Psst.

Psst.  Hey, you.  You with the flag outside your house, or on your car, or on your antenna, or on your bike, or wherever.  The one you put up after 9/11.

It's getting ragged.  I know your patriotism is still as strong, and I know you still want to honor our country by displaying a flag... just, you know, when you get time, put a new shiny fresh one up, ok? 

I found out a while back that it really bothers veterans when they see a tattered, soggy, or mistreated flag.  Since it's because of them I have the freedom to do what I do, the least I can do is keep a decent flag, I figger. 

Things That Clog My Brain

1. It's supposed to rain/freeze tonight.  Although I have free passes to a popular club's NYE party, we're thinking of staying home.  Somehow the idea of Drunk Texans On Ice sounds like a nightmare... or a musical.  I'm not sure which.


2. DISCLAIMER:  I love Christmas.  I went caroling, drank eggnog, gave to the less fortunate, slept under the Christmas tree on Christmas eve, and bought too many presents.  I love it, I do.


3. But... I hate it when people say "How was your Christmas?"  It's this dreaded question that you KNOW is coming, so during the whole Christmas thing, you're working to make it PERFECT, so that you can say "GREAT!"  Ugg.  What is it anyway, a performance?  


4. My friend's great-grandfather passed away Christmas morning.  This friend also suffers from major depression, occasional suicidal thoughts, and a host of other mental ailments.  So people ask him "How was your Christmas?" and he's been saying "Sucked."  Folks don't let it go, though.  They say "Oh, c'mon, it couldn't have been THAT bad...."  He says "I was a pallbearer.  How was YOUR Christmas?"

So here's to 2002.  I gotta come up with some resolutions, and fast! 

Normalcy, Part II

There are times when someone replies to your blog, and does a better job of saying what you wanted to say than you did.  Rabid Squirrel  has done that... so I'll just paste his message here.

Because nobody wants to label themselves as a conformist, everybody tells themselves that they're different in one of the ways that you've listed.  The sad truth of it is that, 99% of the time, it's simply wishful thinking, leaving unfulfilled this impotent desire to be "someone who doesn't follow the crowd".

Seriously.  When 50% of the population lives through divorce, what constitutes "dysfunction"?  Freud aside, the statistics relating to "bizarre sexual fantasies" occur in so enormous a segment of the population that it really should no longer be considered "bizarre".  And perhaps the worst and most oft-repeated item on the list, too many people confuse their sense of humor as being "weird" instead of "inane" (not that I'm a humor Nazi or anything...whatever floats your comedic boat, right?)

Thanks, Squirrley one!  Your articulation made my day.

Are You Normal?

You there.  Are you normal?  Do you consider yourself regular, average, and/or sane?

I have a theory that 90% of the population thinks they're different somehow.  They usually think at least one of the following is true:

1. They're just plain, old-fashioned nuts.
   
2. They have a strange sense of humor.
   
3. Their minds work in a weird direction.
   
4. They have bizarre sexual fantasies/desires.
   
5. They came from a dysfunctional family.
   
6. Their current living situation is bizarre.
   
7. Their intelligence, humor, common sense and/or driving ability is above average.

So, if 90% of us are weird, doesn't that make being weird normal?  What about you?  Are you normal?

Help!  I fell into the wrong decade/century!

Jimmy had a friend that lives in a rural area spend the night.  Chase (the friend) is 15 years old.  I was in the kitchen tonight, listening to them chat.  They turned on MTV.

Chase:  "Jimmy, turn that off!  Hasn't anyone told you rap sucks?"
Jimmy:  "Hasn't anyone told you that J-Lo has a fabulous boo-tay?"

(PAUSE)

Chase:  (Aghast)  "HEY!  I thought J-Lo was Puerto Rican!"
Jimmy:  "Yeah."
Chase:  "Then what's she doing dancing with a black guy??"

Apparently I don't know enough rednecks or something... I'd about forgotten this type of thought process was still around.  I leaned over, looked at Chase, and said "I did NOT just hear you say that."  He looked embarassed, and I immediately gave myself a mental bonk in the head.  A 15 year old is probably the product of his environment.  He's probably had these ideas hammered into his head his whole life, and they seem normal to him.  I tried to explain about Jennifer Lopez and Sean "Puff Daddy/P-Diddy" Combs, etc. 

Chase was stammering.  "I, um.  I guess I... I, uh..."
Me:  "You're from the country?"
Chase:  "I don't keep up with... these kinds of things."
Me:  "I married a Mexican, you know."

Chase was even more shocked.  "Jimmy's dad is a MEXICAN??"

I think it's time to hit the eggnog again.

Birthday Floods

Today is my birthday.  I was going to donate my birthday to my friend Caroline, whose birthday was 9/11.  I even thought about getting her a card for today, because her birthday was so god-awful.  However, Austin (my town) is mostly underwater right now.  The roads look like the picture at right. 

I was driving for five hours yesterday, trying to pick up our son from school.  I can't really articulate the panic one feels when they hear, at 4:15 p.m., "A tornado has touched down at Ben White Blvd. and I-35...", and that's exactly where your child's bus should be at that point.  He finally found me... they had put all the kids in "lock-down" at various schools around town, and he borrowed a friend's cell phone to call.  My son is 14 and pretty self-sufficient... but imagine those with smaller children, who they can't find in a city of 1 million people, in the middle of a storm, and 7 tornadoes have touched down in town.  It was a hell of a day, I'm just sayin'.

Floods everywhere, people dying... maybe we'll do this birthday thing another year.

As is our custom in the fall, we went to the Austin Powwow this weekend.  Many of the outfits worn by dancers and performers included red/white/blue and some form of the American flag.  Something Tim Tallchief, Emcee, said really stuck with me:

"We love America.  We loved it first.  We believe in America... and we say to you:  Defend America.  Defend it, or give it back."

Sortez la Poubelle
(or Take out the Trash, Stay Away From The Chalk)

Disclaimer:  I apologize for another rambling story about my son.  But I swear, this happened just this past week.

Setting:  Approx 10 AM, Wednesday.  My office.
Ring!  Ring!
"This is Sadzi."
"Mom!  It's me, Jimmy.  I got kicked out of Algebra."
"ExCUSE me?"
"Yeah.  I got kicked out for sniffing chalk dust."

There are times when it's just hard to know what to say, really.  This was one of them.
"Is your teacher around?" is what I finally came up with.
"Sure.  Class is just letting out.  Here he is now.  Hey, Mr. Bracht, here's my mom!"  He sounded almost gleeful.

"Mrs. Sadzi?  I'm Mr. Bracht."
"Hi.  Chalk dust?  Kicked out?  Huh?"  (Tell me YOU wouldn't have a state of befoozlement at this point.)
"Yes.  Jimmy was clapping the erasers against the board, and he put his head into the puff of dust, sniffed, and made a strange face."

Remember the previous blog about his school picture, with the crossed eyes and tongue sticking out?  A strange face wasn't surprising me any.  I pondered thoughtfully.

"Was he disrupting class?  Not doing his work?  Blatantly disobeying you?  If so, we might have something."
"No.  He was just cleaning the erasers."
"Mr. Bracht, does this have anything to do with the recent anthrax scares?"
"No, no.  Certainly not."
"Does this have anything to do with the Zero Tolerance stuff, where a kid can get suspended for carrying a Tylenol?"
"No, no.  But when he put his face in the chalk dust, he made a face AS IF HE WERE ON DRUGS."

Ok.  This was just getting funny, and I snickered.  But Mr. Bracht continued on, doggedly.

"As punishment for this, Jimmy's must look up on the Internet what chalk is made out of, print it out and bring it to me."
This was getting more surreal by the moment.
"Mr. B., he's being PUNISHED for smelling something?"  A giggle definitely erupted at this piont.
"This is JUST the way Jimmy said you'd react," he huffed.

I backpedaled a little.  I assured him that since I try to be supportive of teachers unless they're doing something illegal or unethical, and that I'd have Jimmy look up the ingredients of chalk on the 'Net.  (In truth, I was doing it while he and I were talking.)

"But Mr. Bracht, I'm in the medical field.  Chalk can't hurt you."
"*I* know that, but JIMMY doesn't know that.  I just don't think a person should go around smelling things if they don't know what they are.  Do you?"

Now, let's talk about smelling, briefly, Xangans.  I smell EVERYTHING.  I love the smell of a new book, or a fine whiskey, or the new Lemon Diet Coke that came out.  I like to smell things.  Jimmy's no different.  I attempted an explanation of this. 

"Mr. Bracht, Jimmy makes that same face when he smells his coffee in the morning, and when he's pumping gas for me in the car.  Embarassingly, the whole darn family is this way.  You've known him all school year, right?  You know he's a little... odd."
"Yes.  Jimmy and I have had some run-ins over his... oddness.  But regardless, he should be careful of what he sniffs."

I pondered more.  As politely as I possibly could, I queried:
"What class do you teach again?"
"Algebra."
"And his smelling habits have WHAT to do with x + y = z?"
"Nothing."
"With all due respect then, Mr. B., how 'bout we leave the algebra teaching to you, and the parenting to me?"
"Fine."
"And for the love of God, please don't call my husband about this.  He does talk radio, and this would keep him busy ALL AFTERNOON."

We hung up, and I didn't know whether to be disgusted or entertained.

An hour later, the phone rings.  It's Jimmy's French teacher, and I Instant Message this information to my friend, Gowan.

Gowan:  "What, the boy's on a wild chalk-sniffing rampage?"

I laughed into the phone.  I tried to cover it with a cough, but I don't think it worked.  I asked Ms. French Teacher to please continue.  She seemed to think Jimmy didn't always work up to his full capabilities.  She wanted to know if *I* thought he was working his hardest.  Heck, I don't know, I don't speak French. 

I turned around and glanced at my monitor again... Gowan was still going.

Gowan, imitating French Teacher:  "Ms. Sadzi, Jimmy said 'Fuck' and 'Pardon my French.'  Please inform him that this is not a French word."

That did it.  I started laughing shamelessly.  I apologized to the teacher, and said "I'm SO sorry if I'm a little on the edge.  I just had this call from another teacher...." and explained the situation to her.  Then SHE couldn't stop laughing.  She was surprised that it was Mr. Bracht, because he's one of the best, most respected teachers, etc.  Of course, she wasn't going to speak badly of another teacher (I'm sure that breaks some kind of Sacred Educational Code), but she did say that she would choose her battles differently.

To sum up, we discussed why Jimmy chose French as a foreign language.  I explained that it was so he could say "Take out the trash," and sound sexy doing it.  She thought this was fabulous, and taught ME to tell him to take out the trash.  So, if you need it, it's:

Sortez la poubelle. (Prounounced SOR-tay lah POO-bell, in case you ever need it.) 

Jimmy's a Freaky Kid

Jimmy's 14.  He had a tooth that was in pretty bad shape... one of those teeth that live there next to your front teeth.  What are they called... incisors?  Anyway. 

He had work done on the tooth, and a temporary crown was put on until the "real" one came in.  Three days prior to that, though, the temporary one came off while he was eating on the bus.

My reaction was:  "Uh oh!  I should call the dentist.  What are we gonna do?  That tooth is right in front..."

Jimmy:  "I know what I'M gonna do.  I'm gonna wear a my bib overalls with a torn t-shirt, some work gloves in my pocket, and get a long piece of straw grass to stick in my mouth.  It's gonna be a GOOD day at school!"  And sure enough, he did.  We were quite proud.  He's a survivor. 

I asked him if school pictures had happened yet.  "Yep."  I asked where they were.  "Um, we didn't order any."  I was appalled.  I had never seen the proofs.

Jimmy:  "Well, they look exactly like my ID picture."  He pulled it out of his wallet.  In it, his hair (which is blue anyway) was in a whale-spout pony-tail on top of his head, his eyes were crossed and his tongue was out.  I laughed so hard...

I wish we'd ordered dozens of these.  They're so HIM.

Things I Keep Telling Myself

1.  I am not better than anyone else.  ANYONE. 
2.  People don't need to be like me or agree with me -- even if that involves them thinking they're better than me.
3.  I am responsible for the shape my life is in, and for the things I do.  Not society, not my parents, not the government.  Just me.