Cesar Salad Chavez day

Today is Cesar Chavez day. Took me and my chicken tacos by surprise as well. Apparently, it's kind of a big deal around here. As in, just another day for the local gov't to be closed. Which I don't really understand. Why just them? They all have ties to Cesar Chavez? They all must have been strawberry and tomato pickers in their past lives.

Most of you, including myself had the reaction of "Ceasar who?" Who the eff is Cesar Chavez? Where is Mike Jones? According to wikipedia, the national enquirer of the internet, Cesar is a hero for farm laborers. He stood up for them and higher wages, better treatment. Civil rights leader.

So, you can't get a book at the library today, since it's Cesar Chavez day. Your trash will have to rot one more day before getting picked up. Personally, I get nothing out of the deal. No free burritos, not carne asada tacos. Whatever. I almost get hit at least 10 times a day by mexican drivers. They just can't drive... at all. Like other things that take place in that country to the south, they have no rules, and no regulations. I have to drive through a heavily populated mexican area, to get to the YMCA. They are running out in the street like it's the flippin' border crossing. It scares me and annoys me. Today some Maria was driving in the turn lane, straight at me. At the last minute she turned, missing my car by 2.3 inches. She had a huge white swipe down the side of her car, clearly not her first time in the illegal driving rodeo.

And before someone gets all PC on me about using the term "mexican", let me explain something. Seriously, 99.9% of them are not from here, and they are not from Canada.... 10 lucky guesses where they are from. Oaxaca is a popular homeland, which is in.... Mexico territory. So Mexicans they are. If you don't like the term, I have ten more I can use. But then that WOULD be racist, and I'm not. And fact number two, my maiden name isn't Smith... or Jones. It's not Spaghetti or Kubushka. It's not Wu or Palimalipalimalu. But it is something like Saltillo tile or cacahuates. Something totally mexican like that. That automatically gets me in the " I can use whatever term I want, because I am related to one" category. Like it or leave, that's the rules of the game that I play by. Besides I can make a kick ass salsa and tamales like my name is Guadalupe.

Cesar Chavez ain't got nuthin on cinco de mayo.

Sprint sucks

Meh. Not a fan. They can never get anything straight. I wake up this morning, and try to use my cell. Not meaning that I rolled over and popped open my phone , yawned into the phone with hours old stinky saliva breath and started pushing buttons, more like 45 minutes later. Got to take advantage of the free minutes calling the east coast amigos. I love my friends, but they take a second seat to my calling plan.

Wouldn't you know my phone doesn't work. It directs me to the finance center. Um really? Before you think I'm a deadbeat bill payer, I pay my bills. On time... MOST of the time. I have slacked once or twice in my life, not like I go get my hair did and not pay for milk for my babies or something as money grubbin as all that. I knew for one the sprint bill had just been paid. Sprint and I have been a few rounds before, them getting my stuff all mixed up, harassing the wrong number, etc.

*ring ring* *ringring ring* *ring* *RING RING RING*
*******connecting with finance department*********

"I'm Ms. AnsweringPhonesandIhateit. Can I have your 10 digit telephone number?"
"Sure its 888-978-1234"
"Secret pin, blood type, feces culture and first child hood boo boo info please."
"yeah yeah here ya go yeah"
"How can I help you?"

(I ask about the phone, she says I owe, (I don't remember) getting my stuff mixed up again)
sends my call over to Susan in India........

I would repeat that convo over here, except for I couldn't understand any of it, just a lot of "Let me just confirm that....yes....please hold...thanks for holding...I will confirm..."

sends my call to Summer in America
Summer can't help, she's finance.

"Well this is the number they put me through to."
"You need to talk to customer care."
"I just talked to Customer care. They didn't. Care that is. They obviously transferred me to you."
"Mmm hmmmm. Well I can't help you. Let me see if I can find someone to help you."
"That would be super fantastic."

******whole lot of cheesy fantastic elevator waiting music going on. breaking in and out....crappy Sprint reception.**********

"My supervisor says they can't help because the account in question is not yours."
"Huh? I just want to know why my phone is off. You say I owe and I don't. You have someone's account mixed in mine. Not my problem. Turn my phone on. And we can all go have a nice day."
"Can't. Until the account is paid."
"Once again, you have mixed up the two. Fix it."
"can't. You're not the account holder on that account."

(OMG. OMG. OMG. I have 3 kids and all the hair on my head. Why is it I talk to Sprint and feel like I need to slit my wrists and dip them in a vat of bleach. Or rancid rat poison. Whichever is more painful.)

"Let me talk to the supervisor."
"I'll try to find one."

(try to find one? Isn't that your JOB? Are they hiding under rocks or shooting the shitaki in the West Indies? Are you serious? TRY to find one? Please, don't put yourself out on my account. I would hate for you to have to go above and beyond.)

"I'm RobinRudeAssPhoneSupervisorWhoPlaysSolitaireBecauseMyPersonalityandmyjobsucksthatbad."
"Yeah, hi...yada..whole phone story..mix up...fix it..."
"Mam, you have been told, until it has been paid....(mind you, someone owed70 bucks....really)
"NOT MY ACCOUNT. Do you not have the notations where I have called in the past about this identity crisis before?"
"No, we do not."
"Look, I talked to xyz on this date, here is the confirmation number, lmnop on this date and snoop dogg on this day. Now, I wasn't lonely with no one to talk to. They supposedly took care of this, why is it happening again?"
"I can't turn the phone back on until it is paid. Maybe you should pay what you owe, and you wouldn't have to call us."
"I do not owe, Joe Blow does. Your mistake not mine."
"If you want to pay his, more than likely yours, account..."
"Oh I can't get this taken care off, but I can pay his bills?"
"That's right, just like I could pay your bill mam."
"Oh no, you couldn't pay my bill. You see, you work at Sprint. The peanuts they pay you to have the pleasant attitude and not know how to do your job would not pay my bills at all. But thanks anyways. Let's get back to why I am calling."

She spent the next 5 minutes speaking so loud, interrupting me, and talking over me as if I hadn't spoke a word at all.
I let her know that if I had known that I was going to have a front row seat, wasting an hour at the Sprint circus today, I would have at least bought popcorn. She didn't find the humor in my statement, and let me know so. Meh. as if her opinion mattered.
Yes, in the end I was rude. I started out nice. I believe in killing them with kindness, and if not, say the most asinine, funniest comment ever. And when you suck as bad as Sprint does, the more fun I will have. Asshats.

Dry Cleaners

I dropped stuff off at the dry cleaners today. I typically don't buy clothes that have to be dry cleaned, simply because I am lucky to make it downstairs and wash the regular stuff, let alone put it in my car, drive it to the cleaners, drop it off and pick it up. I barely have time to drop off the kids at the pool. And for those of you who are not laughing, that's a poo reference. It's okay to laugh now.

So I go to the cleaners because I had this shirt that I had worn a few times, and these pants that I had worn once. I just randomly picked a cleaners, because it was on the way. Part of me felt guilty, like I was telling my clothes they weren't that important to me. That I wouldn't go through the process of finding a cleaner, checking the references, interviewing them, asking for their credentials. It happens. No wonder they stain and fray so fast.

Mr. Cleaner looks at the cream colored pants- I know-what the hell am I thinking running around in cream colored pants with 3 kids. It's like a stain magnet, BEGGING to be ruined. Besides I always have to have a pair of nude choni's handy, and well....re-read the part where I can't make it down the steps to do the laundry. Can't is the wrong word, how about...not a priority. Which is 3 words, for those of you who are all about proper wordage.

He tells me he doesn't know if he can get the spot out. It's a small dime size spot. He will try. Which is all I ask of him and the trash man, try to do your job. That's all. I arrive in the late afternoon to pick up my pants, for fear they will give them away, even though I have 30 days according to the sign. I just don't like to take those kinds of risks. You never know when they might be having one of those days, where the whole "30 days" rules doesn't apply and they change it to 6 hours. Could happen.

He finds my order and points out the spot and tells me he couldn't get it out. This the conversation that follows. He is also speaking in a heavy Asian accent.

"I couldn't get out that spot" (points to spot)
"Oh...."
"well, what was it? Spot was so hard." (Uh, all I can think of is a dog named Spot and well... yuck)
"It was chocolate."
"Oh no, it's not chocolate."
"No really, it's chocolate. My daughter's ate a messy chocolate dessert this past weekend, and it was on them, and I picked them." (Why I felt the need to plead my chocolate case is beyond me.)
"Noooooo, no chocolate. That stain's not a chocolate stain."

(For the love of dry cleaners everywhere, does it matter? If I told you it was elephant poo that I rubbed all over a bus driver in Queens to help him drive faster, would it help you sleep at night.?Gooooood Golly!)

"It's Godiva. The stain. It's a Godiva stain."
"Oh..... I see. Yes, Godiva. OK. Tough Godiva stain. Not easy to get out."

I left with my horrifically NOT chocolate tiny stain pants. The same stain that I easily got out of my daughter's WHITE eyelet dress. No more dry cleaners for me. I can't handle the explanation hour.

A life well traveled

We recently flew across the country, from one coast to the other. I have 3 kids. 3 kids, 5 hour flight. LOADS of fun. We had planned to bring our portable DVD player, so they could let movies babysit them, while we relaxed, poolside in seats 25 E and F. You know sipping margaritas, enjoying the rays and the low hum of the 747's jet engine in our ears. Right before we leave, we find the DVD player has had a hard life, and no longer works. Of all the crappy luck.

So before our flight leaves, we head out to buy a new one. Get one, plug it in so it can charge, and of all the crappier luck, it turns out, that we had bought one that needs to be plugged in, whether in the car or the house. So we walked around the airport, kicking our own @sses, searching the gift shops for horse tranquilizers to knock the kids out. (KIDDING of course)

We get on the plane, and it turns out that nobody is sitting in our row. Which, when you have 3 kids, one who is 20 months, life doesn't get better than that. But we quickly remembered the DVD player had failed us and we sunk back into a deep depression. Tornado was actually behaving well, kids were coloring and life was good. Until Tornado tried to shut the tray in front of her. The whiny college guy in front of her turns around, and says, "She shut that really hard and it hurt my head." I tried to explain to him that we have been getting on her about drinking protein shakes, and bench pressing her sisters while she watches Playhouse Disney, and she really doesn't know her own strength, but it would be impressive under her weightlifter bio to put that she, at 20 months old, hurt a grown man's head with the mere tips of her fingers as she returned the tray to it's upright position. He wasn't interested in our efforts to wash away her abusive behavior, so we tried to get her to fall asleep instead.

The girls did do amazingly well, munched on pretzels. They had attended a wedding that weekend, and had unlimited amounts of Shirley Temples, aka kiddie cocktails. When the beverage cart rolled around, I noticed that they had a pink looking drink. I can only believe that they were still living the high life and ordering mixed drinks. It was cranberry juice and sprite. I apologized for my little lushes, and promised to get them help.

The captain announced we were looking at Mexico to the left, and poor Middle cries out, " I don't want to look at Mexicans, I want to look at California!!!!!" I shrunk down into my seat a bit, knowing that what she said didn't sound right, and was hoping that nobody had her little outburst. I tried to explain what Mexican, American, Italian means, to no avail. I asked her if she knew what Mexican meant, and she said "Oh, like tacos?" *sigh* I have failed to create a multi-cultured environment. Please don't hold that against me, along with the kiddie cocktails.

We landed, got out luggage and our travels are over... for now.

The coco monster

When I was growing up, I wasn't so much afraid of the Boogie Man, as I was the CoCoKai. We had a national geographic magazine and there was this scary looking Aborigine in a mask, and somebody nicknamed it the "CoCoKai." So my sister was soooooo afraid of the CoCoKai. If we heard weird sounds, it was the CoCoKai. If you were afraid of the dark, it was because the CoCoKai was out there waiting. That CoCoKai was a pretty gnarly dude, and gave the Boogie Man a run for his money.

Fast forward to 2008. My brother stops by the other night, after spending the day pretending he was a Harley badass, riding around with his friends on their motorcycles. It was night when he stopped by, and we were just yakking it up in the kitchen. He was mentioning the cold, and pulls out his thin face mask that wraps around his face while he rides. Looks a little something like this. Oh, and he also has the skeleton gloves.

http://host396.ipowerweb.com/~dbgearco/catalog/product_info.php?cPath=44&products_id=59&osCsid=15a5ea643583f41b67a80ba890424eba

I get this GREAT idea that he should go spook the kids. I'm sure I'll be the subject of many therapy sessions when they get older, but if you can't scare your kids, who's can you scare? In my maternal defense, they weren't asleep, but were in bed, SUPPOSED to be asleep. He puts the mask on, a black beanie, sunglasses and the gloves. I head up the stairs ahead of him, and do the whole mom "You better be in bed or something will eat your feet while you sleep" speech. The lights are off and I turn into my room, which is right by theirs.

I wait, anticipating the reaction. I start to think he changed his mind, until I see one skeleton hand wrap it's fingers around the edge of the upstairs cabinet. I about pee my pants, I find it so funny. All of a sudden, Oldielocks appears in the doorway of her room, saying she needs to blow her nose. Forget the nose, she's going to blow my skeleton surprise. She glances down the hall, and as quick as a bucket of moldy bones, my brother turns around and acts like he's talking to the Hubby, who himself is having a hard time containing the giggles. All you see is the back of my brother, and she heads back into her room. I once again shut the door, and wait. I peek around the door, and hear the tiniest creak. My brother is bent over double, stifling laughter, with his skeleton hand wrapped around his skeleton face. There is nothing funnier than a skeleton chuckling up and down. We are mean, mean people. There is a special place for people like us, I'm sure. Then again what would my kid write about in Monday's journal for school? I have to provide some form of inspiration for her, or her stories would be so boring.

Anyways, the bone giggles stop and he leaps into their doorway and slams the door behind him I hear a scream and insane giggling behind it. They were not scared in the least. They laugh like crazy,and Oldielocks says..."Is that supposed to be scary? It's just Uncle _____." They thought it was great, and the next morning Middle says "Was it Halloween or something? " I guess it's time for my kids to learn that you can dress up like a skeleton everyday, not just Halloween.

i've been tagged

1. Pick up the nearest book (of at least 123 pages).
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people.


I watched her silently in the dim glow of the houselights.
"I wonder if Mom knew how bad it was going to get," she mused. "I mean, she said she did, but I wonder if she reallyknew deep down that she wouldn't recognize her children. Or even Daddy."

The Wedding. by Nicholas Sparks

Grandma's got game

I was chatting it up with my grandma the other day. She's getting older over 80, but still very with it. After she told me all about hemming her pants, and how she just HATES to buy pants because she has "short little legs that get her nowhere fast", she went on to tell me about her doctor appointment. I always cringe a little bit because last time she told me about her colonoscopy. And tomatoes. And that the two don't mix. As if I was wondering. *shudder*

So she is going to have a procedure on her back. Because she has pains in her hip. And she has never felt pain like that except for during childbirth. And she's certain there is no "big headed baby"about to spring from her loins. She thought for weeks it was her artificial knee, because it weighs 5 pounds. According to her. I don't know if she's weighed it or what,but she is adamant that knee weighs 5 pounds more than the other one. I asked her if she had a 100,000 mile warranty on that ol' body of hers. She said that she has passed 100,000 and they have come out with newer models. I just let her know they don't make them like they used to. I'm the perfect grandchild like that.

She then tells me that she was watching "the travel channel or discovery channel, and nothing but a bunch of naked wild men running around!" I asked her if she was staring at their whooo nannies all wrapped up and strapped to a belt around their waist. She laughed like a school girl and said she showed Pompa. (My grandpa) The hillybilly in him guffawed and said "Sugar, whatcha watching them naked boys for? They'll be pissin' in their faces running around all tied up like that." My grandparents hold nothing back, language and all.

And lastly she told me her friend was calling. Her friend got a divorce but found a new man on the internet. She wouldn't know where to plug the computer in at, let alone find men on it. But if she needed to, she could snap one up. I told her I better not find her sending out personal ads. She said she didn't think they had a category for old lady with a big behind, built like a brick.....uh.... shitaki house. Without the -aki. I agreed. I don't need to find an ad about how Grandma got her groove back.

I was out shopping....

Had a few things to get at the mall today, so took Hubby and Tornado with me to get them. I was looking for a pair of pale tan shoes, pretty much the color of vomit, but without the smell. We went in a store that had millions of shoes in very color,height, style imaginable. I'm bent over trying to deal with the whodingy on the strap of my shoes, in front of the mirror. I glance up to check out my swank and swagger in my new shoes, when something to the left catches my eye. There is a 40ish year old gentleman, with well... I don't really know. My eyes couldn't get past the jingle bell boxers. Dude was wearing red and green boxers, as shorts, really short shorts, that said Jingle Bells in big letters. First of all.... it's not christmas. Not even close to christmas. And while it's a warmer day, not THAT warm that you'd be out struttin' in your boxers.

While I picked my chin up off the floor and wiped my eyes with a antiseptic cloth, I noticed the fanny pack. Not just any fanny pack, but a beaded one, straight off the $5.99 souvenir table in Four Corners, New Mexico. And it wasn't on his fanny. It was holding court on his front, right between the "jingle" and the "bells". I watched him hold out shoes for his wife, while his daughter sat on the bench. In Target clothes, appropriate for public outings. The fashion memo they were passing around before they left the house never made it to him. I looked down and took my shoes off, making sure not to meet eyes with Hubby. I saw the family start to leave, so I stared straight at the floor counting "99 bottles of kool-aid on the wall" before I looked up, for fear that skid marks would be marking a road down the back of his pants as he left.

I saw the heading towards Sears. Perhaps St. Patrick's Day boxers were on sale, and dude needed something to wear to church.