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

Pests

When I was a young girl I didn't like bugs. I wasn't afraid of them. Apparently, I just didn't LIKE them.

We had a screened-in porch at the front of our house. My mother used to lock imprison (I kid mom, I kid!) put my sister and I out there to play on summer days. One day she heard me yelling. As she moved through the house to see what I was up to, she could hear me shouting, "DIE! DIE!"

As she approached, I wonder if she thought I had my sister in a death grip. Maybe she imagined that I was beating her over the head with my Crissy doll. There was no one else with us, so what else could she be thinking? It had to have freaked her out some, I'm sure.

Anyway, she stepped out onto the cement floor and there I was; stomping on a pile of little black ants. I must have dropped some sort of sugary goodness on the ground and they were all over it. I had my fists clenched and was pounding them with my feet, still yelling at them to die.

And I wonder where my daughter gets her temperament. snort.

A few years later, I recall placing a large black ant in a small glass jar; one the size of a film canister. I then found an Earwig, or pincher bug, as I called it, and dropped it into the jar with the ant. Clearly, I was a sadistic child because I watched that pincher bug chase that ant for hours. I sat patiently waiting to see if he'd catch him in his forcep-like clutches.

I think my parents worried I might grow up to be a serial killer. Or an exterminator.

So, let's jump to the present, shall we?

I've got news for you. Those damn ants, they don't forget. I'm telling you, they have tracked me down and are now paying me back. Tenfold. Last week, I found an army of tiny black ants, running amok on my kitchen floor.

I started stomping on them. I then put down bait traps. And what did they do? They laughed at me, that's what. And the next day, they brought friends. Lots and lots of friends.

We called our bug guy. He came, he sprayed, they dropped like flies. Heh.

Two days later, I opened the cabinet to take out the peanut butter. Four of those suckers were running around INSIDE the cabinet. THEY WERE NEAR THE FOOD! They saw me and ran. I swear one flipped me the bird.

"OH FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! Don't you have a picnic to ruin?! Fine, you wanna play?!" I half asked, half yelled at them. Thankfully, I was alone in my moment of madness.

We called the bug guy again and told him to bring the heavy ammo. I was done fooling around. This would strictly be a kick ass, take names, kind of war.

I cleaned out the cabinet. I pulled out the contact paper. I smashed the hell out of the stragglers that weren't fast enough to get away. I wiped the shelves down.

I waited for my guy and thought of my childhood and my wicked, wicked ways. I shook my head. "NO! I was only a child! I didn't know any better. I did not deserve this now!!!"

There was a knock at the door. My savior was here. He filled the bait traps with a yellow, oozing type of stuff. He told me that THIS would definitely do them in. I didn't ask what was in it. I didn't care, at this point, if the concoction was mixed with plutonium. I just wanted those pesky vermin out of my home.

So, it's been about four days now. There has been no sign of ants in my kitchen. I did, however, have a nightmare last night that involved a giant, glowing ant.

Moral of this story: Do not allow your children to harm insects; it will come back to haunt them!

Hit and Run

Last night the boys asked me to take down their bunk beds. So, with that, comes rearranging their entire rooms so all of their shit stuff fits properly. I was in the middle of putting their Wii games back onto a shelf when I heard a muffled BANG.

I thought one of the kids was getting into something, yet again dropped something on the hardwood floor downstairs. I went back to picking video game boxes off of W.'s bed when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement on the street below.

At first I wasn't sure what I was looking at. A man, probably in his late fifties to early sixties, was parked VERY close to my husband's truck. The man, grayed and wearing glasses, quickly emerged from his silver minivan and inspected our Honda.

"MOTHER F'ER!!" I shouted as I watched him look around from left to right and then over both shoulders.

"He's going to bolt!!" I thought, as I realized what was transpiring right before my eyes. I began banging on the window to get his attention. I wanted him to know that I was witness to his actions.

He didn't hear me and he jumped into his car.

"OH NO HE DIIN'T!!!"

I ran down the stairs and out the front door. My neighbor from across the street was already on foot and was sprinting down the middle of the road yelling for the man to stop.

Too late. He was gone.

I looked at the side of the truck. It was scratched and dented down the driver's side. It had been hit with enough force to push the back end into the curb.

I was LIVID!! Bastard was probably drunk. I was thankful my children weren't playing outside. Upon thinking this, I became even more enraged.

So listen here MR., I know I've seen you before. I know you either live in town or are close by. I know what you look like, what type of car you drive and it's color. I also know that your license plate begins MS. You must have damage on the driver's side of your minivan, just so you know, we've contacted all of the local auto body shops. They too will be looking for you.

We WILL find you. You had just better hope my husband sees you first.

In The Mood To Spring Clean

It's amazing to me how easily a family can accumulate stuff. So.Much.Stuff.

I've got this nesting thing going on lately. Everywhere I look, I see clutter. I hate clutter. I am a true believer in "A place for everything and everything in its place".

Yesterday, I threw on my old clothes and sneakers and opened up the crawl space doors. I dislike the crawl space and usually make Mr. Schmitty deal with it. But he was unavailable and I was itching to organize. And seeing as its my nature to be impatient, I decided to suck it up and get to work.

The crawl space is about four foot something high, so I can stand, but I need to duck my head and bend my shoulders forward. It does wonders for my aching back. It is also damp and dusty and usually triggers a slight allergy attack. I pulled out all bags, boxes, and containers, as quickly as possible to minimize my sneezing and to avoid traction.

I was also afraid I would see one of these:

Shiver.

When I was finished, I climbed out and began to make piles. Keep. Toss. Sell. You know, like that show.

I told the kids that they could split the money made on any toys we sold at a garage sale. They all want the new DSi. I figured that was a great bribe incentive to get rid of some of their junk.

Yea, well, I'm a dunce. The minute they started seeing some of the old toys, which I must say were in great shape, they started yelling, "I want that! I love this!"

Now, my crawl space is spotless, except maybe for these:

SHIVER.

The rest of my house? EPIC FAIL!

Heads And An Arm Are Gonna Roll!

Do you remember the infamous Brady Bunch episode that involved Peter breaking his mother's favorite vase? After he had been told numerous times NOT TO PLAY BALL IN THE HOUSE, he lost control of his basketball and SMASH! The vase shattered. He glued the vase together, which, of course, didn't hold up once water was placed into said vase. Dumb ass! And in true Brady fashion, ALL of the children confessed to breaking it. They just couldn't bear the thought of their dear brother missing out on his camping trip.

Can I get a big, "Awwwwwww?"

Now, fast forward about thirty years to my dysfunctional lovely home. The actual concept is the same, however, the basketball is a pink Disney Princess ball, the vase is a collectible figurine, and there are three children involved, not 6 heaven forbid.

I collect Willow Tree statues. Each figure looks as though it has been hand carved from wood to resemble a family in endearing life moments. I love them. And the thought of endearing life moments. sigh.

My kids? Well they seem to LOVE breaking them. W. broke two last year, which I just recently replaced. So, when I heard the crash upstairs, I knew immediately.

Now, unlike the martyr children of Brady Bunch fame, my kids can't wait to rat out squeal like pigs tattle on each other. Before I could investigate the sound of resin hitting the hardwood floor, the boys were already falling over each other, as they bound down the stairs. Each was trying to be the first to inform me of who was to blame for the latest figurine fatality.

"Mom, MOM!! R. broke your statue!! MOOOOOOOMMMM!" They shouted in unison.

And then W. handed me this:


Kind of creepy when they are dismembered, I must say. And the kicker? The title of this one is "A Child's Touch".

Yea, the Schmitty Kids all have the touch of a bull in a China shop. Heh.

This Maid's On Strike

I have HAD it!

I can't seem to get anything done around this house anymore. And do you know why? Because no one can lift a finger to help out.

I spend my days picking up this and picking up that. When did I become such an idiot? Give me an IQ test and I rank above average in intelligence. But by the end of EVERY day, I am ranting that I am sick and tired of cleaning up after everyone.

Please hand me my dunce cap.

All I seem to get done during the day is, maybe, a couple of loads of laundry and filling the dishwasher. The balance of the day is spent dealing with the feeding, bathing, and caring of kids.

AND CLEANING UP THEIR SHIT....OVER AND OVER AND OVER.

My house is filthy and I've got piles of work on my desk. I can't get ahead.

Now, I've heard of some moms letting their children keep their room anyway they wish. "It's THEIR room, let them express themselves."

I say bull honky. There is no reason that I have to step over things just to get to their dressers. I shouldn't risk breaking a toe in the middle of the night when I go in to comfort someone with a nightmare. I certainly am not putting up with the smell and the possibility of bugs because who knows what could end up under a pile of clothes.

My kids are responsible for keeping their rooms in order. I don't expect perfection, however, I do expect $50 Wii games to be put in their cases instead of strewn on the floor. Which of course I yell about constantly, to which I'm told, "I didn't do it!"

But it's my own fault. I lecture and threaten. But really? I'm not taking enough action.

So, my new plan? They will be reminded ONCE to put their things away. After that I will pick up said object and place it in a laundry basket. If they want it, they have to EARN it back.

I figure I waste a lot of time during the day doing their job....now they can feel what it's like to be me.

"Oh, you want your Gameboy back? Sure, there is a load of towels in the dryer that needs to be folded and put away."

"Too bad you have Gym at school tomorrow, Oh, you need to wear your sneakers? Well, I found them in the middle of the floor after I tripped on them. Go clean up the dog poop in the back yard and you can have them back."

I think that perhaps when they see it's not easy being me they'll think twice before throwing their stuff around.

Cue Spooky Music Here

This morning I was working diligently on a few orders for my business. I had received them while I was being ravaged by THE BUG FROM HELL.

I was in the zone, I tell you. I had Carrie Underwood playing on my iPod, as my fingers worked furiously over my computer's keyboard. I was processing invoices for the orders that I had completed. Cha-Ching!

Suddenly, I felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck. An eerie feeling crept over me. I was afraid to look over my shoulder. It was as though a presence had joined me in my office; one that was not human. I could just imagine the eyes boring into my soul.

I slowly turned in my chair and came face to face with this:

DAMN KIDS!

Not His Forté

T. received a belated birthday gift today. It was the game Hyper Jump. To play, the computerized voice calls out a number or color, and you have to step on the appropriate target as fast as you can.

Like most toys, this required some minimal assembly; battery installation and attaching the air tubes and targets to the base. Simple enough.

T. ran into the living room with his new game, placed it on the floor, set up the game options, and hit go.

"Orange!" the voice called. T. immediately stepped on the orange target.

"Bleeeeeppppp! Orange!" sounded the base. Again he stomped on the orange target. Again we heard the same sequence. Over and over and over, again.

After 15 minutes of resetting the game and having the exact thing happen, I asked T., "Did daddy put this together for you?"

"Uh-huh."

I looked at the box, not EVEN the instructions, and saw the problem. The targets were in the wrong order. I made a few adjustments and restarted the game.

BINGO! It worked perfectly. I just giggled.

Mr. Schmitty NEVER, EVER puts things together in our house. I won't let him.

It all started when we were first married. We lived at my in-laws in an apartment on the second floor of their house. They didn't charge us any rent so periodically we would buy them a nice gift as our way of saying thanks.

One summer day we purchased a new propane grill. Mr. Schmitty called me at work, early in the day, to tell me that he had gotten it. He said he would put it together and when I got home at 6 o'clock we could grill and have dinner with his parents.

I told him that sounded great. Heh. Little did I know.

When I got home from work, he was still in the yard with only two pieces put together. Mr. Schmitty had a drill in his hand and was preparing to drill a hole in one of the larger metal pieces.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I have to drill a hole for this screw to go in." He replied.

"NO! NO!" I yelled, "Everything is pre-drilled! That piece doesn't go there!"

Needless to say we at take-out that night. The next day I put the grill together. In about an hour.

He, for whatever reason, didn't actually read the owner's manuals. So, from that point forward, I have been the one to construct all furniture, toys, and baby items.

I've got enough stress in my life without worrying about wheels popping off strollers or bunk beds caving in.

I'm Going To Start Stapling Things To His Head

Do any of you have a husband that constantly loses his belongings? His car keys, cell phone, wallet? Well, I do.

It's a good thing the family jewels are attached to his body because we may never have had children.

Mr. Schmitty claims, when he is searching frantically for the above mentioned objects, that they are NOT lost. They are simply misplaced.

I have a theory that we must have a goblin living in our house, that mischievous bastard! And for some reason he's got a thorn in his ass for the Mr. because only HIS things disappear.

For instance, one day last week, the little peckerhead (the goblin, not Mr. Schmitty, of course) must have gotten a hold of the wallet. We searched high and low for it. In my husband's work truck, the minivan, and the front yard. We combed the whole house. Nada.

He researched the work truck, while I rechecked the minivan, front yard, and house. Nope. Nothing. Zilch.

I was beginning a slow boil. I really didn't want to spend all afternoon cancelling credit cards and atm cards. FREAKING CHRISTMAS IS JUST AROUND THE CORNER! I didn't want to wait for new plastic to get here!

I heard Mr. Schmitty in the kitchen. He had placed his gym bag on the counter.

"Did you look in there?" I asked, trying not to spit venom. He was digging into my free time. I mean c'mon, the kids were in SCHOOL!!

"Yes."

"Did you look through EVERYTHING? EVERY pocket? Did you take things out or just move them around?"

He looked annoyingly at me and said, "Of course I checked everything! It's not there."

"Okay, okay!" I said as I walked past the counter, "I belie.........OH MY GOD!!!"

"What?"

"OH MY FREAKING......OH MY GAAAAAAAAAAAWD!"

"WHAT?!"

I didn't say another word, I just reached in the opened, side pocket of the gym bag and pulled out his wallet. I had glanced down on my way past the counter and there it was, clear as day.

The neighbors must have thought we were having the best slammin' sex in the world because all I could do for the next five minutes was yell, "OH.MY.GOD!"

How Memories Can Come Flooding Back

I was wondering tonight. How many of you allow your children to play with toy guns? I have never purchased a toy gun of any kind for my kids. Even water pistols are the animal type that don't resemble a gun in any way.

My brother gave the boys Nerf guns last year for Christmas and they also received, from someone, a western shooting game. The game has plastic cans and bottles you "shoot" off of a log. The gun is a bright orange six-shooter and would never be mistaken for a real handgun. When used in target practice, those toys are fun and seem harmless enough.

Still, I feel that little cringe when I see them pretending to "kill" one another with them.

I'm not afraid of using guns. I've done my fair share of target shooting with shotguns, rifles, and handguns. I quite enjoy it, actually, and am a pretty good shot.

Mr. Schmitty is also in law enforcement, so guns are a part of my life, and I respect them.

But tonight, when my daughter stuck that bright orange handgun in my face and yelled, "BANG! Mommy your dead!" I reeled a bit and lost a little facial coloring.

My mind went flashing back about nineteen years. I was working as a head teller in a bank. It was a small town bank, just around the corner from my house. I had worked there for about 5 years and because I grew up in the town, I knew most of the customers that came in.

One summer afternoon, three of the seven employees had gone out to lunch. I and another teller were preparing our teller drawers for the end of the day. A man, I had never seen before, came into the branch and walked to the desk of the assistant manager. He seemed to ask her a question and then turned and headed for the far lobby. He stopped half way across the room and again turned toward her desk.

Does the hair ever stand up on the back of your neck and you just FEEL that something isn't quite right? I had just turned to my coworker to say, "This guy is making me nervous", when I heard her yell, "HEY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

I turned to see the man punching, the only male employee, in the jaw, repeatedly. He then instructed him to get behind the teller line and onto the floor. He went to my coworker and told her to put her tray of money in his bag. I just stood in my booth, paralyzed. He then told her to get on the floor too.

He turned toward me. He walked into my teller booth and stood to my right. He placed the bag on the counter, pointed his gun at me, and told me to fill the bag. I opened my drawer and instinctively grabbed for the "bait money" (strapped money with pre-recorded serial numbers) and placed that in the bag first. Damn him if I wasn't going to at least TRY to do something! At least they could prove where the money came from if they caught him with the cash. I didn't know how effective it would be, but it was the first thing that came to my mind.

After I finished he told me to get on the floor. I couldn't move. All I could think of was, "OH NO! The teller door can only be opened by a key or a buzzer!" It had closed and locked behind him when he had entered. I couldn't reach for the buzzer to let him out, he might think I was trying to push an alarm button. What if he panicked because he couldn't get out?

The thought of this only allowed my body to get into a squatting position. My mind raced with what could happen next.

Suddenly he threw himself up onto the door and over the top. He began to run through the lobby. I jumped up and started screaming, "HIT THE FUCKING ALARM!!" I desperately wanted that asshole's image captured on the cameras. I then picked up the telephone and called the local police department. My cousin, a patrolman, answered. I calmly explained what had happened, what the man looked like, and in what direction he was heading.

I then hung up and reached for my cigarettes and lit up. I think I proceeded to smoke an entire pack in about an hour.

Local police came. Bank officials came. The FBI came. Mr. Schmitty, who was then my fiancee, came. I could see him trying to peek in the windows. I smiled at him and gave him the thumbs up.

I noticed then how badly I was shaking.

It took a long time for me to get over the irrational thought that this man was going to get me in my dreams, in my room at night, or from a bush he was hiding in. Even after he was caught, only days later. I still don't know how I took such initial control and so calmly called the police. The company psychologist told me that I had very strong survival skills.

That may be true, but it's a day I don't think I'll ever forget. It's a memory that will send me into a tailspin by something so trivial as my daughter playing cowgirl.

Freaking The Frack Out!!!!

My dog, Ruby, is a yapper. She has this high pitched bark that goes right through me. And she barks at everything.

Someone knocks at the door. She barks. Someone walks past the house. She barks. Someone puts a glass down on the table a little too loudly. She barks. Someone leaves the ketchup bottle on the counter. SHE.BARKS!

About twenty minutes ago I sat my butt down at my desk to draw up some proofs for a customer's notepads. Like the complete pain in the ass she is, she took that as her cue to start scratching on the back door to go out.

I sighed, heaved my body back out of my chair, and let her out. She took off across the yard like a bullet. Of course, barking wildly.

After I swallowed my heart back into my chest, I went outside and yelled at her to shut up.

She was going bananas by the fence, near the shed.

"RUBY! Get over here!" Ugh, That Stoopid Dog! The kids probably knocked over their wagon and dumb-dumb couldn't figure out what it was. She does things like that. One night she carried on for fifteen minutes because I had placed a bag of garbage outside the back door.

Suddenly I heard a yelp. Then I heard nails climbing up the wooden fence. Ruby started to run frantically along the fence. Her barking got crazier.

Then a black shadow appeared, running along the top of the fence. It's silhouette outlined by the light of the moon.

And then I saw IT. A long, [chill just ran up my spine], skinny [goosebumps] tail!!!

OH.HELLZ.NO!

My heart started pounding out of my chest. "THAT HAD BETTER BE A FUCKING POSSUM!" I thought but realized I had actually screamed across the yard. [doing the I've got the willies dance on the patio]

"RUBY COME GET A TREAT....HERE GIRL, HERE'S A COOKIE!!! [pacing wildly on the patio prepared to dive through the glass of the storm door if I see glowing eyes]

Ruby came running, because dog treats are her life. I ran like hell into the laundry room and slammed and locked the door. Then I put up a barricade, you know, in case that THING WITH THE TAIL has a key!

[still shaking and getting goosebumps]

If that was a rat, I'm moving. Now, excuse me while I go change my underwear.