August 10, 2004 | Haven't been hit by lightning yet!

(Today’s fabulous idea brought to you by the sudden proliferation of Extremely Stupid Parents in my area.)

The scene: A busy road (double yellow line and all). Riding with traffic (good) is a man on a bike with no helmet (bad), pulling a bike trailer containing a toddler with no helmet (unforgivable).

Officer Mir: I’m sorry, sir, please pull over.
Man: Is there a problem, officer?
OM: Yes, I’m afraid there is. You see, neither you nor your minor child are wearing bike helmets, and this is a very busy street.
Man: Oh. Well, you see, a helmet would mess up my hair, and I haven’t bought one for Junior yet… also, we don’t live too far from here.
OM: I see. Well, the law’s the law, sir. I’m going to have to confiscate your testicles.
Man: I– uh… what?
OM: Your testicles. Please hand them over. An infraction like this, well, it’s clear that you’re too careless to be allowed to continue breeding. Hand them over, please.
Man: Can’t you just give me a warning or something?
OM: This is a warning. If I wanted to throw the book at you, I’d be taking your penis as well. Testicles, please. Both of them. With or without scrotum, your choice.
Man: I promise to wear a helmet next time!
OM: I’m sure you will. Sir, are you going to hand them to me or would you like me to get them myself?
Man: *wimper*

The scene: A busy parking lot at a major supermarket. A harried mother is pushing a grocery-laden cart and talking on her cell phone while her preschooler stands in the back of the cart, leaning over the side.

OM: Ma’am? Could you pull over here, please?
Woman: I’ll have to call you back. Officer? Yes?
OM: I’m just going to remove a few of these bags from your cart so that you can see the clear graphic illustration of Stick Figure Child falling out of the cart and cracking his head open because Stick Figure Mother allowed him to stand up in the cart while it was in motion. Have you see this before?
Woman: Oh… ummm… yeah, but Junior’s never fallen. He’s very careful.
Junior: *smiles and puts fingers in nose*
OM: It’s not about careful, ma’am. The parking lot is full of potholes. A standing child in a moving cart is a serious safety hazard. I’m afraid you’ll have to be written up for this.
Woman: Oh, dear. Well, okay, fine, just give me my ticket so I can get home. My ice cream’s melting.
OM: It’s not quite that simple. I’m going to have to ask you to gently remove your ovaries and place them on the ground where I can see them.
Woman: I– uh, what?
OM: The law’s the law, ma’am. It’s clear that you’re too stupid to be allowed to procreate. It’s too late for this little one but we can stop the cycle before it begins anew. Ovaries, please.
Woman: But you can’t– I can’t– you just– shit!
OM: Watch your language, please, ma’am. Ovaries?
Woman: *wimper*

It’s a dirty job, but oh how I would love it.

What do I do all day?

Things I learned today that are going to make my head explode:

1) Getting Chickadee up for school is going to be impossible. We had to get out the door early this morning to get her to therapy before camp, and she was very nearly strangled in the process. Shouting, “If you are still in that bed when I come back I am going to remove you by your hair” may not have been my finest hour as a parent.

2) The same HMO that doesn’t bat an eyelash over paying for my daughter’s mood stabilizers is trying to tell us we’ve used up our allowance of therapy appointments. Ummmm… she’s diagnosed with a major disorder, for which she is on medication, for which the standard treatment includes continued counselling. What’s wrong with this picture? Anyone? Beuller?

3) Due to this little approval snafu, we cannot have another therapy appointment for a month, even though…

4) … after the therapist tried to bring up “Daddy’s friend” to Chickadee, she first manufactured a story about how said friend was the meanest person on the planet, then proceeded to dump out every bucket and bin of playthings within her reach. The doctor’s office was trashed when she brought me in to see. I was horrified. Chickadee thought it was hilarious. I was mortified.

5) Guess who gets to bring Chickadee to her next appointment in a month? The doctor thought it might be time to have a little chat with Daddy. Do you suppose Daddy will bother hearing anything she has to say? Maybe since it’s not coming from me, it may penetrate his thick skull? Nah. Too much to hope for.

6) It’s been so long since I took my car in for an oil change, I forgot that you have to pick what grade oil you want.

7) I was so rattled by this morning’s adventure that when Monkey and I sat in the oil change place’s waiting room and he dropped his chocolate munchkin on the floor and started to cry, I picked it up and blew on it and let him eat it. I let my child eat food off the floor. Food off the dirty car place floor. My son is going to die because I was out of resources to deal with crisis by 9:00 this morning.

And how is your day shaping up?

August 9, 2004 | Job? Huh?

I’m aware that, technically, perplexed is not a color. But I expect you to work with me here a little bit, plus I am a pathological liar. Only for the purposes of imagery and feeding my offspring, though.

(Tonight at dinner I told my son that rice pilaf tastes just like macaroni and cheese. Which is more wrong; that Mr. Picky actually agreed with me and ate it, or that I told him that in the first place?)

So, this whole job hunt thing. It’s getting down to the wire. I have widened my search quite a bit from where I started. Now I’m pretty much looking for anything that pays more than minimum wage, during daytime hours, and doesn’t require heavy manual labor. 98% of the jobs listed in my area? Are either minimum wage, at night, and/or for construction workers or truck drivers. The other 2% are for secretaries who have pleasant dispositions. I suppose I could fake a pleasant disposition for a little while, but eventually even the most oblivious boss would figure out that something was amiss.

I’ve spent the evening combing through job listings and I’ve realized that there are many things that are intrinsic to this whole job search process that I just don’t get. Not that me not understanding stuff is anything new, but here’s the most recent crop of huh-provoking items floating around in my brain:

Do the various branches of the armed forces really have success with recruitment via places like Monster? Are there a lot of people browsing job openings who stop, slap themselves on the forehead, and realize that really here is the answer to all their financial problems; join the military and make less than minimum wage and probably risk their lives, to boot?

With all due respect to everyone, menial task jobs that assert “experience required” really drive me bonkers. I guess that’s to weed out the cretins. But, really? Eighteen years of school and I’m not qualified to apply for your crappy job because you can’t be bothered to spend an hour training me on some proprietary piece of software? Ooooooookay.

Job openings where you send your resume and cover letter to the Giant Black Hole In Human Resources and receive Ye Olde Generic “thank you but no human will ever lay eyes on your paperwork you insignificant serf” email back are annoying. Extra special bonus aggravation points if the confirmation email shows that your carefully formatted resume has been converted into a garbled, formatless text-only file.

If you would like to join my shit list and leap to the top of the rankings, please offer me a valuable networking contact and then drop off the face of the planet. Tell me countless times how you are going to be able to help me out but then never answer your phone or return any of the two dozen messages I’ve left you this summer. No, really, I like it. How wonderful that we won’t ever be running into one another here in our very small town where our children will be attending the same school. What’s that? Oh, we will be seeing each other? Well how ’bout that. How wonderful. Shall I rip your head off immediately or would you prefer that I launch a tortuous and slow campaign to make you wish we’d never met? Really, I insist it be your choice.

Would it make more sense to flip a coin or to consult my Magic 8 Ball to figure out how much daycare and which hours to enroll my children in, if the school year starts before I find something? Oh, wait; I know! Ouija board! I am so smart. This must be why potential employers are banging down my door.

I am either far too brilliant or way too snarky to get a regular job. And no, we’re not voting on which one.

Friends

It’s true; the Mir clan and the Jilbur clan had a meeting of the minds (and sand) at the beach yesterday. I had a message on my machine when I got home (late) last night, from a friend, saying–and I am not making this up–”I was just calling to make sure that you got home alright and weren’t abducted or murdered by any weird internet people.” Heh. How little my friend understands. If anyone should’ve been scared, it was Jill and family. Thanks to light traffic and overestimation on Mapquest’s part, we arrived half an hour early, whereupon I did the polite thing: called Jill’s cell and demanded to know why they weren’t home.

I’m a real pleasure to have as a guest.

So, the tale of our grand adventure, complete with a few pictures. I have promised Jill not to show any pictures of her without her approval, so you’ll have to settle for a few glimpes of our adorable children. Click the pictures to biggify.

The day was perfect. Perfect! Warm but not too hot, a nice breeze, puffy fake-looking clouds, soft white sand, and giant seagulls that looked like they might take off with a small child if you didn’t keep a sharp eye. I haven’t been to the ocean in years and it’s trips like this that make me wonder why not. We were trying to set up our various beach paraphenalia and the three children were running around us in circles, delirious with the impossible task of trying to decide what to do first. Swim? Look for shells? Climb rocks? Dig? Get sand all over the freshly spread blanket? Too many choices!

In addition to being an all-around nice guy, Howie earned the title of Intrepid Explorer And Kid Herder Extraordinaire, as this was pretty much the view Jill and I enjoyed of our families for most of the day. Howie led several expeditions, pied-piper-like, off to the tide pools and climbing rocks. My children, who had barely lifted their gaze to say hello not an hour earlier, were now trailing him in admiration. On the various return trips to show us their spoils, Monkey–who took quite a long time to remember Howie’s name–kept saying “He is really good at finding neat stuff, Mama! That guy is great!” Later, when he’d finally mastered it, Monkey could be heard hollering “Hoooooooowiiiieeeeeee!” far and wide, comfortably assuming that Howie had been placed on this beach to keep him amused.

And what, you ask, of the two young ladies on this excursion? I present for your consideration, the children formerly known as Jellybean and Chickadee. For the duration of our visit I believe they were more or less a Jellybee or a Chickabean. I have not seen my daughter get along so easily and so well with another little girl with the exception of her cousin of the same age. And they were very tolerant of Monkey, as well. The whole encounter made us mamas proud.There were some elaborate projects which we only sort of understood, although it was all very serious and important to them. We knew better than to interrupt, for the most part. One thing was certain: all delicate undertakings are best completed with a pair of goggles on your head, apparently. At one point I noticed Chickadee was bleeding from a couple of leg scrapes (climbing rocks is not without some peril), and as I tended to those, Jellybean began to complain that she’d hurt her toe. Later when Jill and I fetched bags of snacks from the snackbar (that would be the aforementioned “several bags of chips”), I had not gotten Chickadee the exact same kind of chips that Jellybean had, and there was some gnashing of teeth and wailing. I think it’s safe to say that they bonded.

As for Jill and me, we sat on the sand took our time getting to know one another. It was a couple of hours, for instance, before I flashed the entire beach to show her the patch on my butt. (She asked to see it!) We considered taking a picture of our feet for blogging purposes, but decided that only two pairs of feet didn’t make for a very interesting picture. Then we thought perhaps we could manage some impressive sand sculptures, so decided to go that route, instead.. Behold… Driphenge! Jill is a very talented builder, er, dripper, of sand. She has schooled me in the way of sand dripping and I will never be the same. Also her creation is about four feet high. Really. Honest. Do you want to see the patch on my butt? (See how that’s a great way to switch topics?) Anyway, there was some sand sculpture but mostly there was gabbing. And laughing. And maybe a little bit of snorting. And possibly I was so involved in yammering away with Jill at one point that the girls waltzed up with handfuls of seaweed and we were talking about how cute they were being and I suddenly jumped bolt upright saying, “I am not panicking. I’m not panicking but where is Monkey?” And also possibly I was about two seconds away from hysterics when Howie located him for me, wandering down the beach trying to find us. But I’m not saying for sure because wouldn’t I be a lousy negligent mother if that had happened? Indeed I would, so I’m sure nothing like that transpired at all. Don’t give it a second thought.

So there was much beachiness, and the children were quite disappointed when we finally said it was time to get moving, so that we could go eat dinner. And the collective cry of “I’m all sandy!” rose up as if they had just now realized that, by gum, there was sand pretty much everywhere, and what had been delight while playing was now the bane of their little existences. And so the trek from parking lot to beach–which had been a mere skip, on the way in–stretched out into hundreds of miles on the return journey, as we adults struggled under our loads and tried to convince the children that yes, they could indeed keep walking even with sand in their shoes. Sheesh. We coaxed them along with promises of the shower at the end where we could rinse off our feet and shoes. Everyone was rinsed and patted dry and sand-free and then… stepped back into the sand. “I’m all sandy again!”

We drove back to their cottage, de-sanded as best we could, and got dressed. During this time I had a moment of wishing I’d lost my child at the beach, as he managed to slip on the steps and fall a most spectacular fall and scream for a full three minutes about how his socks were very bad and slippery and he was never wearing them again. Jill earned huge points as solicitous nursemaid by bringing Monkey some ice and applying it per his directions.

On to dinner! Fabulous seafood for the grown-ups, hot dogs or spaghetti for the little ones. Someone made a rocket out of a foil gum wrapper and shot it into the air at our dinner table. It was very impressive. That same someone was rather loose with her asparagus. In a moment of clarity I realized why the children were garnering so much praise for their behavior. Ahem. Anyway. Despite a few trips to us under the table, first by my daughter and then by her newfound soul sister, because–as she explained it to me this morning–”I was hugless, Mama!”, overall the children were quite marvelous.

As we discussed how it was a long drive home and we would change into jammies before we set out, Chickadee reminded me that I hadn’t brought toothbrushes. Oh. Right. Well, your teeth can be dirty just this once, honey. “Noooooo I don’t want to get a cavityyyyyyyyyyyyy!” The day was saved by Jill, effectively sealing her hero status in my children’s eyes forever. Jill had Oral-B Brush-Ups in her purse! To make your mouth fresh! And so! The children! Got to brush their teeth in the restaurant bathroom! Which was really exciting!

(And I commented to Jill that I would never think of the same thing, again, when asking someone “Do you have that not-so-fresh feeling?” To which she responded that that would be a fabulous marketing idea as well, then she chanted, “Rip, slip, brush, ahhhhhh!” as in the commercials and we guffawed at our cleverness much to the bafflement of our children. Chickadee was kind enough to pipe up, “Yeah, Mama, I saw that on TV, when the people on the stairs decide their mouths feel yucky!” Note to self: my children watch way too much TV.)

There were goodbyes and many hugs (Monkey tackled Howie) and then, alas, we were on our way back home. I got the kids changed into their jammies right there in the restaurant parking lot, because we are fancy and that’s the logical follow-up to brushing your teeth with a finger-mitten in a public bathroom. As we drove off into the dark, both children complained that they couldn’t possibly fall asleep, they were wide awake! I heard the first snore about a mile after we got back on the highway. When we got home, I carried them each up to their beds. Monkey mumbled, grabbed his blankie, and was still. Chickadee answered my “night, baby” with “night Mama… I like Jellybean.”

Know what? I loves me some weird internet people.

August 8, 2004 | Friends

We came (early). We saw (the Jilbur clan). We conquered (a lovely restaurant where the waitress and the elderly couple sitting next to us complimented all the children’s behavior).

I think it was love at first sight all around; except perhaps for Howie, who ended up spending a lot of time with three small busy people forming elaborate plans for crustacean domination and rock climbing, while I rudely hogged his wife for my own entertainment.

Tomorrow will yield a full report, I promise.

Detritus

After church today, the kids and I are taking a road trip to meet up with the Jilbur family, who are on vacation not too far from here.

I have long thought that it was potentially dangerous for Jilbur and I to be allowed to gab freely for a few hours. During more than one IM conversation she has caused me to pee a little, you know. But I was ignoring the real danger.

“Mama! Mama! She’s six like me, right Mama? Does she like ponies? Will she want to dig in the sand and make mud castles? Do you think she has a Tinkerbell bathing suit like mine? Does she like blueberries? How many teeth has she lost?”

Chickadee + Jellybean? Stand back. I suspect we’re in for a wild ride this afternoon.

Tales–and if you ask very nicely, pictures–to follow afterwards.

August 7, 2004 | Offspring: ecstasy and agony

I may have mentioned before that I often suffer guilt over being the “utilitarian” parent, and not doing many wheeeee-happy fun things with the kids…? Oh, did you miss that particular self-deprecating obsession somewhere, perhaps, in the midst of my fifty-seven other neuroses?

Well, I worry that I don’t spend enough quality time with my children. I had hoped that this summer was going to give us lots of great memories and opportunities for me to just relax and enjoy my little people. Mostly this summer has given me a big scar and a crash course in menopause, and that has cut into our beach bunny time. The clock is ticking and I’m still trying to make a few memories here before I either return to work full-time or have a nervous breakdown.

Today’s adventure: blueberry picking.

We met up with friends, set out to the farm, and the magic moments ensued. Each child had a little bucket. The blueberries were everywhere and the nice lady at the farm stand explained to the rapt children how to pick the very best ones. “See here,” she said, pulling down a cluster-laden branch, “you want the ones that are big and nicely dark, but also have a full coat of frost on them.” Frost? I’ve never picked blueberries before. I didn’t realize that the whitish coating was a ripeness marker. I also didn’t know that berries taste way better when fed to you by a child proclaiming them to be “nice and fwosty,” so there ya go.

They had a blast. Monkey picked very deliberately, bringing each one to me for approval. “Look at this beauty!” he would exclaim, over and over. It was kind of like picking berries with Rainman. Prior to this trip, Monkey–known far and wide for his legendary pickiness about food–swore up and down that he didn’t like blueberries. He’s always so polite about it, though, that it keeps you from strangling him. (”No thank you!” as he happily shoves the bowl of fruit away.) Today, when he brought a huge berry to me for approval, I gasped.

“What, Mama??”

“That one is far too beautiful to go in the bucket with the rest of them, buddy.”

“Really?”

“Really. It would be too sad. You’d better eat it. I bet it’s delicious.” I tried to keep my expression neutral. He looked at me, then the berry, then back at me, then popped the berry in his mouth.

“Mama!” he said after he bit into it, “you were right! It is alicious!” I couldn’t resist planting a kiss on top of his head. But he’d already moved on to another bush.

“Look at this beauty! Nice and fwosty!”

Heh.

Chickadee is a bird of a different sort, of course. When we got our buckets at the stand, I offered to weigh her before and after picking to make sure we paid accurately. The lady behind the counter had just laughed and said they’d yet to meet the kid who could eat the bushes clean, and it wasn’t a problem.

“Mama, why don’t you have a bucket?” she’d asked as we made our way to the berries.

“You’re gonna share yours with me, honey. Is that okay?”

“Okay, Mama. I’ll be your bucket!” Well, my bucket was very busy. My bucket only came over to where I was picking after I’d called her a few times, and my bucket-bearer always had a full mouth. I would drop handfuls of berries into the bucket and Chickadee would admire them and pick out a couple to eat, then go back to dropping one berry in the bucket for every ten she put in her mouth. All six-year-olds should have their mouths full as much as possible if you’re trying to have a pleasant day, I’ve decided. Mouthiness was at an all-time low. It’s very hard to sass and eat at the same time.

The kids picked and ate for a while, then played hide-n-seek with each other through the rows of berry bushes, then picked and ate some more. About six pounds of berries and umpteen “ready or not here I come”s later, we headed back to our friends’ house for playtime and dinner.

Oh, we got fresh corn at the farm stand, too. I was flabbergasted when Chickadee didn’t want a second ear of it at dinner, but she was probably still full of blueberries. I’d be hard-pressed to tell you which was better, the plump berries or the sugar-sweet corn. It was a very yummy day.

I’m exhausted. Having fun is more tiring than I remember.

If I want to double the points I earned today, all I have to do is make blueberry pancakes for breakfast. Hmmmmm….

August 6, 2004 | Detritus

How is it possible that so many of you have left comments asking me what the heck boondoggle is? Did none of you ever go to summer camp?

So. It’s Friday night, and I hear that lots of folks go out and do stuff with other people at times like these. But me? I’m just sitting here wondering which is scarier: the fact that so many of you don’t know boondoggle, or the fact that this guy seems to be the repository of more boondoggle knowledge than should be legal.

It's not a regret, it's an "experience"

This entry is for the second Blogging For Books contest over at The Zero Boss. This month the topic is servitude, with the directive to write about the best or worst experience you’ve had working for someone else.

I held my first non-babysitting job at the tender age of fourteen, and landed my first career job as a software engineer at twenty-three. During the intervening nine years I held a variety of positions. Two–vastly different–stints as a waitress. Tutor; teacher; camp counselor. Lab assistant. Library assistant. Assistant editor. Some of it was fun, some of it was awful. I was very clear, always, on the bottom line. Work = money. Money = good.

By the middle of 2002, it had become clear to me that my marriage was falling apart. I had two small children and had stopped working two years earlier to the admonitions of “you won’t work as an engineer again if you step off the track now.” I knew that I needed a job before I could ask my husband to leave. I considered the various employment opportunities that would allow me the flexibility to continue staying home with my kids–at least part-time–but would still yield enough pay to make it worth my while (read: pay more than the cost of daycare for two). I despaired.

And then, in January of 2003, we refinanced our house. The loan officer came over with all the paperwork and as we filled out forms and chatted, he mentioned that he was a single dad to a young son, and being a loan officer was great money but flexible enough for him to work around his kid’s schedule. That seemed like a pretty clear omen, to me. We talked a few more times and then I went in to interview with his boss.

I was hired on the spot. In February I began working for Big Mortgage Company as a loan officer, and I threw myself into learning this completely new undertaking. I was assigned to my local office, then after a couple of weeks the boss changed his mind and sent me to a different office, two towns over. That was… weird. But the original office was large, and impersonal, and the office I transferred to was smaller. The site manager there trained me herself and was very accessible for questions, problems, etc. What had originally been grumbling over my commute turned to gratitude that I found myself in a more helpful environment.

By late March I had a few loans under my belt, some of my confidence restored, and things at home came to a head and I asked my husband to leave. I went in to work and requested a meeting with my boss. I explained (as briefly as I could) that my circumstances had changed; while I was enjoying my work as a loan officer, I felt it too risky at this point to continue working only on commission. Did he have an opening for a loan processor, where I might be salaried, until I felt more back on my feet? I was surprised when my boss showed great concern. He said the last thing he wanted to have happen would be for the company to lose me, and that he would find me a spot. Give me a day to figure out where to put you, he said.

I returned to my desk feeling huge relief. And the next day he called me back in to say that he’d decided I could work directly for him. Business was good; his head assistant and processor had more work than they could handle. The pay was nothing to write home about (compared to my previous salary as an engineer, anyway) but it was better than I thought it would be.

For four months I reported directly to the boss, learned nearly every aspect of the business, and learned to like my job. I worked primarily with two twenty-something guys who reminded me very much of the little brothers I was glad I’d never had. But they were entertaining in their own way, and mortgage rates were down and we worked our tails off processing millions of dollars of business for BMC.

Then the boss called me in to tell me he had a proposition for me. He was thinking of starting a specialty division. How would I feel about being trained as the specialist that the loan officers could come to for processing? It sounded great. I went home with a stack of materials nearly as tall as me, and spent my spare time boning up on the ins and outs of financing “problem” loans. Not what I’d pictured myself doing… but spurred on by my boss’ constant confidence in me, I embraced the future.

About a month passed, with no word on the progress of the new division. The boss spent most of his time out of our office and at other branches. One day when he surfaced, I asked him what was happening. He kind of waved his hand in the air and said there were problems in another area; his time and attention was needed to deal with those issues before we could move forward. Then he seemed to have an idea, and said maybe I could help with the current crisis. Could I go back to my local office “for a few days” and help out with some things? Sure, whatever he needed.

Back to the first office I went. I found the person I was told to report to, was filled in on the current project, and set to work. The problem was with a particular lender refusing loans due to paperwork inconsistencies; it required an elaborate pipeline from us to them with our processors and various lawyers in-between producing everything in triplicate. It was intense, to say the least. Within a week I was permanently reassigned to that office (and someone from the other office brought me my desk contents in a box, which remained unpacked on the floor). I worked extra hours. I stopped in to work while my kids had dinner with their dad; I worked weekends when they went to see him. Two more people were added to our “swat team” as we waded through hundreds of files and implemented a new tracking system.

After a month of this, I asked my boss for a raise. I pointed out that I was no longer a processor, I was now carrying a lot more responsibility, and had been with the company quite a while. He told me he needed to think it over but would get back to me. A week later I had heard nothing. Another week passed. The third week, I dropped him an email to ask him if he’d had any more time to consider what we’d talked about.

The next day I arrived at work, and my desk had been reassigned. The apologetic girl working there said she didn’t know what was going on, she’d just been told to move.

I wandered around for about an hour, trying to track down the boss (there were five offices to choose from, and infinite highway in-between), before I was paged to the phone. It was the boss.

“Hey, do I still have a job or what?” I joked into the receiver. There was a long pause.

“I’m reassigning you to Little Title Company,” (BMC’s sister company, down the hall in the same building) he said. “For now. I haven’t quite decided what we’re going to do, but go on over there and see the supervisor, she’ll give you something to do.”

No explanation. None of the warmth or concern that had previously been there. I had a box full of stuff, and directions to head to a different company, to do… well… I wasn’t sure. I took my box and went to Little Title Company, and found the supervisor. I introduced myself, set down my box, and burst into tears.

Despite giving a soggy first impression there, the move to LTC proved favorable. There were four of us in the entire office. The supervisor loved me immediately. She confided that she really had no idea what was going on in the boss’ mind, but she was delighted to have landed me, and assured me I would enjoy their office more than that of Big Mortgage Company. She was right. The four of us shared plenty of work and great joy at no longer working for BMC (three of the four of us were prior BMC employees). Within a month I was the supervisor’s “favorite unlicensed paralegal.” (Thusly dubbed because I one day asked her what the difference was between what I was doing and what she was doing, and she’d laughed and said she had a license and made more money.) When I enquired as to the arrangements between the two companies, I was told that the boss and BMC still cut the paychecks, but we were a separate entity.

“And that,” the supervisor confided to me one day when the other two women were at lunch, “means that I am the personnel boss around here. And if he tells me to cut someone, it’s not gonna be you.”

So I’d recovered from the shock of being treated like chattel; I’d found a new, better working environment. I was appreciated, it seemed, for the first time in a long time. I gushed often about how glad I was to have been moved.

Thus it was, with great surprise, that I was called to see the Human Resources Director of Big Mortgage Company one afternoon. She pulled me into a conference room where my supervisor was already seated, and the moment my rear hit the chair, she declared, “BMC has elected to terminate your employment.”

I stared at the HR woman in disbelief. I turned to my supervisor, who was choking back tears. Tears. I asked why. The woman from HR smirked and said that the official reason was business slow-down. I was welcome to file for and collect unemployment, she said. “But off the record? You have a lousy attitude,” she growled at me.

The HR woman sat in the cubicle of BMC closest to the LTC offices. Apparently I’d been overheard complaining about my time there.

I was stunned. In retrospect, there were of course a million things I wanted to say and do. Right at the top of that list was telling that very ugly HR woman that her prized designer hat (which matched her purse) made her look even more desperate and cow-like than usual. Next on the list was asking my supervisor to speak up on my behalf… but it was clear, from the way it all transpired, that she’d pleaded my case and been told that if she didn’t put up and shut up, she’d be next.

The meeting was brief. I’d been hip-deep in a file when I was called in, and it was still spread in piles all over and around my desk when I went back into the office. The HR lady followed me as I started to pick the papers up, and reiterated that I was being dismissed immediately. I was to take my belongings and leave.

I had never been fired before. I went home and cried for the rest of the day. I was in the middle of a nasty divorce and I’d been fired. Someone who had nothing to do with my work and knew nothing about me other than that I was not a company pom-pom waver had been allowed to decide my fate. I’d worked my tail off and this was my reward?? What was the point of even trying? I was shaken to my core, for longer than I would like to admit.

If I ever run into that HR woman, I will tell her two things. First, I will thank her for saving me from turning into someone who is just grateful to have a job, because a job means money, and in drastic times money can seem more important than self-respect. I might never have quit BMC or LTC. I was overworked, underpaid, and disregarded… and I never would have left, because I was newly single with two kids and in my frustration and guilt I felt trapped. Being unemployed was terrifying. After a while, it was liberating. The world didn’t end. My priorities came into focus. My re-entry into the working world was a rough one, but I am so much better equipped, now, to find the job that will provide for my family without the proverbial bartering of my soul. Given the opportunity, I will first thank her for that.

Second? She needs to hear about that stupid hat.

My name is Grumplestiltskin

So Chickadee was injured at the Foosball table on the first day of camp. On the third day, the same boy came over and started hassling her while I was standing right there (that one has a bright future, lemme tell ya) and I was able to scare him off. This morning (day 5) I was run over by a 10ish-year-old boy (he did say sorry, but I have a huge bruise) who was retrieving a 4-square ball; and at pick-up, we were in the room not one minute when Monkey was beaned on the head with a ball.

I was trying to give them the benefit of the doubt. But that was enough, don’t you think?

I spoke with the head of the dance program, who referred me to the camp director. The camp director was summoned via walkie-talkie and showed up all perky and happy and maybe all of 22.

Not that I have anything against people who are 22. There are many fine people in the world who are 22. But I don’t know many 22-year-olds who 1) have their own kids and/or 2) actually know how to safely manage a large multi-aged group of children.

Miss Perky Director put on her interested look and nodded and nodded while I explained my concerns. Perhaps a child of 6 should not be in a play area with pre-teens. *nod* No discipline of which I was aware was taken with the boy who injured her. *nod*nod* 4-square is a great game, for outside, but not so much when in the middle of a large rec room. *nod* I should be able to walk into this room without being knocked over by a large group of running children. *nod*nod*nod* This is a great opportunity for my child for which I am paying a significant chunk of money and I don’t think we should have to be afraid for her safety. *nod*nod*

“Well I completely agree with you, Mrs. Paininthebutt,” she chirped. “And here’s my suggestion. I think you should talk to the leader of the dance camp about this.”

Thanks, Miss Perky, but she was the one who referred me to you. Next?

“Our ratios are mandated by the state, and always adhered to!” She spouted. “That’s one counselor to every fifteen kids, and sometimes we have even more than that!”

A silence fell between us as she beamed at me and I just stared. I tried to scrape up something to say (that I hadn’t already said) that would penetrate her perky glow. I decided to try a different tack.

“Miss Perky,” I said with an ingratiating smile, “I know you have a wonderful program here. That’s why we chose it. And I certainly don’t mean to make a fuss or cause problems if things are going along smoothly. I suppose it’s possible that we’ve just had a string of bad luck. Am I the first parent to approach you about the safety of this room? If so, perhaps I’m overreacting.”

Her smile faltered. Ha!

“Nooooooo…” she admitted, as her face flushed a bit, “you’re not the first parent to complain about how wild it gets in here.” Her brow furrowed for a moment. Then a flash of triumph crossed her face. “But all the complaints have been from parents in the dance program!” She began nodding again, relieved.

“Riiiight,” I nodded along with her, locking my gaze on hers. “And do you suppose that has anything to do with the fact that the dance girls are as young as 6, and the rest of the campers are 8 and older?” Her brow furrowed again.

“Yes!” she agreed. “Many of the dance girls are very small, too.” Oh good Lord. Watching her nod was mesmerizing, as long as I could continue to squelch the urge to smack her.

“So maybe these small, younger girls could be in a separate area…?” (And maybe you could get your head out of your butt?)

“Hmmmm,” she said. “That’s a good idea. I should talk to the dance leader about doing that.”

“Well that would be wonderful, I think. I’d love to see that in place for next week, it would certainly ease my mind.” Now we were smiling and nodding together; her, considering what a brilliant idea this was (this is a huge facility, so why I had to suggest another space is beyond me), and me, thinking that it is one of life’s greatest ironies that I can’t find a job but this dimwit is being paid to keep my child safe.

We’ll see what Monday brings. If Miss Perky hasn’t found a solution, maybe I can go nod at the facility director for a while, and she’ll be fired and I’ll get her job. That’d be kinda cool.