Volunteer: Band Mom or Fire Department?

For the last week, I have been working with my volunteer-soul-mate, Rene. She and I were responsible for feeding lunch to the Marching Band staff every day for a week and dinner to the staff and 127 students three out of the five nights. The camp ran from 9 am to 9 pm, so the dinners had to be nourishing, something the kids liked, and not too heavy as to cause nausea during nighttime marching. Rene and I worked so well together, right down to getting mean-hungry at the same time. We saved a ton of money for the marching band. We don't know of any complaints except for not having enough leftover cheese pizza for vegetarians on Chick-fil-A night. We will plan better for this next year.



With only lunch to serve today, I got home around 2:00. Since I have been living at the school most of the hours this week, my home and family have been neglected. I shared my lunch with Rick and put on hummingbird food (water and sugar) to boil so I could refill the empty feeders so the hummingbirds will stop staring at me through the window like I am responsible for all bad things in the world.



Finally, I had free time to sit down and catch up on e-mails. The marching band has its first fundraiser, so I signed up for my very own H card. Now, I can get discounts all over town. Since I needed my credit card number to finish the order, I headed to my car for my wallet. In the kitchen, a black cloud of smoke and a column coming from the stove made me change my plans. That damn hummingbird food had been boiling so long it was now solid and black and the wood spoon used to stir it was permanently affixed and only a handle. Simultaneously, the alarm began to sound and I grabbed the pot from the stove to take outside. Since there was no liquid left, nothing sloshed out on me!



Open the doors. Find the phone number to the alarm company. Turn on the fans. Open the windows. How do I turn off the fire alarm? Where is that damn phone number? Call 911 and tell them to stop the firetrucks. Finally, the alarm company called. Please cancel the alarm. They'll try. Shoot! I already hear the firetrucks. Call Neighbor Terri so she'll know we are alright. Meet the firemen at the end of the driveway so they won't have to maneuver the driveway AGAIN when it really isn't necessary! Three firemen in full regalia meet me in the driveway. Really, we don't need the axes. They want to see the house. Thank God Jane came yesterday and cleaned. The house just smells bad. No, really we are okay, I just don't need to have possession of a stove. Would ya'll like to take it with you? Assured that all is okay, I walked the firemen back to the front porch. Apologies! Apologies! Is that Neighbor Terri at the gate taking photos?



If the Fire Department visits your house more than once in a year, do they send you a bill? I don't ask in case it gives them ideas they haven't already thought of. Does it help that we dropped off leftover burgers and dogs at the Fire Department after we fed the kids dinner last night (I didn't cook them)? Can you believe Rene and I have signed up to feed the band again next year and they're going to let us? We don't have access to a stove at the school, so I think we are pretty safe. Is that a hummingbird staring at me again?

NOTE: If Terri's photos aren't too incriminating, I'll publish them when she sends them.

PS I guess it would be worse if it was our dinner I burnt instead of hummingbird food.

Should He Stay or Should He Go?

I've been married to Tony 20 years. We met 21 years ago at a friend's wedding. Linda was marrying Adrian who had moved to North Carolina from Melbourne, Australia. All of his groomsmen came from Australia. After spending 10 days with Tony in 1988, when he called to invite me to visit, my mother said yes! (She had seen up close and personal some of the guys I had brought home. Tony was better than she had dared to hope for me!) Unfortunately, our marriage and their son, Bryce, were the best things to come from Adrian and Linda's short union.

After a year of international dating, we got married. We lived in Melbourne for a year and a half. In a plot to get me back in the US, my dad found a construction company that was looking for a new partner. An introduction over Christmas break did the job. We moved back to North Carolina in August of 1990. Tony has been a tax paying legal alien since then.

Over the years, we had our two boys. I worked, stayed home, worked some more, and stayed home again. Tony has worked hard at Steel Dynamics and has helped turn it into a sought after company when it comes to steel construction. Tony watched in frustration as I voted for the candidates he wasn't so fond of.

He has always wanted to become a US citizen, but as life goes, we were too busy, too tired, too lazy, etc. This year, he made the leap. He hired an attorney to coach him through the process and jumped in with both feet. Several interviews required him to show tax returns, bills, birth certificates and our marriage certificate and to confess his unlawliness...running a stop sign in Wake Forest.

On Wednesday of this week, we went to the INS office in Durham for his final interview. He had been studying the US history information that he would be quizzed on. As we waited in the outer office with all of the other folks wanting to become US citizens, my mind raced with scenarios for each person.

The good looking guy with dark skin, brown hair an untucked white shirt, Italian white loafers and khakis had met a woman while she was vacationing in Greece. The tall blonde in tight white pants and no detectable underwear line had met an American man in an overseas disco and followed him home. It seems all of my fantasies were of a romantic nature rather than terrorist conspiracy.

When Tony's name was finally called, we went to the door to wait. The woman who opened the door looked at me and said, "Who are you?" When I informed her that I was Tony's wife, I got the universal STOP hand and was told "NO". I guess I'll wait out here and continue to fantasize. I'm sure this was better for Tony. As our friends, Kurt and Sharon, had warned, I needed to watch and keep my mouth shut. Since I tend to over-explain things leading to waaaaay off topic subjects, I might unintentionally get him deported.

Fifteen minutes later, Tony emerged. He passed. I get to keep him! He was asked six historic questions (none of which he could remember after it was over). She asked about his brushes with the law. When he told her about his failure to stop, she informed him that he was telling the truth. She asked if both of his parents were Australian born citizens, he told her yes. Again, she informed him that he was telling the truth. At that point, Tony confessed to being afraid he would give a wrong answer and buzzers would sound and a shock would zap him from beneath his chair. Instead, she informed him that he had passed and could return to the waiting room.

Another twenty minutes passed before a man came into the room and passed out invitations to a ceremony to be held on Friday for Tony to take an oath denouncing his allegiance to any other country and celebrate his American citizenship.

Stay tuned for part 2.

Lessons Learned

Tonight, I went out in the backyard to round up all of my chicklets for bed. I was already in my pajamas. Fortunately, the leaves on the trees keep me hidden from neighbors and passersby. Shakira had already put herself inside, Flora was scratching around under the henhouse, and Ruby was sitting on her pile of eggs she stole from the other girls. Cora Bell and Skippy were in the yard and happy to followed me around. Cora waited for me to find Japanese beetles on my peach trees. Skippy just didn't want to be left out, so he traipsed along. The beetles really didn't appeal to him.

With a handful of bugs, I squatted down and let Cora dine. Skippy flitted around about a foot from me practicing his cock-a-doodle-doos. Like any proud mother, I reached out to stroke his back. Bad move on my part! Without skipping a beat in his noise, he performed a titty twister on my hand, leaving behind a nice blood blister, and ran, still making noise.

Apparently, Skippy wants me to look and listen but not touch. I think I'll put on a bra and real clothes before I go out tomorrow night. If his aim gets better, I could be lying in the yard in pain for hours before one of the boys think to come look for me!

License to Scare Your Mother

My heart beat is quick, my breathing is shallow, my head is throbbing, and my ears are ringing. I am leaning to the left permanently in an effort to keep my ass out of the ditch. What's the problem? It isn't really a problem. It's my body's reaction to my oldest boy getting his driver's permit! Just where did those last fifteen years go?

Yesterday, we spent two hours at the DMV. Don't bother to schedule an appointment. There is no speedy way through the quagmire. Fortunately, we realized we needed a birth certificate and a social security number prior to our arrival at the DMV and rushed through the bank's safe deposit box to remove all of the items needed (plus a few extras since we didn't have time to study!)

Will passed his driving test with flying colors. He only missed one question. This was much better than his mother did the first time she took a driving test. She was sent home humiliated and without her picture on a plastic card! No longer do new drivers have to take a driving test. This comes when you get your license. While waiting for Will's number to come up, I asked if he wanted to drive home. When he said yes, I thought I would throw up! He changed his mind when we got to the parking lot at lunch time and the traffic was rocking. I drove until we were a few miles from home and pulled over and made him drive. He did fine. He is very cautious and travels a little below the speed limit (unlike his lead-footed mother).

Today, we had videos to return to Blockbuster. Will wanted to spend some time behind the wheel. Since the roads we travel to get there aren't too crowded and have minimal stoplights, he got to chauffeur his mother.

Our road is the narrowest. A few times, I thought we were destined for the ditch. But Will managed to keep the wheels on the road with little space to spare. A slow-moving truck with flashers blinking nearly made me swallow my tongue. Why are lane changes so scary? The car is meant to stay to left of the white line on the right side of the road. We need to work on this one as Will feels safer straddling that line! I'm afraid he parks like his mother...very close to the white line on one side and lots of space on the other. Practice will make this better! I felt the need to offer a steady commentary on what was coming up, where to turn, how to park, etc. After listening respectfully for a while, Will looked at m and said, "Mama, I already know that stuff."

Overall, he did a great job. I was the one with the problem. My internal speedometer was speeding up and slamming on breaks and trying not to cry. Will asked what kind of driver I was when I was learning. The last time my dad smacked me, I was driving down a highway and passed very closely to a guy on a bike. I was probably close enough to the biker to cause his body to leave skid marks in his underwear, but, as I told my Dad, "I didn't hit him!" I'm lucky that the biker wasn't fast enough to catch me and all I got was a smack. I'm sorry Dad!

Just Ducky!

Yesterday, I picked Will up from a friend's house. On the way back home, just before crossing the bridge over Falls Lake, we saw something moving across the street in front of us. I thought it was a big old swamp turtle and started to slow down. As we got closer, I realized it was a Mama Duck and about 8 babies. We stopped until they safely crossed and disappeared into the tall grass. Happy swimming!

Doggy Does Dishes

A couple of months ago, I threw a hissy fit over the lack of help I was getting from my family with dishes. Everyone would eat dinner, usually accompanied with complaints about what I had fixed, then get up and walk away from the table, leaving behind dirty dishes, piles of napkins and spilled milk. I can’t remember when this started or why I let it happen, but NO MORE!

You will put your dishes in the dishwasher after you eat. Clear your plate into the trash can (I have to be VERY specific!) Don’t pile anything in the sink. Don’t leave glasses with dried milk in the bottom sitting on the counter. If you spill, wipe it up with a damp wash cloth. If it is milk, rinse the cloth out. Easy, right?

They complied half-assedly with grumbles and groans. In an effort to return things to the old way of life, ie. I am their slave, they put dishes in the washer backwards, lay glasses on their sides, put a small plate where a big pot should go. Determined to make things work out my way, I would make them come back and figure out a better way of loading the dishwasher…MY WAY!

Progress!! For a couple of weeks, they were doing a good job. I didn’t even have to remind them to take their plates with them when they left the table.

This morning, all of that came crashing to a halt when I caught Riley Dog standing on the open door to the dish washer. Not just his front paws, all four feet! (Of course, he wouldn't repeat this pose when I got the camera out!) When I called his name, he turned around with half a cheeseburger in his mouth, torn between the thrill of the find and being caught doing it. Back to square one!

If I wasn’t sure they would just crawl into the bed and sleep on it, I would start putting their half eaten burgers and pop tart wrappers in their beds. Knowing I would have to wash their sheets and re-make their beds is a good deterrent for me!

Another One Bites the Dust

When I went to bed last night, Baby Groucho was sitting on his towel with his head tucked under his wing sleeping peacefully. Yes, he was breathing. I checked! This morning, he was on his back with his feet in the air...nothing peaceful about it!

My track record on wild birds is not good. An injured bird I found this Spring died while I ran to Wally World to get him a cage (the same cage Baby Groucho kicked the bucket in last night). I don't know why I can't just leave them outside when I find them and let nature take its course, but I know that is a definite death sentence for a small or injured animal.

When my favorite rooster, Fred, was drug into the woods by a fox (we think), we found him still alive but badly injured. I brought him home in a box and let him sleep in the bathtub for the night. I hoped he would be upright and happy the next morning. This did not happen. I had called Susie, my business partner at the time, to tell her about the tragedy. I was upset and she was very sweet. The next day, she confessed that she was telling her daughter Jenny about the drama and got the silly giggles over should she ask tomorrow if Fred's dead? Yep, him, too!

Of course, you know about Skippy. I rescued him from the hen house and he's a perverted, psychotic rooster.

The biggest bird-find we ever had was when a cockatiel flew up in the yard during a walk in the woods with friends. The poor fellow had damage to one eye and a toe that didn't look quite right. He must have been starving to fly up amidst all of this chaos, but he did. Neighbors Terri and Dave nursed him back to health then gave him to us because they have a maccaw and a cockatoo, neither of whom would be too friendly to a smaller, less aggressive, bite-sized bird.

Since he had a doingy feather on top of his head, he was named Alfie (short for Alfalfa from Little Rascals). This bird had mental health issues, too. It tried to peck his own head off. The only way we could stop him from doing this was to attach one of those collars like a dog wears to keep it from licking injuries. The avian doctor cut this out of x-ray film and fastened it around Alfie's neck. He wore it until his wounds healed. You know how stupid these things look on a dog? On a bird, it looks like Chinese torture...but really funny. Shortly after the collar came off, Alfie was perching on my sweatered shoulder. He flew off, but forgot to let go with one of his toes. It got caught in the weave of my sweater and yanked his leg out of the socket. For the rest of his life, he stood on his perch in a half plie position...left foot forward, right foot turned to the side. He was around for about 3 years. Sad to say, but I was a little relieved when he went to bird heaven!

So, if I am in charge of raising birds, they die. Or they live a life of psychosis, then they die. Skippy, watch your back!