On Watching Soccer

I have been watching soccer for 14 years and I still don't understand the game. I have friends, female friends, that understand all types of sports, including football which appears to my uneducated and bored being, to be perhaps the most ridiculous game in the entire free and not-so-free world.

I began watching soccer when my now-22 year old was 4. I am still watching soccer for my now-14 year old as he plays on the Freshman soccer team here at Redmond. I think he's good. I mean he doesn't let the ball go between his legs and he seems to kick it a lot and he runs around a lot and drinks Gatorade on the sidelines and when he's sitting on the bench he seems to be jostling around with the other boys; I think this are all good parameters.

I know mothers who are walking quickly up and down the sidelines and grimacing when a "bad call" is made. I know mothers who yell at the referees (not umpires; umpires are for other sports of which I cannot name) for calling their kid "offsides" when he wasn't. What is offsides? I asked my husband that once and he explained that it's when a player is on the wrong side of the field. How do they know what is the wrong side of the field? My husband got off of his camp chair and joined the mother who was walking quickly and grimacing. There are times when I think he wishes he was married to someone who at least pretended to be interested in sports.

When we lived in Granby we always had what I called a "Non-Super-Bowl-Party." The people who were really interested in the game watched it downstairs. The rest of us stayed upstairs and ate too much and made fun of the people downstairs. Occasionally there were women down there, but I think that's because another woman happened to be in the bathroom upstairs and they could no longer hold it. Our Non-Super-Bowl-Party was very popular and friends began asking about it right after Thanksgiving.

I try not to gather women around me who like sports. First of all I think they are just pretending to like sports so that their husband/boyfriend will like them more and secondly, women who like sports do not have the same wit as women who do not. This is true. Women who like sports cannot make fun of men and sports because they understand the game and do not think it's  funny when the rest of us laugh hysterically at terms such as "tight-end" or "dead ball."

Nevertheless, I have probably only missed 5% of all my boys' games in 28 years of marriage, so in that respect I'm a pretty good mom. However, you would think that in 28 years of marriage I might have learned something about sports.Many years ago, in a moment of weakness, I told my husband that when he retires I will learn to play golf. Today he retires; this is not good news for me, my husband and geese. The last time I played golf I killed a small goose. My friend Sam and I were in Sunriver, Oregon, which is very, very fancy (I'm surprised they didn't take a DNA reading when we drove in). We were teeing off on the first hole (doesn't it sound like I know what I'm talking about?) and I hit the ball and it hit a baby goose who was just getting into the pond. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so instead Sam and I ran out onto the course (apparently a big no-no) to rescue the baby goose and were attacked by the mother goose and hightailed it back and headed to the bar to drink. This is a true story. I have not played golf since and when I told my husband that I would learn to play golf when he retired I probably had also been in a bar.

I don't think I need to worry. I'm pretty sure my husband won't ever remind me of this promise. I think he'll be happy if I just stay in the bar.

Ian's Greatest Fears

Ian, as a Freshman, has two fears; that I will CALL THE SCHOOL  and that I will WALK BY THE SKATE PARK. He has no idea that because I know these weak spots  I will use them to my advantage.

He keeps informing me that now that he's in high school, parents DO NOT CALL THE SCHOOL...EVER.

I said, "What if your dog dies, can I call the school then?"
"What if I've run out of gas and you will need to cook dinner, can I call the school then?"
"What if I've just won the lottery and I want to take you out and spend $10,000 on anything you want, can I call the school then?"
"No, you cannot call the school."
"Okay," so instead I stopped by. I wanted to make sure that he gave the school our new address, just in case they want to send me a formal letter asking why I'm the only parent who has never called the school.
I told him I stopped by...on my way to work...in the morning...while there were students in the hall.
 "You stopped by?" he practically fainted.
"Yes, I wanted to make sure they had our new address."
"Did anyone see you?"
"No, not really, just the 100 or so kids who were in the hall in between classes."
He was aghast.
"Did anyone know who you were?"
"Well, no, not until I stood in the middle of the hall and yelled at the top of my lungs, 'Hello all you young people, I'm Ian Ricketts' mom'"
"That's not funny."

He hates that when I walk in the evenings I walk by the skate park at least twice and wave and say, in a high-pitched voice, "Yoo hoo, Ian, it's your mom" just in case none of the other kids know that by now.
When he leaves to go skating he grills me as to when and where I'm going to walk.
I always just shrug and smile secretly as he bangs out the door.
I try to give him just enough time to become slightly comfortable with the idea that I might not be going on a walk then I show up. His friends seem to like me - they always wave and say "Hi Ian's mom." I think they think I'm cool, Ian just doesn't know it because Ian's not as cool as he thinks he is, in fact, I may be more cool than him.

Let's face it, when you are the parent of a teenager, the only joy you get out of your kids is the ability to humiliate them. When Ian was in middle school, Mike would drop him off and yell out the window, "Bye Ian, I love you, make good choices." Yes, Mike does love him and yes, Mike does want him to make good choices, but he really only said that to embarrass him and see him squirm. Ian started asking me if I could drop him off. I said sure and the first time I did I yelled out the window, "Bye Ian, I love you, make good choices."

Those are the moments we parents of teens live for - humiliation, embarrassment, physical squirming, rolling of eyes, flipping of the hair, stomping off, slamming of doors. It's all such joy that I hope Ian stays a teen forever.

Why I am Forced to Break the Law

I have taken to stealing books from the library. Why? Because this particular library has a stupid policy where you can only check out eight items at a time AND even I have just turned in three items, they have not been checked in because they only check in things once per day. Thus, I have been forced to stealing items since even if I don't have one darn thing checked out their RECORDS state that I do.

You can see my dilemma. If this was a reasonable library with reasonable policies and employed people who could get off their butts and check in books, I would follow the rules. But none of the above is true, so I have no choice.

When we got our new horse trailer three years ago I went to the DMV in Hot Sulphur Springs at their brand new, multi-million dollar courthouse with the gym in the basement and tried to buy a license plate. I was told that it was $275 for a license plate for a horse trailer that gets used 10 times per year. Do the math - $27.50 every time I drive it three miles to the Granby Roping Arena. I asked what would happen if I didn't buy a license plate.
"Well," the overweight overpaid clerk haughtily replied, "you would get a ticket."
"WOULD get a ticket or MIGHT get a ticket?" I just as haughtily replied back.
"Well, I would hope that you would get a ticket; we just can't have people going around breaking the law all the time."
"How much are the tickets?" I asked.
"Well, it's up to the discretion of the officer, but they range from $25 to $50."
"So, I would have to be pulled over at least 10 times in order for me to reach this ridiculous fee of $275."
"Well, yes, I guess."
Do the math. I have been pulling my horse trailer for three years without being pulled over. Once again, you can see my dilemma on how I have been forced to break the law.

A few years after we moved to Granby, we decided to install electricity in our barn. I called the county inspector and asked if he could come out and sign off on our project. He said it'd be a few weeks. "How many weeks?"
"Not sure, I'm really behind."
"Is there only one of you?"
"Yep."
"Do you think you could call the obese woman in the DMV and she might be able to come out?"
He was silent.
"My point is," I continued,"in a few weeks it will be snowing and no one wants to dig a trench in the snow."
"Yep, sorry."

So once again I am forced to break the law. We have no permits on our barn's electricity and pity the poor person who buys our home (like that's going to really happen) and it burns down.

I really would like to follow the rules (okay, okay, those of you who know me are probably snickering or possibly loudly guffawing at this statement) but THOSE PEOPLE make it impossible.

So I will continue to steal library items (I always bring them back) and when my horse and trailer get to Oregon, I'll try to buy a license plate and when we build our new house (like that's going to really happen) I hope the people who build it know all about permits, because I'd hate for it to burn down.

On Forcing Ian to be Successful in School

I love college bookstores and office supply stores; they both carry useless products deemed to make you finally organized, successful, happy and sometimes lose weight. I buy lots of these organizational products for Ian since I am convinced, even after 14 years of Ian, that if he just becomes organized he will be happier, get better grades and comb his hair.

I have taken to rifling through his pack when he's not home. I have a very good reason for "invading upon his privacy" (his words), I want to make sure he doesn't forget to turn his homework in. This is not working since he keeps telling me he doesn't have any homework because he gets all his work done in class and I can't find anything in his pack. All his papers, whether they are graded or informational ones from his teacher or small bright yellow slips that allow him to show up late....end up wadded up at the bottom of his pack. Last night I pulled a handful of mess out and started smoothing them out on the floor (remember, we don't have a table) and he walked in. I ignored the fact that I was "snooping" (again his words) and in a kind motherly voice, asked if he wanted me to go to the college bookstore and buy colored folders, colored notebooks, colored pens and these really cool colored teeny tiny sticky notes to help him stay organized. He informed me that when I do things such as that he only gets more disorganized. He may be right. Ian is the kind of kid who can find his clothes only if they are scattered on his floor, not in his drawers (when he had drawers.) He can find his latest project only if it's stuffed under his bed (when he had a bed) not displayed in an organized manner on the shelves in his former room that I insisted he have.

We have a plan for his new room - it will consist of the following: a bed on the floor, a standing lamp and a closet. That's all he says he wants and I'm good with that; this will give me at least $150 more to spend on the house we will never be able to afford or borrow money for until someone burns down our home in Granby.

His older brother Jordan is very organized and neat, in fact most of Jordan's teenage years we all spent calling him a girl because he does have those qualities. This has allowed Jordan to do well in school, travel to foreign countries and become a fire fighter, okay, maybe not the last two but my point is, is that's it's amazing that two kids can have the same mother and father and turn out so differently. But let's be honest, Jordan is like Mike and Ian is like me - bless his soul.

Apartment Living - Chapter Two

No one in this apartment complex works. No one. They sit around outside and because there is no smoking in their apartments, this is where they do it. The family across from me sits outside all day and smokes and texts. The lady next to me smokes and walks her wiener dog. The lady down one more smokes and takes her baby for walks. The lady next to me never comes out and I've been able to steal cherry tomatoes off her vines because of this.I'm trying to figure out what I'm doing wrong...why do I have to work to pay my bills and no one around me does? I think this kind of attitude is probably why we have such a welfare state of affairs. I think I need to move so I don't quit my job, have another child and begin smoking.

Last Friday my big adventure was to try a new Laundromat. I've decided our apartment Laundromat is a huge rip-off because they don't have a change machine and people are beginning consider restraining orders against me and my begging for quarters.So I went to the one next to WalMart, which should have been my first clue. WalMart, Tattoo Parlor, Ed's Always Cheap Tires and Beer (that's all the sign said, Beer.) The reading material consisted of Jehovah Witness Come-to-Jesus tracts and a People magazine with Princess Diana on the cover...before she died. Laundromat and bus stations have a lot in common and I'm not sure I want to keep hanging around either one (not that I've been hanging around the Greyhound Station, but it could come to that.) The kind of people who don't have their own washer and dryer at home are either over-worked Hispanic mothers, young grimy men who are seeing the United States, women whose husbands ran off with their sisters and me.

I've started looking for a house since it looks like we might be renting for a long time. No, our home in Granby has not sold and I'm trying to rack my brain with someone I might have known from my past (or my family) who could burn it down. Mike and I are plan F-he moves out here, we rent for years and years and years and finally our house does burn down, we are able to collect the insurance money for it and we can finally buy a 500 square foot bungalow.

On the good news front - the library has finally alphabetized their DVDs. I'd like to think it had something to do with the note that I stuck in the suggestion box that said "What kind of a library doesn't alphabetize their DVDs? Signed, Julie Horn."

On Apartment Living

We've lived in our lovely apartment now for two weeks and I hate two things about it; no washer and dryer and no furniture.

I went to Walmart and bought two cheap chairs for Ian and myself. Mine broke after a couple of days and, if I had read the tag, I would have known that the chair was not built for someone of  my weight. Ian still has a place to sit but I don't. I've moved the air mattresses that we use for floating down the river into the house and I'm thinking of starting a new line of furniture that can be used indoors and outdoors. I have to pump up my bed every night and again, I think this has something to do with my weight. My friend Dana suggested I go to garage sales and buy other people's furniture but I don't even like staying in a motel knowing other people have been there...who knows what they've done on the bedspread.

I'm starting to ask complete strangers in the library if they want their quarters; I need 25 quarters every week to do laundry and even then I have to hang my underwear on the cheap Walmart chairs to completely dry. I'm trying to convince Ian that he can wear his shirts more than once and that socks can always be worn two days in a row.

My neighbor Zelda (yes, that's really her name) has a Wiener Dog named Boo Boo(or maybe it's Poo Poo) that she walks every morning and every evening. She has a sexy, husky voice from smoking and insists on sitting under the tree right out our back door and smoking in the evenings. The neighbor on the other side is Lacy and she has a darling one-year old named Annabella, although her other son, Stephen (who came in one day, uninvited and told me he loved our house BECAUSE there was no furniture) is being raised by her grandparents for some reason that I hope she never tells me. The manager is a personal trainer who spends a lot of time in the tanning booth and if I was a really mean person I'd tell her that she will, one of these days, look older than God if she keeps it up.

We don't have cable so we spend a lot of time watching and watching and watching Season One and Two of Reba. As I've told you before, the library here has a really crappy, un-alphabetized selection of movies so I bought two DVDs at Walmart for $5.00 that each have 10 movies on them. No, I've never heard of them, but that's 40 hours of TV watching for $10 and yes, after watching two of them there is a reason for them being on a DVD being sold at a Walmart out of a gigantic cardboard box. There aren't even any stars in their first movie on them just actors that I hope were able to find another job.

On the good side I love my job and my office and my supervisor and the campus and what I'm supposed to do there and even the daily hot lunch in the campus student union (last Wednesday it was stuffed pizza and Cesar salad for $3.95). I'm in the newest building on the campus and it takes full advantage of the views of the Three Sisters. All the walls are painted very, very cool colors of which I'm taking my dress cues from. When I met the Vice-President of the college last week my shirt was the same color as one of her walls. She loved it and then took me next door to another office and told me that she's been looking for a shirt this color, which was a beautiful purple...I like her.

I'm off to visit twelve different stores to trade in my dollars for quarters so I can do wash. Then I'm going to sit in my living room and read one of the dysfunctional novels that I love (it's always nice knowing there are crazier families out there than mine.)