around table

Teacher: So, how do you think we should punish the parents for Easter this year?

Aide 1: (raising hand) Oh, I know, I know!  Let's give them something breakable as a craft!

Aide 2: (laughing) Yeah, let's give them something made out of glass! How about DIY "snowglobes?"

Teacher: Glass for special needs kids?  What a great idea! I wish I'd thought of that.

Aide 1: How about we even make it all slippery, coated with the baby oil we need for the inside!  We won't wipe it off or anything, or even make sure the lid is closed all the way!

Teacher: (cackling) And to top it off, we won't even TELL them their preschooler has a breakable item in their backpack! They'll never know what hit them!

Aide 2: You, madam, are a genius.

Cut to Gina's house

Gina: Oh honey, why don't you show me the eggs you got during your egg hunt at school today?

Miss P: I open backpack! I open backpack!

Gina: (thinking, OK, it's just plastic eggs) All right, Miss P open her backpack.

Miss P: (pulling out large glass baby food jar filled with mineral oil and glitter) Look!

Gina: (panicking) OH MY GOD IS THAT...

LOUD CRASH ONTO MARBLE FLOOR

Cut to Gina spending at least a half hour cleaning broken glass, glitter, and f'ing baby oil off the floor, which is a total bitch.  Happy Easter to me!

Miscellany

Because I just don't have enough for longform.

On Saturday I ran into the woman who was my first boss.  She gave me a hug and said, "Oh, you were always one of my favorites!"  And indeed I was, as she also was the person to give me my first promotion.  She told me, twice, that when I was ready to work part time to call her and she would hire me on the spot.  I guess that doesn't say much for the current crop of people working for her.

My daughter managed, about two hours before we left for my sister's house (long story there, I guess) for Easter, to give herself a huge cut right underneath her nose.  I'm talking about an inch and a half long and half an inch wide.  She found out the hard way that every action has an equal and opposite reaction, courtesy of a bucket handle.  Hmmm, probably long story there, too.

A neighbor a few houses down from us has a large cross that fits around their doorbell.  I find this intriguing.  I would never have thought to put a cross there in the first place, but I also wonder that they feel it is so very important to let EVERYONE know that they are Christian? I mean, you can easily see this thing from across the street.  Is it like, if you aren't Christian, then don't bother ringing the bell?  Or maybe they are really afraid of vampires.

I am trying in vain to find a good, fairly inexpensive pair of black slides.  You know, shoes.  Kind of like the black sports slides that Adidas makes, but I hate wearing logos, so the Adidas ones are out.

My niece, who I admittedly am not all that close with as she lives about two hours away, was not accepted to any of her local colleges of choice, but was accepted to one in Arizona.  I believe she was offered a partial scholarship.  However, her mother will not let her go.  Then why the hell did you even allow her to apply if you had zero intention of her going there?  The sad part is she had a 4.2 GPA and TONS of extracurriculars, but it still wasn't enough to get her into the Cal States, apparently.

I think I am a badass driving my minivan now because I finally was able to get my Jack Skellington license plate frame on it.  Suck it all you ladies with your "family" stickers!

If You Are Squeamish, This Isn't for You

My lovely daughter, who is about a year or so behind developmentally (give or take a few months) is still not potty trained. 

I'm OK with that, as long as she tells me when she has poo-poo.

Unfortunately, she is known for being a bald-faced liar, denying the presence of it even as I am checking her diaper.

Today, I kind of figured she was in the process of going poo-poo, as she often will go into the playroom (for privacy, I suppose) when she needs to go.  I can see into the playroom about 80% from where I normally sit, and there happens to be a couch separating the living room from the playroom (don't ask, this is a weird floor plan) so that makes me sort of unable to see most of the floor unless I'm standing.

Anyhoo, I see her hanging around in there, and I ask her if she is finished.  Mind you, I'm not exactly watching her like a hawk or anything, I'm deleting old programs from the DVR while looking over occasionally.

I'm sure you can already tell that this was a bad move.

She says yes, she is finished, and I ask her to come to me, as sometimes she lies about it being in there, as well as not being in there.  I have learned the hard way that she cannot be trusted under any circumstances.

Well, sure enough we have a winner, and I tell her to walk with me to the changing table, which is in my room at the back of the house.  As we are walking past the playroom, she says, "Poo-poo, mommy."  I distractedly agree with her, and then look at where she is pointing.

She is pointing to the floor of the playroom.

You see, there is a piece of poo-poo on the floor.

Exactly where poo-poo should not be.

I get upset and hustle her into the room, admonishing her that she should not have taken a piece of poo-poo out of her diaper.  I try to wipe her hands as well as I can until I am done changing her and can wash them properly. 

So as I am cleaning her off, I notice something on her foot.

Yep, you guessed it.

She not only put the piece of poo-poo on the floor, she stepped on it for good measure.

That means she has been wandering the house tracking poo all over the floor.

I am somewhat of a germaphobe who discourages any and all street shoes in the house, so you can imagine the yelling my dismay at this.

She of course starts to cry, although my sympathies are limited here, and I am frantically trying to retrace her steps so that I can antibacterial wipe/Lysol all the areas.  I wind up pretty much doing the entire floor and still thinking I somehow missed some spots.

So, how was your day?

The School Building is Still Standing...For Now

So today was Ms. P's first day of special education preschool.

It apparently went well.

Although both the teacher and I agree that this might not be the case come next week when she isn't quite as overwhelmed with newness.

I knew that there would pretty much be zero trouble leaving her the initial time, as she will willingly walk with anyone who is talking to her.

Sure enough, the teacher (who is a zygote compared to moi) greeted her by name, and even though Ms. P looked at her like, "How exactly do you know my name?" she was fine with leading the line into class.  Even though she didn't really know what leading the line was at all, and kept stopping to look around.

So I had the same shiver of sadness run through me that I always do when I leave my children with strangers that I need to trust.  But it was tempered by the knowledge that she truly needs this program and she loves other kids and people so much that it will be so much more beneficial than being at home.

I took my son out to lunch to celebrate her first day, as she really had no understanding of the occasion and doesn't eat anyway.  Which was nice, because he doesn't really get a whole lot of alone time with me.

Surprisingly, not one mom came up to me and said hello, even when it was clear that my daughter was a new class member.

Well, it isn't surprising, now that I think about it.  I haven't had a whole lot of luck being friends with other moms, and I guess by this time of year, they are already a bit clique-ish.  Which reminds me of high school, which seems to be where more people than not are still stuck.

Here I thought as moms with children with the same disability, that there would be some sort of cameraderie, but nope.

Sigh.

That's OK, I've got a lot of shit to catch up on in my measly two hours.

Coffee Cake?

Hubba-hubba enjoys shopping at Costco more than I do, so he is usually the one who goes there.  I think it has a lot to do with the constantly changing inventory. 

Anyhoo, he came home the other day with a coffee cake. 

I looked at him and said, "Who actually goes and buys coffee cake?"

He said, "I do! I love coffee cake.  It's my favorite."

Seriously?

Who the hell picks coffee cake, out of all the hugely delicious cakes in the world, as their favorite?

My weird spouse, apparently.

In other news, we had our daughter's IEP meeting today to determine her eligibility for special education services, and I was expecting a bit of a fight.  I am so used to institutions being unwilling to extend services that I am kind of conditioned to a fight response at this point, I think.

Instead, we were actually a bit overwhelmed at all the services they wanted to schedule her for, which includes a five day a week language-immersive preschool, occupational therapy twice a week, and group speech therapy twice a week.

Wow.

I was going to be happy with a couple of days of preschool.

While I feel no sense of vindication that I am indeed not exaggerating her issues, as my family has insisted many a time, I do feel hopeful that this will help her.  The staff during the IEP really seemed to think she was perfect for the program, and she is so far behind that I am willing to believe them.

The only bummer is that the occupational therapy is not at her campus, but another one across town.  They will bus her there, but there is no way in hell I am putting her on a bus. 

She can start on Monday if that is what we want. 

Can you be afraid and yet hopeful at the same time?