Parking Lot Etiquette

Parking was tight when we pulled in, but I left enough room on either side for the trucks parked there to get in and out.  We managed to get ourselves out of the trailblazer without touching anyone's vehicle, which is tough to do when you've got a sweet ghetto booty like mine.  So we picked up a few things at the cheap supermarket and we were making a stop at the car before heading across the lot to visit K-Mart, when I noticed a note on my windshield.  Someone who must have been parked near us saw a gentleman in the truck to our right throw his door into the side of our car and thought he would let me know the guys vehicle and license number.  I thought this was a very nice gesture.  Too bad the man who did the damage didn't feel the need to leave the note because he wouldn't have had to live the rest of his day with a guilty conscience.  For all he knew my car could have been a really sweet SUV, as opposed to a nicely polished pile of poop with about 4 layers of touch of paint in the same spot he scuffed. 

I had plenty of time to inspect the new eye sore on the car door as both the boys felt the need to drop their pants and pee in the parking lot.  My oldest went first and as he was wrapping up his river, he quickly pulled up his pants and bent over to pick something up.  Yup... candy.  He had spotted what looked like a green fruit snack in the parking lot and was about to give it some leniency with regards to the 5-second rule.  I guess since I've already begun to describe how disgusting little boys are you can easily imagine one of them thinking that it would be okay to eat the treat.  The picture below describes quite clearly why my cat-like reflexes kicked in and blocked him from snagging it.  What exactly was it that made him think this was a good choice?  Am I not feeding him enough?  Did the man who slammed his door into our car leave this here?  And did my 5-year-old honestly believe that just because the pee hadn't dribbled under the fruit snack that it was still a viable snack?

The End of an Era

I received news today that the Ron Trell Studio of Dance would not be reopening this fall.  I instantly was speechless.  I wanted to cry.  How could this be?  I know that places open and close all the time.  And I knew that Ron couldn't keep going forever, but I was so sad to hear it was over already.

I started dancing at the studio when I was 10.  I had just entered 6th grade, which is late to be starting to dance, and my mom asked if I wanted to give it a shot.  Sure!  Why not?!  I was in beginner ballet and had to start in a class with girls who were years younger, but I was okay with that.  I worked at it, learned the basic moves, and by the next year I was in ballet class with my friends and also started learning Character (like Broadway musical dance/Jazz/Hip Hop).  I loved to dance.  Was I any good at it?  Nope, but I liked doing it anyway.  I continued dancing all through middle school and through high school.  Recitals came around every other year, and on the off years we participated in a benefit show to raise money for the nearby Barbara Bush Children's Wing of the hospital.  There was something about going out on that stage and performing.  The butterflies in my stomach were intense, but I could hardly wait for my next chance to do it.  I graduated high school and continued on to college, but would return home and attend dance classes.  After college graduation I found myself back in Brunswick, feeling like I had no real direction.  My college friends were off still in college or doing other things and here I was working and finishing up my internship, but not quite knowing what to do in this adult world.  So I started taking classes again.

It was different this time around.  Ballet and Character had a different spot in my life when I was younger.  I liked to perform, but the work ethic wasn't there, nor the desire to make a huge fool of myself.  Now I found myself wanting to go to class because it gave me an opportunity to push myself in a new way, and I could show off my ridiculous moves and fit right in.  I started making life-long friends on those crazy Thursday nights.  The kind of friends that are there for you on your toughest day and to remind you that you deserve your shining moments.  The friends that don't disappear when you move 3000 miles away.  We would dance our asses off for hours, laughing at each other most of the time, and then follow it up with a cold beer and scrumptious food at Joshua's or Pedro O'Hara's.  And the laughs never stopped.  Somehow 10 o'clock would roll around much too quickly, and we would be heading home just counting the moments until Thursday rolled around again.  Dance class was the last place I went while we were packing up for our cross country move, and it was the only place where I really broke down and started crying about leaving all my friends and family.

Was it dance class or my friends that gave me the confidence I continue to possess today... I can't be sure.  Does it really matter?  I can only imagine how awful my girls must be feeling knowing they won't have classes to look forward to and this break from daily life that was devoted to doing something just for ourselves.  I think perhaps my personal sadness comes from the fact that when I'm able to return home for visits, I won't be able to stop in to say hello or sneak in a class.  And that down the road another girl like me, who is feeling lost, won't have this inspiring place to find herself.

Defining Normal

I was out running errands this morning.  After leaving The Home Depot, which doesn't get anywhere near the business they used to from me, we were stopped waiting to turn down the major road in town.  I waited a bit longer and let a man in his motorized wheelchair cross in front of me.  I could almost hear the questions/comments about to come from the backseat.  And I didn't have to wait long.  "Mom, look at that guy!  He's got one of those wheelchairs!!"  Again, with the fascination regarding the use of an electric wheelchair.  "Why does he have one of those?"  Always with the follow-up question too.  Now normally the answer had been that the individual riding along had trouble walking.  Still the case today, although I had to let my 5-year-old know that this particular man was missing parts of his legs.  He appeared to be missing from the knee down on both legs.  "What happened to his legs?"  Well, I informed him, I don't know that man so I can't be sure what happened to his legs.  Some people are born that way and some people have bad accidents and they lose them.  For this teaching occasion I didn't feel like going down the road of describing what happens to the limbs of those with poorly managed diabetes.  My description seemed to satisfy him and we moved on.  Our next stop was at a nearby grocery store to get a couple things for dinner.  We got to the checkout and a man got in line behind us.  I didn't really eye-ball the gentleman, but apparently my curious eldest got a good look.  "Mommy, look at that guy!  He has both his legs!"  hahahahaha.

Usually the comments are about something out of the ordinary.  Did he somehow now think that someone who had all their limbs was an oddity?  Or was it me that had this preconception?  If we came across someone in the store with a round belly or a huge butt, these things were quickly identified.  But it wasn't him who had pointed out that the man in the wheelchair was missing his legs, that was me!  He just thought it rocked that he had the motorized device.  And the other day at Walmart, he paid no attention to a young man who walked by us that was missing parts of his arms.  So why do I feel the need to make him sensitive to these subjects, when clearly he doesn't recognize any abnormality with them at all?  Is it perhaps my own fear that he will shout out something about their lack of limbs?  It's not like they aren't aware of their missing appendages.  I guess I should give him a little more credit for being sensitive to strangers' feelings... unless those strangers are men with huge pregnant-looking bellies or ladies with huge butts.

Penis Poop Penis Poop... Bagina

So now that you've read my boring comments on why I blog, let's take a sneak peak at today's witty conversation coming from my sweet little boys.  Apparently in the world of a 5 years old, if a sentence is going to be funny, then it has to have the word penis or poop in it.  Oh, wait "poopy" works too.  A knock knock joke is not truly funny unless we add poopy to the description.  For example, "knock knock... who's there... poopy car".  Oh, sorry, were you looking for the rest of the joke?  It doesn't exist since we only get this far before the giggling starts, and then suddenly I'm given the exact same joke from my 3 year old, in his broken English (which I have to admit kind of makes it sound a little funny).  I was also informed that "stinky" Daddy farts and poops - which is typically a given - so when I didn't respond with surprise, I was told this same fact 4 more times.  Trips to the store have to include the running penis/poop commentary so that everyone in town gets to enjoy it too.  My sister, who was visiting, got to hear from my 3 year old that Daddy has a huge penis - as he held up his arms like he was showing me the size of a fish he once caught.  Oh, young boys.  Everything looks that big when you're 3.  And last, but not least... bagina.  For those who are not seasoned with toddler-ese, this term means "vagina".  This would be the item that girls have whereas boys have a penis.  I don't think I could even count the number of times in a day that I get interrogated about possessing a bagina.  "Where is it mommy, is it in your butt?"  or "Mommy do you have a huge bagina?"  Well, I certainly hope not!!  I can't for the life of me figure out how they know that this is a sensitive subject for some more proper individuals.  Anytime they make comments about their equipment I certainly handle it the same way we would talk about their arm or leg.  So what is it in that male brain that drives them to focus so much on that one dangling appendage?  I can hardly wait to send my 5 year old off for kindergarten and have him question his new teacher about her lack of penis.  Parent/Teacher conferences should be interesting.

Ever been out to a store with a 3 and 5 year old?  Preparing for such an occasion is like getting ready for battle and usually ends with my eye twitching and teeth ground off.  But now I get to add the embarassment of obvious comments from their mouths too.  A typical trip to the grocery store is my least favorite event of the week.

One day we crossed paths with a retiree with an eye patch.  Thankfully he was a good sport and more than aware that my 5 year old could see his eye patch, so when Parker shouted out that he had one I was able to tone it down by remarking that he must be a pirate.  This made things easier when we kept seeing him in every aisle and had to keep having the same conversation and saying "arrrrr matey".  Next came a trip where my 3 year old kept hanging his hand out of the cart to stroke all the price tags as we passed them.  Too bad he also decided to stroke some man's bootie.  No this isn't another pirate reference, he really caressed some older mans buns who was bent over looking for floor cleaning supplies.  Ooops!  Loudly informed Grady that people don't like to have their buns rubbed when they're grocery shopping.  The man said it was the most action he'd seen in months.  Poor guy.  ;)

So this leads me to our most recent trip.  We had made it through the whole store with one aisle to go when we came across a man in the motorized shopping cart.  Now every time we had gone into a store that offered these, Parker would want to jump on one since it looked like fun, and I would remind him that those are for people who can't walk very well.  So he sees this guy coming and loudly points him out and tells me he's using it because he can't walk so well.  "You're probably right, buddy", I said in a voice loud enough for the gentleman to hear me.  I could tell he wasn't amused.  No smile, nothing.  But Parker didn't care.  The man stopped the wheelchair and had to stand up to get some yogurt off a high shelf.  Well, now I was informed by my observant (socially slow) boy that he had a HUGE BUTT!!  Do you have any idea how much I wanted to look??  Oooooh, it was so hard to avert my eyes.  But now I was stuck, because we needed to shop, couldn't run away and hide, and I also couldn't just agree with him loudly because Mr. No-Sense-of-Humor was definitely not going to smile about that one!!  He literally looked like one of the angry old people that chased George Costanza when he pretended he needed a motorized wheelchair, only much larger.  Had a long conversation a moment later about how saying things like that might hurt that man's feelings, but I know it didn't sink in.  How do you recover from that?  Anyone come across this with their little detectives?  At least I know if I'm curious if my ass looks fat in some jeans, my go-to-guy is Parker from this day forward.