If you have a big brother, literally or figuratively, you probably know what it's like to be sheepdogged. My brother James (it always made me happy when my mom pronounced it Jammies) was the ultimate sheepdogger. Growing up I was unfortunately his favorite sheep. Even though we're both like halfway to dead now, he'd still try to sheepdog me given the chance. It's devilish irritating to have every real or imagined flaw in your character, speech, personality, behavior, perspective, ethic, or appearance pointed out and corrected by an asineinstein self-appointed godparent.
Is there an inherent urge in a firstborn to herd its younger siblings? Even within the depths of all the respectful, hardworking, polite, compassionate, intelligent responsibleness of The Precious lies an irrepressible compulsion to sheepdog his brother and sisters.
I was employed under the supervision of a sheepdogger for several years. I should be awarded the Zen Garden Award for Infinite Patience for that. He's still alive, and I should be awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for that.
Hunneypunkin is the nicest man in the world, but even he tried to sheepdog me for a time. I went all Jeremy Renner on him and he learned. I'm not a fighter, but I can defend when necessary because I'm practical and logical like that. Make note of this, ladies: Hunneypunkin learned. Don't let anybody fool you. The Super-Secret Manual of Pointless Instructions for Guys claims men can't be taught, but that is not so.
My annoying proclivity to look for the positive has led to the observation that being sheepdogged can have the effect of sharpening one's character, speech, personality, behavior, perspective, ethic, or appearance. Of course, being sheepdogged can also have the effect of sharpening one's appreciation for irony. There's some fun to be had in sheepdogging a sheepdog.
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Answer v. Reply
Hunneypunkin is a master of non-feedback. In twenty years of bledded wiss I have yet to wring a straight answer from him.
"What time do you want to leave tonight?"
"I don't know when I'll get off work."
I voiced the necessary question and he spoke in return so I feel as if we've completed a conversation, till seven hours later when I realize he didn't give me an actual answer so I don't know how to plan.
One year, New Year's Day showed up before we had concluded what we were going to do for New Year's Eve. I'm not making this up.
There was a long period of time where I never had a single night out with Hunneypunkin because you can't tell a babysitter that you're going to need her from sometime between 4 and 8 pm till sometime between 9 and midnight depending on how things go at work. After that thirteen years, the offspring were old enough to supervise themselves so Daddy and Mama could dig some change out of the couch to go grab a romantic value burger and stay awake long enough to split it in the car while we tried to think up a conversational topic.
Now understand, this is not entirely a result of the "Do Not Commit" chapter in The Super-Secret Manual of Pointless Instructions for Guys. It's more a side effect of being a superhero. You just never know when the neighbor lady will get trapped in her car and the Jaws of Life can't get there in time so you have to miss yet another in-laws' combination X-Box Playoff and Character Assassination party because it will take you a couple of hours to get her out with your Leatherman tool, again. And if you've already told the in-laws you'd be at the in-laws' combination X-Box Playoff and Character Assassination party, they're not going to understand, they're just going to add that to your Failures to Appear list. And everybody knows that whoever has the longest Failures to Appear list goes straight to the top of the Characters to Assassinate list. So, it's best to be vague.
Nevertheless, Hunneypunkin and I need to hone our communication skills sooner than later or it's going to be insane trying to coordinate his superhero duties with my Renner/Wilson 2016 U.S. Presidential campaign.
"What time do you want to leave tonight?"
"I don't know when I'll get off work."
I voiced the necessary question and he spoke in return so I feel as if we've completed a conversation, till seven hours later when I realize he didn't give me an actual answer so I don't know how to plan.
One year, New Year's Day showed up before we had concluded what we were going to do for New Year's Eve. I'm not making this up.
There was a long period of time where I never had a single night out with Hunneypunkin because you can't tell a babysitter that you're going to need her from sometime between 4 and 8 pm till sometime between 9 and midnight depending on how things go at work. After that thirteen years, the offspring were old enough to supervise themselves so Daddy and Mama could dig some change out of the couch to go grab a romantic value burger and stay awake long enough to split it in the car while we tried to think up a conversational topic.
Now understand, this is not entirely a result of the "Do Not Commit" chapter in The Super-Secret Manual of Pointless Instructions for Guys. It's more a side effect of being a superhero. You just never know when the neighbor lady will get trapped in her car and the Jaws of Life can't get there in time so you have to miss yet another in-laws' combination X-Box Playoff and Character Assassination party because it will take you a couple of hours to get her out with your Leatherman tool, again. And if you've already told the in-laws you'd be at the in-laws' combination X-Box Playoff and Character Assassination party, they're not going to understand, they're just going to add that to your Failures to Appear list. And everybody knows that whoever has the longest Failures to Appear list goes straight to the top of the Characters to Assassinate list. So, it's best to be vague.
Nevertheless, Hunneypunkin and I need to hone our communication skills sooner than later or it's going to be insane trying to coordinate his superhero duties with my Renner/Wilson 2016 U.S. Presidential campaign.
Friday, December 28, 2012
Trauma Response Team
Once upon a time, Pixie required a major surgery involving a week's stay far from home to correct a fast-progressing scoliosis. I feared I had myself caused the incorrect curvature of her spine when I caught her as she turned from a dewdrop into a tiny baby pixie (an act which stunts the normal sprouting of a pixie's wings). http://chevroletmama.blogspot.com/2012/09/dewdrop-in-september.html My burning guilt and shame over the possibility of having caused such torment to my very own mythological creature, however, were drowned out by the swift action of our local Trauma Response Team.
Santa Claussen sold a limb to buy fuel for our GasGuzzler to make the trip.
My sister-in-law Lovesme built a hospital wing for the occasion, including an ice cream parlor for patients' family members.
My sister-in-law Hatesme published an op-ed piece detailing my failures as a parent of mythologics.
My uncle sent a lifetime supply of movies for Pixie to watch during convalescence along with a bag of trinkets from Grandad, and two months of weekly sixteen-ounce caramel mochas for me.
Great Grampa and Great Gramma sent Pixie a stuffie Burden Bear with its own little quilt and a poem to keep Pixie company whilst she recovered. They even mailed her a card by United States Postal Service. So did Pixie's Gramps.
Hunneypunkin's Dad and Momma gave Pixie books and posters with pigmentous articles with which to color them, watched over Angel Doll, Lefty, and The Precious while I didn't sleep at the hospital. They cooked dinner for the family, and delivered us brand new major appliances.
The Besties outfitted Pixie with fuzzy jams and softy socks, balloons and bears, puzzles and toys, Erin Hunter books, Lego loads, and a two-day in-hospital visit from Pixie's Pal.
Our Nice Church Ladies sent us dinner the night we returned home, along with a gift and a card, and Sweet Church Girl made an ornament for Pixie in Pixie's favorite color.
The Neighborlies deposited a hospital bed in our living room for the six-month rehabilitation.
The on-call surgeon helped me by phone at midnight on Christmas when Pixie allergically reacted.
Friends cooked pasta in my kitchen and sat around the hospital bed to play cards with Pixie while I measured prescription medications. My mom took over as medication measurer when I had to go to work.
Hunneypunkin's Huntingbuddy offered to compare his heart surgery scars with Pixie's back surgery scars. (Pixie declined.)
Jeremy Renner showed up at the theater in The Bourne Legacy so I'd have something to take my mind off Pixie's plight.
A year later, you couldn't tell at a glance that Pixie has been surgicalled, and I still haven't caught up on the sleeping I didn't during the hospital week and the recovery month and a half. If you ever find yourself in such a sitch, I hope your local Trauma Response Team rocks like ours.
Santa Claussen sold a limb to buy fuel for our GasGuzzler to make the trip.
My sister-in-law Lovesme built a hospital wing for the occasion, including an ice cream parlor for patients' family members.
My sister-in-law Hatesme published an op-ed piece detailing my failures as a parent of mythologics.
My uncle sent a lifetime supply of movies for Pixie to watch during convalescence along with a bag of trinkets from Grandad, and two months of weekly sixteen-ounce caramel mochas for me.
Great Grampa and Great Gramma sent Pixie a stuffie Burden Bear with its own little quilt and a poem to keep Pixie company whilst she recovered. They even mailed her a card by United States Postal Service. So did Pixie's Gramps.
Hunneypunkin's Dad and Momma gave Pixie books and posters with pigmentous articles with which to color them, watched over Angel Doll, Lefty, and The Precious while I didn't sleep at the hospital. They cooked dinner for the family, and delivered us brand new major appliances.
The Besties outfitted Pixie with fuzzy jams and softy socks, balloons and bears, puzzles and toys, Erin Hunter books, Lego loads, and a two-day in-hospital visit from Pixie's Pal.
Our Nice Church Ladies sent us dinner the night we returned home, along with a gift and a card, and Sweet Church Girl made an ornament for Pixie in Pixie's favorite color.
The Neighborlies deposited a hospital bed in our living room for the six-month rehabilitation.
The on-call surgeon helped me by phone at midnight on Christmas when Pixie allergically reacted.
Friends cooked pasta in my kitchen and sat around the hospital bed to play cards with Pixie while I measured prescription medications. My mom took over as medication measurer when I had to go to work.
Hunneypunkin's Huntingbuddy offered to compare his heart surgery scars with Pixie's back surgery scars. (Pixie declined.)
Jeremy Renner showed up at the theater in The Bourne Legacy so I'd have something to take my mind off Pixie's plight.
A year later, you couldn't tell at a glance that Pixie has been surgicalled, and I still haven't caught up on the sleeping I didn't during the hospital week and the recovery month and a half. If you ever find yourself in such a sitch, I hope your local Trauma Response Team rocks like ours.
Saturday, December 15, 2012
Thespian Empress
Lil Chev wasn't new, but I kept it clean on the outside, tidy on the inside, full of gas, and insured. My good friend (or whatever) Dromiquine, however, was unimpressed. She never openly dissed my car, but she often complimented it, and me, in her trademark backhanded fashion. "It's so nice that you're able to save money by driving...that. But let's drive mmiinne. Be careful, it's full of automatic gadgets you're probably not used to." One of Dromiquine's fascinating characteristics is her ability to add syllables to first-person pronouns.
When Hunneypunkin traded Lil Chev in on a car manufactured in the same millennium we lived in, Dromiquine spilled a tear. "III'm happy for you. It's so hard to see someone else get a new car when III'm not getting one." Another of Dromiquine's unique idiosyncrasies is her amazing power to designate herself the focus of any conversation.
Dromiquine was deeply wounded after I'd gone out for sixteen-ounce caramel mochas with a mutual friend. "Without mmee?!" When I assured her we simply thought she'd be uninterested after the many times she'd tossed her hair and proclaimed, "III don't drink those things," Dromiquine said it must be our mutual friend who excluded her. Then she called our mutual friend and told her I'd blamed Mutual Friend for excluding Dromiquine. Blink blink. Fortunately, Mutual Friend is familiar with Dromiquine's exquisite talent for fact-morphage.
Fact-morphage might explain how Dromiquine's diversity of life experiences rival those of Nancy Drew. And you almost believe her lively anecdotes because her thespian capabilities rival those of Jeremy Renner.
As it turns out, Dromiquine gets around. Everyone I meet seems to be good friends (or whatever) with her. My sister-in-law Lovesme was excommunicated from Dromiquine's life for the audacity of getting married while Dromiquine was still single. My sister-in-law Hatesme had a visit from the sheriff when Dromiquine turned her in for animal cruelty because Dromiquine heard her dog bark once. My BFFs are all stronger people for their association with Dromiquine. Even Pixie has run into her at the park. Angel Doll met her at camp.
I imagine you know Dromiquine too, so you're acquainted with her one-of-a-kind perspective and peculiarities. Variety truly is the spice of life, is it not? Testify!
When Hunneypunkin traded Lil Chev in on a car manufactured in the same millennium we lived in, Dromiquine spilled a tear. "III'm happy for you. It's so hard to see someone else get a new car when III'm not getting one." Another of Dromiquine's unique idiosyncrasies is her amazing power to designate herself the focus of any conversation.
Dromiquine was deeply wounded after I'd gone out for sixteen-ounce caramel mochas with a mutual friend. "Without mmee?!" When I assured her we simply thought she'd be uninterested after the many times she'd tossed her hair and proclaimed, "III don't drink those things," Dromiquine said it must be our mutual friend who excluded her. Then she called our mutual friend and told her I'd blamed Mutual Friend for excluding Dromiquine. Blink blink. Fortunately, Mutual Friend is familiar with Dromiquine's exquisite talent for fact-morphage.
Fact-morphage might explain how Dromiquine's diversity of life experiences rival those of Nancy Drew. And you almost believe her lively anecdotes because her thespian capabilities rival those of Jeremy Renner.
As it turns out, Dromiquine gets around. Everyone I meet seems to be good friends (or whatever) with her. My sister-in-law Lovesme was excommunicated from Dromiquine's life for the audacity of getting married while Dromiquine was still single. My sister-in-law Hatesme had a visit from the sheriff when Dromiquine turned her in for animal cruelty because Dromiquine heard her dog bark once. My BFFs are all stronger people for their association with Dromiquine. Even Pixie has run into her at the park. Angel Doll met her at camp.
I imagine you know Dromiquine too, so you're acquainted with her one-of-a-kind perspective and peculiarities. Variety truly is the spice of life, is it not? Testify!
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Neighborhood Cool Mom
I always foolishly assumed I would grow up, and I planned that when I did, I would be the neighborhood cool mom. Though I failed to grow up, I still make every effort to be the best Mama ever.
I try to have an immediate solution for any problem. Lefty: "Have you seen my water bottle?" Me: "Want me to kiss it and make it better?" Lefty: "Uh..."
Pixie: "The Precious smacked my left ear." Me: "I'll smack the right one and they'll be even." Pixie, "Never mind, I'm good."
It's difficult to gauge my cool mom status from my children's responses, because, as they are teenagers, it isn't always easy to read their ultra-cool random hormonal standoffish-hood.
When I was a teenager back in the late nineteen hundreds, my parents were incessantly griping that my music was too loud. I couldn't wait to grow up and move out, so I could do whatever I wanted. Someday I would hatch my own begottens and let them play their music too loud.
Now I do have teenagers of my own, who are incessantly griping that my music is too loud. I still can't wait to move out so I can do whatever I want. (No, the children moving out won't be good enough. Hunneypunkin will still be here, incessantly griping that my music is too loud. Unless he goes deaf in his other ear too.)
Balancing parental coolness with child safety grows increasingly challenging as the begottens' talents grow increasingly diverse. "Pixie, if you can see Great Grandma's house, you're too high up the tree. Easy with the power tools, Angel Doll. The Precious, be careful parkouring, and wash your shoeprints off the ceiling. Also Daddy says to fill in that nine-foot deep four-foot diameter hole you dug in the backyard before you really do trap a coyote or a small cougar in there. Or a neighbor. Lefty, take that live bat back outside. No, don't bring any dead ones in either."
I encourage my begottens toward activities that interest them, and I try to get involved with them. I learned oil painting with Pixie last month and knitting this week with Angel Doll. For The Precious, it's movies, as well as everything and everyone involved in their making. I now know a lot of fascinating facts about Tom Cruise, Robert Downey, Jr., Chris Hemsworth, and Jeremy Renner. I have yet to venture into Halo 4 with Lefty.
I try to have an immediate solution for any problem. Lefty: "Have you seen my water bottle?" Me: "Want me to kiss it and make it better?" Lefty: "Uh..."
Pixie: "The Precious smacked my left ear." Me: "I'll smack the right one and they'll be even." Pixie, "Never mind, I'm good."
It's difficult to gauge my cool mom status from my children's responses, because, as they are teenagers, it isn't always easy to read their ultra-cool random hormonal standoffish-hood.
When I was a teenager back in the late nineteen hundreds, my parents were incessantly griping that my music was too loud. I couldn't wait to grow up and move out, so I could do whatever I wanted. Someday I would hatch my own begottens and let them play their music too loud.
Now I do have teenagers of my own, who are incessantly griping that my music is too loud. I still can't wait to move out so I can do whatever I want. (No, the children moving out won't be good enough. Hunneypunkin will still be here, incessantly griping that my music is too loud. Unless he goes deaf in his other ear too.)
Balancing parental coolness with child safety grows increasingly challenging as the begottens' talents grow increasingly diverse. "Pixie, if you can see Great Grandma's house, you're too high up the tree. Easy with the power tools, Angel Doll. The Precious, be careful parkouring, and wash your shoeprints off the ceiling. Also Daddy says to fill in that nine-foot deep four-foot diameter hole you dug in the backyard before you really do trap a coyote or a small cougar in there. Or a neighbor. Lefty, take that live bat back outside. No, don't bring any dead ones in either."
I encourage my begottens toward activities that interest them, and I try to get involved with them. I learned oil painting with Pixie last month and knitting this week with Angel Doll. For The Precious, it's movies, as well as everything and everyone involved in their making. I now know a lot of fascinating facts about Tom Cruise, Robert Downey, Jr., Chris Hemsworth, and Jeremy Renner. I have yet to venture into Halo 4 with Lefty.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Weight a Minute
"Put the mirror on this wall," was not the brightest command I ever decreed. The arrangement of my cubicular master bathroom is such that the only space big enough for the giant mirror is the wall facing the toilet. This is also the only logical home for the bathroom scale.
I'm a big fan of multitasking, so as early as I can drag my limbs out of the barracks in the mornings, I like to weigh in, try to recognize myself in the mirror, and check myself for a pulse all at once. (I haven't figured out yet how to simultaneously use the potty.) Unfortunately I'm also getting ready for a shower at the same time so without the cover of a giant sweatshirt or a decent pair of jeans, the sum of all this is something like, "Ooh, look, 164.3 pounds of epic fail. What happened to my face? Does this blubber make my butt look big?"
I don't even know why I use a bathroom scale. It's not like I'm motivated to diet. I suppose if I weigh myself daily, I can honestly say that I'm watching my weight. I don't have to add, "steadily incline".
I'm not convinced that the number of a person's body weight is necessarily indicative of one's overall well-being anyway. I consider myself in pretty good health because I read a lot of internet articles about physical fitness and proper eating habits, plus I own a yoga video, and, I throw down turkey subs and sixteen-ounce caramel mochas with friends as often as I can. That has to be good for you.
In a few weeks when I become famous and wealthy, I'll buy a renovation from Jeremy Renner with a large enough bathroom that the toilet and the scale will not face the bathroom mirror. Until that day, when I step on the scale every morning and try to recognize my reflection while verifying the presence of my heartbeat, I'll try to change my inner dialogue to something like, "Ooh, look, 165.2 pounds of epic friend. There's a half hour of laughing still stuck in the corner of my eye. Is that a sandwich in my hip?"
I'm a big fan of multitasking, so as early as I can drag my limbs out of the barracks in the mornings, I like to weigh in, try to recognize myself in the mirror, and check myself for a pulse all at once. (I haven't figured out yet how to simultaneously use the potty.) Unfortunately I'm also getting ready for a shower at the same time so without the cover of a giant sweatshirt or a decent pair of jeans, the sum of all this is something like, "Ooh, look, 164.3 pounds of epic fail. What happened to my face? Does this blubber make my butt look big?"
I don't even know why I use a bathroom scale. It's not like I'm motivated to diet. I suppose if I weigh myself daily, I can honestly say that I'm watching my weight. I don't have to add, "steadily incline".
I'm not convinced that the number of a person's body weight is necessarily indicative of one's overall well-being anyway. I consider myself in pretty good health because I read a lot of internet articles about physical fitness and proper eating habits, plus I own a yoga video, and, I throw down turkey subs and sixteen-ounce caramel mochas with friends as often as I can. That has to be good for you.
In a few weeks when I become famous and wealthy, I'll buy a renovation from Jeremy Renner with a large enough bathroom that the toilet and the scale will not face the bathroom mirror. Until that day, when I step on the scale every morning and try to recognize my reflection while verifying the presence of my heartbeat, I'll try to change my inner dialogue to something like, "Ooh, look, 165.2 pounds of epic friend. There's a half hour of laughing still stuck in the corner of my eye. Is that a sandwich in my hip?"
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