UPromise and the Sex Pistols

As we anticipate a rather large adoption tax credit this year, my thoughts have turned to some long term investing...namely partially funding college for two squirrels. I don't plan to pay the whole thing as that would be a disincentive for the Squirrels to get jobs and try their best. Plus I'm hoping the whole sob story of being black and formerly in foster care means lots of scholarships will come their way. At least more than came my way for being the 4.0 GPA valedictorian , FFA President, Drama Club President, Senior Class VP, overachieving white Iowa farm girl.

I had heard about a website called UPromise (http://www.upromise.com) where you can funnel your online shopping and grocery/pharmacy store points through the website and you earn money towards college. I signed up and registered every card I could but so far, not much has happened. I even downloaded the "Turbosaver" program that is supposed to alert me if I come to a website that I can earn points through. For all I know, it could just be tracking my web presence and downloading my financial information to Nigerians who are getting ready to steal my identity.

And what an identity it would be! After all, let's review my perilous journey through higher learning...

My first university attended was in the Land of Frozen Tundra, an hour north of home (which I thought was close enough to come home and do laundry occasionally but far enough away that my parents would not just "drop by" for a visit). Little did I know that I had stumbled into what should have been called Hillbilly University. Instead of exercise rooms or computer labs in the dorms, what did we have? Wild game cleaning rooms. You could shoot a buffalo or deer off campus and bring it to the dorm to butcher, package, and store in the many deep freezes. If you were smart, you labeled your packages "Calf Brains" or "Deer Hooves" so that no one would steal your neatly wrapped carcasses. I also had a calculus teacher that was vastly fond of wearing homemade stonewash items (the kind you make with a dryer, tennis shoe, a regular pair of jeans, and a bleach-soaked washcloth) and Cosby show sweaters.

When I attended a football game and saw as many women chewing tobacco as men, I decided this was not the place for me (not to mention the howling wind and snow that had nothing to stop it for an hour on any side of campus).

So I dropped out of that university and headed east. Well, truth be told, I thought I was following after a guy I was "promised" to at the time...(what is the point of getting promised??? But that's another blog post) but two days after my arrival and subsequent move in to my sister's basement, he decided he wouldn't keep his promise. I think mostly my pride was hurt instead of my heart because I can look back now and thank God for unanswered prayers.

Nevertheless, I enrolled at a local community college to embark on a vastly different major. This community college was home to the Rod Stewart impersonator. He would arrive at school every day with his bleached out shag cut and denim cut off shorts. Other than that, I don't remember much.

Then to transfer over to State University for my last two years. It was there that I had some of my strangest professors. I mean, the subculture breed that gets weirder as the years go by because they completely lose touch with the outside world. I had Ms. Feminazi - a flat-chested, hair scraped back man hater who bullied me through "Masterpieces of World Literature". She hated my theology but loved my writing so I became a complete consternation for her. Then, perhaps weirdest of all, was my Modern Philosophy teacher.

If ever there was a subject that I just did not "get", philosophy is IT. Who wants to sit around debating whether we are only really awake when we are asleep and vice versa? I am horrendous at pointless arguments and to this day have no idea what the word "empirical" means. But not that the teacher actually taught much philosophy. He rather shoved his scrawny hands into the pockets of his rumpled magenta dinner jacket and paced back and forth in front of class. His long curly hair bobbed up and down in front of his squinted eyes as he pontificated on the wonders of his favorite band - the Sex Pistols.

The one good thing that came out of the class is that during that time and generated by some of the class discussions, I became determined that in my own conversion to Christianity, I was not going to believe what I was told but what was found in Scripture. My faith and beliefs were taken back down to the bare minimum and I began to question everything...and then, by the grace and understanding through the Word, build it back to where I stand today and know that I know that I know what I believe in and stand for.

And the Sex Pistols certainly aren't counted among that.

Guilty by Reason of Insanity

In response to the charges that I am the meanest mom ever filed in the case of Mean Mom v. Squirrels, I submit the following testimony:

I believe neurons have ceased to fire in the brains of Squirrel #1 and Squirrel #2. I submit the following examples:

Exhibit A:

I went to go discipline Eli and thought her face looked exceptionally dirty. When I saw Kate and she looked the same, I asked her what she had on her face. "Elisabeth rubbed ashes from the fireplace on my face and her face." When I asked Eli why she did that, she responded, "I don't know!"

Exhibit B:

I went to use the pencil sharpener and found that one of the squirrels had tried to sharpen one of those plastic pencil that have several pencil tips in them...you know, the ones where you can take the pencil nub out and shove it in the back of the pencil, forcing a new nub forward. When I asked them why they tried to sharpen a plastic pencil, they responded, "I don't know!"

Exhibit C:

I heard wailing coming from the breakfast bar as the two squirrels were supposed to be eating cereal. Kate wailed that Eli spit in her breakfast cereal. When pressed for a response as to why she did that, Eli responded, "I don't know!"

Exhibit D:

Eli came home with a giant red blob colored on her off-white corduroy pants. Seems she had decided she was going to do a redneck dye job on the pants using a crayon. When asked what possessed her to try to color her pants a different color, she responded, (you guessed it) "I don't know!'

Exhibit E:

I went to give Eli a goodnight kiss and found her face was all gummy/waxy feeling. Turns out that instead of just using her lip balm on her lips, as the good Lord intended, she had smeared it all over her face. When I asked her why she did that, she responded (are you seeing a pattern here?), "I don't know!"

Exhibit F:

Kate came home with several holes in the color of her shirt where little rhinestone bedazzles used to be. When asked what happened, she responded that she told her friend Madison she could have the sparkles off her shirt. When I asked her why, she said, "I don't know!"

So several lost mittens, scarves, socks, Barbie shoes, silly putty globs, and etc. later, I feel the need to enter my plea of GUILTY BY REASON OF INSANITY to the charges of "Mean Mom". As to whether or not I will ever reform or respond to rehabilitation efforts, I respond, "I don't know!"

Community Pledges and Noses That Stick Out

Eli came home with a "Community Pledge" she had written and signed in her class:

I pledge to help my community by doing this:

"I will never ever liter.
I will always recyle.
I will help people work.
When somthing is on fire I stop, Drop, and roll."

So if you see a convulsing 7-year-old on the ground in front of a burning building, that would be my Squirrel #1. She's just fulfilling her community pledge.
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In other hilarious 2nd grade news, my niece Grace thoughtfully eyed my sister Renee at breakfast one morning this week and said:

"I can see why dad wanted to marry you. You have nice brown eyes, shiny hair, and a nose that sticks out. You are pretty!"

I should mention that Grace is Chinese American (hence, we think, the reference to the nose that "sticks out") but whatever wheels were turning in her head, she gave Renee the best Valentine compliment ever!

Addicted to the "Creamy Crack"

This week, I gave up on my intent to let the girls' hair grow out all natural and nappy to the max (but healthier and safer for sure) and decided to tame the woolly mammoth. Lest you think I jest about the true nature of their hair, let me show you some pictures of them after I take out their hair for the week and get ready to wash and re-set.

I found a new kid's hair relaxer called "Pretty and Silky" at my local black hair beauty supply store - which can be found among the Giant Wall of Beads, the Glittery, Rhinestone belt and shoe collection, aisles and aisles of fake hair in every color, and jars of pomades and creams like beeswax, hair cholesterol, and hair honey (of which I own all three).

Hair relaxer is a potent chemical that takes nappy hair from "can't get through it with a bulldozer" to soft and manageable...but it takes me an hour of processing time and lots of "scalp bonding" (code word for smearing petroleum jelly around the perimeter of the hairline and on the ears and on the hair parts to protect them from burning) to get through. Once the scalp is bonded, I have twenty minutes to part and smear on relaxer, while trying not to get the "creamy crack" as it's called (because of the black woman's addiction to it) on the scalp skin itself. Then you comb, comb, comb it through, wash it out, add in a sheen product for 10 minutes, wash that out, shampoo twice with a shampoo that changes color to let you know whether or not you got all the chemical out, then on to conditioner.

After that, we blow dry and straighten by small rows at a time. The result? Beautiful! My nostrils? Burned by chemical smells! My back? Permanently bent from delicate work! My hands? Arthritic! Time saved by doing it myself versus going to the local hair school? Three hours per kid. Money saved? $30 per child.

All in the pursuit of "Good Hair" (see movie trailer from Chris Rock's documentary, lest you think I exaggerate).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1m-4qxz08So

Why Some People Remain Unemployed

Recently, while reviewing mounds of applicants for an opening at the business that I partially own, I began to realize why some people will probably remain unemployed...let me share some examples:

One lady wrote that she completed school through the 11th grade and then under "Diploma", she lists "GED due to pregnancy". Thanks for sharing that information right up front...

Or the guy who says "I want a job that benefits me but also the company I work for. I have a ton of people skills." A ton? How do you like that measurement?

Or the lady who listed her previous employment and under job description, she writes "clean my area each night". I finally Googled the employer to find out it was a restaurant...whew! I was hoping she didn't work for a gynecologist!

Or the guy who said he worked at a "fast paced meat packing plant" and his job responsibility was "making sure there was nothing wrong with the product also that it was cut properly."

Or the lady who said "I have dne diffrent forms of volenteer work" but must not know how to use spell check on her computer.

Or the lady who addressed her application "Dear Sirs"...yeah...last time I (or my husband checked), I had yet to go through gender reassignment surgery.

My favorite was the enthusiastic guy who said "In response to your advertisement on Monster.com (which was not where it was posted) for the position of Regional Sales Associate (the position was "District Sales Representative), I am a young versatile salesman, ready and motivated to teach about your company's credit card program (good for you...only its not a credit card company). I can start training two weeks after hire (and what will you do for those two weeks prior? Hang out? Check your email?). My guess was he used a cut and paste form and forgot to change the variable data.

And of course, honorable mention goes to all those with crazy email handles...so here's a shout out to Indiana Janky, Biker Trash, Smooth Princess, Legs, Feathers, FeelnPurdy, and Racin' Rod. Best of luck in your job search. Might I suggest you pick a more staid email address to use next time.

Black Market Transactions

Now that the basement is nearing completion, we are beginning the search again for more children to adopt. I told Husband this time, we get boys so when we are out in public, HE gets to be the one to take them to the bathroom. Plus, I'm developing early arthritis from all this corn-rowing, beading, twisting, and braiding of "ethnic" girl hair.

After watching "The Blind Side", I had a brief moment where I considered being noble and selfless and adopting an older child but decided for my bonding purposes, I needed them young enough to not yet realize they can get up out of their time-out spot. Of course, I also want them old enough where I don't have to have the anxiety that they are currently expiring in their crib due to SIDS. I don't know how new moms do it. Maybe new motherhood makes you so tired you can no longer stay awake wondering if your child is breathing or choking.

It feels a little funny to "pick out" your children...as if you are inspecting a horse by its teeth or reviewing slave labor up on an auction block. How in the world do we decide the future of this family and of one or more boys simply from a meeting or description? And trust me, being involved in foster care, you get REALLY good at reading between the lines on a description of a child.

Take for instance, my current adoption catalog has "Gregory", age 14...says that although he "sometimes needs to be pushed in the right direction, Gregory has the capacity to make good, mature choices". If you spend enough time as a foster mom, you can figure out that between the lines, this means he's probably not making a single, "good, mature choice" right now. Or when they say a kid "does best with one on one attention", it means he's HIGHLY ADHD...if it says, "Would do best in a home without other children", that probably means some history of acting out sexually against other children...or physically. When it says, "parent will need to be involved in child's education", it means you will be at the school daily trying to explain to your child that they have to sit in their seat and not try to set the classroom on fire.

I guess it's a bit like reviewing ads for new homes...when one says its a "great starter home" and what it is really saying is that its the Tom Hanks version of the "Money Pit". Or when they take up the limited advertising space to mention ceiling fans, you realize the home really does not have a single redeeming quality.

But then I think about the type of child I was and wondered what my profile would have read...hmmm...

"Bossy, attention seeking child, does best when she is the star, hides out in her room reading to avoid chores, will lie constantly as a teenager to keep from getting in trouble, has a mouth of a sailor when provoked, can wrestle like a boy but can't play sports to save her life, will vacillate between self-doubt and WAY overconfidence, will total two vehicles during her teenage years and will take all of 20 years to finally become a contributing member of society."

Yeah, pretty sure I would have been passed over selection by my parents had they known how much I would contribute to their hair turning gray! And so we trust God to see what we don't see and to realize that, unlike your natural born children, ours come with a return policy if everything explodes. We just hope we never have to use it.

I Have a Dream...Farm Riding!

Kate brings home a blank white square of paper from school with a note accompanying it. The note says that the students are making an "I Have a Dream..." quilt at school in honor of MLK Day and the student is supposed to draw a picture of their "dream".

I turn to Kate and ask her what her dream is. She lights up and says, "When I grow up, I'm going to be a farm rider!"

Say what? I ask her if she is going to be a tractor? She says, "No! A farm rider!" I ask, "What, pray tell, is a farm rider?"

She replies, "I am going to have a farm and ride horses." Ahhhh...hence the term "farm rider". Not horse rider, mind you, but farm rider.

We are now working on the word "Equestrian".