You live where?

All Hallows Eve is looming. For weeks, Children of the Corn have been anticipating this last day in October. I got my decorations for the house in mid-September out of the attic; okay, I got H to bring it down so I can slowly put them up around the house to infect everyone in the family.

Last week, Child of the Corn I presented her plan for All Hallows Eve – to go trick-a-treating with her so-called BFF. They plan to have a sleepover on Saturday night. She told H that her BFF’s mother will take them to church and I immediately interjected. What? Church? Why? No. Absolutely not. The presentation stopped quicker than it started. I have nothing against churches. I just do not want her to go there with her friends. We do not go to church, we do not believe in it. We will go there if someone gets married in one or funeral services of people we know are being held there. Otherwise, no church going of our minors without our explicit supervision.

That was not all that happened. A few days ago, she went back to H and said that she wanted to spend the night at her BFF’s starting Friday night. She said to H that she told him all about it in the car while they were on their way back from breakfast. H said he does not remember such discussion. She then took her mobile phone and showed him the SMS that her friend sent her detailing the PLAN. H said, No, her parents will not even be there. He turned to me, shook his head and read out loud, “Get off the bus at my stop after school, my parents will be at a party and there will be just US.” I sighed. I did not even bother to open my mouth because it was past 7 P.M and I will not stop detailing why she should not even consider it until past midnight. Who has time or energy for such a tirade?

So why do I object to her spending time with her BFF? Apart from the fact that the parents will not even be at home that night, I object because we do not even know where she lives. That’s right. Last year, we allowed Child of the Corn I to go to a party a week before All Hallows Eve. Towards the end of the party, she rang the house and said she wanted to go to another classmate’s house round the corner from where we dropped her off and then they were going to spend the night at another person’s house, also around the corner. I asked her where exactly is this corner she will be spending the night and she did not know. She handed the phone to the girl who lives there. The girl hesitated giving me her address and gave me her mother’s phone number instead. I called the woman and started to ask if she minded Child of the Corn I spending the night there. Apparently, everything has been arranged beforehand without our knowledge. The mother then told me that her house is difficult to find and that we should meet up with them at the local petrol station by her neighbourhood the next day. H decided to let Child of the Corn I stay and I agreed. Hey, I am always the bad guy, setting what appears to be impossible limits for the poor teenager.

One year has passed and we still do not know where they live and that bothers me. We know that they live in a trailer park but that is hardly the reason why we do not wish for our child to continue being friends these people.

Last year, we decided to have a birthday party for Child of the Corn I inviting her BFFs. This particular kid whose residence is a mystery to us said she will come but did not show up.

In light of all these, I do say it is fair for me to limit my teenager’s exposure to this family. How can I in good conscience allow my kid to spend the night with a family who seem to have everything to hide from us?

At this point, I do not care if they think I am a snob or I am different because I do not believe in any church or Asian or even not an American. I am trying my best not to discriminate against others but this is too hard.

We have always made a conscious effort to be friends with everyone regardless their religious persuasion or lack thereof; their income tax bracket, their residence or skin colour, the food that they eat or their fashion-sense. Hell, H and I came from two different countries with two different religious backgrounds.

I have decided to hell with it. I have told Child of the Corn I she is not allowed to visit her BFF whose residence is a mystery to us and not to even bother asking if she could go anywhere near there.

If her BFF and her parents have a problem with it, they know where WE live, they have our phone numbers, and they can take their sorry hick arses here and ask us themselves.

You do what…?

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Now playing on Winamp: T.I. feat Justin Timberlake – Dead And Gone (RMF FM)
via FoxyTunes

Tonight was Open House at Child of the Corn II’s school. H and I always attend. Its always the same damn thing. We meet the teachers (again). Again because before school even starts, we go to her classroom to bring the school supplies and meet with the teacher/s, find out which class she will be in, etc, etc. This year is no different. Except this year, I went to the shops and H went to the school.

I went to the school alone tonight because H is working late today. No big deal – the school is less than 2 miles away.

We arrived at her classroom and found out that they were meeting at another classroom.

When I entered the classroom across the hallway, a number of parents were standing around, a teacher was seated at one of the kids’ desk, two other teachers were standing by the wall, smiling, greeting parents.

I stood at the back of the classroom – because really, I am NOT coming in contact with the children’s germs. Okay?

I later learned that the teacher seated at the desk is teaching Child of the Corn II. She was fiddling with a laptop. On the desk in front of the one she was seated in was the projector for the PowerPoint. Impressive.

Five minutes passed. One of the teachers asked, “Are we ready?”

“This is just booting,” came the reply.

I raised my eyebrows. Silence except for the kids talking to each other in hushed tones. I checked my watch. Yes, I had been standing there for 5 minutes, politely fighting off the urge to SMS/plurk/twitter anything. I looked around the classroom. Everyone was either white or blonde or white or very blonde. There were some brunettes but they were all white. They all talk fuuuny. They tried not to stare at me. I tried not to stare at them.

Another five minutes passed. A teacher at the podium said, “Why don’t you just give me the laptop? I can do it from here.”

The teacher who was fiddling with the PowerPoint said, “Everytime I do this, it comes right up!”

I raised my eyebrows again.

The PowerPoint was on the laptop screen. It did not connect with the projector. That was the problem. There was no connection between laptop and projector.

She brought the laptop over to the other teacher and the presentation began. It started off with, “Miss C had done this on the computer and it is really cute. But it is not working so we cannot show it to you.”

I fought the urge to raise my eyebrows yet again. I failed.

She began to explain how everything works – zero hour, recess, Accelerated Reading, etc, etc… topics covered in the manual that Child of the Corn II brought home on the first day of school. I did not read the manual. H diligently reads them because when his work took him away from us for months at a time, I used to read them. I got tired of the same thing. H is the responsible parent now. He is on top of things – homework, various forms to fill out, sign, seal, delivered. I just take them to school if they miss the bus or if the bus is late. Or if they need to be picked up from school due to illness or whatever.

Anyway….

My point in all of this…?

I know this is not a multi-million dollar contract that will definitely go down in flames should the PowerPoint presentation fail. This is just a presentation to parents of your students. We are nobodys. We just pay taxes every year to pay for our children’s sub par education. We cannot afford private school education for our children. We believe in the system. Some of us made or are making money off tax payers also. We are all in it together.

My point is this – for the love of god, can you just show a smidgen of dedication? Show me that you take your job very seriously? Do you not understand that these children learn from example? They are third graders. They might take the wrong message – oh, I screwed up. I can just give an excuse, “It always worked before!” Shrugs.

It also does not bode well with me that you are teaching my child. Your attitude. It is too… cavalier.

Perhaps I am just too demanding. It is after all just a night to meet your child’s teachers more intimately…

Why would you…

My plan this morning was to stay home. As the hours passed, I realised that I needed a few things so I reluctantly went to the local Wal-Mart. I went about my way, mentally trying to remember what I needed to buy. I very seldom make and carry a list of things I need to buy – I often leave them on the table at home or in the passenger seat of the car. Why do I put it on the passenger seat instead of my handbag? I often started to go astern and then something in my head screamed I left my list somewhere in the house. Five flustered minutes later, I get in the car and toss the list on the seat because if I sit around in the car any longer, I might just go back into the house and not go anywhere. Anyway, that is just me, of course.

As I was walking, pushing the trolley in front of me, I scan the surrounding for anyone I might know and need to avoid or aisles that I do not normally give a second thought to but needs to visit . Suddenly, a very large man appeared in my peripheral vision. Nothing outstanding about that – he was pushing an empty trolley like I was. I walked past the ice-cream section and recalled that I had a craving for ice cream for the past week. Normally, if I crave ice cream or anything else for that matter, I wait a few days. If the feeling passes, I do not act on my craving. This time, a week came and went and I could taste vanilla ice cream on my tongue so I had to make a purchase. That large man was right behind me, scanning ice cream as well. I thought nothing of it. I walked briskly to the next aisle and determined I needed nothing from there so I moved on several aisles over. This time, I passed the coffee aisle and paused, hearing my husband’s voice inside my head telling me he bought a few tins of coffee so I continued walking. I stopped walking and made a turn to visit the aisle that had olive oil. I have a few pots of chillies in the garden and I thought I could infuse a small bottle of olive oil so I stood there, searching for that one brand that my husband prefers. As I was staring at the various sizes and brand names, that large man was doing the SAME THING! At this point, I thought, coincidence? I stole a glance into his trolley and saw that it was still empty. I found the EVOO that I was looking for and noticed the regular cooking oil in the next shelf. I grabbed a bottle and moved on. Guess what that large man was doing? Yep. I walked briskly to the opposite end and went to the back of the store by the dairy section. I noticed he was not behind me so I breathed a little easier. Imagine my shock and surprise when I saw him by the dairy, standing there, his cart was STILL EMPTY. So I walked past him and made a detour to the home fragrance section and he was also intently looking at room fragrances. At this point, I took my BlackBerry and sent a message to a friend telling him someone was following me around at Wal-Mart. He replied, do NOT go out. Go to the kitchen department and get a big ass knife!

I am not sure if he could read SMS from afar because he is talented that way or because he thought I was calling someone or I suddenly became a bore to him but he was gone… to be on the safe side, I walked to the other end of Wal-Mart although I had no reason to do so. So I walked up and down the aisles with no intention of buying anything else, at the same time wishing I never left home almost two hours before that. Gah! Meanwhile, my ice cream was melting!!!

As I stepped outside, I stood at the exit, trying to recall where I parked (because that is what I do each time I get out of any shops) I looked around to see if this large man is laying in wait for me at the car park. I found my car and the man was nowhere in sight. Perhaps he was still inside, busy stalking someone else or actually going up and down aisles with the intention of buying something. As I sat in my car, I looked at the glove box compartment and beat myself up because I always carry a knife in there. At one point, I had a sharp butter knife lodged inbetween the passenger seat and the middle console. I also have the usual stuff people might carry in their car – torch light, CDs, Gatorade, bottle of water, empty plastic bags, an umbrella and several disposable lighters. I got to thinking – hey, I need to carry this knife on me so I could casually take it out of my handbag the next time someone accost me at Wal-Mart or anywhere else. Maybe next time also, I could hit “video” on my BlackBerry and record the stalker and send it off to the local law enforcement and FBI. What do you think?

Dear would-be stalkers, for the love of god, please, get a life and a girlfriend. You could be stalking an incorrigible need to be in constant contact with everyone soc-net junkie who isn’t the HotFish. And then what? Have your ridiculous loser self plastered all over youtube and the police knocking down your front door. That will teach you.

What?

Last month, while I took a breather from massive shopping and eating, I logged on to one of my email accounts. Imagine my surprise when I found 14 invitations to Facebook, from one person – in a span of a week. Don’t get me wrong; I understand the need to invite friends and family to Facebook. However, inviting the same person more than once is a bit much, don’t you think?

By the way, this is the same person who told me I need to get a life because I twitter and Flickr. Never mind I was plurking and everything else in between a few years later. Going through the rest of my emails, I also found an email from her to me, asking what I was doing and she included her phone number so I could call her -presumably to chitchat or something.

I considered replying, I am busy. I do not have time to Facebook with you. That would be partly a lie. I WAS busy. I also am not a huge fan of Facebook but I am there because my plurk and twitter friends are there. And sometimes its kinda fun there. I am addicted to Sorority Sisters although I keep forgetting to log in I lost fights and one of my characters went into depression twice.

That is not the point. I decided to cool off and not reply until after I returned here. I finally did not acknowledge that I received and deleted her 14 invites to Facebook. I just told her that I was away for the summer. Still, she re-sent her mobile phone number so that I could call her.

Should I call her, do I want to call her? If I do, what should I say to her? What could we talk about? I cannot possibly gush about twitter because nobody understands twitter. Nor can I gush about plurk because nobody understands plurk either.

Yes, talk about stuff we have in common. Well, let’s see…….

I have nada.

Well, yes, we could talk about our children. In fact, I think that is all she ever talks about – her goddamned children. Puke. Puke. Puke. Don’t get me wrong, I know mothers are supposed to talk about their children – their achievements, their cuteness, their bright future, etc. Read. My. Lips. I DO NOT GIVE A FUCK

Well, of course I give a fuck about MY children. But NOT YOURS.

If you have not noticed yet, I am not very maternal. I have never been attracted to babies, stories of cute baby puking all over parents, having an accident in the bathtub or wherever. I find their smell very offensive. Some babies smell like their parents – icky. I do not find ALL babies cute. I have seen some ugly babies. I understand parents think their babies are the best looking in the world. I get that. But there are FUGLY babies. Honestly. Of course, I am PC enough not to say aloud, “Are you insane? Your baby is NOT cute. At all!” I hate when new parents thrust their babies at me to coo or admire. I never thrust either of my children for anyone to admire. They are just there. If people felt the need to have a closer look, they can walk their arses over to the baby. I do not know what to do with babies, frankly.

Of course as baby gets older, it gets worse. “Oh, my kid is a star student at such and such school.” Who cares?

Obviously as a general rule, don’t ask me about my children while I am drunk or even semi drunk. I could go on about them; their virtues, their vices – anything.

A relative once gushed about Facebook. I was on my third Facebook account at the time. This time I was there as myself. You know, I was using my given name. I added a few of my relatives and old friends. This relative who was gushing about Facebook did not add me. I said nothing. Instead, I said, “What is the point of Facebook anyway?” She started educating me about Facebook. She said people use it for communication. She then proceeded to tell me about various relatives she was stalking there. She could not see me of course but I was raising my eyebrows and rolling my eyes. Obviously she did not want to communicate with me. No matter. I deleted her phone number off my mobile. And I have a new number. She does not know it.

I do not communicate via Facebook with my friends and relatives. I cannot be arsed to explain to them I do not post photos there. That they should keep up with me via my various blogs. That I update my status with making the same dinner every other day. It’s curry or dead cows mostly. Or that I am all about bitching about something or other.

Yeah, I occasionally harvest my farm if I think about it enough. I also sometimes remember to return the favour by harvesting my friends’ farms. And yes, I think Mafia Wars is cool. And those stupid quizzes. I cannot get enough of them. I sometimes forget I had something on the stove or was about to cook something because I was too busy answering those quizzes.

And no, you cannot add me on Facebook. Unless you are going to be one of my Sorority sisters or help me harvest my farm or give me stuff in Mafia Wars. And stop poking me for fuck’s sakes.

Please

If any of my readers has been following my tweets or plurks, you will know that I recently went home to visit my family. The trip back to American soil was long and arduous. It went well until we arrived at Chicago O’Hare airport where we had to get our passports examined, answer a few questions, which required nothing but a yes or no reply.

I am not complaining of the sheer size of ORD. I like big airports – so much to see while waiting for your connecting flight. I have a problem when the people working at the airport are less than friendly or welcoming. They act as if we are such a bother. It was as if they were paid to just sit on their arses, stand on their feet talking to each other, or get lost in their little petty thoughts about their little lives.

I made my way to immigration with my two American kids who are underage. Immediately I saw that I was supposed to be on a different lane than them but I decided sod it, I will go to “American passports” line. Upon reaching the end of the line, a sour woman was standing there directing us to various available windows. She told my 8 year old to go to window number 27 and directed me to go to window 25 and my 13 year old was to go to yet another window. I was in awe as she was directing traffic with not a hint of smile or friendliness about her. Of course, I went to window 27 right behind my 8 year old and directed my 13 year old to do the same. At window 27 where we met Border Patrol Officer Swiatek, I was greeted with yet another soon to be formed scowl. Mind you, it was not yet 8 in the morning. I handed him all of our passports. He saw my foreign passport and rudely asked of my relationship with the two children. You know you should not assume anything but in this case, is it not safe to say you should assume that under aged children are travelling internationally with at least a guardian if not a parent? I told him these are my children. He looked upset that a person carrying a foreign passport is in front of him, jumping queue. As if to punish me, he looked away as he told me to put my right hand, thumb, left hand, thumb, on the scanner. At this point, I was thinking, dude; would it kill you to be pleasant? Does your life suck so much that you have to be sour to strangers? As if his insolence meter has no limit, he sourly brushed us off with his hand as he pushed our passports to the edge of the counter with, “you can go.” The last time I had my passport examined at JFK, I was greeted with, oh, you have updated your passport. I like it. After he was done with my passport, he said, welcome back to the U.S. I hope you had a pleasant vacation.

The customs was a tad less sour only because he could not be arsed to suspect a mother of two with four luggages would smuggle any exotic animals or live plants. He began to question if I was carrying food and I replied yes. He asked what type of food and I told him supermarket type foods. He paused and said, you can go.

While waiting for my final connecting flight, I decided to wander into one of the very few DFS scattered at ORD. Immediately, someone rushed to me and asked if I was an international traveller. It was as if SHE would be arrested if there should be any non-international traveller in the shop. I looked at her and said, yes, I am but I am not buying anything, I just shopped at Narita airport in Japan. I had to tell her Narita is in Japan in case she had no idea where that was.

Needless to say, I am now gun shy about flying into or spending money at ORD. I shall tell my relatives and friends to avoid the place like the plague if they come to visit America.