Speed Freak and Frozen Part Deux

One of the ladies I work with just started reading my blog.   She left this on my
keyboard for me this morning.   Geckos....they're everywhere.

I’ve been a bit surprised by how popular the "Sweet Baby Jessica in the Well" post has been.    It’s one of the most clicked on posts on the blog.   Either you all thought I was utterly ridiculous about the geckos and told your friends, or you loved the thought of those sweet tiny Baby Geckos as much as I did.  Whichever it was, here’s a  quick update on the Gecko twins and my house, which I like to call Gecko Hot Zone, or GHZ for short.

Big Daddy updated everyone about what happened after I clicked publish the other day by leaving a huge, mondo long comment on the post.  

If you didn’t see it, I’ll give you a quick run down from then to last night.

When I came home from work after worrying all day about the tiny baby Gecko Twins being eaten by the alligators in the sewer or drowning should someone take a shower, I found out Big Daddy had actually had the nerve to wash his stinky body while I was at work. 

How dare he? 

He couldn’t sacrifice not smelling like Axe Body Wash for one more day so those babies would have a chance to climb up the comb Gecko Ladder to Freedom?    Oh the humanity…. or lizardanity.   It’s like the Hindenburg, except with lizards instead of  people and water instead of fire and just two geckos instead of the dozens who lost their lives.  

Okay. 

It’s nothing like the Hidenburg.   But I just kept thinking about Nemo at the Dentist’s office rushing down that pipe screaming as though he  was riding the Log Ride at Six Flags.  The Gecko Twins never had a chance.    *sigh*

After all the drama and heartache of worrying about Frozen and Speed Freak, I just couldn’t cook dinner that day.  Big Daddy charitably decided to take the family out to the local Chinese buffet.  Nothing tastes better than cat when you’re sad.   

Seriously.  That’s what my fortune cookie said, and I believe it.   ;)

When we came home from contributing to the statistics of nation-wide obesity, I looked in the bathtub, and what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a miniature gecko running hot laps around the tub.  

Speed Freak?  Very possibly.

A heretofore unknown triplet?   Oh,  Heavens, I hope not.  

I started screaming for The Kid to corral PsychoticKitty, and then get her dad.  Meanwhile, I threw a washcloth over the drain and tried to head Possible Speed Freak off at the pass.    He was determined to go down the drain though, and I was making crazy, “Oh, Oh, Oh,” noises and maneuvering around the tub trying to keep him away from the Drain of Death and Drowning.   I probably looked like I was having some sort of seizure.    

I’m sure it was a YouTube worthy moment.

Big Daddy arrived from his secret after-dinner smoke and rescued Possible Speed Freak  (Yes, he started back smoking, the Dirty Dog.  Yes, I’m giving him hell about it every chance I get.   No, it’s not a secret;  I totally know and had busted him about it the night before when he came sneaking into bed, smelling like a Waffle House at 3:30 in the morning, after he had a  “secret” smoke.   He smelled strongly enough of ashtray that he woke me up with it, and I fronted him out then.  Wisely, he kept his mouth shut and pretended to  be asleep.   The next morning he pretended like I had  dreamed the whole thing.  Yeah, right.  Busted again, Big Daddy. )  

We released Possible Speed Freak out into the wild where hopefully the neighborhood cats let him be and he was free to grow up and be fruitful and multiply and eat all the blasted spiders and West Nile-filled mosquitoes his little baby gecko belly can hold, bless his tiny baby gecko heart.

Geckos 1  Bathtub Drain 1 or 2.   Not quite sure on that one, but I like to err on the side of Hope.

Last night, however, the saga continued.

The Kid had just gone to bed. In the hallway lay piles of laundry sorted and ready to be washed.  Big Daddy and I were snuggled up on the couch watching some recorded Big Brother.  (Go Ian, you loveable kook!)

We were about 45 minutes in, and here comes The Kid with her hands clasped together.   She had been awakened by the growl of PsychoticKitty on the hunt and his pouncing through the laundry.  

Upon investigation, she found a tiny baby gecko, frozen in fear and missing a tail. The tail had dropped off in stress and PsychoticKitty was quite happily chasing  it.   The gecko, still frozen in place, wouldn’t move, and she was able to scoop him up  successfully.

Could it really be Frozen?  He did seem rather similar. Of course, all tiny baby geckos look the same, but he did stay frozen in place with that deer-in-the-headlight look.  Did Frozen somehow find his way out of the slick, sheer sides of the tub with his super-sticky, super-powered tiny baby gecko wonder toes and  then wander into the vast wasteland of dirty laundry?    

I hope so. I truly, truly hope so.

Geckos 2.  Bathtub Drain 0.

Maybe.

Lukewarm or Almost Cool: A Follow-up to Motorcycles at Midnight

Several months ago, I told you all about how cool Big Daddy is and how ordinary and "teacher cool"  I am.   You might want to read this, if you haven't, so that this post makes sense.

Well, after 18 years, apparently he's finally rubbing off on me.  According to my recent batch of kiddos, I am now "cool."  

You see, Big Daddy is a gearhead.   He loves nothing better than talking about obscure makes and models and how the headlights on this one make it a certain year and the trim model on that one makes it something else.     He loves the feel of grease under his nails and the smell of gasoline as an aftershave.  

Apparently the group of kids I have this year are aspiring gearheads as well, because several of them have made the car show circuits with their parents and have met my husband.

Today, in the middle of class, one of my kiddos started a rather convoluted story about how he had met my hubby at a car show, but didn't realize it was him.

"He has the coolest shoes!  They look like Rat Fink's feet." 

(For those of you unlucky enough to not know who Rat fink is... here ya go..)

"You *let* your husband wear shoes with Rat Fink's feet on them?"  one boy said in wonder.   "My mom would NEVER allow that."

"A friend of ours painted them for him,"  I confessed.  "I think they're his favorite pair of shoes."

"She lets him go to car shows too,"   stated another student.  "I've seen him at a lot of them." 

"No way!!!"  one kiddo said in surprise.  "My dad never gets to go to those!  Mom won't let my dad."

"Her husband has THE coolest truck,"  added one little boy who's in the know.  "It's old and lowered and rusty and awesome."

"You're a lot cooler than my mom,"  said one student sadly, shaking his head.

Thank you, thank you, very much.

Because I LET my husband go to car shows, (like I could keep him from it), since he gets to pick out his own clothes (not *always* the best choice), and since he bought a hunk of metal that desperately needs a paint job and an overhaul, I'm suddenly cool to my seventh graders.  

Yay me.

This group also is fascinated with my ear piercing.  One of my students the other day was shocked the first time he saw it.

"Is that real?"  he questioned.

"Yep."  I said.

"Is it magnets?" wondered another aloud.

"Are you kidding me right now?"  I asked.  "Who wears magnets and pretends they're earrings?"

"My mom does,"  one said.

OOPS.

"So you let someone pierce your ear three times? That's so cool.  I've never seen a piercing in that part of the ear before."

"I think I want to marry a girl who has that.  She would have to be cool and she could take pain, so you know she could have kids.  She'd be a good mom."

Ummmmm...okay.

The tattoos on my feet are another source of amazement.   

"You have tattoos?" one girl stated, slightly in awe.  "On both feet?"

"Yes," I said with a smile.

"Did they hurt?" another student asked.

"Someone was piercing my skin with a needle, multiple times, and injecting ink into it, of course, it hurt.   Anyone who tells you tattoos don't hurt at all is lying or has forgotten,"  I told them honestly, hoping to convince them to never get one until they are old enough and wise enough to choose a design that they will love forever.

"Those are cool tattoos.  You're not at all a douchebag like my mom says people are who get tattoos," said a kiddo, smiling up at me.  "You actually seem pretty cool."

Thanks unknown mom, for creating preconceived notions about people and helping your child be prejudiced about someone, just for having a couple of tattoos. And for teaching a kid the word douchebag.  Nice.    

Yes, my body is a temple, and I chose to get stained glass.  No cathedral is perfect without it, and apparently they, and my husband by association, make me cool this year. 

Go me.    I've always wanted to seem cool to seventh graders. 

My life is now complete.

Walmart Greeter Kind of a Day

I've been teaching for 16 years, and I've taught every grade from 6th grade to seniors.    Since the time I was little, this was my chosen profession.  Lining up all my stuffed animals and "teaching" them is one of my earliest memories.  As is beating them with a ruler when they misbehaved.

This is what I've always wanted to do.   The teaching part.  Not the beating part.

Except on days when it's not what I want to do anymore.    Those are the days when I want to be a dental assistant, so I can "accidentally"  stab someone with that little pick-like needle thing when I'm scraping their teeth, and say, "Oops! I'm sorry.  Little bit of plaque there.  You should floss more."  

There are also the days when I wish I could be a greeter at Walmart.  


Really?  How stressful could that be?
"Hello, Welcome to Wal-mart.  What can I do for you?"
"Oops, let me put a sticker on that for you."
"The bathroom is that way."

I could *so* do that job.  

Sometimes, I want to get out of education when there's just too much on my plate.... meetings, expectations, politics, parents, misbehaving kids.  Notice none of it has to do with the actual TEACHING of students.  Sometimes it's when I get the distinct impression that I'm not making an impression on my kiddos.    Other times, it's just when I feel like I am never going to make a difference and should give up, that the educational "machine" is too big, and doesn't know what's best for my kids, but won't let me do what I do best, teach.  

Then there are days like this.... I've seen these kind of entries in magazines, and my kids will give a zinger now and then, but in all my years of teaching I've never had this many in one day.

The assignment was to read a biography and create a posterboard which highlighted that person's life and major achievements.   A five minute presentation would be given to the class.   These are actual written and spoken words from my kiddos' presentations.

• "Michael Jordan is a dude who's just  famous for making shoes."
• "Elvis Presley was in like 30 movies on DVD."
• "Harry Houdini was a guy who liked locks."
• "The only reason Fredrick Douglas is famous is his mom was raped.  There isn't much else written about him."
• "Susan Boyle is like, really old.  She's 40 or 50 or something, but she's not dead yet."
• "Brian Bosworth was just famous for his hair.  That's it."

  

  Shame on you, Johnny Appleseed.  

• "Lance Armstrong likes to ride bikes."                        

  and my all time personal favorite.....


"Johnny Appleseed can be summed up like this...He was a guy who walked around almost naked with a pot on his head and sprinkled his seed all over the country."

Sweet Baby Jessica in the Well***

Sweet Baby Jessica in the well, we have a situation.   (Not to be confused with Baby Jessica and the Whale, as my husband heard me say.... you do know the Bible story about the little girl falling into the whale don’t you?)                                                                                                                                                             

So last night, I went skipping into the bathroom to take a shower before bed.  What??? You don’t move around your life like a Disney Princess?  

One of the tiny baby Gecko Twins.  This one
is Frozen.  Not in the freezer!!!
Read the stinkin' story, people!
And by the way, my bathtub is not
actually yellow.  It's just crazy iPhone
lighting.

There, looking up at me in the shower, were two of these.

Tiny baby geckos twins.  As soon as one of them saw me,  he ran to the back of the bathtub.  The other sat frozen in fear.   Speed FreakGecko continued making hot laps around the bathtub like he thought he was at Daytona.  I stood staring at the pair of them, trying to figure out what to do.   I didn’t want to touch them, because when stressed they have a tendency to drop their tails,and  who wants that on their conscience as they fall asleep?   

Unlike many people, I don’t harbor any ill will or bad feelings toward the tiny lizards.  They eat spiders, for goodness sake.  Anything that would willingly chomp THOSE things downs has to be good in my book.  

As I watched, Speed Freak rushed down the bathtub drain,  seeking an escape hatch.  
What. The. Heck.

I quickly unscrewed the little drain stopper in the bottom, and all I could see was a tail as he rushed deeper into the drain.  

Geckos 0.  Bathtub Drain 1.

This spurred me into action.   There was no way I could take a bath now.   I couldn’t risk drowning  stupid Speed Freak.  Frozen Gecko stayed true to form, staying right where he was.

I looked closer at him.   He didn’t look to be breathing.  Had the cat gotten him and killed him?  I took a washcloth and moved it toward Frozen.   Whoosh.  

I could see his family resemblance to Speed Freak now,  as he, too rushed down the drain.

Are you stinkin’ kidding me?

I may never be able to bathe again.

Geckos 0.  Bathtub  Drain 2.

I went to Big Daddy and explained the situation, distraught.  There’s no way I can take a shower with two living creatures in the drain.   If they had been spiders, roaches, centipedes, or a myriad of other disgusting creepy crawlies, I would have felt bad for the 30 seconds it takes to lather my hair, and never thought of them again.   The tiny baby  Gecko Twins, though?   I just couldn’t do it.

Big Daddy said he didn’t think they could get out of the bathtub, that it was too slick.  I heard drain, not bathtub, so I tried to figure out a way they could pull themselves out of their own personal well. (See what I did there?)

I put a bendy straw down the drain so they could pull themselves up and out, hopefully silently, so that Psychotikitty didn’t eat them.

I took a “bath” in the sink last night and went to bed positive that by morning they would have magically rescued themselves.

Alas, that was not the case.

This morning when I got up to shower, my plan was simple.  If I saw no geckos, that meant that they had all made the dash to freedom, and life was good.  When  I moved the cover for the drain and pulled out the straw though, much to my chagrin, one of the Gecko Twins was hanging from the straw. At the slightest bit of movement, he let go and dropped back down, rushing out of sight.

 It must have been Speed Freak.

I fretted and I fussed.  Maybe the straw was too slick and he couldn’t figure out how to get all the way out on his own.  Had the other twin escaped?   What was going to happen to them?  Would I ever be able to shower again? 

I devised a new plan.  I attached the bendy straw to a comb.  That way they can use the bendy part of the straw and pull themselves up the comb ladder of freedom.

My super technical Gecko Twin Ladder
of Freedom *patent pending
I would have used a Barbie ladder,
 but The Kid hates Barbie.

Go tiny baby Gecko Twins! Go! Go!

Really. Go.  I want you to go so I can shower. 

My friends want you to go so I can shower.  

Anyone have a free bathroom I can use?

*** For those of you who don't remember, Baby Jessica was a tiny baby who fell down a well.  In her backyard.  It was sad.  She was rescued.  The end.

UPDATE..... I am heartbroken.  I just came home from work and discovered that my husband had dared to shower while I was gone.  He assures me they all escaped and are back home happily with Momma Gecko, snuggled up drinking milk and eating spider cookies.

National Geographic

Sometimes when we ladies get older, it seems like our "girls" don't always end up where they started. It's a sad fact of life that youth  is wasted on the young.

It's a pity.

A while back, I decided to visit my local Victoria's to see if I could learn her secret.  I've never been a tiny girl, never have, never will be, but  I thought I might get fitted  and even purchase an over the shoulder boulder holder or two.  

When I entered the used-to-be-a-lingerie-store-for-married-women-but-now-is-a-hypersexed-preteeen-makeup-addict-and-lover-of-the-word-pink-stitched-on-all-clothing-known-to-mankind store, I was quickly approached by a pencil-thin Katy Perry wannabe with a tight mid-drift bearing toddler-sized shirt, smacking on a wad of gum.

I was not, in all my glory, going to be measured by some sixteen year old kid.

Not.  Gonna.  Happen.

After seeing Baby Katy Perry, I decided I would just look around on my own, maybe find an approximation of the size I've worn since my "baby" was born twelve years ago, and leave.

"Can I help you? " she asked, blowing a bubble.

"No thank you.  Well, actually, I'm looking for a bra that lifts, separates, and super glues me back to where I'm supposed  to be.   I'm just looking, though.  Thanks," I said, trying to let her down easy.

Baby Katy, in her little size two jeans and with her darling faux diamond belly button ring, didn't recognize rejection.  "Great!"  she said.  "Do you know your cup size?"

"Sure.   I'm an NG,"  I responded.

"No ma'am,"  Baby Katy said slowly, as though I were a dense child who wanted to pet a cobra.   "Bras only come in letters like A, B, or C.   Sometimes they're double letters but you can't just mix and match letters like that.  You have to pick just one.   Like, I'm a  double D!" and she pulled her shoulders back and thrust her chest out.

She smiled at me wisely, as though she had just taught me an important lesson.

I smiled .   "I know," I said, patiently, "but I'm still an NG... you know, like National Geographic.  You've seen those pictures of the topless women from tribes in Africa?  That's what I look like without my bra.  I want something to make me look like I did when I was 20."

A small frown marred her sweet, naive, innocent young face.   "I don't think we have anything like that."

"No, I don't think you do, anymore," I said sadly.

 And I turned and walked out of the pop music filled, over-poweringly perfumed,  pink hell I had entered.

A Mighty Wind

I've been wanting this for awhile.

Last Friday night I got it.

It's called a forward triple helix.  Or in layman's terms... how-bad-can-it-hurt,really?

I've got some tattoos.  I've had my nose pierced and my ears pierced.    I figured this would be a breeze.

Ended up not being a breeze so much as a severe thunderstorm with a chance of mighty wind.

One of the girls who used to go to my church is a piercer  by trade.  When I finally committed to getting this done, I decided to go to her.

I was nervous, but well-informed.  I had looked up the chance for infection with this particular site.   The aftercare needs.      The healing time.    I hadn't watched any of the YouTube videos of people getting pierced, though.  Didn't want to psyche myself out.

Honestly, the first  piercing was a breeze.   The second hurt a little bit more.     The third was intense enough that my whole body tensed, I said a curse word, and passed gas.     That's right.  I tooted in pain while bikers got tats.

So much for being cool at the tattoo parlor, huh?

Have I mentioned that sometimes I have gas?

Autonomy

Parenting is hard, y'all.

I think my Kid is defective because *somehow* we came home from the hospital without her instruction manual, and we've been flying by the seat of our pants ever since.

Recently, My Twelve Year Old Kid has decided she needs freedom, dangit.  She needs autonomy, MOM.  She needs to make her own decisions, for the love of Miracle Whip!

Of course, she told her father all this and not me.  He's the fun parent.  I'm the Drill Sargeant.  Clean  your room.  Take a bath.   Dump the litter box.  Brush your teeth.   He's the one who sneaks her candy and takes her on Daddy-daughter dates.   I'm the one who buys her the iPad..... He's the one who gets thanked.

Motherhood, it sucks sometimes.

After her conversation with Big Daddy, he let me know I needed to back off, let her be a "big girl.  She's not a baby after all."

So I did.

Just like that.   The very next day.   I was very proud of myself, for like two seconds.

Here's the way it played out.

Cheap shoes that are ridiculously expensive, but super
 popular with hipsters and middle school kids.

Before school started, because I am such a mean mother, I took my kid shopping for new school clothes  AND I even bought her TOMS (which her father hates) and a pair of Uggs (which I hate, but were on sale, and which The Kid loves).   These are two of the must have accessories for middle school girls, dontcha know.

Big Daddy had such a negative reaction to the TOMS, we didn't tell him about the Uggs, given their price tag and his bad mood.

Ugg for UGGliest shoe known to man.

Flash forward three weeks and my poor, maltreated child was given the opportunity to go to Branson with her grandmother for a week..... no parents at all!   Just late nights, glitzy shows, and all the souvenirs and candy she could con out of her grandmother.

 Heck of a deal.

Unfortunately since school started for teachers that week, I couldn't be there when she left for her roadtrip.

I had a lovely, heartfelt text conversation with her before she left, though.  It went like this:

The Kid:  Can I wear my Uggs?

(Now we live in the armpit of Hell, also known as Texas. It's August.   Really?  Sheep sheerling to keep your feet warm?  It's a 1000 stinking degrees.  Did I say all of  this?   No.    Instead, my mind hearkened back  to what Big Daddy said the night before......autonomy..... )

So * instead* I texted:  I would prefer not.  If you want to, it's fine.

The Kid:   I can?

Me (still trying to let her make her own decision):   They're going to be really hot.  Not really the season for them.  I would wear flip flops.

The Kid:   I'm gonna be in the car all day and I'm gonna take them off when I get in the car.

"Then WHY wear them?"  I thought.

What I texted was:    Think it through.  I'll let you make the decision.  I will say I haven't seen anyone wear them yet.  You'll have to wear them when you get out of the car.   What's the point in wearing them if you're just going to take them off?

The Kid:    I don't want Dad to see them.

There's the crux of the problem, but I wasn't making the decision.  She was.

Me:    Then I wouldn't wear them.  Up to you.

The Kid:  But he's goiing to go  into my room.   He might see them.  Forget it.  I'm just not gonna wear them.

"Hooray!"  I thought to myself.  "She's making good decisions on her own!"  

Me:    Up to you.   I'm letting you make the decision.   I won't say one way or the other.

The Kid:   If dad sees them it's all your fault.

WHAT???? How did I suddenly become evil and this become my fault?

ME:   Not my fault.  Your fault.   Your decision.

The Kid:   Nope.  You don't want me to wear them.   It's on your head.  

Now, people, I submit to you, that as you read our conversation, I have at NO point said she couldn't wear them.  In fact,  I've made it abundantly clear that SHE has to make the decision. I tried very hard to not influence her, just give her the facts, and make her think.  Yet,  I'm still the bad guy, because I'm the Mom.

I responded:  Not mine.   I'm letting you be a big girl and make the decision.  

And I didn't hear back from her for two days.  Apparently, she wanted me to tell her what to do after all.  If it hadn't been for her grandmother, I wouldn't have even known she was alive.

As I said earlier, motherhood sometimes sucks.



*** For those who are curious.... she didn't wear the boots.