Tag: Adulting

Tell Me Why You Cry

Ok, I’ll tell you.

Eight years ago, I inherited my grandmother’s Christmas cactus. It has moved from New York to Kentucky, and then on to Alabama. This sucker is pretty darn big. And glorious.

The first bloom, in my care.

A few weeks ago, Justin pointed out that it was looking……not great. It was wilty and sad. I shrugged it off–we’ve been through hard times before, and there have been some segment losses along the way, but it always turns out ok in the end.

Except, it wasn’t turning around.

I thought maybe it needed a change of scenery. It has lived by our front door for over a year. Maybe it wanted more direct sunlight??

Entryway home – Before things got bad.

I swapped it out with another Christmas cactus, one I got 2 years ago on sale after Christmas. That one was happy; it was budding! Maybe this old broad just needed a vacation.

It simply wasn’t perking up. This morning I climbed up on a chair to see what was going on in there. I gently picked up one limb, and…it broke off! Not only did it break off, but it was slimy and smelled. What is going on here!?!? I picked up another limb, and this one oozed…and then fell off. I killed it!!!

Not only did I kill it, but what’s remaining looks like Danny DeVito!

See the DeVito resemblance?!

By this point, I was panicking and crying. This is so ridiculous, why am I crying over a damn plant!?

Before you start thinking these tears are because I had some amazing relationship with my grandmother, let me just stop you there. We were not close. In fact, my Mom was one of the Disowned Children. I didn’t see my grandparents from before my teen years, until I was in my 20s. I really just loved the plant, and I loved the idea that it was almost as old as me. The fact that it had been my grandmother’s was more just a neat plant history tidbit. Christmas Cactus: The Early Years.

Now it has root rot, and this is so 2020, it hurts.

To top it all off, as I was driving to pick up supplies, in an attempt to revive the damn thing, I passed Xander’s school and instantly remembered that today was picture day! And I didn’t bring him at 8:45 for pictures!!!

So now I have a dying cactus that looks strangely like Danny DeVito, a son who who’t get school photos this year, and I found out I didn’t get the job I applied for two years ago!

Wait. Stop. What?!

I received two email notifications this morning, about an aquatics job I applied for in 2018. One informed me that I am unqualified and ineligible; the next informed me that I am qualified…and ineligible. I honestly don’t know what is happening at this point. Did someone wake up this morning and decide it was time to clean out their inbox, because believe me, I figured out some time in the beginning of 2019 that I obviously didn’t get the job. So, that’s for the weird emails with conflicting informations. I wouldn’t have taken the job anyway.

Then, after picking up the supplies I need to hopefully salvage some portion of this poor, old ass cactus, I went grocery shopping at Aldi…where multiple people were buying mass quantities of eggs. Fifteen dozen, 20 dozen, and thirty-four dozen!!! Is there some crazy Thanksgiving tradition that I’m unaware of, that requires hundreds of eggs (to be fair, the woman who announced, “I have 34” dozen eggs also had about 15 jugs of hand soap. So maybe she’s just doomsday prepping)?!

So now I’ve killed my ancient cactus, missed picture day, I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing with hundreds of eggs, I didn’t get a job I applied for two years ago. Oh! And I dressed for cold weather (since it’s been in the low 60s all week, and it was 80º! I was wandering around in the world, in a fleece turtleneck thing, that I couldn’t take off, because I decided it would be smart to wear a tank top that should only ever be worn as an undershirt. Which I was. But it left me with zero options for removing layers.

This day! This year!

A happier time.

Enjoy my glorious Christmas cactus, back when it was beautiful. I’m going to try to save what’s left of it.

Take Me to Court

For the past year, Justin and I have enjoyed multiple Friday morning dates. These aren’t breakfast dates, or movie dates. Oh no–these are court dates.

Let the record show that we are not criminals. We are there as witnesses. Or victims. Whatever you want to call us. It doesn’t really matter why we’re there (I mean, it matters to us, and someday when this is all over, I will be happy to share). The point is, we’re there.

It was exactly one year ago today that I got to sit in front of a Grand Jury (the grandest), and tell them my tale. While it was a relatively uneventful visit, the next three would not disappoint.

In January, we had our very first date in traffic court, which you would think would be for traffic offenses. Oh no, not at all! Justin and I waited for the court room to open, and we were instructed to stand against the wall. Suddenly, a line of prisoner, chained together, were being escorted into the court room. How many traffic stops end in arrests?!

The final prisoner was brought in alone, wearing a Hannibal Lector mask. The officers escorting him kept telling everyone to move back…what in the world is happening!? This kid weighed a solid 85lbs–what could he have possibly done (the answer–resisting arrest, on meth charges, among other things)!? This date is about to get super exciting!

Justin and I love checking the Russell County Mugshots; this was turning out to be Russell County Mugshots in real time! Most of them were what we expected–possession of meth, possession of a controlled substance, public intoxication. And then the judge read the next offense: discharging a weapon into an occupied vehicle. Ooh, can we get some back story?!
The judge said, “remember at the beginning when I said you can request a lawyer? You are definitely going to want to fill out that paperwork when you get back to jail.”

Justin and I also got a kick out of the Judge’s reactions to people. One young lady (from the “I came from prison” side) was there for drug possession. He asked her how she wanted to plead. “Um, guilty??” He responded, “are you sure about that? This is your first offense, and it’s a misdemeanor. I’m going to enter a not guilty plea, and you can talk to a lawyer about taking drug classes.”

We sat through two hours of drug charges, resisting arrest chargers, and all sorts of other charges. Justin and I were sitting in shock and awe the entire time. “Justin, I’m coming here every Friday! This is better than Dateline!”

The judge asked, “is there anyone whose name I didn’t call?” I stood up, told him who I was and explained our situation. The assistant district attorney said, “oh–that case was continued. You’ll get another subpoena to return February 14th.”

Valentine’s Day Court Date it is! This time. the prisoner chain ended with a young woman sobbing. Absolutely bawling. We were super excited to find out what she did. Whatever it was, she was in a great state of shock, which is how I would be if I had spent the night in jail. When her name was called, the judge said they would be pushing her case until last–oh shoot (three days later, when the mugshots were uploaded, we found out what she was there for: Attempted Murder. Yup, I’d be crying too).

Once again, we waited and waited. The criminals were less criminally the second go-round, but we did get a kick out of a couple who had pressed charges on their neighbor, for supposedly allowing his dogs to jump on and scratch their car.
Judge: “Do you have proof?”
“I have these pictures of the scratches.”
“How do I know his dogs made these scratches??”
Then the man’s Korean wife started yelling about how she saw it. The judge asked her three times to stop interrupting, and to stop talking out of turn. Then she was made to stand in the back. Then she was told to stand outside, and they would allow her back in when they were ready to hear her. Older Korean dependents are my favorite style of Army wife. The sass is intense, the accent is thick, and the inability to listen is expected.
Also, their case was thrown out, because even Justin and I knew it sounded like nonsense.

On this second date, I also made a court friend–the man next to me was a witness in a dog attack case. His neighbor on multiple occasions had set his dog out to attack children on the street. The man said, “he’s a racist.” He also told me he’d heard the judge was super strict. Well, it’s only my second time watching the man in action, but he seems like a super fair gentleman. But I’m not a criminal. Maybe the criminals see him in a different light.

Once again, we wait. And wait. This time, the correct name is called, but then the judge mumbles something and moves on. I stood up: “excuse me sir, I’m a witness in that case.”
“Come up here.”
Can I said I’d rather not? Why do I feel like I’m getting called to the principal’s office? He continues: “this case was continued,” and I sighed. We knew it was headed in that direction, when we looked around the court room and didn’t see the police officer we expected to see.

That’s fine! We’ll be back!

……except that we couldn’t, because of Covid. I had the next court date, which would have been March 23rd. I wasn’t going to be subpoenaed to testify at that one–just wanted to be a fly on the wall and see how it went down. But it didn’t get to go anywhere, because the world came to a halt.

I was beginning to think there would never be an end to this. Or maybe that it would be forgotten (which I would not be ok with). Imagine my surprise when a sheriff knocked on my door and delivered yet another subpoena. We’re so popular.

Today was the big day. And it would be the final day, since the judge told me back on Valentine’s Day that there would be no more extensions. Justin was once again unimpressed with needing to go back. He can’t remember things that happened last month, so how anyone expects him to stand up and tell them what happened nearly 18 months ago is beyond me. But that’s why I’m there–to do the talking. He’s just there to look pretty.

Upon entering the courthouse, Justin was stopped by the security guard. “I can’t allow you in. You’re wearing shorts.”
He’s wearing golf shorts. “Excuse me?”
“You’re wearing shorts. What are you here for?”
“To testify.”
“Go run down to the dollar store and get yourself some sweatpants.”

Wait wait wait. He cannot go to court in his golf shorts, but he can show up in sweatpants? What kind of dress code is this!? I told Justin to just go to work, and I would be the big kid and do this date solo-style.

So, golf shorts are not allowed. Because the dress code says so. But the next person to walk into the court room behind me was a man wearing Pornstar joggers. And for those of you who were not teens in the 90s, Pornstar is a brand that often has the silhouette of 2 naked ladies sitting back to back. So, this man showed up to court in joggers with 100 ladies down the sides of his pants. Also, he had 6 inches of camouflage underwear hanging out when he sat down. I’m pretty sure “No visible underwear” is also on the dress code. As well as t-shirts, and 50% of the men in there were wearing their fanciest dirty t-shirts. Justin’s visible calves were more than the courtroom would be able to handle.

With Coronapocalypse policies still in full effect, the prisoners weren’t brought to court, but instead did their stuff through video conference. Today’s life lesson came when a man was charged with felony possession of marijuana. He asked why it was a felony, and the judge said, “you had synthetic marijuana–that is a felony. You would’ve been better off with the real deal.” This could be an educational show on PBS! I learn so much at traffic court!

The proper name was called yet again, and I told him I was a witness: “do you see the person here?”
“Sir, I don’t even know what they look like.”
And just like that, I was told that I would be receiving a subpoena to come back. Justin will probably never come with me again, which is fine–we wouldn’t have even been able to sit next to each other, and what’s the fun in enjoying Real Time Mugshots, if you can’t gossip with your husband while people are being sentenced!?

Day After Day

School starts next Monday, and while most northern states are still coming up with a game plan, here in the south we had to decide by 17 July: remote learning, or face-to-grimy-face. I asked for opinions from friends and family, but the truth of the matter is, I made my decision back in May, when school ended for the summer.

Of course then I watched as county after county around us put their face-to-germy-face option on the back burner, making all students do remote learning—at least until September. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Even though my kids are locked in to remote learning for the first 9 week, I sure do love to doubt myself. Is this the right decision? Am I being paranoid? Am I going to lose my mind? I believe the answers are Yes, No, and Oh hell yes.

You see, I am not what you would call “organized.” Or good with schedules, or staying on task. And while we had 3 months of practice in the spring, I am not a teacher. I never wanted to be a teacher. I can teach you how to swim, I can teach you how to be a lifeguard…neither of those things dramatically shape a person’s future. I mean, I suppose they do. Congratulations, you no longer have to worry about drowning; hooray, you now have the skills to swim laps for exercise; look at you, completing the requirements for an awesome summer job. But, based on the number of adults I have taught to swim over the last 2 decades, you can survive in the real world without knowing how to tread water or rotary breathe.

So, step one of this adventure was more about me. I am a notorious schedule maker…and breaker. I have spent my years going into every day with a plan: these are the items I need to complete, and this is the time I have to get it done. Ooh wait—should I alphabetize my pasta?!

I have lost track of the number of times Justin has said, “Sammi, I love you. But I wish you could complete one task before moving on to the next.” Hey buddy, I would like to complete one thought before moving on to—squirrel!

Right—step one. For the last month, I have written out a daily schedule and followed through. By week 3 I had even added morning yoga into the mix; by week 4, I was starting each morning with chanting before yoga. And I have swept my house every-single-day. Which most people are probably either thinking “why,” or “so?” Because, and you wouldn’t understand.

I don’t just ride the struggle bus—I am the driver. Everything is draining. If I get overwhelmed by…anything (and I mean anything), I have a tendency to shut down. And by “shut down,” I mean nap. As the driver of this struggle bus, I also know that both of my kids are frequent passengers. If I can’t keep it together, we’re all going suffer.

I don’t want to jinx anything, because I really (truly) am impressed with my ability to finally follow through. But I have a really good feeling about this school year. Do I want to homeschool my kids? Absolutely not. Am I willing to send them back to school, when our state is averaging 16% positivity (and our county has averaged over 20%)? Absolutely not! I can barely manage to convince my son to keep a shirt on all day—in what world do we think kids are going to do about wearing masks at school!?

Land of a Thousand 3rd Grade Words

Playing teacher these past 5 weeks (minus one, since Spring Break did happen somewhere in there) has taught me a lot.

  1. I remember the basics from government–thank goodness.
  2. I know the names of most shapes–again, phew.
  3. I struggle with keeping children focused–this is a given, seeing as though I can’t even keep myself focused (I even put fun stained glass window clings on our front windows so I would stop staring at and judging our neighbors for NOT social distancing. Now I just stare and think, “ooh, rainbows”).
  4. I am awful at defining words.

I know words. And now I sound an idiot. “Hey, look at me, I know something!” While I know the definition of words, I have a hard time putting that into words. For example:
“Mom, what does generalize mean?”
“It means. To make a general statement. Big picture. You know.”

Blank stare of confusion. You obviously don’t know.

I have been put on the spot to play human dictionary multiple times this week.
“What does multiple mean?”

This was often an issue I struggled with in school. Don’t ask me to write down the definition of words, because you’re going to get a bunch of nonsense. I just know what it means, and let that be good enough. For me…but when you’re supposed to be assisting a 9 year old with his science, and you can’t spit out a definition that is helpful, well, go ahead and hang up your teaching hat–you’re failing.

Also, it is really frustrating to try and teach tiny human version of me. I would like to apologize to every teacher in the history of my education who had to deal with my slow, meticulous, daydreamy way of learning. There are 5 weeks left of school; I’ll be lucky if Xander finishes in 10…months.

Sorry for the distractibility gene. ADD is a bitch.

What Was I Thinking?!

There are rules that need to be followed in times of Social-Distancing; as a professional social-distancer, I should know better than to break these rules.

I’m sure most people have seen the meme, reminding folks that, no matter how bored you get, do not cut your own bangs. If only that was what I did.

First, before we get to my latest Social-Distancing-SNAFU, let’s take a trip back in time. The year: 2005. My status: newly (secretly) married, unemployed, in a post-Hurricane Katrina southern town, where frequent newspaper articles discussed the resurgence of carpet-bagging. And there I was, a transplant from New York, desperate to steal jobs away from Georgians. I was broke, and jobless.

Wait–before I continue on–I just opened my blinds and discovered I have not one, but two 4ft tall DANDELIONS in my front garden bed. I guess maybe now would be the time to look up Dandelion Green recipes! These are desperate times (and this is the south).

Ok. Georgia. Late November 2005. I had just gotten off the phone with a friend in NY, who had just gotten a haircut by my hairdresser, and I was feeling a little…I guess FOMO? EOHC (That would be Envy of HairCuts…but it really doesn’t have the same ring)? I had already been cutting my own hair–it was short, and I would shave up the back and trim up the top. Fun. And. Spiky. In that moment, I decided I wanted to give a pixie-cut a try. So, clippers in hand, with the #6 guard, I made an absolutely illegal move–I shaved right down the middle of my head…and instantly shouted, “oh shit!” Too late to come back from this terrible decision, I finished the job, and texted Justin: I did something really bad.

There it is: proof that you shouldn’t make spur of the moment decisions in times of extreme social distancing. Don’t listen to the voice saying, “do it! This is a good idea! You definitely won’t regret this in 5 seconds!” That voice is a dirty liar who will cut and run the second you realize it’s a bad idea, and you will definitely regret it.

Fourteen years later, I found myself participating in once again, listening to bad ideas, instigated by the voice who is just trying to get me in trouble. “Ooh, you know what would be fun?! Let’s play around with your website, and push buttons and try things, and see what happens! Doesn’t that sound like fun?! At 9:45pm, when your husband is halfway through a 38hr shift, and you can’t sleep, because you don’t know how to adult when he isn’t home to tell you to go to bed, mistakes will be made.

…and, save. And….shit. It was gone. Well, it was there, but it was sad and broken, and kept telling me something went wrong. No kidding, something went wrong! You let me think I knew what I was doing!!! I tried and tried to think of how I could fix this: maybe if I just say, “please be there, please be there, please be there,” over and over again, it will self-correct? By 1am, I gave up. I started contemplating actual solutions that would lead to results.

This morning, I woke up with a possible solution. I didn’t love what I had to do next…

Let me just say, that, as an introvert who can lean toward the edge of recluse, I have some really amazing friends scattered around the world….and I might go years without talking to them.

That’s where I found myself this morning. I hate asking for help, when the person I’m asking is someone I haven’t spoken to in half a decade. It has nothing to do with not wanting to reach out–it just feels…selfish. “Hey, I know it’s been 5 years, and how are you, and also, please help me fix my foolish blunder.”

Friendship is a magical thing. Two hours later, with a minimal amount of help from me:
“How do you normally sign in?”
“I don’t know. I click the link and I’m there.”
He saved my life…or at least my website. We both can appreciate a healthy amount of social distancing–introverts of the world, unite. Just–stay on your own side.
“THANK YOU again for saving my blog. Let’s not wait 5 years for another technical emergency, to get back in contact.”
“Technical emergency IN A PANDEMIC! Hopefully, those two will never coincide again.”

Truth be told, one lead to the other. Pompous Pandemic Pluck…and that dirty voice that needs to stop giving me bad advice!

Tom wants to help you too! I mean, he didn’t say that, really. But, I’m a parent. And I know some parents. And this could come in handy, while we’re all keeping our distance, and slowly losing our minds. Just like that, my friend is now helping you! Promoting Pandemic…Philanthropy?