Every now and then I realize that I’ve left you hanging on a variety of things—by accident, and because I’m disorganized (not on purpose)—and/or I think of a few minor things I want to share that aren’t entire-post-worthy. And then I throw them all together in a single mish-mash post and call it a day. Hooray!
First of all, I can’t stop watching this video:
(No, that has nothing to do with anything, I just love it. You’re welcome.)
Next, I realized I never filled you in on the recent developments in Dog Saga-land. After a lot of consideration and discussion and research, we decided to pursue getting an autism service dog for Monkey. This was exciting, both because I think it’s something he’ll love and also because we assumed it would alleviate some of the issues we need to deal with when Hippie School changes next year. We picked an organization to go through, and one of the reasons we picked the one we did was because they boasted the “shortest match times in the industry,” citing a statistic about most kids having to wait upwards of two years for an animal, but their averages were closer to six months, etc.
I bet you know where this is going, but I’ll tell you anyway.
We made arrangements to visit their facility—two states away—and of course they couldn’t even give us a workable appointment for over a month, but we went ahead and scheduled it and life went on. And then life imploded, but when the day came and Chickadee was in the hospital we went anyway (Chickie understood), and hopes were high.
The facility was nice. The people were very sweet. The dogs were simply darling. Monkey got a lapful of standard poodle puppy and couldn’t stop laughing. He fed bits of hot dog to an apricot goldendoodle pup who probably would’ve viewed Licorice as a tasty between-meal snack.
It was a great day. I felt giddy. And then the head trainer told us that some things have changed lately (oh how I have come to loathe that word, “change”) and BY THE WAY their time from contract to placement of a dog is about two years.
Monkey happily played video games and read books on the way back home, and I didn’t spend the whole drive crying, no, because the drive was about five hours and I just don’t have that many tears left.
And in the meantime, Merry wants us to come in and finalize the agreement for next year, which has now moved from “maybe we should consider not doing full-time” to “he will not be allowed to attend full-time.” Even though it’s March and we’re talking about next August. Even though he’s growing so much, so fast, right now. Even though it’s going to break his heart.
It’s not an indictment of him or us. I know that. I know she has to balance the needs of the whole school. I know why she thinks it’s best, and I know the subtext here is that we should be (and are, don’t get me wrong) grateful that he’s being allowed to return at all.
But does it smart? Yeah.
So we’re left trying to figure out how to structure it so that 1) he feels like it was our idea and 2) he thinks whatever we end up deciding to do for those two other days is way better than what they’re doing at Hippie School. This gets complicated, quickly, as Hippie School does a ton of field trips, many of them on the days he’ll be out. While all are welcome to join on trips, it means scheduling something else on those days will mean either missing a trip or missing the other activity, a good way to cause a Monkey Meltdown.
In short: it sucks. The end.
Bathing suits confuse me. This has nothing to do with anything, really. I just feel the need to include it here because I happen to know this beautiful nearly-14-year-old who made the completely reasonable request—in light of discovering that none of her bathing suits fit anymore—that I buy her two new suits: One, a single-piece “good for actual swimming” kind, and one “pretty but not hoochie” two-piece. Let me tell you what happens when you reach the no-man’s-land of sizing when you could technically still fit into Girls’ (but girls’ sizes aren’t shaped for curves) but really you wear the smallest Junior sizes: NO SWIMSUITS FOR YOU.
Rather: You can still have an athletic one-piece, if your mother is willing to spend $70 on it (hint: she’s not!), and short of that modest racing Speedo, your choices in “cute” suits range from string bikini to buttfloss. Your choice! While two-piece suits with a bit more coverage exist, they don’t come in her size, which is Toothpick With Boobs (given society’s insistence on this particular shape, you’d think it’d be easier to find items in her size, but you would be wrong).
Moral of the story: eBay is your friend for the racing suit, at least. And your mother rather enjoys listening to your commentary on the bikini options. (“That’s not a bathing suit, that’s a piece of string and a couple of nipple band-aids.”)
In the wake of recent events (see also: suckitude, extremely a lot of), when I dropped the children off with their father on Saturday morning
so that I could have five minutes to myself for the first time in two months so that they could have a nice visit, I may have skipped a little bit as I headed back to my car. I decided to run some errands, stop at Goodwill—all of the mundane sorts of things that have been so hard to do lately. All was well (if you’re willing to overlook the Goodwill employee who opened a fitting room while I was in it, trying on a shirt, which I am because eh, my current level of “give a fuck” is at an all-time low), until I got to Macy’s.
I don’t really do the mall, you know. But I had a few things to return there (like the swimsuit I ordered the kid from Lands’ End Canvas, where the top was too small and the bottom too big and WHERE IS OUR JUST-RIGHT PORRIDGE ALREADY?) and I happen to have a Macy’s gift card for some reason. So I wandered in and commenced perusing the clearance.
Either my timing was off or the mall is even more dreadful than I remember (either is possible, frankly), but the clearance was pitiful. I have no need for a sweater made of muppets, so it really wasn’t my finest shopping day. (Oh, except the top I was trying on at Goodwill that resulted in me flashing the whole store? Banana Republic, $4. That was pretty sweet.) After wandering around Macy’s for half an hour it occurred to me that Chickie has put in a request for a new pair of yoga pants, so I finally located a salesgirl and said, “Where would I be if I was exercise gear?”
She pointed, elaborated that I was looking for the items “to the left of the maternity section,” and I thanked her and headed that way. Do you know what was to the left of the maternity section? OLD LADY JOGGING SUITS. I kid you not. A veritable SEA of bedazzled velour greeted me, with nary or a sports bra or other ACTUAL wear-while-working-out clothing item in sight.
Look, I get that I wasn’t exactly looking my finest. I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt and sneakers, and no makeup, and my hair was in a ponytail, but… I spent the entire rest of the day wondering if that salesgirl thought I was 70.
My Macy’s giftcard remains unspent.