The Cactus Tale

I originally sent this email to our local homeschool group on 12/14/06.

Go ahead and laugh at me now because you will be as soon as you read this. Add to your list of famous last words, “I wonder what that tastes like?”

Several few months ago we were given a very large cactus. Our neighbor was moving to Florida and couldn’t move it. It spent the summer and fall outside. When it got too cold out I brought it inside. Well, the dog was chasing the cat and knocked the thing over. It shot out this milky fluid all over the place when it hit the floor. And I say, “I wonder what that tastes like?”

Turns out it tasted bad, very bad. It was downright painful, burning like fire, swelling up my mouth and throat. Nothing helped. Not water, not milk, not mouthwash. Then I got dizzy and developed a migraine-like headache. I was sick for 24 hours.

Upon googling I discovered that it is not a cactus at all but a succulent of the Euphorbia family. It is highly toxic. Some euphorbias are used to make poison arrows. I have to get rid of it. We have six cats, one dog, and two small children. This thing is only suitable for a home without pets or small children.

It is a lovely plant and I really think it’s too beautiful to simply put out in the garbage. It is in the laundry room under a fluorescent light until I can find a home it. I had to rescue it after my husband evicted it into the bitter cold and I hid it in there. He’s bound to find it and evict it again. So if you have no pets and your kids are older please take it.

What does this have to do with homeschooling? Not much. Sorry about that. But homeschoolers do have a natural curiosity that could cause a story like this to be told.

Tax Time

Yeah, me!

Our 2007 taxes are filed and our refund will be in the bank on February 8th.

It did not cost us a dime to e-file federal or state. If you meet the income guidelines you can file for free at http://turbotax.intuit.com/taxfreedom/.  It does not have to be a simple 1040 or EZ. I have to file Schedule C for self-employment and it was still free.

Kindergarten in 1970

In 1970 I was five years old and I went to kindergarten. Kindergarten was a one room private school across the street from the big and scary public school where the big kids went. There was no public kindergarten then. My mother had to pay for me to go to the little school. We were poor. Dirt poor. I don’t know how my mother managed to pay for me to go to kindergarten.

We lived in what my mother called The Chocolate House. I don’t know why; maybe because it was brown. It was the closest thing to a tenement that Joplin had. A little over ten years later I would live in The Chocolate House again but that’s another story. I think it burned down recently and I’m glad to know that the chain is broken and my own daughter will never live in The Chocolate House.

The money wasn’t the only sacrifice my mother made the year that I went to kindergarten. I remember some things vividly. In fact, this whole stream of thought came about while discussing fire drills with my husband.

In kindergarten we had regular fire drills. I remember them like they were yesterday. The thing that stands out is this: When the fire alarm went off, we were supposed to pick up our desks and carry them outside. I look at my son, nearly five years old, close to the age that I would have been then. He looks so small, too small to pick up a desk and carry it outside in a fire. I’m sure I was smaller then than he is now. Why did we have to save our desks? Some things never change. It was all about the money. If the school was going to burn down, at least those expensive desks could be saved. So now, carrying my desk out of the building once a month for a fire drill is one of the main things I remember about kindergarten.

I also remember class parties for holidays. This is where that other sacrifice my mother made comes in. She was one of our class party hostesses. She would always be there at those parties organizing games for us, serving treats that she had baked, and all that sort of PTA-mom-type stuff.

Looking back, I cringe for my mother. This had to be the one of the hardest things she ever did. She doesn’t like kids. She didn’t then. She doesn’t now. She doesn’t like excessive noise or chaos. She doesn’t like snotty noses or unkempt clothing. Looking back, I’m certain she’d have rather been having a root canal that be at that school hostessing those parties and putting on a smile for the other moms. She probably didn’t like the other moms either.

I never realized before now, as I type this article, how very alike my mother and I really are. Just last month I signed up to help with a Christmas party for science club even though I’d rather be drawn and quartered than be there surrounded by other mothers and other people’s kids.

At some of those parties, my mother would have been pregnant with my baby sister. I only know that because of the math involved. I didn’t know it then.

In 1970 my husband wasn’t yet born. My baby sister was on the way. I was in kindergarten carrying my desk around.

And my mother was doing the absolute best job she could do at being the kind of mother she thought she needed to be.

Now my kids don’t go to school even though kindergarten is free for everyone. That’s me doing the best job I can do at being the kind of mother I think I need to be. She sacrificed so I could go to school and I sacrifice so my kids don’t have to go to school.

I wonder if some day my daughter will be sacrificing so that her kids can go to school while suffering through hostessing some children’s party that she’d rather not even attend.

Thief in the Night

There is a thief in my house.

My daughter belongs to the Toys R us Birthday Club so today when she went there to choose her birthday gift she was given a cardboard crown that says, “It’s My Birthday!” and a Mylar balloon. She also gets a birthday card with a $3.00 gift card in the mail before her birthday and we get a $5.00 coupon by separate mail so it’s worth joining. But, anyway…

Her baby brother’s birthday is in three weeks. He has not been happy that Sissy gets her birthday first. He had a tantrum when she chose a cake from the cookbook. He had a tantrum when she went shopping. He had a tantrum when his grandma delivered her gift today.

Tonight after he had his bedtime story and was tucked into bed, I snuggled up on the sofa to read a chapter from Little Town on the Prairie to my daughter. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him sneaking down the dark hallway into her room. Moments later he sneaks out and heads down the hall back to his room. He was wearing the cardboard crown. He had stolen it.

The Broiled Birthday Cake

My daughter’s ninth birthday is the day after tomorrow. We were looking at cookbooks together tonight choosing a cake to bake for her birthday when I remembered the year of the Broiled Birthday Cake.

I said, “There’s a Gather article.” Then I said, “There needs to be a group for these kitchen disasters.” And now here we are.

My daughter was turning three years old that year. We had invited friends and family over for a birthday party. Because of this, we cleaned the house. Thoroughly. Part of cleaning the house thoroughly involved removing all the knobs from the stove for cleaning.

Then we made the chocolate cake. It went into the oven less than an hour before the guests were supposed to start arriving. We set the oven dial to “bake” and the temperature to 350 and put the cake in the oven.

Shortly after putting the cake in the oven to bake we began to smell smoke. We opened the oven to find the cake being broiled. The house was full of smoke, the cake was ruined and the guests would start arriving any minute. How did this happen?

Whoever put the knobs back on the stove put the oven dial on wrong so that when we turned it to “bake” it was actually on “broil.” That’s how.

It’s been six years so I don’t remember enough details to make this story as good as it should be but I wanted to share it anyway. I am now leaving for the store to buy ingredients for the chocolate cake she chose out of the cookbook. Wish me luck.

Originally published at Gather on 1/19/08. 

Irreverent Product Review

I received three boxes of Nabisco 100 Calorie Packs Nutter Butter Chewy Granola Bars in the mail for review purposes. I did not receive any other compensation or consideration unless Nabisco is so stunned by my review that they offer me a posh job writing ad copy. Hey, it could happen.

I’ve never written a product review before but I figure there are two important things: 1) Do the kids like it and would they ask me to buy it, and 2) Does mom think buying it when the kids ask is a wise choice? Of course, there is also the manufacturers record on environmental issues, their political and charitable donations, and all stuff that to consider.

1) Do the kids like it?

It would seem so. Two of the three boxes are already gone. The only reason the third box isn’t gone is that I hid it so I could get some photos of the product for my review. My eight year old daughter would have preferred to review the Oreo and the Chocolate Chip variety that were pictured on the back of the box but she did like the Nutter Butter variety. My four year old son probably ate more of these than my daughter did, but he didn’t have any words of wisdom for this review. He did leave crumbs in my new keyboard. I hope they don’t draw ants.

My kids are not of the variety that will eat anything they are given, although I’ve heard such kids exist. Mine are more likely to suggest that I mail the rejected food to the starving children who would kill to have whatever food they have deemed inedible.

2) Does Mom like it?

Well, I’m a slacker mom. If the kids will eat it and it doesn’t have a skull and crossbones on the label, then I will buy it. I don’t sweat the small stuff like calories, sugar, fat, artificial colorings, or preservatives. Because of this, I might have been the wrong mom to ask. Or the right mom, depending on how you wanted this to turn out.

The fact that these granola bars only have 100 calories each is wasted on me. I don’t care. Maybe you do. I wouldn’t even have known if it weren’t splashed in large purple letters across the top of the box. I hear childhood obesity is a real problem these days though, so I’m sure this a good thing for many moms. Which brings us to…

3) Things good moms will care about:

• There are six bars in a box. Each bar is .98 ounces. Yes, that is less than one ounce.
• Each bar contains exactly 100 calories. This may explain the odd .98 ounce weight.
• Each bar contains 1.5 grams of total fat of which 1 gram is saturated fat. I can’t figure out what kind of fat the other half a gram is. The rest all say 0. Maybe someone at Nabisco is bad at math.
• No cholesterol. I think cholesterol is a bad thing so it’s good that it isn’t there.
• Each bar contains 120 mg of sodium. I think that is salt.
• Each bar contains 21 grams of carbohydrates. I think that is a good deal less that a plate of spaghetti, but what do I know. These carbohydrates are broken down into 2 grams of dietary fiber and 6 grams of sugar. That’s only 8 grams. Again, someone must be bad at math.
• Each bar contains 2 grams of protein. I don’t know if this is good or bad. I know these are much easier to get a kid to eat than beans are.
• There is no vitamin A, no vitamin C, and no calcium. I find this is not unusual for granola bars. After all, they aren’t fruit.
• There is 2% of the Daily Value of iron. Again, I find this is not unusual for granola bars. They aren’t spinach.
• Nabisco is owned by Kraft Foods. According to opensecrets.org, Kraft Foods Global Inc. PAC contributions for the 2008 cycle so far break down as 58% to Democrats and 42% to Republicans. In case you care.

4) Conclusion

I will buy these. I probably won’t buy them for breakfast food since they are too small for my kids’ big appetites but I will buy them for quick and easy snacks. It would be great to keep a box of these in the car to cut down on trips to fast food joints. You know how it is; every time you get in the car and drive a few blocks, “Mom, I’m hungry. Can we go through a drive-thru?” It’s nice to have snacks in the car at all times.

You better buy them too so I can get that job at Nabisco doing math.

Writer Mama Scholarship

Christina Katz is offering one scholarship for her class, Writing and Publishing the Short Stuff, which begins on February 13th. I intend to apply for the scholarship since I thoroughly enjoyed, and continue to enjoy, her book and would love to take the class.

I have to write one paragraph explaining why I want to take the class. That’s hard for me. Once I get started I’ll end up with 1000 words. This will be a real exercise in being concise and choosing words that work.

I also need to write a paragraph listing my publication credits. How does one say zero, nada, zip, in a way that makes it sound like it’s a good thing? That business writing class I took in college might come in handy after all. I wonder if the fact that there are some Real Paid Authors that deign to speak to me counts for anything.

Finally, I have to explain why I can’t afford the tuition without a scholarship. This is where I begin to second guess myself. No, I can’t pay it right now. I just paid a seven hundred dollar vet bill the week before Christmas. We can’t pay the sales tax on the car we had to buy when my husband’s car quit for good the day before Thanksgiving. My utility bill was nearly as much as my mortgage this month. And so on.  But…

I’m still better off than a single mother trying to survive on minimum wage. At least I have a mortgage. I know people that are homeless right now. At least we have a new car to owe sales tax on. At least saving my cat’s life only caused me six overdraft fees. Part of me says I shouldn’t apply for this scholarship but should instead wait until I can afford the class.  Then again, how many homeless people are trying to launch a writing career right now? I’d think they’d have more pressing issues to deal with.

It’s interesting to me how writing a single paragraph is harder than writing an entire essay.

Paid for Something I Wrote

Well, that was easy. Too easy, really.

I have been paid for something I wrote. That was one goal for 2008. I guess I’m supposed to be all excited now. How come I’m not?

Does this earn me the coveted title of Published Author? I really won’t feel like one until I get something published in a print magazine. I’m not sure I’d even feel like one then unless it happened regularly. Perhaps Published Author only applies to the writers of books. That goal is a bit lofty for me. I don’t think there is a book in my future.

Does this earn me the title of Real Paid Writer? I guess technically it does but I don’t see six dollars going very far toward paying the utility bill. Perhaps Real Paid Writers make so much money they don’t have to care about their utility bills. I might be better off being a Real Paid Hooker.

Still, this was a first step and can now be checked off my list. Once I’ve pulled this off a few dozen times maybe I’ll actually send something to a print magazine so I can start collecting rejection slips.

January – Get paid for writing something.
February – Get paid for writing something at least once a week.
March – Get paid for writing something at least twice a week.
April – Get paid for writing something at least three times a week.
March – Get paid more for writing something. Maybe Constant Content?
April – Send something to a print magazine while continuing to write regularly for AC.
May – Am I there yet? Probably not.

I think this plan needs work.

The Tampon Lady

I used to work in a grey cubicle as a payroll clerk. Two cubes away from me sat the Tampon Lady.

I don’t remember the Tampon Lady’s name. I only remember how much I hated sharing work space with her. She was nice enough. She did her job and had no annoying habits that I recall. There was, however, one issue, and I never figured out how to address it. They just don’t cover stuff like this in business college.

She kept a super-size box of Playtex Deodorant Tampons in her desk drawer. It had to have come from Sam’s Club to be the size that it must have been. I never saw the tampons but I know they were there and I imagine every person that worked on that floor knew the tampons were there.

Playtex Deodorant Tampons have a distinctive odor. If you have ever smelled one, you will always be able to recognize the sickening, flowery scent that they are saturated with. I can smell them in a strange woman’s closed purse when she walks by me at the grocery store. And I could smell them in my co-workers desk.

Monday through Friday, I smelled them, week after week. She kept them there all the time, not just at her time of the month. I was assaulted be the tampons as soon as I arrived at work each morning and I left work in the evening with the scent apparently stuck to the hairs inside my nose. I was not free of it until I had been out of the office for several hours in the evening.

I will admit that I have a more sensitive sense of smell than the average person. That’s surprising since I have been a smoker for many years. Still, the tampons were a menace and made for a hostile work environment if there ever was one.

I am allergic to flowery perfumes. I can’t walk through the perfume department at a department store without becoming ill. I can not read magazines that have perfume samples in them. I used to take the stairs instead of the elevator even when I worked on the 16th floor of an office building so that I wouldn’t be in a crowded elevator with someone who had marinated themselves in perfume and spend the rest of the day with a migraine.

So this was a problem for me and I didn’t know how to address it. Luckily, I got pregnant and had to quit my job. I wonder if the Tampon Lady still works there.

This article was inspired a blog entry I read earlier today.

The Last Kid Picked for Kickball

Were you ever the last kid picked for kickball? Do they even still do that in schools? If they don’t, then maybe I’m homeschooling my kids for no good reason. Oh, yeah. I do have a few other reasons but kickball is pretty high on the list.

A post I made earlier today got me to reminiscing about always being the last kid picked for kickball. I do not look back on this time of my life with angst.

No, I remember the pathetic child that was me, always chosen last for kickball, and I have to laugh. The kid that was me was a “looser” with a capital L. It was not yet fashionable to protect a child’s self-esteem at any cost so no one tried to convince me that being a klutz was a gift. Kids weren’t raised to be praise junkies like they are today in this age of self-esteem run amok so I learned to see myself the way I really was and it wasn’t always a pretty sight.

I sucked at kickball, so of course no one wanted me on their team. At the time that seemed important. There I stood with the dregs of my class waiting to be picked. I stood with the dirty, smelly boy that no one would sit next to at lunch and the fat girl that we all threw rocks at and called names on the playground. I usually at least got picked before they did.

I always missed the ball completely when I went running up to kick it. Think of Charlie Brown, Lucy, and that football. Except no one was making me miss. I was just that clumsy.

One day I ran up and kicked and my foot actually made contact with the ball. I couldn’t believe it. Neither could anyone else. My humiliation was not ended for good like I thought for a nanosecond that it might be.

I ran the wrong way. I took off for third base instead of first. After that I was always picked dead last, not even beating out the smelly boy or the fat girl.

They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I’d like to amend that to whatever doesn’t drive you to suicide makes you funnier.

I now look at most anything that I screw up as a source of amusement and something to write about. I wonder if I would still be able to do that if some nice adult had rescued me from ridicule back then.