Final week, part 2: The Spud winds down

So I had my final week of school two weeks ago.  Now it’s the spud’s turn, and with it comes all the joy of end of the year happenings.

First, it’s the first graders performance.  30 minutes of listening to children mumble through readings and singing off key.  Who ever thought school performances were a good idea should have to spend all eternity in a special Hell where they listen to children perform 24/7.  But, we love our kids so we dutifully video record the whole bit and act suitably thrilled and impressed by the whole thing.

Then, there’s the sending home of all art projects, left over craft supplies, and summer activity forms.  More paper and materials have been sacrificed to the gods of grade-school education than I can fathom.  How many macaroni art projects does one 7 year old need to make?  How many laminated certificates of achievement does one need for reading, losing teeth, or the penny drive?  How many times do we need to be reminded on a full color 8 1/2 x 11 memo that there’s no school on Memorial day and the last day is Thursday next?  Good grief.

And, when it’s finally all said and done, there’s the fashion show to determine what clothes from last summer still fit and how much needs to be replaced.  Add to the scene this year is a new tradition: pack what ever fits and replace what doesn’t in a hurry because the spud is going to spend the whole summer with Daddy.  I think, I hope, that this will ultimately be good for everyone.  However, Daddy insisted she arrive not one moment later than necessary.  I think he’d have had me leave town with her the second school was out if I’d have agreed to that.  I’ll miss out on some things that were Momma/Spud summer traditions.  That’s sad.  But, I’ll have a chance to relax and recharge, which I desperately need.  So, we put on the happy face and begin packing on Saturday.  Clothes, toys, books, videos, portable DVD player, MP3 player, alarm clock, cell phone, swim suits, and renaissance faire costume.  Oh, and don’t forget, somehow Momma has to find money to pay for said trip to meet Daddy for the summer…  So it’s off to the bank to cash in bonds and empty savings accounts.

The spud is one year older.  She’s down to her final week of first grade.  One week to go, and I’ll have an empty nest.  I’m happy and sad.

Spudisms #12

Did you know that Alvin and the Chipmunks sing in chicken voices?

It must be true, the Spud said so.

Spudisms #11: Have you heard how hard it is to be seven?

At dinner, the spud was lamenting the misery of having chores.  Specifically, helping weed the garden.

Spud:  And, my back was kind of hurting really bad.

Me:  Oh, it was, was it?

Spud:  Oh yes.  It was kind of going like this *not very helpful, yet still enthusiastic hand motions* and like this *more cryptic hand motions* and it was, you know, updating.

Me:  Updating.  Really.

Spud:  Uh, huh.  My spine was.

Me:  (laughing) Your spine was updating.  Are you sure?

Spud:  It was!  It was updating.  And my headache was adopted.

It must be horrible to be trying to explain such serious conditions while your mother is wailing, rolling on the floor laughing.

Sometimes it’s hard to be a grown up, but then it’s harder to be seven

So the new job wanted me to start just as finals week arrived.  No rest for the wicked I’m afraid.  The job isn’t terribly hard, but in just two days I’ve already been reminded why I’m going to school:  to not have to work a minimum wage job.  Most of the people working there don’t work for money, they work for the discount, which is 40%.  Nice if you want to spend your whole paycheck on plants, but for those of use who have to pay bills, it’s not much consolation for a laughably miniscule paycheck.  Well, unless you actually enjoy standing on a blacktop parking lot all day in the rainy drizzle watering plants with water that is barely 50 degrees F (for my Celsius using friends that’s roughly 10 degrees C).  Because for the last 3 years I’ve spent 90% percent of my day sitting either at a desk or in a car, my feet and knees are quite unhappy.  Though spring is here, it’s still not really warm on a daily basis, and as customers tend not to shop on days with 20 mile an hour winds and spitting drizzle, so it’s been pretty dull.  But it is an honest living, and the other employees so far seem like good people.  Once my woefully neglected body toughens up I’ll likely be fine.  Until then, hello prescription muscle relaxers and Aleve!

However, my sad story is nothing compared to the misery the poor Spud has suffered this weekend.  Her balloon broke last night.

This wasn’t just any balloon, but a humongous purple number with stars on it that she payed way too much for with her own chore money at the circus yesterday.  The highly anticipated circus was wonderful.  We all had a great time.  The Spud even got to ride an elephant!  Happiness is a big purple balloon and an elephant ride at the circus.  So it was rather heart breaking when her much loved circus souvenir broke just 6 hours after getting home.  Sometimes, when your balloon pops, it’s hard to be seven.

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Kiss me I’m Irish, and spudisms too

So, a day late and a pot o’ gold short, here’s part of the post I meant to post yesterday; alternately titled, “Things about Janie Jones you never knew and probably never needed to know” or “Did political correctness go out of style?  No?  Well then some of you may well feel violated.”

As you may be aware, Janie Jones is not my real name.

My real name is actually very Irish.  This suits because Janie as her real self is actually Irish.

No, I can’t tell you my real name because then what would be the point of having a pseudonym.  Geesh.  Give ‘em a few random facts and they want them all…  You’ll just have to trust me.  The name on my birth certificate is very Irish.

I used to work for someone who claimed to be Michael Flatley’s sister.  No seriously.  One of the other coworkers had a major wide on for him and apparently well, never mind.  Back to me.

My father’s family is actually Irish Catholic.

My father actually went on a “geneology” kick few years back and then pilgrimaged to the family burial ground up some goat path lined with rock walled fences at the top of a hill somewhere in Ireland and tested the limits of the rent-a-car damage insurance.  Now, I know, ‘somewhere in Ireland’ is pretty vague, but after they gave me my Bunratty Castle souvenir scarf I kinda tuned out the rest.

Apparently both sides of my father’s family came from somewhere abouts in Ireland circa 1830.

I like me a dirty limerick.

I used to have a button that said “Kiss me, I’m Irish.”  Yeah, me and all my teeny-bopper friends.  But mine meant something because I am.  If albeit in a rather tenuous way.  As Tilly Bud so succinctly put, everyone is Irish on St. Patrick’s Day (by the way, I feel honored to be quoted on a blog post by one of the Big Dogs of the Blogosphere.  Maybe not THE big dog, but a much bigger dog than I’ll ever be.  Thanks!) and undoubtedly this is true.  While I do have some platform to stand on while making this announcement of my claim to Irish heritage (isn’t working for Michael Flatley’s sister more than adequate support?!?), I generally don’t identify with my Irish roots because I mean I’m sure I’d be a national disgrace.

Why?  You may ask.

*Sigh*   Well, if it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all, and that’s no blarney.  Besides can you still really be “from” a country if your ancestors have been American citizens for over 180 years?  And then, I can’t stand Bushmills.  Leif bought a bottle especially to do shots on St. Patrick’s Day, but did I say I can’t stand Bushmills?  I should have said I found it loathesome.  Furthermore, I sound ridiculous when I try to affect an Irish brogue, and I can’t even begin to make heads or tails of Gaelic.  I don’t like claddaghs be they rings, brooches or otherwise, and though I may enjoy some nice tender cabbage I really don’t like corned beef (which Leif suggested to be the meal preceding said Bushmills).  I think my Lithuanian Viking is more Irish than me.

Still, the following made me more than a little miffed:

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I’m probably breaking all kinds of SOPA copyright laws here, but I couldn’t refrain from sharing.  Who approves this stuff?  I’d like to specifically draw your attention to page three, wherein Scholastic News very astutely acknowledges that “Today, most Irish people live in houses.”  Really?  You don’t say?

Seriously, I know this is meant for first graders, and that they can’t really include the kind of limericks most of us are familiar with which feature chin licking men from Nantucket, but come on.  Let’s not be absurd here.  Of course Irish people live in houses, and apartments, or flats or brownstones or something like.  Egads.  They have for centuries.  Only a rare handful of people anywhere ever actually lived in castles.  What a bunch of blarney.

Unfortunately, this is the best public school education the Great White North can provide.  Because of this exact kind of drivel I had a conversation something to this effect with the spud last week:

Spud:  Momma you know what the little Irish people wear?

Me:  Um, clothes?

Spud:  Little green suits.

Me:  Um, I’m pretty sure people from Ireland wear clothes just like you and me.

Spud:  Uh-uh.

Me:  Honey.  I’m very sure my Irish friends do not run about in little green suits.

Spud:  Yes!  They do!  They wear little green suits and top hats and live under rainbows.

Me:  I think you mean leprechauns.  They aren’t real.

Spud:  *Sighs dramatically*  That’s what I said.  Irish people!

So, dear Tinman and Speccy, you can rest assured that we know you live in houses (with green patio furniture) and I’m doing my best to persuade the wee one that you aren’t merely 2 feet tall, slipping down rainbows and wearing jolly green suit coats and breeches.

I’d best keep to claiming to be just your average dull American.  Still, as even hacks like me can be Irish on St. Patrick’s Day, we not only had our green shamrock pancakes, I also made shamrock shaped chocolate chip cookies.

Tuesday Titters: Week 10, catching flies

So the spud says to me:  Wanna hear a joke, Mom?

Me:  Sure.

Spud:  What has 4 wheels and flies?

Me:  I dunno, what?

Spud:  A garbage truck.

It took me a minute, and the spud sensing the lag in the laugh track began to explain it to me.

Spud:  Get it, Mom?  A garbage truck has flies and 4 wheels.

Me laughing:  Yes, yes I get it.

In my defense, I believe I mentioned homework has stolen my life, and apparently my brain.