Confessions of a Serial Swooper

I hate bullies.  It’s all I can do not to walk up to the little 5-year old punk that doesn’t let Little Brother up the ladder to the slide and shove him off the jungle gym.  I can barely contain myself when some mental midget thinks he’s “all that” and decides to taunt the little girl with glasses.  I want to give ’em a firm talking to and a time-out that lasts until he’s twelve.

But, I say that (and I mean that) knowing that I may have not always been the kindest of children.  Like everyone, I fell victim to the desire to be “cool” and sometimes being cool meant not treating everyone the same, fair way.

My freshman year at boarding school (a mecca of hormones and popularity struggles), there was a senior girl who was clearly not cool.  She was a straight-A student.  She was pale.  She has two first names (like Janie Sue or Betty Ann, you know?) and she was neat as a pin.

She was also never anything but nice.

But, my friend and I were dying to be cool.   And, consequently, one day we were not very nice to our two-named dorm prefect.

Not surprisingly, she did a lot of laundry.  Neatly folded, ironed, pressed and perfect, her clothes weren’t brand name but they were nothing if not taken care of.  She was in the laundry room of our dorm all the time, it seemed.  Washing, folding and probably enjoying the order of things.

Until she lost a white sock.

One white sock.

In the laundry.

So, frustrated by the loss of one white sock, she posted a note on our dorm bulletin board that read:

LOST

ONE WHITE SOCK

Between the hours of 5 and 6:30 pm

October 4

IF FOUND, RETURN TO XXXX

Seriously?  I mean, come on.  How many socks get lost in the laundry every year?  Especially in a prep school dormitory where we all tossed our things and, often, forgot about them in the dryer for days on end.

But, she was stressed.

Lost.  One white sock.

We couldn’t resist.  My friend and I went to our room and made our own sign.  We posted it under the cover of darkness next to her note.

LOST

SEVENTY-TWO WHITE SOCKS

Any Day, All Day

Any Month

IF FOUND, RETURN TO ANY ONE OF THE MANY STUDENTS

WHO LOSE SOCKS EVERY. SINGLE. DAY.

We thought we were hilarious.  When we got back to our dorm the next morning after classes, our note was still there.  Hers was gone.

I feel terribly about it.  Still.  Today.

What a bitchy thing to do.

Twenty-four years later, I still feel like a schmuck about that note.

And she’s not reading (of course) but I wish she knew I hate that I wrote that stupid note.  And that I’m not that kind of a person.

So, maybe that’s why, when I see Little Jenny tease Little Julie on the playground, I want to step in and shake her.  I want to tell her to cut it out.   That, sure, she may feel pretty cool acting that way now (as her friends giggle at Julie’s expense).  But, it’s just not right.

And, when she’s a thirty-nine year old parent, she’ll be praying to god no one treats her child the way she once treated someone else.

_____

Along the same lines, I’ve discovered a hilarious blog called Passive Aggressive Notes that cracks me up almost daily.  People can be  so ridiculous.

Here’s one of yesterday’s gems.

__________

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What a day.

I was up a little late last night so decided I’d sleep in a little.  When I got out of my bed (with its freshly laundered sheets), I decided not to put on today’s clothes, which had been selected and displayed neatly for me before I fell asleep.   Instead, since I was a little hungry, I chose to wake the maid and let her know I was ready for my first meal of the day.   Shocked to find that she was already up, I wandered down the hall and found she’d already started work for the day despite the fact that no one else was up and making any requests.  (Probably hoping for overtime.  The blood sucker.)

Anyway, I demanded she stop whatever busy work she’d invented and get straight to work on my breakfast.  I’m pretty sure I caught her rolling eyes but she obliged and headed to the kitchen.  (Slacker.) I woke my partner to let him know breakfast was being prepared so he could weigh in on what he wanted.  (We like to keep her guessing.  Best to keep the help working on as many different things as possible.  Prevents them from getting bored, we believe.) Sure enough, my partner demanded waffles to my cereal.  (We are nothing if not consistent in our inconsistency.) The maid continued cooking until she was called to the bathroom.  Partner pooped.  She wiped.  (We don’t pay her extra for this task, I’ll have you know.  It’s part the privilege of working for us.  Yeah, she knows.  She’s got it good.) Breakfast time.  As usual, she didn’t do it perfectly.  She couldn’t seem to get her head around the fact that I actually wanted strawberry milk in my cereal.  (Sigh.  Sometimes…)

Next, it was time to call for the car and, since our favorite chauffeur moonlights with another job during the daytime (the nerve), the maid drove us.  I had a big day ahead of me full of writing and sounding out letters and being line leader and the wench almost made me late.  She did make my partner late.  Apparently, she can’t drive fast enough to get from my place of business to his place of business in 2 minutes flat.  (Oh, for good help…) So, then, we gave the maid three whole hours off.  Completely on her own.  I know she just goes back to my house and takes a nap or something.  Does her nails.  Who knows.  Whatever it is, I don’t care as long as she gets her sorry tail back to my partner’s place of business by 12:30 SHARP, gets him a lunch, a decent nap (She claims he can really be a bear if he doesn’t get a good nap.  HER problem.  Not mine.) and is back at my business by 2 on the dot.  No messing around.

And when I get off work I expect some entertainment.  And, I don’t mean entertainment like going home and having “quiet time” (she used to get away with that trick) or coloring books or something like that.  No.  I expect her to put a little more effort in.  A playground, an art studio, Chuck E. Cheese, bowling, a play date.  Come on, woman, come up with something!  You had three free hours, remember?!   Entertain us.  Go.

Then feed us again.  Oh, and by the way, I eat nothing other than chicken nuggets, spaghettios or hotdogs.  And my partner wants “real” food so if you try to give him the same dinner as you give me well then just be ready to serve him from your plate when you decide to eat.  He likes your food better, anyway.  It’s the least you can do.

After I’m fed and dessert has been consumed, I expect you to wash me while I whine.  Oh, get over it.  Whining is part of the package.  It keeps you on your toes.  And, then, when you think your day is nearly done and you put us to bed, expect one more little thing.  Even though we really want nothing to do with you all day, dear maid, you can expect that we will be dying to see you shortly after you put us to bed.  We will miss you.  And cry for you.  Repeatedly.   Until we eventually fall asleep.  And then maybe you can relax with the chauffeur.  We suspect there’s something going on between the two of you, you know.  You aren’t fooling anyone.

Did you have a good day, Maid Mommy?  We love you.  See you tomorrow.

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I drove down to Wakefield last week to walk the lake with a friend who recently gave birth to two beautiful boys.  We met in the parking lot of Honey Dew Donuts and she was barely out of her car before I burst into tears.  Tears of joy, seeing her with these precious new lives.  Tears of relief, for her pregnancy had been a risky one, that everyone was so healthy and well.  Tears of…anything else?

I didn’t think so at the time but…maybe.

We had coffee and then walked.  We were together for over an hour, our conversation flowing easily from one subject to the next, as it always does when we’re together.  We touched on so many subjects — our marriages, our bodies, our children, our towns, our homes, our friends, our family — and yet it wasn’t difficult to feel we’d covered each fairly well in our limited time together.

When we finished the walk and began piling her kids and ourselves back into our cars, she took pause.  As we exchanged our goodbyes, she stopped, left her car and walked over to mine.

I just have to say something.  In all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never heard you sound so self-deprecating.

Huh?

She went on.

I’ve always known you to be so self-confident.  So capable.  So sure of yourself.  Most of this walk, you found little ways to put yourself down.  You were too slow in the 5K.  You spend money too freely.  You think you don’t clean your house well enough.  You’re not loving enough to Husband.  You don’t see your parents enough.  You’re too hard on your kids.  Come on, Swooper!  It’s not like you.  What’s going on?

She was right.  I said all that.  And, really, that’s not like me.

At least, not like the old me.  The one who sat in the office around the corner from her at the big financial institution.  The one who got recognized with bonuses.  And promotions.  And “atta girl”s.  The one who exuded confidence in the success of my daily life because I could prove it.  I could prove it with my harborside apartment.  I could prove it with my paycheck.  I could prove it with the ring on my finger.  I could prove it with my business card.

And, now?

Well, I’m a stay-at-home Mom (and happy to be one).  But, there aren’t any promotions or bonuses or corner offices.

So, how can I possibly prove I’m any good at what I do?

I know, I know.  I get plenty of nice praise from people (Husband included) for the fact that I’m raising “good kids.”  My boys are kind, generally calm, nice people who say please and thank you (to everyone but me).   And I know I can take a good chunk of credit for their behavior.  Raising them is by far the most important job I’ve ever held.

And, as far as the superficial proof?  Well.  I live in a nice town in a nice(ish) house.  I drive a nice car and we take nice vacations.  But, who cares about that?   No one.

So, why the utter lack of confidence when walking with my friend?  When did I become that woman?  That woman who can’t take a compliment.  That woman who says (and believes) that she’s just not doing anything as well as it could (and should) be done.

1) I could be a better Mom.

2) I could be a better wife.

3) I could take better care of my body.

4) I could take better care of the house.

5) I could  be a better daughter.

6) I could be a better friend.

Nothing in my current world is ever perfect.  And, I guess I just always thought myself a perfectionist.

In the working world, I could run an event from start to finish and (often) it could  go off without a hitch.  In the stay-at-home world?  Ha.  Not so much.

So, add it to the list.

7) I could be more proud of my daily accomplishments.

Maybe I’ll work on that one first.

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My friend DZB emailed this to me yesterday.  It’s an email I sent to her (and maybe to a few other friends) during the summer of 2006, while Husband, Big Brother and I were living and working in Vermont.  I was years away from starting my blog but, as she pointed out in her email, I was clearly looking to writing as an outlet for a rant or two.

So, even though I really want to go in and edit it a bit for better story-telling, I’ll leave it as it was sent that day.

I loved that job.  But, as with any job centered around customer service, it could be maddening at times.  ‘Cause let’s face it.  The general public kinda sucks.

You agree.

__________

Monday, July 31, 2006

Inn-keeping with Stereo-types

I manage an Inn. In Vermont. We have a handyman, named Daryl.  Yes, Daryl-like-from-Newhart-Daryl. It’s that kind of place. Anyway…

Caller: I’d like to have dinner tonight at 7:00 in the tavern.
Me: I’m sorry, I only have a table at 6:15 or 8:30.
Caller: Oh. How about 7:30?
Me: (biting tongue) No, I’m sorry. 6:15 or 8:30.
Caller: Oh. Well, we’re going to the 9:00 movie so we really need to eat between 7 and 8.
Me: (silence)
Caller: HELLO?!! Are you there? Hello?! HELLO?!?!
Me: Yup, still here. Still 6:15 or 8:30.
Caller: (Sighs audibly. Hangs up)

Charming.  I love my job, I love my job, I love my job.

But then, I lean over and pat the sweetly snoring black Labrador lying on the floor beneath my chair.

A week ago:

“Regular guest” arrives and goes straight to “her” room (#12). Said guest never checks in at the front desk. Simply “arrives” and deposits herself in said room, picking up her key at the desk when cocktail time rolls around. We are then to prepare glass of house Cabernet (actually , NOT our house Cabernet anymore but we all know it’s the one She wants.) Anyway, this time, She is at the desk minutes after Cadillac parks in rear lot.

She: WHAT HAPPENED IN MY ROOM?!?!
Me: Thinking ‘Oh no, dog threw up’, ‘Interns clogged toilet’, ‘AC frosted over’, oh god, oh god
Me: What is it?
She: It’s HORRIBLE!
Me: What is it?
She: The bedspread is red! (It used to be blue. We’ve had a decorator in recently.) The curtains are a horror show! Get them back!
Me: Ummm…
She: NOW! I want them back! Get them back!
Me: Well, let me look into this. I know we did some redecorating but I don’t believe we made any changes to Room 12 and…
She: Get them back! Get them back!
Me: I’ll see what I can do.

And, I do. I JUMP on the phone, call the decorator who lives down the street and actually RUSHES over with SIX old bedspreads and her album of each room befores and afters. Locate correct blue bedspread. Run upstairs while She has so-called “house” Cabernet. Quickly switch bedspread. Pull down new curtains. Replace with white. Rush back downstairs. Sweating…

Me: The room is back as it used to be, Mrs. X
She: Well, thank goodness.

__________

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Yooo hoooo!  Anyone home?

I know it’s been all quiet on the Serial Swooper front.  I’ve been somewhat wrapped up in the new schedule, caught a pretty good cold and am really more interested lately in setting real life dates for walks and coffee with the girls than I am in sitting down at the computer and trying to shout some witty out to cyber land.

But, I’ve been kicking a bunch of bloggy subjects around in my head lately, which at least means I’ll be back to writing soon.  Well…eventually.

In the meantime (as I watch my babies go off to school with their backpacks slung over their tiny shoulders), I’m feeling a little bit like this cute fellow in the video below.  Moving forward.  Making progress.  But, a little unsure how in the world it’s all happening so darn quickly.

_____

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Did you hear that Natalie Holloway’s Mom reportedly showed up at Joran van der Douche’s Peruvian jail yesterday?  Yup.  She did.  Unbeknownst to her family, friends and even her lawyer (gasp!) she went to Peru.  It’s unclear whether she snuck in as was first reported or whether she had authorization but, either way, she showed up.

And, amazingly, she didn’t try to kill him (I might have.)  Instead, she calmly took the opportunity to look him in the eye and remind him…

I’m still here.

I know what you did.

And, I’m not going away.

You rock, Beth Holloway.

Husband and I were discussing last night that there are certain people who should be given keys to the cell of the person who wronged them.

Like how about Dr. Petit of Cheshire, CT?  The one who was tied up in the basement as two monsters raped and tortured his wife and two daughters before lighting the house on fire and leaving them all for dead?

This guy?  Dr. Petit?

Yeah.

Give him the keys to the cell holding these animals.

I’ll be glad to turn my back and look the other way.

So, I say good for Beth Holloway.  Good for her for reminding the dirt bag kid who undoubtedly murdered her daughter (or at the very least knows precisely what happened that night) that she wasn’t going to go away.

Good for her for stalking the monster that haunts her mind.

I say, he’s just lucky she didn’t have keys.

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A restaurant in the beautiful state of North Carolina has been getting some attention lately for posting a simple computer print-out sign on their door.  The sign says:

I certainly understand why some parents are taking offense at the sign.  In fact, I once did a blog post about one Mom who was outraged at the “mistreatment” she and her sister received in a restaurant when the child accompanying them pitched a loud tantrum between the caesar salad and the Creme Brulee.  She was furious.  She felt discriminated against.  Misunderstood.  Mistreated by the collective patrons who rolled their eyes and sighed noticeably as she “tried” to control her toddler.

Oh, the horror.

Well, you know what?  I have two kids.  And they can, occasionally, behave like little hellions in a restaurant or a grocery store or at Target or on the playground or…you get the point.  They’re kids.  They suck sometimes.  Yours, his, hers, mine.  Kids can act like such little a**holes.   They can’t help it.   They have a completely under-developed sense of public decorum and, as parents, you may be Ozzie and Harriet or you may be Sid and Nancy and it just doesn’t matter.  Kids lose it.  And, when they do, (I believe) it’s up to you to deal with it.

“Stop it.

Now.

Or, you’re outta here.”

And when your best efforts fail, you should be considerate of the rest of the public world and drag ’em out by their ears into a more private place until they shut. the. heck. up.

So, bravo to The Olde Salty Restaurant in Carolina Beach.  Bravo for taking a stand.

Because when Mr. and Mrs. Clueless saunter in with Little Junior Clueless and they decide to coddle and coo and plead with the little punk for fifteen minutes as he screams and whines and disturbs everyone else in the restaurant?

Well, you go right ahead and show them the door.

Cause someone’s gotta act like the parents.

__________

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SCENE:

Big Brother’s School Playground at 2:30 pm September 15, 2010

CAST:

Serial Swooper – as a Suddenly Very Worried Mom

5YO Girl Going-on 25YO Woman – as “Jezebel”

Big Brother – as “Da Playah”

__________

School dismissal.  School doors open.  Shrieks of glee, gales of laughter, outstretched Mommy arms.  The playground floods, backpacks cast aside in haste.  Pitter patter sneakers race across pavement and cedar chips to coveted swings and jungle gyms.

Big Brother requests a chance to stay and play a bit with his new friend (we’ll call her Jezebel) for a while.  Swooper approves.  Off they race.

Big Brother climbs to the top of some frightening apparatus.

Jezebel approaches nervous Mom.

Um, Big Brother’s Mom?

Hi!  Yes, honey?

Well, did you know that Big Brother’s my boyfriend now?

*cough*   Oh?  Well, good!  It’s good that you two are friends.

No.  No, no.  He’s my boyfriend.  For real.

Oh.  Ok.

But.  He wants us to kind of keep it as a secret.

(Hm, I think.  Interesting.)

Well that’s ok, right?

Yeah, that’s ok.  Because he told me…well, he kinda has a lot of girlfriends.

Awesome.

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Well, I did it.

I ran my first 5K today (the Coastal 5K Run for the Beach) and, although I was cursing myself midway for signing up in the first place, I managed to finish with a time that was two minutes shorter than my fastest time to date.

If I’m being honest, though, I spent most of the race worrying that I was going to come in last.  I was one of a group of five women in a little pack near (what I thought was) the back.  We all surrendered and walked a little here and there and we all, likely motivated by not being last, kept each other moving — trading places from 1st among us to last among us.  I’ve mentioned before that I’m a way, way overly competitive person so (sadly) somewhere along the way in my training my goal stopped being about beating my best time or even about simply finishing and became more about not reading my name at the bottom of the race results in our local newspaper.

Thankfully, I won’t have to see that.

And, as it turns out, there were a number of other small packs of people finishing well after I’d gotten myself a banana, a drink and headed to the car with my very supportive little family.  So…it’s possible that maybe no one would even have suspected that I was freaking out for the last few days about the possibility of being last.

Well, unless they were within 100 yards or so of the finish line when Big Brother welcomed me with a big hug, a smile and a loud and joyful exclamation of:

“Yay, Mommy!  You’re not last!”

Thanks, buddy.

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Well done, by one of America’s largest companies.  Gave me goosebumps.

May we never forget.

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