I Guess I'll Never Learn

Those close to me know my insistence on planning and overall lack of spontaneity.  In this blog I've documented examples of how spur-of-the-moment decisions never end well for me.  Over the years I've learned that nothing in my life stands a chance at running smoothly without a minimum two weeks notice, the preparation of a list of some sort, a solid plan A in place, a back-up plan B waiting in the wings, and enough discussion to cause Punky's dad's eyes to gloss over and roll up in his head and his ears to suffer 95% hearing loss (both of which miraculously reverse the minute I shut up or change the subject).

Even though I know my track record, once in a while I get a bug up my ass to throw caution to the wind and do something without prior thought and preparation.  I had one of those rare moments a few weeks ago.  The weather was beautiful.  Work was extremely slow.  Punky and her dad were both home that day.  At 11:45 I decided to take half of a vacation day and leave work at noon.

And we ended up with this:

Granted we have discussed the idea of possibly buying a camper at some point for about two years now, but my mind had not fully settled on exactly when that point would be.  I hadn't worked out every detail of the financial implications.  I hadn't considered all of the additional crap that would be required to actually park this thing in the woods and live in it for a few days.  I hadn't really researched the ridiculous cost of campgrounds, or thought about the actual number of times we would use it in a summer, or weighed the pros and cons of camper ownership in general.  I was unprepared as we casually strolled through the lot and checked out all the different makes and models, and that, my friends, is a recipe for disaster.

And, thus far, it's been one.  Well, actually many, I suppose.  Tomorrow marks four weeks since that spontaneous four hours of vacation time cost me nearly fifteen grand, and we've faced issue after issue, hurdle after hurdle, problem after problem ever since.  Here are the highlights:

My insistence on keeping my name off of all the financial documents (due to the fact that I'm going to need a car loan within a year or so) opened up a whole can of worms with his credit report.  A local hospital turned a large, fully-paid medical bill into collections without our knowledge and it was one giant pain in the ass to sort it all out and get it fixed.

The bank he finally financed with would only offer him a good interest rate if he agreed to refinance his truck loan with them as well.  It turned out to be a good deal, but we're still trying to clean up the mess with the bank that originally had the loan.  Even though they acknowledge that they received payment in full from the new bank, they continue to pull payments out of his checking account.  They now owe us nearly six hundred dollars and they keep telling us we'll receive a check in ten days.  Needless to say, it's gotten ugly and I would caution anyone to think twice before ever dealing with M&T bank.

When we returned to the dealership to actually pick up the camper and bring it home, they discovered his truck was missing some gadget that is needed to tow a trailer.  The technicians told us it is so rare, like one in a hundred, to see a truck like his with a tow package that is missing this integral part.  That translated to another week of waiting while they ordered the part and an additional three hundred dollar expense.

When we tried to get the camper insured, his account was in lock-down due to the transfer of title on the truck between the two banks.  It was three days before they could access his info and provide us with an accurate quote.

Because we bought the camper across state lines, sales tax and registration are their own separate headaches.  I don't quite understand how it all works but the general gist is that we paid sales tax to the dealership in NY which they immediately refunded to him by check via mail, and we left with a temporary NY registration that would be null and void in thirty days.  The sales tax check had to be deposited in his account so he could write a check to the state of PA instead, and a trip to a notary was necessary to register the camper in PA and obtain a license plate.  It would've been helpful if the notary informed him that she needed to actually see the camper before he drove thirty minutes to her office with only the pile of paperwork he thought he needed.

But, it looks like we've finally made it.  It's here in our yard, it's financed, it's insured, it's registered, and all due taxes are paid.  After all that, you can imagine how nervous I am about our first camping trip coming up in a few weeks.  I've already made about seven lists, devised plans A, B, and an extra C just in case, and his eyes have been rolling up in his head like crazy.  He can't hear worth a shit either.

And, should I dare to even consider it, I asked my boss to politely decline any future last-minute vacation time requests.

Farewell, My Friend

I sat in the lobby just taking it all in as people passed through on their way to complete whatever urgent task was at hand.  Some paused to exchange greetings with the receptionist on duty, some were engaged in discussions with other colleagues, and some simply rushed by with piles of papers and serious looks on their faces.  They were all dressed professionally.  They were all undoubtedly important.  I wondered if I would ever truly fit in. 

I slouched a bit in my chair, subconsciously trying to blend in with the wall behind me.  I suppose it's normal to be nervous the first day of a new job, but the longer I sat the worse it became.  The human resource manager was taking her sweet time and I was stuck there until she was ready to do my orientation.  I was somewhat lost in my own world of miniature panic attacks when a girl entered the lobby and took a seat a few feet away.  Without any hesitation, she asked if I was waiting for HR, too.

It took me a second to snap out of my anxiety coma and realize that she was in fact speaking to me.  Who does that?  Who walks into a room and strikes up a conversation with a complete stranger in a matter of seconds?  Not me, that's for sure.  I think I managed to squeak out a simple "Yes."

She was tall, thin, clearly younger than me but not by much.  Short dark hair, dark eyes, and a natural, relaxed smile. Her self-confidence was immediately evident, and there was no doubt she was friendly, outgoing, and a complete extrovert - everything opposite my nervous, shy, introverted self.  I tried my best to play along as she continued her attempts at small talk.

Her eyes revealed an air of maturity that extended well beyond her physical age and she was obviously intelligent.  Soft-spoken yet articulate, calm and collected yet honestly excited about her first day, and happy.  Not just in the moment at hand, but in life in general.  A classic cup-is-half-full optimist, level-headed and at peace with her world, the type who wakes each morning with a smile on her face and a spring in her step.  Ugh.  I thought she was weird.

Fast forward almost four and a half years to last night.

As she hastily zipped around my living room, gathering her things and trying to keep her emotions at bay, my mind drifted back to those moments in the lobby.

I don't make friends easily.  Acquaintances, sure.  But not close friends.  I'm extremely guarded.  True to my Aquarius nature, I can be aloof and noncommittal, somewhat insensitive, and overly obstinate.  I don't like to let people in.  Doing so forces me to face those less-than-desirable qualities head on, and it's generally a lot of emotional work.  More often than not I pass and retreat, content to stay in my own world without allowing anyone new to intrude and upset the balance I've grown accustomed to.  But, she was persistent.

The first few months on the job, she remained open and friendly, chatting whenever the opportunity presented itself.  Maybe there was a sort of kinship in the fact that we were both new kids on the block.  But the real turning point, for me, came suddenly in the bathroom one lunch hour in May.  I let her in.

I was pregnant.  And terrified.  Less than five months into a new job, in a new area, with no friends or family nearby.  I needed to tell someone.  I needed to get it out.  I needed an outlet.  I needed someone to know.

About two weeks before my surprisingly successful pregnancy was over, she found out she was pregnant, too.  Our girls are just over seven months apart.  Having someone to share in the journey of first-time motherhood was priceless.  Someone in the same boat.  Someone with the same fears, hopes, struggles, and challenges.  Someone who understood, completely.

And in time, with each passing play date, swim class with the girls, birthday party, and Chinese food lunch hour, I began to view her with a status few people achieve: a good friend.

And now she's leaving.  Forever.

Her husband accepted a position with a company in Houston.  Last night was our final play date.  And our opportunity to say good-bye.

I thought the whole evening would be a mess of emotions, but the kids provided some welcome distraction.  We made it through dinner and play time without incident, but once she handed me her one-year-old son for a final snuggle, I lost it.  My eyes filled with tears as pure sadness flooded my heart.

The kids, of course, were fully oblivious to exactly what was happening.  She tried to hurry up and get out of here as to not drag it out and prolong the inevitable moment we would need to say good-bye.  With her son securely in his car seat, she gave Punky a final hug while I did the same with her daughter.  One moment later they were backing out of our driveway and we exchanged our final waves.

Then, I fully crashed and burned.  I stood there sobbing like a baby, tears running full force, while the neighbor glared at me like I was an idiot.  I've always been the realistic type.  I know full well that was likely the last time we will ever see them and it was too much to handle.  I tried to explain this to Punky when she noticed her mom was a blubbering mess in the driveway and asked why I was crying like that.  She contemplated my words for about twenty seconds before sweetly asking, "Mommy? Can I blow bubbles?"  Ah, the beautiful innocence of childhood.

Of course, we'll keep in touch for a while but time and distance will surely take it's toll.  I'm truly going to miss her, and those beautiful kids.  Who knows?  Maybe someday Punky and I will take a trip to Texas for a visit.

As to not end this on such a sad note, I leave you with the girls' attempts at a serious, final good-bye photo:

Bullies

For me, junior high was everything it's cracked up to be.  Starting seventh grade meant going to a bigger school, in a different city, with kids from many area elementary schools.  It meant switching classes after each period, learning to open a combination lock on the first try, and actually having to be physically active in gym.

Junior high brought real school dances with dimmed lighting and hormone-filled boys wearing fistfuls of their fathers' Old Spice cologne.  It gave us open lunch periods where we were free to roam the city streets completely unsupervised for nearly an hour each day.  It introduced the concepts of school pride and team spirit as we faced off with neighboring schools both academically and athletically.  And it also completed the migration of kids into groups and set the perfect stage for bullying.

Elementary school was different in that anyone could fall victim to the picking and it was generally short-lived.  Even the most popular kid could be tormented for a shirt his mother bought and forced him to wear for pictures that day.  A generally smart kid could get teased for one bad grade on a test.  The sudden appearance of glasses or braces was an automatic trigger for about a week's worth of harassment.  But, in general, it passed quickly because every day presented a new opportunity for someone else to land in the unwanted spotlight.  The moment Johnny's mother hugged him at drop-off, the less-than-designer jeans you wore yesterday were long forgotten.  (In my case, they had the words "Pinch me" embroidered on the back pockets.  My mom bought them and sent me to school without stopping to consider that nine-year-old boys would take it as both an invitation and permission, and I would come home from school with a black and blue tush).

Anyway, junior high didn't work that way.  Groups formed and suddenly you were given an identity based on the collective opinion of the entire school.  Every kid had to fit somewhere; very few stragglers managed to escape classification.  It was no longer acceptable to be friends with everyone.  This new awareness of social status influenced who you ate lunch with, who you talked to in class, and who you sat with on the bus.  And everyone was only one step away from permanent branding.  One ugly outfit, one bad hair day, one wrong social interaction, one tiny embarrassing moment in gym class, could all lead to years of torture.  But back then, as awful as it was, it was pretty much confined to school.

The level of bullying these days is absolutely terrifying.  The headlines announce instance after instance of teenage suicide as a result.  Technology has created a world where the teasing is endless, the scope reaches well beyond the school yard, and there is no escape, no break, no peace at all for the victims.  Mounds of people are blaming the schools, dumping the responsibility on educators, and frankly I think it's bullshit.  If they want to point fingers, point them at the parents raising these mean, nasty, name-calling, cocky, spiteful, arrogant packs of ignorant teenagers.

Teachers are responsible for reading, writing, and arithmetic; parents are responsible for teaching their children to have respect for themselves and others.  It starts at home, when elementary school is still years down the road, with the basic lessons of right and wrong.  When parents fail to teach their children the skills necessary to become decent members of society, they are every bit as responsible for their kids' actions as the kids are themselves.

Now excuse me while I fall face-first off my soapbox:

Punky is a bully.

Yes, you read that right.  At the ripe old age of three, she's a bully.  And I don't know how to fix it.

It doesn't help that I was totally caught off-guard.  I mean, again, she's three.  As the proud mom of an extremely intelligent, perfectly petite, normally well-mannered little girl, I always envisioned us landing on the other side of the fence when it was time to deal with this subject matter.  The side I was on as a kid.

I have experience with girls throwing gum in my hair on the school bus.  I know what it's like to not be invited to the popular kids' parties.  I learned how to not drop my books when shoved from behind in the school halls.  In fact, the worst bullying I ever faced was as an adult in my first job after college.  I know how to deal with life on that side of the fence, but aside from the occasional, expected, pushing around of my little sister, I don't have much experience on the other.

Punky seems to have gotten in with the wrong crowd at daycare, as ridiculous as that sounds, and by the wrong crowd I mean one specific little girl that has managed to wrap Punky around her little finger and influence her to no end.  For the sake of this post, I'll call her Stacy.  She is a full year older and almost twice Punky's size.  They were reunited when the school decided to move Punky up a class back in March.  Since then, the quality of her school day is measured first and foremost by whether or not Stacy was there that day.

At first I wasn't alarmed.  I'm glad she has a friend at school; that's how it should be.  But, over the course of the last two months, I've grown increasingly uncomfortable with their friendship.  Stacy is a trouble-making little brat, and she's dragging Punky down with her.

There is only one other girl in their class at school.  Let's call her Lilah.  Of the entire group, Lilah is closest to Punky's age at just over eight months older, and they were the best of pals when Punky first started there in January of last year.  I thought she would be thrilled to be in Lilah's group again, but something odd happened.  Based on what I've been able to piece together from things she says, it seems like Punky and Stacy, even at their young, innocent ages, have managed to form some sort of alliance against Lilah.  They won't let her play with them, they won't sit by her for circle time, and I even heard Punky make fun of Lilah's sneakers.

As you'd expect, we've had many conversations with Punky about Stacy, Lilah, and friends in general.  She knows how she is expected to treat the other kids at school.  We've talked about how it feels when someone is picked on or excluded by a group.  I've told her how important it is to have many friends, the more the merrier in fact.  And we explained, in the most basic terms possible, the concept of peer pressure and the importance of standing up for something you believe is right.

But, after all that talking, Punky's school life still seems to revolve entirely around Stacy to the point where she actually had a full-blown meltdown when I picked her up yesterday because Stacy was still there so Punky didn't want to go home.  She threw herself on the ground, kicking and screaming, and demanded to go to Stacy's house instead of coming with me.  I had to literally pick her up and carry her out, and then I struggled with her for another ten minutes in the parking lot because she wouldn't get in the car. 

I managed to keep my composure as she screamed at me the entire ride home.  Once we pulled in the driveway, all bets were off.  For the first time in her life she was given a real punishment, not just a few minutes in the time-out chair.  She spent the next twenty minutes in her room while I got dinner ready and counted to ten like fifty times.  She was not allowed to have her usual piece of candy after dinner, she was not allowed to watch TV, and she was not allowed to jump on her trampoline the entire evening.  As an added bonus, she had to listen to yet another lecture about Stacy and friendship.

I guess if it still doesn't sink in after all of that, my next step will be to talk to the daycare director and request they be kept apart as much as possible.  It just seems way too early to be dealing with this type of situation; it's like she hit junior high a decade ahead of schedule.

A Few Good Days

When I was seventeen, I totaled my parents' brand new S-10 Blazer.  Smashed it.  Rolled it.  Blew out every single window.  Spun it full circle on its driver's side before it finally came to a stop.  They only had it four months.

For weeks after the accident, every time I closed my eyes it would play like a slow-motion movie in my mind.  Every second.  Every breath.  Every inch of glass breaking and metal crunching would echo in my ears.  Even though I managed to somehow escape serious injury, I had no interest whatsoever in getting behind the wheel again.  Fear had a tight grip on me, and I was content to leave well enough alone and never risk a repeat of that terrible day.

But my parents, being the typical pain-in-the-ass variety that most teenagers have, wouldn't let me hide forever.  I'm not exactly sure if they were trying to teach me a lesson, or if they just didn't want to end up driving my ass around for the rest of their lives, but two days post-crash they made me drive again.  And the day after that, and the next day, and so on.  It was terrifying, but in time I eventually stopped driving like an eighty year old crawling along at a snail's pace and braking every three seconds for no apparent reason.

Whether they meant to or not, I'm going to go ahead and give them credit for teaching me to get back on the horse after a fall.  After my mini-meltdown / pity-party post on Sunday, I did something extremely odd.

I went shopping.  For clothes.  Again.

I knew it would be extra-challenging with Punky in tow, but I also thought about the advantages.  It would be difficult to keep her amused while I flipped through the racks and confronted the dressing room mirrors, but her presence would help keep me calm.  I mean, I couldn't break down and cry like a baby in front of my little girl.  What kind of a lesson would that teach her?  I would have to keep my emotions in check, stay optimistic and level-headed, and do it all quickly before she reached maximum capacity in the boredom department.

When all was said and done, it went far better than I anticipated.  I ended up with two pairs of pants and four shirts that actually look good on me, and Punky was incredibly well-behaved and patient.  Well, except for the one time when she opened the door while I was in mid-change and gave the dressing room attendant an eyeful, but I'm used to it.  She does it to me in public bathrooms often.  At least this time it was only my pink underwear instead of my bare ass. 

So Monday I went to work in clothes that actually fit me for a change, and suddenly people were actually able to tell that I've lost some weight.  Imagine that.  When I attempted to wear one of my old suits on Tuesday, I couldn't do it.  All of my work clothes are two to three sizes bigger than the new pants I bought and I didn't realize just how ridiculous they look and feel until I wore something that actually fits.  This realization, of course, led to a huge dilemma.

I don't want to spend tons of money on a new wardrobe now when I still have fifteen to twenty pounds more to lose, but I can't exactly survive with only two pairs of pants for the next few months.  I spent the last few evenings going through my closet to see exactly where I stand and I made an awesome discovery in the process.  I had two big garbage bags full of clothes that were given to me a few years ago (under horrible circumstances that I won't get into right now), but none of them fit me at the time.  In those bags, I found seven pairs of dress pants and two suits.

The bad news is that the pants are one size larger than the new ones I just bought.  The good news is that they are only one size too big instead of two to three like the rest of my clothes.  I surely can get away with them for a while until I see where I finish in July.  The other bad news is that the suits are dry clean only.  And I need to buy more shirts to go with all the pants I found.  

I'm so glad those bags were lost in the back of my closet and I never donated them like I planned.  Now they hold a pile of my old work clothes that I will donate instead.  There's no going back now.  I'm still in the game and it's only the start of the second half.