Cranky Mommy

My husband’s old work van, an ‘89 Ford Econoline, is about to die. It’s been on it’s last legs for some time, and before it dies on the road, it’s time to put it out of it’s misery.
Nicknamed the the Bismark by my husband and also the ficken-wagen* by my husband’s old neighbor, it has seen better days. But somehow it has lasted this long.
It was purchased in 1993 used, a replacement for it’s predecessor, an ‘81 Ford Mustang, a.k.a. The Bitch Magnet. It has been sideswiped several times and in 3 accidents. One accident totalled the car that rear ended us, while The Bismark remained mostly unharmed, aside from a tail-light bulb needing replacing.
It has 130,000 miles on it.
It has dents on every side.
The air conditioning doesn’t work.
The heat doesn’t work.
The shocks are gone.
The body is rusted.
The overdrive hasn’t worked in years, so don’t bother trying to take it on the freeway.
The cooling system was jimmy-rigged together with nuts and bolts by a crazy mechanic.
It is entirely covered with paint spills.
The cassette player eats tapes.
The interior trim is falling apart.
The rearview mirror falls off periodically, no matter how much we reglue it.
Only one speaker works.
The steering column had to be replaced last year, and it didn’t exactly match, so you can’t tell when you are in neutral or drive or reverse.
And, to add insult to injury, some goofy punk snapped off the antenna last week.
So…..
This week, we hunt for a new work van. Another Ford Econoline. Good-bye, Bismark, it’s been good times.

*In “proper” German I think it should be Fickkleinebus but I’m not quite sure.

I really like how our street is shaping up right now. The formerly junkie-owned house with the sky peeking through the ceiling, is now a reasonable rehab. Our neighbors have a lot of plants and flowers in front of their houses and on their porchfronts, and it looks really cheery. There’s even been some talk of a street party. It will make it harder to leave this house, should we decide to do so.
In fact, all Hampden has changed remarkably since I first saw it in 1993 and swore I would never live there (boy did I make a liar out of myself).
That’s not to say that all the changes to the neighborhood I’m happy with. A few of them are snobby yuppies who don’t know how to manage or clean up after their dogs any better than the people they replaced (were they raised in a barn?). Some of the old people who live in the neighborhood complain that the newcomers won’t talk to them, and are unfriendly. The older folks are leaving, not because they feel displaced by newcomers, but because rowhouses have a whole lot of stairs that they can’t handle.
I’m certainly happy to see some of the riff-raff go, and most of the new neighbors that have bought and rented houses have been nice additions. I’ll miss the old folks, though. And, I’m hoping that the neighborhood doesn’t loose all it’s quirky characters.
That is, with one exception. I’m hoping that one redneck, who blasts potty-mouth music and whose whooping and hollering kids were jumping on a trampoline at midnight last night, decides that Parkville is the Holy Land and moves there. Pronto.

There is a cult out there that has taken over the masses. The cult has won over many people I know, and although some of my friends are not part of the cult, my parents and many of my friends have succumbed to the cult’s fiendish ways.
The Cell Phone Cult.
I am almost, positively, the last mom on the planet to not have a cell phone (that is, except for this one). Most of my friends have succumbed. The same people who used to get totally irritated with people talking on their cell phone in the grocery store, in public parks, and while driving their cars, have transformed into — the people who talk on their cell phones in grocery stores, public parks, and while driving their cars.
I never cease to be amazed how people think it perfectly fine to talk on their cell phones just about anywhere. The worst offenders are often the ones who walk around with those little headsets like those old Time-Life Telephone Operators ready to take your call, and feel it is perfectly fine to have a business meeting and boom their voice loudly while standing in line at the bank.
People, these things have off buttons. You don’t need to be available every darn second of the day. Take time to look out the flowers without being interrupted. It is more important to not get hit by another driver, than to pick up that gallon of milk. We are in the middle of Turn Off Your T.V. week. Anyone up for the Turn Off Your Cell Phone week?
One more thing… if you cannot turn off your phones, please, just at least put them on vibrate. And all those ringtones are never, ever, ever going to sound beautiful, so why bother.
I see no reason to have to have a cell phone, right now, at least (we will see when my son is a teenager). I can put off spending $50 - $100 bucks a month for what my husband calls “an electronic leash”. I will wait a little longer to get a cell phone. Although, I am sure to join the cult eventually, picking up every call no matter where, interrupting pleasant outdoor walks, romantic dinners, and the like.

Last night I responded to an email from Parentcenter, and went to their site to try out their adult height calculator. After inputting my child’s age and height, and my height and my husband’s height, the calculator reported this:

Thanks for using our calculator!

Your son will likely be 5 feet, 6 inches tall at age 18.

This prediction is a “best guess” but it’s still just that — a guess. Based on the formula we used,* there’s a 58 percent chance your son’s full-grown height will be within 1 inch (above or below) of this prediction, an 85 percent chance it will be within 2 inches, and an 96 percent chance it will be within 3 inches.

The fine print:

This method relies on where your son falls on the Centers for Disease Control’s growth charts, and it assumes that he’ll remain in the same percentile until he reaches his adult height. The accuracy of the prediction varies because some children will fall into different percentiles throughout childhood.

It’s a pretty big margin of error, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it is close to correct. My husband’s 3 grown boys are between 5 foot 6 to 5 foot 8, and their mother is a little shorter than I am. None of his grown kids beat their father in height, and he is 5 foot 8.
What’s the point of all this? Nothing, really. But taking into account his personality, and the way he is treated by some of his friends, it might all add up into karate lessons instead of basketball.

My parents are heading back home today. Although it was good to see them as always, most of their time was spent eating broth, rice and jello, because of a miserable tummy bug they had.
The “highlight” of the trip was being woken by a phone call at 7 a.m. by my father, dramatically declaring he might have to go to the hospital, even call an ambulance, but doesn’t want to bother anybody and he would probably just take a cab (he swears he didn’t tell it as I describe, but I stand by my story, even though I was sleepy). Thankfully he was just fine later that day.
I have come to the conclusion that part of getting older is fulfilling the need to tell all the little details of how your body is functioning at multiple points throughout the day. And, because I come from a bodily-function obsessed family, and things like this seem to get worse with age, it is my absolute destiny as I get older to tell family, friends, neighbors, perhaps even strangers, the exact state of my digestion at all hours. God help them all.

Yesterday my son, one of his friends, and his mother and I went to the Maryland Zoo In Baltimore. T’s friend, who is 3 also, is going through a little potty-mouth phase, probably picked up from kids at school. Nothing really bad, just a little gross. “Look at his butt!” “Look at the monkey’s butt!” he said over and over, pointing at a chimp.” “Poo Butt!” He seemed to be trying to get a reaction out of my son but luckily T wasn’t paying much attention (this time.)
His mother explained his behavior to a woman who worked in the chimp area. “Oh, that’s nothing, you should hear what the teenagers say!” she said.
Later, in the Africa area of the zoo, we saw a little obscene behavior by a rhino. What started as scratching his belly on a low-lying rock, turned into a humping session. Our boys were oblivious to it all; a group of teenagers to our left, however, were not. Every time the rhino moved a little “southward” on the rock, a chorus of whooping, like a pack of apes, rose up… the rhino had it’s own little cheering squad. It seems the teenagers felt quite at home there…
…Maybe a little too at home. Not looking forward to the teenage years.

My mother just gave me this picture of my recently departed grandmother on a cruise ship in 1988 (I’m assuming with some performers on board, but who knows).
This photo was taken on the last cruise she took with my late grandfather, before his dementia worsened. And as you can see, that little 5-foot woman had a marvelous time on this one.

After my grandfather passed away in the mid 90s, Omi decided to finish off all of the equity in her house enjoying herself on cruise ships. She sent to me this picture from one of them in 1997, standing next to a native of Pago Pago (Samoa).

In the accompanying note, she writes,

Dearest Kira,
How does this pic grab you? I am holding a turtle that is over 100 years old and tries to get under my blouse! I wish the guy would have wanted that! Is he gorgeous, or what?
Love You,
Omi

If he only knew.

As we drove out to the Sears outlet store today to get a new dryer, I decided to search through my glove box for cassette tape that I hadn’t heard in a while (yes, we still have cassettes!). Inexplicably, I found a tape that totally doesn’t belong. Not only does the tape not belong to me or my husband, but also no one I know would ever even admit to owning it.
It’s a Poison tape. The “classic” Open Up and Say Aah.
Yes, you remember Poison, that 80’s hair band. Who could forget Nothin’ But A Good Time? Or, Girls Girls Girls? Dear God. I’m a very cheesy person but, even that is too cheesy for me. I draw a line in the sand in front of that one.
I am at a total loss as to how that tape got there. I have one friend, a.k.a. Thrift-Store-Decorations-In-My-Yard-Girl, who occasionally likes to do odd pranks, but she was never into that hair band stuff. Still, I will email her and ask her if it was her doing.
Or, maybe Goldilocks is a metalhead and took my car for a drive.

Me: How’s the movie?

Husband: Gabbeh looks really, really good on DVD.

Me: Guess what? I dusted the T.V.

Husband: Oh! Maybe that’s why it looks so good.