Soup Is Not A Finger Food

Escape

THINGS ARE PROCEEDING APACE here at Casa de Soup. Yesterday, the insurance adjuster came to see things. It sounds like he's willing to coordinate with the estimates provided by the restoration / repair company. Meanwhile, I have to prepare a list of contents we lost and the replacement value of each. So, I've been Googling bikes and lawn mowers and string trimmers and basketball backboards and Little Tykes sliding board and hammocks and all kinds of stuff I'd forgotten we had stored in our shed.

Today's circus includes the "duct suckers" (air duct cleaners, who just arrived), and carpet cleaners, scheduled to be here soon. Meanwhile, I have a guy from DirecTV outside who seems to be very busy reinstalling our satellite dish. Things didn't start out so well this morning between me and Parfait (that's his first name and I'm not even making this up):

HIM: I can't bury your cable.

ME: Of course you can. The last guy did it.

HIM: But I will have to charge you.

ME: Yes, that's fine, whatever it takes.

HIM: But the ground is probably frozen.

ME: Well, we can try it first and see, can't we?

HIM: I don't have a shovel.

ME: You can use ours!

HIM: OK, I'll have to charge you $100. How do you want to pay me?

ME: Can I write you a check?

HIM: I would prefer cash.

ME:

HIM: I'll give you a receipt.

ME: I don't have cash on me.

HIM: Well, when you take your son to school [which he knew was about to happen], you can stop and get some cash.

ME: Um, no, I have a lot of stuff going on today, due to the fact that my house almost burned to the ground, and I don't have time to stop. It will be easier for me to write you a check. Can you cash a check?

HIM: Oh. It's okay.

Every time I call them, DirecTV thanks me for being a loyal customer since 2004. Let me assure you, it isn't because of their stellar installation contractors, because the last time we had a guy come out we had much the same go-round. No, we have them mostly because they are the lesser of two evils, because Comcast/XFinity is operated by Satan himself. We can't get Verizon Fios where we live, otherwise we'd switch in a heartbeat.

So I have Parfait digging in the back yard and Ozzie sucking gunk out of my ducts, and who knocks on my front door but two Jehovah's Witnesses, offering me copies of the Watchtower! Fortunately they saw the work trucks in the driveway and didn't ask for time to talk. I thanked them for the copies and away they went.

Fortunately, Calgon is going to take me away from the madness, albeit briefly. In 25 hours I will board a plane, destination Ft. Myers, Florida -

 

where the forecast includes sunshine, temperatures in the '80s, plenty of wine, a float on a boat, and probably no one under the age of 70. I'm going - solo! - to visit my mom and her husband at their new home.

For the record, this little jaunt was planned before my home almost burned down, but I need it a hundred times more now than I did when I booked it earlier this month.  Big thanks to Curt for making it possible for me to clear my head of smoke and soot and replacement value and contractors and snow and all the what-ifs circulating in my brain.

Now if you'll excuse me, it looks like Parfait is done and our TV is working again. Hallelujah! He has asked me to make the check payable to a company name, not him personally, so nice try on the "pay me in cash", friend, but let's keep this one above-board.

#FAIL

This morning, something happened to me that I haven't experienced in my 20 years in DC. As I was standing on my ascending escalator step, trying to get out of Dupont Circle, the escalator just stopped. URRRCH!  ESCALATOR #FAIL. A loud, collective groan issued forth from the crowd, which had no choice but to start walking up, like this:

 
Thanks to Juxtaposed.com for the photo.

I had ridden about halfway up, which meant I had about 60-70 steps left to escape ascend. Folks, I'm barely in shape enough to walk up the single flight of stairs in my own house, let alone 70 steps, while lugging a 10-pound briefcase and a one-hundred three-pound handbag.

At least I wasn't toting a wheeled briefcase or, like the woman behind me, a suitcase! Poor thing.

I've no idea why they constructed these escalators as one unit, rather as two or three with landings. Wouldn't that be better? That way, if the bottom half malfunctions, you only have to walk up HALF of a 200-foot escalator.

And while I'm at it, you know what else makes no sense? This station has two entrances on opposite sides of the Circle... at approximately 19th and O, and 20th and Q, which makes them about three blocks apart from each other. Yet, there is only ONE elevator from the outside to the platform, and it's at the Q Street side, which means if you're pushing a stroller or navigating a wheelchair, you have to go the whole way across Dupont Circle in order to gain access to the station. Because wheels + 200-foot long escalators don't mix.

ELEVATOR #FAIL!

But enough of my commuting rant. I think I promised recently that I wouldn't do that to you anymore, didn't I? Sorry. I forgot.

How about a PARENTING #FAIL instead? On Sunday morning, I felt that the teenager completely overreacted to what he perceived as a violation of his dignity, committed by me, his mother, in my desperate attempt to get him out of bed for church. He was so angry with me that he gave me the silent treatment all day Sunday and most of Monday, too. Fun! Finally, on Monday evening, I said to him, "LOOK. You can pick your friends and you can pick your nose, but you can't pick your family. I'm the only mom you've got. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you, I understand you were upset, but you have to figure out a way to get beyond this and forgive me because holding grudges is not healthy." 

Never underestimate the value of falling on your own sword every once in a while, even when you could make a good case for taking a stand. And I so wanted to take a stand, but even more than that, I wanted things to be okay between us. Even if I still thought he was overreacting. Which he was. But that's beside the point! Because this isn't about me being right! It's about me being MOM.

By last evening, things were back to normal. We shared the couch and watched Glee and Raising Hope together, like we do every week. I look forward to these shows, but even more than that, look forward to sharing them with my kid. We giggled and snorted and analyzed and just spent 90 minutes together hanging out. And it was not a #FAIL.

 

Fashion Police Disguised as Five Year Old Girl

ONE OF THE THINGS I LIKE about my job is that I get to visit three different client offices each week. The variety keeps things interesting. An added benefit is this: If I want to, I can wear the same clothes two days in a row and get away with it. Or so I thought.

This morning, in my haste to dress, I spied yesterday's outfit, draped over a chair. I thought hey - I like that top, I can button those pants, and I can wear those platform sandals that add three inches to my height. I put it on without a second thought.

I was feeling rather pleased with myself until I dropped Peezer off at school. One of his classmates struck up a conversation about Peezer's arm full of Silly Bandz, and she noticed that I was wearing one that Peezer had given me. Then she paused. "Peezer's Mom?" she asked, her brown eyes wide.

"Yes, sweetie?"

"Didn't you wear that YESTERDAY?"

BUSTED! I looked at another mom who was dropping off her daughter. Her eyes begged an explanation.

I looked at my accuser the little darling and replied, "Why yes, I am, but I'm going to a different office today. Those people haven't seen this outfit yet. So you are the only one who knows!" Then I leaned down and, in a conspiratorial whisper, added, "Will you keep my secret?"

"Oh, yes," she replied, nodding somberly, and skipped away.

I felt like I'd been outed by a secret shopper, or victimized by Alan Funt. (Kids: ask your parents. It was a TV show from a hundred years ago that STILL has us wheeling around, looking for the hidden camera.) You see, I can get away with this sort of thing in my house. My wardrobe is unremarkable, and let's face it, I'm surrounded by carriers of the Y chromosome. Fashion couldn't be further from their thoughts.

It's probably good that I don't have a fashion-forward daughter. Think of all the money I'd feel compelled to spend just so I could avoid wearing the same outfit more than once a month week. Even worse, I might resort to furtive costume changes in an attempt to avoid such juvenile scrutiny.

As I composed this, I was sitting on a train full of people who had no idea what I wore yesterday. That made me happy.

Randomocracy

(Cue the music... wait for it... there. The player's at the bottom if you want to turn it off, but seriously, why would you not want to listen to this song?)

I'd like to share a few random thoughts this Thursday.  Three things, in fact.  But I can't call it Three Thing Thursday because Chesapeake Bay Woman coined and patented that term, and she'd be hosting it today on her blog if The Lord God Himself hadn't sent her a message in the form of a lightning strike that fried her dial-up modem. And The Lord Said: GET BROADBAND ALREADY. (And a surge protector.)  I hear she'll have it by the weekend.  Meanwhile, you can settle for me:

 

You know how in infomercials, there's always that black & white footage of a harried, disheveled, completely frustrated person, sighing and rolling their eyes and blowing their hair out of their face, doing it "the old way," having not yet been saved by the product that's being sold?  I wanna know how I can be that actor.

 

During Seth's 8th grade interminable promotion ceremony, millions of many awards were given out for everything from academic excellence and potential to citizenship and community service to perfect attendance. One of the math teachers was presenting a series of awards, and as she read the text, prepared by another teacher, describing the student, she said that he was the epi-TOME of blah blah blah I stopped listening to the rest because oh no did that middle school teacher, a native English speaker who must hold at least one college degree, really prononunce it epi-TOME??? I whirled around, eyes wide, and said to my friend's mother, "Well, she is a Math teacher..." and Mom replied, "Does that mean she doesn't have to speak English??"  gah.

 

When I left the farm, I thought my days of sidestepping animal poo were behind me. However, thanks to the thousands of many geese who make my suburban Metro station their home, I can continue to dodge and juke, just like in the country. These satanic fowl are fond of dropping their doody in the middle of the sidewalks, the parking lot, or really, anywhere they feel the urge.

 

And a bonus tune, because I can't get it out of my head, but it makes me happy and mellow, and we all could use a little of that on a Thursday.

Free MP3 Downloads at MP3-Codes.com

Sickness sucks. Except when it doesn't.

Today was supposed to go like this:  I was up and getting ready to drive to my office an hour from here, where I was going to work today safely away from the distractions of first round NCAA men's tournament action.  While I was checking Facebook and Twitter my work email, The Boss shuffled into the office kitchen. "My stomach hurts," he said. "Wow, sorry to hear that," The Mother Of The Year replied.  "Now hurry up and get ready - you don't wanna miss the bus."

He hung his head and walked away. Two minutes later, he returned.

"I just threw up," he said.  "Sorry."

So, now he's laying in my bed, watching mindless cartoons, and I can't believe my good fortune am formulating Plan B. The thing is, I really wanted to watch NCAA hoops go to work today.  I spend most of my time at client sites, so every once in a while, I figure It's good to be seen in my office, by the people who keep sending me paychecks. 

But at home? I can easily turn on my large-screen HDTV to CBS get plenty of work done. There are conference calls I can join, and four brackets to monitor employee handbooks to write.  I am wired. Connected. I can do everything I need to do from the comfort of my living room sofa home office.  Yes, it's a lucky break an unfortunate turn of events that The Boss is sick, but I'll just have to figure out how the picture-in-picture works do what's best for my kid.  I'll have to pick up a six pack and some chicken wings for me some chicken noodle soup to make his tummy feel better.

Hey, by the way? Isn't the March Madness tournament starting soon? I thought I heard something about it...

Now if you'll excuse me, I gotta get back to work.

# # #

UPDATE, 11AM. My work server is down and is going to be for the next hour or so. Can't get email on my computer or Blackberry. Can't remote-in to the network drives to access the documents I need.  Gametime's in less than an hour, and shortly thereafter I have to leave to go to a work function. Wanna know what it is? We'll be at a sports bar, watching the games, and "networking" with invited clients and prospects. Oh happy day!