6/27/2006 01:41:00 PM|W|P|Sus|W|P|Are you there God? It's me, Crappy Mom. Big sis lovess church. She adores the whole sunday school singalong thing and can't wait to wake up and go each week . I won't complain here about the fact that our church elders decided that the service should be moved one hour EARLIER in the SUMMER months...no, I'm afraid I'm already on a slippery slope to hell because of what happened last Sunday - I don't need to add more fule to the fire (so to speak). What happened last Sunday: Since sis is feeling nervous about kindergarten, we've been talking it up big time - telling her all the really cool things she'll get to do now that she's five. So in my infinite wisdom, I mentioned the fact that the 5 year-olds get to go up in the front of the sanctuary - on the stage! - for the children's moment and prayer. Of course, she's not supposed to transition to the Fives until the fall, but I'm too retarded to think of that before I open my big mouth, so I figure - what the heck? Who's gonna notice (or care) if my little sweet pea sneaks up there with the big kids? I insisted she wear her prettiest poofy peasant skirt and a top to match so that the congregation would be stunned by her beauty and lean their heads all into one another to remark, "Oh would you look at that, she's the cutest thing we've ever seen." Of course we were a wee bit late getting there and we popped in the back just as the kids were being called up to the front. Sis marched right up there, front and center, and turned around to give me a huge, brave, 5 year-old smile. I melted right then and there onto the late-people pew. But then I slowly got a feeling that something wasn't quite right up there. Whaaa? Every kid up there had a very specific t-shirt on. Yeah, this can't be good. A woman with a microphone started talking about how all the kids had just spent a week together at bible school and they were going to show the whole congregation how much they learned. Sis was still smiling, but that's just because she had no idea what was coming. My brain immediately began to process ways I could get her out of there. I imagined a helecopter swooping down with a long rope and me hanging out the side with no door yelling for her to just grab on! Then the music started, then the singing, then the dancing. Sis' smile vanished and she flashed me a look that said - "Dear god in heaven mother, how could you do this to me?" I shrugged and gave her a half-hearted smile. Then for some reason, I gave a little punch to the air in front of me as if to say - go get 'em tiger. Go get 'em, she did not. Instead, she was forced to stand there while all the kids proceeded with the singing and the dancing and the hugging - oh my god the hugging. Kids would turn to her, arms outstretched and then immediately assess that she might punch them in the face if they went ahead with it, thus turning away to find someone elses soul to save. This spectacle went on for what seemed like hours until finally - finally it ended with some kind of conga line. Someone grabbed sis, turned her around and she became the leader of all these children, having no idea where to go or what to do, propelled only by sheer terror and the force of 20 kids pushing from behind. When the line broke up, the children all went back to their parents and as I watched her approach me, I could only hope that she wouldn't hate me for too long. And then I remembered that my daughter is much less of a pansy than I am. All she said was, "Well, THAT was weird." Do you hear that, God? I know you're trying to punish me for dragging my spiritual feet - but we won't be having any of that today.|W|P|115144188168101859|W|P|Eternal Damnation|W|P|susielkins@yahoo.com6/23/2006 12:49:00 PM|W|P|Sus|W|P|Why oh why is it so difficult for me to actually write or (type) a few measly words that no one is going to read anyway? It's physically painful, yet I desperately want to do it. Here's why: 1. I'm certain to develop a serious case of alzheimers no matter how many "brain cell protecting" supplement horse pills I swallow in a day. It's gonna happen, so I want to get these thoughts of mine down for easy reference. 2. I've somehow managed to convince someone to pay me real money for writing a few short articles which nearly killed me and so I'm hoping that writing something on a daily basis will make this freelance thing more natural and - dare I say, fun? No, I dare not. How about less torturous? 3. This format allows me to ramble incessantly in a very ultra-hip stream of conciousness kind of way, like my best friend and I used to do when we were ultra-hip in high school. What's that? Now it's just sad you say? Hip no more? Done to death? Who cares, dear internet - as I said, no one reads this anyway (except my super fabulous best friend who has to because she loves me).|W|P|115109339833283190|W|P|You'd think I was trying to saw off my own arm|W|P|susielkins@yahoo.com6/14/2006 07:25:00 PM|W|P|Sus|W|P|For Big Sis' birthday, one of my supposed best friends gave her a gift that keeps on giving - a mail order tadpole. Nothing says Happy Birthday like a live amphibian. She who shall not be named, sweetly said, "All you have to do is send in the card and they send you the tadpole - put it in it's habitat and watch it grow to be a frog." Oh, just put it in it's habitat? OK. Cool. You mean this plastic bucket thing with one air hole and spray-painted reeds? Oh, lucky tadpole how will you ever repay us? I dutifully mailed the postcard certifying us as the bonified owners of one live tadpole, and now we wait. Every day the kids check the mail for our little adoptee. Still no tadpole. Last week I began to actually think about what will happen when this thing arrives and it occurred to me that it will need to eat. Won't it? I doubt he will get much sustenance from the faux muck floor of his new digs. I decided to review the instructions that came with the habitat, since I hadn't gotten further than step 1 - removing the cellophane. What I discovered is that I must have done my friend wrong - horribly, disfiguringly wrong - and she has been plotting this revenge for years. The remaining instructions go something like this: Step 2: Do not fill habitat with tap water - instead have spring water from the mountains of Switzerland flown in if you do not want tadpole floating dead and bloated before your children's eyes. Step 3: Calculate imminent arrival of mail-order tadpole based on standard shipping times with appropriate deviations based on weather conditions in all states and cities through which tadpole will be traveling. Tip! Make weather.com your homepage and check regularly because tadpole will not ship if over 80 degrees, and secure services of local weather man to explain why tadpole still isn't here after 3 weeks because it's hot in Kansas. Step 4: Arrange your work schedule around that of your mail carrier's in order to be home when tadpole arrives to greet him, refresh him in his springwater bath and relieve the stresses of traveling cross country in a box with a miniture shoulder massage. Tip! Alert your boss that you will need time off at some point in the next 1 to 4 weeks - depending on the weather in Kansas. She'll appreciate your little "heads-up" and will be much more likely to rearrange your work schedule and that of your colleagues to facilitate the health of your tadpole. Step 5: Explain to your children that they may not touch, poke, stroke, pinch, lick, bite, rub or otherwise have any contact with tadpole for fear of salmonella poisoning and death. Most children understand that pets are for looking, not touching and they will have no problem with this step. Tip! If you have rotten, misbehaving children, put the habitat up high so that they will have to scale the bookshelf to reach it - that should put an end to that! Step 6: Enjoy watching your tadpole grow up to be a beautiful frog, only to set it free in the river - which your children will totally understand and accept given their exceptional maturity level and sociopathic ability to feel no connection whatsoever to family pets.|W|P|115033847537989186|W|P|What to Expect When You're Expecting, a Tadpole|W|P|susielkins@yahoo.com