Sam’s Ramble

If we went out for coffee and I drank coffee, and you looked like you might be at least half awake, this is likely what I’d tell you:

Four teenage boys are up at my house celebrating my oldest’s birthday. Their record is 6:00 a.m. bedtime. At least that is how late they stayed up the last time they all gathered at someone else’s house.  So looks like I’m in for a long night! Or at least they are. However, I had that quarter cup of coffee at eight in the morning, and that’s enough to keep me still awake at this late hour of 1:40 a.m.

Of course letting my son buy Hostess desserts that have enough sugar and preservatives in them to last until his hundredth birthday was likely not a keen idea on my part. It is the first time I’ve actually bought Hostess products. Twinkies scare me.

I always feel weird filling my grocery cart up with junk food. I want to wear a sign that says: “I normally do not poison my children, but it is a special occasion!”

Today’s shopping excursion with my newly fifteen-year-old was painless. Just a few swipes off the shelves…..first stop Coke, second stop large bag of Doritos, third stop Klondike ice cream bars, fourth stop donuts. Okay, I managed to convince him to buy some orange juice. Of course, I normally don’t buy orange juice because of the lack of nutritional value and high sugar content. But considering what else was in my cart, the OJ came up on top as feasibly the only product that had real food inside of it.

The boys are loud. Very loud. My husband assures me that wrestling at this age is perfectly normal. They are testing out their manhood and showing who is top dog. I’m sure glad I’m a girl. I am not good at wrestling. I did warn them to stay clear of the fireplace hearth as they are throwing each other down on the ground.

The first time I went into the daylight basement game room to see the boys, the first words out of my mouth were: “Wow! It sure stinks in here.” I then opened the sliding door and turned towards the teens to smile. The boys looked at me like I was very odd. One boy shyly asked if I was indeed Michael’s mother. I’m not sure what to think of that comment. Who does he exactly think I might be? A friendly neighbor bringing junk food and candy to random children?

What an odd week. Everything felt like it just missed the mark….kind of like the whole universe was singing off-key and I was tone-deaf. So I didn’t really notice, but knew something was askew.

My ankle went weak on me on my walk a few days ago and I just about ate dust. Hip still healing.

A friend from California called me out of the blue and I totally freaked out because I had to change my plans for the day. But we had a grand time. The second day I saw her we took a walk. My ankle went out on me, again, and this time I slammed my wrists down to stop my fall. Ouch. And we took this walk on this road, and every time a car came by, clouds of dust blew up into our face. Oh. But we did find this vacant house and sat on their deck and admired one of the most awesome views of water and layers of foliage and hills and mountains I’ve ever seen in my life. But I had decided to leave my camera at home. Later my friend informs me that her husband heard swear words coming out of my oldest son’s mouth that even he hadn’t heard before. That was a pleasant surprise. Almost as pleasant as the fall and dust clouds, but not quite. It was fun watching her elderly father fall asleep with his finger still pointing to the line of text he was reading from in his political book, and hearing from him that divorce is just a way to legalize prostitution, and finding out that he thought I was my sister. (I don’t have a sister.)

When I tried to go to my weekly massage appointment…I know, I know…but it’s for pain management…really it is. Well, they had just finished putting in a new floor. Seriously just finished. I mean I watched the carpenter’s van drive away. Well the whole building smelled of toxic floor glue. So I had to reschedule my massage (weep-weep)  and calm my lovely masseuse down, as she wasn’t too pleased with the smell herself. Which turned out to be okay, because my three boys were home alone, and I’d forgotten my cellular phone. And I figured that the fact my massage appointment was canceled was a darn good excuse to treat myself to a gourmet chocolate truffle at the Food-Co-Op. Of course, the CoOp had just finished pouring a new driveway which smelled like tar. But I risked the stench for chocolate.

A couple of days ago, my dog (Spastic Colon–her name, not her condition) took a crap at the lake where we walk everyday; and me being so utterly unprepared, because she only does number two at home, started worry frantically about the poop on the ground. I was so embarrassed that I yanked her before she was done and left a trail of her droppings. I noticed later a sneaker print in one of the droppings. Icky. After her “accident” I had to go retrieve the intolerably-smelling blue doggy bags the city provides and walk back and scoop up the poop. The poop doesn’t bother me so much. Well, it does. But those dang doggy bags that are scented with this awful artificial smell that stays on my hands and whatever else they come in random contact with are the worst! Once I forgot a city bag in my pocket, and the bag served as a laundry freshener. The wash came out smelling like doggy bags: a pungent rancid baby powder smell.

Today, when I tried to walk Spastic Colon she decided it was way too hot and just spread out on the grass. I had to yank her back to the van.

After meeting my neighbor for tea, five minutes into our conversation, a much-needed conversation, and much-needed company, I get a text from my oldest: “Mom. Please stop what you are doing and come home now. I cannot stop myself from punching my brothers.” That was fun. Then what had to be the largest bug in the world flew into our faces at our outside table, where we were having our tea, (well actually I was having sparkling water) and we both stood up and screamed and flapped our hands. Then the bug came back again. Turns out it was two black insects in the heat of romance. I still don’t know what they were, but they looked and sounded scary, with those black wings flapping and their darting about. I wonder what that would be like though….flying and doing what they were doing.

Today it was so very hot, some 95 degrees hot. That’s hot for here. We have no air conditioning. Our upstairs was eighty-eight degrees at 10:00 tonight.

Earlier, I took my two youngest chaps miniature golfing and my “baby” swung the club super hard and smacked a ball right into my ankle. Ouch! Then at dinner, a vegetarian trying to cut spare ribs for her son, (that would be me), with a butter knife, ended up sliding the ribs off the plate and smack onto the floor. Smack again.

I’m just glad it’s finally officially Sunday, the start of a new week in my book, so I can get back to my normal life. Like a few months ago when I came home from a walk to find my youngest two barricaded in the bedroom screaming as my eldest (then an immature fourteen year old) was threatening to kill them with an iron fire poker.

Oh, I forgot to mention. While I was at the restaurant supping with my boys this evening, a half-naked drunkardly-looking guy, carrying a toddler in his arms, rode by on a green fluorescent unicycle. And when we left the restaurant a fire truck was stopped in traffic with the fireman staring at me with wide fearful eyes, while I was staring at the scary man standing in front of the boys and me on the sidewalk, who had on sloppy white clown makeup and a costume red nose and old tattered clothes. He was attempting to do magic tricks by pulling out some type of tattered colorful scarves out of an old black wagon.

My middle son, with ASD, after we are seated in the van, he looks up and, with a deep sigh, says: “Did you see that fireman? Did you see his weird expression? He gave me the creeps!”