Little Things I Love About You (Anniversary Edition–2006)

That you willingly traded cell phones with me so I could take advantage of our New Every Two plan and buy my super cool, Heck Yes I’m So Freaking Organized Now It’s SCARY Treo 700p Pure Palm Smartphone Ramma Lamma Bing Bang. Even though my old cell phone was a Razr and totally sucked. And had the battery life roughly equivalent to that of the mayfly. Oh, and was pink. Bright pink. So very, verrrrry pink. Pinkalicious! Which I don’t need to remind you is the totally hip color for the modern, totally not gay man, so really, some might say I did you a favor. That’s all I’m saying.

That you let me give you facials and microdelivery peels. Because, hey, let’s face it, even a man needs to exfoliate once in a while, am I right? Plus, it’s TINGLY! (Um, see above.)

The way you seem to intuitively KNOW when I’m in a total funk– the kind in which I am unable to resist the urge to eat every last cookie or pastry in the house, after which I park myself in front of a mirror, puff out my tummy, and deliver a lengthy and somewhat tearful discourse on the many evils of clothing companies and the arbitrariness of pant sizes; or the kind in which I say things like “Okay, I know you did NOT just take the last piece of gum out of my purse!” after which I make that angry face, you know, the one you always say me make me “look like Satan”– and you realize that the children are dancing the electric slide on my LAST NERVE, so you wrangle them and drive them to the nearest park or the library, thus giving me some quality alone-time with a pint of Ben and Jerry’s, old REM CDs, and my inner bitch, while at the same time saving the children (and yourself) from verbal annihilation. That’s what’s called being a HERO. Seriously. There will be songs.

That, when we actually find a babysitter and go out on a Real Date, and you take me to a restaurant in which the establishment holds up its personified nose at blue jeans and Uggs, poo-poos the idea of “dining on a shoestring,” and doesn’t even MAKE a children’s menu, and the waiter brings the bill at the end of the meal, you always make sure to ask in a voice that carries all the way to the old, snooty-looking couple at the furthest corner table, “Now, you take FOOD STAMPS, right?!” Which is never embarrassing. AT ALL. Wait…

That when you get embarrassed your ears turn bright red and you smile in the cutest, sexiest way imaginable, thus providing me with all the motivation I need to cut loose the craziness and do my utmost to embarrass you whenever the opportunity presents itself.

That when the weather outside is frightful, you will wake up at four-thirty in the morning in order to warm up the car, scrape and de-ice the windshield, and drive me to the train station, so I don’t have to endure the horrors of navigating the Capital Beltway in inclement weather. Which is TGIM-speak for “So you don’t freaking kill yourself, you wicked-crazy, aggressive driver, you.” Which, aaaaw! And RUDE.

That you are always willing to go on long, brisk walks with me, during which you patiently listen– even interjecting an occasional “yes” or “I hear that”– as I expatiate on the superiority of the earlier seasons of Buffy, before Angel left, Oz took off, Buffy became the vampire layer (oh, yes I DID), and Willow turned all gay and whatnot.

That when you overhear a conversation about whether or not it would be appropriate for children to wear their Halloween masks in the local church during the Fall Festival-slash-Halloween Party, you immediately bring the conversation to a higher plane of thought by leaning in and asking, “Well… What Would Jesus Wear?” And that when I burst out laughing– thus securing myself a special place in hell– and no one else does, you simply give one of those Uh-Huh, Think About THAT shrugs and walk away. Thus securing a place in hell right along with me. Baby, that’s love.

Happy anniversary, gorgeous man. Best fourteen years of my life, bar none.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, My Biznitches!

And a happy new year, yo?

Peace.

xxoo Cat

Grandma DIDN’T get run over by a reindeer? Then why is she so cranky?

Never go to the drugstore unprepared.

Yesterday I needed emergency greeting cards of the “Yay! You’re Getting Married!” variety. But not for my sister’s wedding tomorrow, no, sir, because that would mean I am completely disorganized and never plan ahead. Which I DO and it is not MY fault that I have a SYSTEM which involves a veritable tizzy of activity the week before an event and when I get the stomach flu during that very week and Alli gets strep throat AGAIN, well, it understandably throws me off my game a bit, so just STEP OFF. By the way, if you’re expecting a Christmas card from me before Christmas rolls around, I hate to tell you this but even though I absolutely did NOT procrastinate AT ALL there was some huge mix up or something at the post office so…. But they’re coming! I SWEAR! By the New Year! I’m almost sure! But maybe later than that!

Wait. What was I talking about?

Oh, yes! The drug store. Ha, ha. I’m just joking. Like I would lose my train of thought.

So…

The drug store! Yes! There I was at the register. The cashier had just given me my change in that annoying way cashiers have of sticking the receipt and dollar bills in my hand, then piling the coins in this precarious heap on top of them, all “HaveanicedayMayIhelpyou?” Of course I panicked because I’d been summarily dismissed and the next person in line was pushing me out of the way but I still hadn’t put my money away because there were COINS on top of my BILLS and the coins needed to go into my coin purse before I could get to the bills because I obviously couldn’t put my bills in the nifty bill holding part of my wallet until I made sure all the presidents were present and facing the same direction, now could I? And hello? The damn receipt should have just GONE IN THE BAG because, seriously, what was I supposed to do with it? It does not BELONG with my change. Honestly. It is most inefficient. And not all of can just shove our change– bills, coins, receipt, the whole shebang!– into our pockets, all willy-nilly-like, are you LISTENING retailers of America?! I’m sick and tired of being oppressed by the Man. Coins first. That’s all I ask. Coins FIRST.

Anyhoos, as I scooted to the side of the register to organize my money into a pretty stack of ascending denominations, the older lady– a senior citizen– approached the cash register, clutching two boxes of Triscuits to her chest.

“Is there a stock person I can talk to?” she asked in a terse, snippy way that fully captured my attention.

Uh-oh, I thought, and slowed down my sorting activity. I had a front row seat after all.

The cashier summed up the situation. “I think so,” she said pleasantly. “Do you need more?” She directed a pointed look at the Triscuit boxes.

The senior stepped forward with THAT look in her eyes. You know the one. This was going to be FUN.

“No,” she retorted, “I want fresher!”

Aaaaand there it was.

The cashier’s face took on that almost hopeless, hunted look an animal gets when it is backed into a corner. Do you know it?

Then… Oh crap! I thought, seriously rethinking the whole I’m Just Going Jogging So I Am Entitled To Some Slack In The Area Of Personal Hygiene stance I took that morning. Is this a sting?! Is she with Consumer Alert?! Dateline?! Part of a Senior Citizen Watchdog group?! ARE THERE CAMERAS?! But I quickly dismissed the idea. I mean, would any lady in her right mind dress herself in those bright yellow sweat pants if she were going to be on television? I think not.

Then, quick as a flash, she leaned over the counter and thrust one of the boxes of Triscuits in that hapless cashier’s face. THRUST it, I tell you! “See this pull date?” she said, pointing one wrinkled, but neatly manicured, finger at the top of the box. “It’s in TWO WEEKS!” She tapped the top of the box, two rapid rifle shots of the “so there!” variety fired point blank at the cashier. Tap! Tap!

It is a testament of my maturity and self-control that I was JUST able to stop myself from blurting out the first thought that came into my head (it also helped that it was early in the morning and my meds were in full effect). “Lady, if you want fresh Triscuits, then don’t buy them at the freaking DRUGSTORE. Look outside! See that big building across the street? The one with the giant S followed by AFEWAY? That is what’s called a SUPERMARKET. Look into it!”

The cashier quickly paged a stockboy (poor sucker), the lady stormed off in all her righteous almost-expired Triscuit glory, and I breathed a sigh of relief because I had dodged a bullet, for sure. Don’t mess with grandma’s Triscuits, you know what I’m saying? Phew!

I learned my lesson, that is for darn certain. Never go to the drugstore unprepared. Be fully bathed, dressed, coiffed, and medicated, or some cracker-craving old lady might just kick your ass.

Just so you know.

Maaaah-wage. A dweam wiffin a dweam…

(WARNING: As will be further explained below, I am running on very little sleep and too much soda pop. The probability of random, rambling prose is much higher than usual. For real. I shouldn’t be allowed near the keyboard. You have been warned. I wash my hands of you.)

Wedding registries have ruined everything.

You think I’m kidding, but I’m not. Seriously, hello? What do we all gleefully anticipate on our wedding night? Tackling and unwrapping that mound of presents, of course! Oh, yes. All. Night. Long.

But there’s no excitement in the whole gifting process anymore. No mystery. No drama. Instead, there’s a whole lot of brides and grooms glued to the computer, with visions of place settings dancing in their heads. “Hey, honey! Take a look! Someone just bought the silver-plated candle snuffer! One more candlestick and that insta-romance mood lighting set is OURS, baby! High five.” What happened to the days of oohing over homemade gift baskets and aahing over lovingly-stitched quilts? Or giggling at the gift from Aunt Gert that you think could be a ginormous checkered trivet but might also be a homemade chess board, minus the chess pieces? Or threatening to commit hara-kiri if you unwrap one more George Foreman grill, so help you God Almighty? Man. Those were the days, I tell you what. The laughing. The crying. The re-gifting.

Oh, whither hast thou gone days of yore? Whither?

A person like me needs options. A person like me needs her freedom to choose, are you feeling me? So I would think that when a person– in this case, me– decides to gift my much loved sister-in-law on her wedding day with a super secret, super special Cat-crafted wedding video– complete with myriad and sundry pictorial and videographical evidence of the fourteen years of our relationship– then, pursuant to Giftmeister’s Rules of Gift-Giving Etiquette*, said sister-in-law and assorted relatives forfeit any and all rights and privileges to choose the music and content contained thereinabouts. Because its MY GIFT! To HER! But still MINE! All MINE!

Ahem.

I mean, because it is my gift to give, and should be created autonomously. Which is why it is super secret in the first place. That’s all I’m saying.

So when– through no fault of my own, I assure you– the bride-to-be finds out about said super now-not-so-secret, super special Cat-crafted wedding video o’ goodness, and subsequently offers several detailed suggestions as to how I should craft said video, and her parents call at regular intervals with gentle, friendly reminders that they haven’t received their copy of the wedding video in the mail… well, quite frankly, it stresses me the freak out, okay?

Not that there’s anything wrong with either the suggestions OR the gentle, friendly reminders. No, sir! Nothing whatsoever! Totally understandable! I’d likely do the same thing myself, if the tables were turned! Except I’d probably supplement my efforts with a full frontal email assault, and request a private screening before the video’s wedding party and general public premiere, but that’s just me and is totally beside the point. I’m just saying I have IDEAS. I have VISION. I have an entire sequence of pictures set to Lee Coulter’s Booty Voodoo!

Okay, I’ll admit that a song with the lyrics,”I’ve got a wife with a sexy butt that wiggles… (shake it! shake it!),” and “Girl you know my weakness is the uniqueness of your cheeks, yeeeeeaaaeah!” may not– perhaps!– be the most appropriate song choice for a video celebrating the sacred and eternal union of two souls, forever shackled together by the matrimonial bonds of holy love. According to TGIM, anyway, but whatever. I think it’s sassy. But I’m not married to the idea or anything. Oh, goodness! See what I did there? That’s what you call a pun!

But I digress.

My point? I’m, like, an artist. That’s right. A cinematographical ARTIST. Or something. Like Steven freaking Spielberg! But not really. Or like Michelangelo! But not with the painting, so much. And did the Pope stand around all day while Michelangelo painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, offering suggestions and asking him to please hurry because we have a DEADLINE here? Huh? I think not! Because Michelangelo was a freaking ar– what? Really? The Pope did?

Oh.

Whatever. You totally know what I mean. All I’m saying is that due to stress and copious Diet Dr. Pepper consumption (imbibition?), I’ve averaged about four hours of sleep per night this past week. I know, right? No messy my resty, the Momma need sleep! Honestly. The bags under my eyes have packed up their own bags and are all “Cmon! Get some sleep already! We gots to GO!” I’m not even joking.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that you can throw “suggestions” and “reminders” at me ’till the cows come home, but ultimately I’m going to do what I’m going to do, suggestions and reminders be damned. Ask anyone. It’s an immutable flaw in my character. So the sad truth here is that the main source of my current stress appears to be the unreasonably high expectations I have placed upon myself to create the BEST. VIDEO. EVER.

Thankfully, the super not-so-secret, super special Cat-crafted wedding video is in the can. That’s fancy movie-talk for “I finished it last night and burned the DVDs and e’rything.” And while I may have bitterly berated myself over the past few weeks for not just choosing something off the damn wedding registry like a normal person, for hell’s sake, I can honestly say the time I spent splicing video footage and photographs was totally worth it. Because the videos and photographs reminded me of why I couldn’t bring myself to pick something off a list and have it shipped to her with a “personalized gift tag” in the first place.

Spending hours sifting through images of her from the time she was six until now was an achingly beautiful pictorial reminder of our past together. Images of her growing from the scruffy little tomboy with pigtails and no front teeth. Images of the adorable preteen with budding fashion sense and a willingness to play with and babysit my kiddos. Images of the teenage fashionista with plenty of sass and even more heart. And images of the beautiful young woman she is today, with wavy blonde hair and a smile that lights up any room. And those memories are worth missing a few night of sleep.

So wedding registry or not, those images, and the loving memories behind them, those are my gift to her. I can only hope she sees what I saw, and feels my love for her (our love for her), even though we can’t be there on her wedding day.

Of course, she’d probably rather have the toaster oven.

*Used for illustrative purposes only. I don’t know anybody by the name of Giftmeister. Frankly, I wish I did, because AWESOME?

Have a happy, happy, HAPPY Christmakwanzukaaaaaah!

My kids came home from school the other day full of barely-contained excitement about the holiday celebrations afoot at the elementary school.

They started babbling about the songs they were learning and the crafts they were making, all, “Yeah, so we’re making all these cool decorations for Christmakwanzukkah, and–”

Wait. Who in the what now? I thought.

“Wait. Who in the what now?” I said. “The heck you say? Christmawho’sitcalled?”

Of course my kids rolled their eyes, all, “Um, Christmakwanzukkah? Duh?” like it was the most ridiculous thing in the world that I had no idea what in the Sam Hill they were talking about. But seriously. I had no idea what in the Sam Hill they were talking about.

Okay, so here’s the deal. I’m confused. Could any three celebrations BE any more different, and here we are lumping them together all willy-nilly like? All portmanteau-esque and whatnot? And as far as portmanteau words go, this one’s a doozy, are you with me? But what I just can’t understand is why do we have to be so darn exclusive? I mean, what about Omisoka? We can’t leave the Japanese holiday out, now can we? That would be so rude. And what about the Muslims? Hello? Eid ul-Adha? Inconsiderate, much, leaving the Muslim holiday out? And a pilgrimage ain’t no small thang, either. I read The Canterbury Tales. I KNOW. Oh, and the hispanic community. What about the them? Huh?! Break out the pinatas, it’s time for the Posadas! What about the POSADAS?! Huh? Huh?

That’s right, people. Forget Merry Christmas. So passe’. And Happy Holidays? YAWN. Nope. This year I wiil wish you a happy freaking Christmakwanzukkomisokaposadeidul-adha! A merry ChristmakwanzuposadagimmeepresentsIwantaDSgimmeeGIMMEEkkah!

Now excuse me. I’ve got to jot down my grievances for the year before I head out to pick out my Fetivus Pole– d’oh! I knew I forgot one. A Festivus for the rest of us! How could I forget?

Well, I’m off to practice my feats of strength. This year? TGIM is going down.

“What? Do you have a cough due to cold?”

Everything seems so terribly difficult when I am congested and achy all over and my body is running at 102 degrees. Honestly. I feel as if I can barely finish th

I Gave at the Office

Signing up to perform a solo performance of Captain and Tenille’s Love Will Keep Us Together at the annual office CFC Karaoke fundraiser:  $1.00

Buying over-priced caffeinated beverages in order to calm my nerves while at the same time hopping myself up with liquid courage of the non-alcoholic variety:  $3.00

Succumbing to peer pressure (and a tad bit of caffeine-related hyperactivity) and splurging a little more cash to wow the crowd with my heartfelt performance of the Georgia Satellites’ classic Keep Your Hands to Yourself, complete with hand gestures, air guitar, and appropriate twang:  $1.00

Charging the stage with a colleague to bust the funky music and break it down Village People-style in order to support a few of our peeps who were valiantly struggling through YMCA:  Priceless

Like a Virgin

 It happened again.

“Ooooh! Do you know who you look like?!”

Honestly. Could any other seven words strung together be any more terrifying? Especially when meeting someone for the first time? I mean, the new acquaintance could say just about ANYONE, right? You just don’t know! I’m always like, “Um, Kate Winslet?! Kristen Bell?! PLEEEEAASE?!” But he or she could totally blindside you with, say, Jodi Foster. Or Rachel Dracht… or Roseanne Barr… or Alf. They could say ALF, people!

Now, for the most part, a person you’ve only just met isn’t going to whip out the Do You Know Who You Look Like card if it weren’t meant to be flattering (unless he or she is an obvious connoisseur of the backhanded compliment, in which case some sort of retaliatory verbal bitchslap is in order), I get that, I really do, but one person’s beau ideal may be another person’s bete noire, you know what I’m saying? Do you? Uh-huh. You’re feeling me.

So when the mother of one of my daughter’s friends approached me at a small get-together TGIM and I attended last weekend, and she did that thing people do right before they say it, you know, with the sly, stolen glances and furrowed brow, quickly replaced with wide-eyed recognition and a huge smile. Seriously. You can almost see a lightbulb above the person’s head go “Ding!”

She made a beeline across the room. “Hey… do you know who you look like?” she gushed, a friendly smile softening the blow.

Now, one would think my sudden deer in the headlights look would deflect the forthcoming comparison, but alas. If anything, I think it inspires a sort of predatory instinct in the person. Like, “Dude, I am SO going to blow her away with this! Blow her mind! That’s right, biatch! Can you feel my power?!”

I shook my head “no,” held my breath, it was coming… please say Kristen Bell… please say Kristen Bell… coming… just pleasepleaseplease not… 

“Madonna!”

Aaaaaand… there it was. Again.

“It’s something about your face’s bone structure, I think…”

Okay. So this was the third time in the past year in which someone told me that, like, OMG! I look like MADONNA. Granted, the lady has aged well, but Madonna? Really? Queen of Pop? Whip-cracking dominatrix? Just… really?

“Madonna? Huh.” Awkward silence. ”Um, Virgin Tour or Confessions?”

“Oh, Confessions Tour, definitely. She’s improved with age, don’t you think?”

I swear, the eyebrow raise was completely involuntary. But now I was OLD MADONNA?! Come ON!

She quickly continued, “I mean, she looks GREAT these days, right?”

We agreed that indeed Madonna DOES look great these days, and motherhood has really changed her, and Kabbalah seems way less freaky than Scientology, and then we swiftly moved on to safer topics like religion and the last election. We are the best of good friends now.

Perhaps for the next party I should buy myself one of those Madonna-inspired cone bustiers designed to put a person’s eye out from ten paces. Proclaim to the world from the get-go that I embrace my Madonna-esque bone structure. Express myself. Just me against the music. Strike a pose. Live to tell. Yes! Vive la Madge! Save everyone the trouble.

(Disclaimer: I am in no way, shape, or form passing judgment on my new friend here. I myself am guilty of whipping out the Do You Know Who You Look Like card on an embarrassingly frequent basis. In fact, I have a good friend who looks JUST LIKE Drew Barrymore! So serious! It’s UNCANNY! But… MADONNA? That’s all I’m saying.)

Dad the Superstar

Hey. I can’t help it if I believe that my television-viewing needs rate higher on the priority list than my children’s television-viewing needs. I mean, excuse the hell out of me for putting “Veronica Mars” and “House” above, say, “Ned’s Declassified” or “The Suite Life of Zack and Cody.” Plus, I’m pretty sure I’m the one sending absurdly hefty chunks of my paycheck to the cable company. Oh yes. I did just go there. I refuse to apologize.

So when my children were fruh-EEKING out because our only TiFaux was already locked and loaded, and they realized they were going to miss “The Suite Life of the Suitely Christmassy Zack and Cody Tipton Suite” or whatever AND the world premiere of Ashley Tisdale butchering “Last Christmas,” well excuse me for SO NOT CARING.

Luckily, TGIM oozes compassion for our children’s television-viewing needs, and he quickly put a stop to their tears and wild threats of mutiny, so help them God and the Disney Channel. 

“Don’t worry, guys,” he said in that annoyingly cheerful voice he uses whenever any of us are feeling grumpy. You know, the one that only serves to make us grumpier? And annoyed? And quite possibly a little defensive about said grumpiness? ”I’m pretty sure I have a blank VCR tape around here somewhere!”

He strode across the room, opened the lower cabinet of our entertainment center, and began to rummage through the stacks and stacks of VHS movies at the back of the deep, lowest shelf– tapes that I have honestly been meaning to dump—no, really!—but just can’t seem to part with because I haven’t bought the DVD yet (Dirty Dancing! The Wedding Singer! Buffy the Vampire Slayer! Shut up! Luke Perry and David Arquette freaking rocked that movie!).

With a sniffle, TD asked, “What do you mean?”

“We’ll just record the show down here,” TGIM explained, his voice muffled, far away, as more of his upper body disappeared into the cabinet.

“But…but Dad,” Alli said in a tremulous voice, wiping away a lone tear, “we can’t record with the box down here, remember?” She cast a piteous look of reproach at me. “Only upstairs!”

“Yeah,” Mack piped in. “Only UPSTAIRS. ” I ignore the barbed looks cast my way. Hello! It’s “Veronica Mars,” people! Veronica FREAKING Mars!

“Ah-ha!” TGIM emerged from the cabinet holding a used VHS tape aloft like the Holy Grail. “No, no, we’ll just record the show with the VCR.” He began fiddling with buttons and remotes and tapes and whatnot as TD, Alli, and Mack looked on, clearly questioning their father’s sanity.

“You can do that?” TD asked. “Tape shows with the VCR?”

“Yup.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yup.”

The three of them glanced over at me. “Mom? Can he really DO that?”

I assured my silly little skeptics that, yes, this new-fangled technology called the Videocassette Recorder could indeed record and play back any darn show on television. Then, as they oohed and aahed while they watched TGIM set the Miracle Machine to record their show, and hatched plans to utilize this divinely-inspired Salvation of “The Suite Life” again in the future, I marveled at the strange generation of children we are raising.

Children who have no idea what I mean when I say, “Stop nagging! You sound like a broken record!”

Children who simply shrug and walk away from the television when they can’t find the remote control.

Children who look at me like I’m a freaking genius when I pop popcorn in a pot on the stove, and say things like, “Cool! I didn’t know you could make popcorn on the stove! Where’d you learn to do THAT?!”

And children who, up until a few says ago, had NO CLUE that a VCR can record television shows!

Honestly. What exactly are they teaching in schools these days?

Save the Bus Driver, Save the World

Nothing makes a person appreciate the retrospectively benign nature of field trips with high school juniors and seniors like volunteering to chaperone when the entire third grade at your daughter’s school visits the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History. Because good lord, all y’all. Third graders? Are L - O - U - D, loud. High school students sleep, or listen to their iPods, or make out at the back of the bus. High school students? Are Q - U - I - E - T, quiet.

Honestly.

Now, I’m not going to lie, y’all. Things got ugly on that bus. UGLY. The fate of our trip was in the balance, and someone had to step up and bring order to the chaos. We were holding out for a hero. That’s right. A hero. She had to be sure, and she had to be soon, and she had to be larger than life.

Allow me to back up for a moment, if you will. I realize that what I am about to say will place me– irrevocably– into the category of Desperate Uncool Momma (AKA: Older than Dirt), but c’est la vie. There is just no denying this fundamental truth. When I was a ch– (argh! power through, power through...), ahem, when I was a child in elementary school, if we had the good fortune to put away the slates and chalk and, um, abacus, and hike up snow-covered hills in our bare feet in order to hop on the bus for some sort of field trip, we acted like little ladies and gentleman on that bus. Damn straight. We most certainly did NOT behave like screechy little spider monkeys hopped up on goofers. Oh, no, no, no.

Well, sure, there was that time my best friend mocked the kids who got stuck riding the short bus by plastering her face to the window as we passed on the highway and mouthing “duh!” over and over as she smacked her chest in the traditional spastic gesture that has since gone the way of “don’t be such a ‘tard,” and “that is so gay.” So I guess there was that. Oh, and the occasional mooning incidents, of course. And the outbursts of tattle-telling. Aaaaand the spontaneous rounds of “Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall.” And “Eye of the Tiger.” But it was QUIET, that’s all I’m saying! Well, except for the singing part, naturally, but that doesn’t count against us at all because if you think about it, it was like impromptu choir practice AND math and was obviously educational, so I’ve made my point, thank you very much.

Having said this, imagine my surprise as my daughter and I boarded the bus– both of us with books in hand, hoping to get in some reading on the long drive in traffic– and we were nearly bowled over by a cheerfully raucous acoustic wave of tsunamic proportions. Which is a totally pretentious way to say it was hella LOUD, yo?

Truthfully, I was a mite surprised by the noise level, but as I was sure the bus driver would put a stop to the shenanigans as soon as we set out (I mean, honestly, who could DRIVE like that?!), I simply steered Mack to a seat near the bus driver and we settled in for a quiet coze.

But guys? We pulled away from the school and hit the freeway, and the children? They NEVER SHUT UP! Oh my lord, it was a madhouse. I couldn’t read. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t think. And I most certainly couldn’t understand why the teachers didn’t WARN me to bring along earplugs, which… rude. But the teachers didn’t have earplugs. Nope. No earplugs, just the preternatural ability to repel the barrage of ear-splitting chatter, apparently.

Then one of the teachers brought by this adorable little boy and asked me to scootch over a tad so he could sit with us.

“WHAT?!” I looked at her, confusion evident on my face. “‘CAN EATS IT CHEW?’!”

“NO!” She made little shooing gestures and pointed to the seat. “CAN! HE! SIT! WITH! YOU?!”

All I could do was shrug and scoot over. This was of course before I realized this small child had a voice rivaled only by Ralph Kramden at his rowdiest.

“I’m gonna get you, Jack!” he hollered, bouncing in his seat. “Come up here! I’m going to get you! YOU’RE DEAD!!”

Now, I didn’t know Jack, and quite frankly I had no desire to make his acquaintance if he was anywhere near as loud as this little boy. I looked around at the other parents and the teachers on the bus, hoping for a little guidance, but the ones who weren’t frantically text-messaging on their Blackberries were staring resolutely ahead, seemingly oblivious to the clamor.

I restrained the dual impulse to go all Momma/Mrs. L on these third-graders’ asses and yell, “Quiet down, people, or I WILL turn this bus AROUND!” I mean, I was just a parent chaperone, after all, and nobody else seemed to mind. Maybe I was being oversensitive. Maybe I was–

Then I caught the bus driver’s face reflected in her mirror and I realized we had matching looks of horror on our faces, but her eyes also spoke of quiet desperation. I knew I had to do something. The bus driver needed me. The fate of our trip rested solely in my hands! This freakishly loud little boy MUST be SILENCED!

Naturally, murder was out of the question. Instead, I did the only sensible thing I could think to do. I turned to the boy.

“Child, seriously. You have the loudest voice I have ever HEARD,” I said, with what I hoped was a proper mixture of friendly admiration and abject horror– no small task, I assure you.

He looked at me and blinked once. Twice. Then… silence. He turned around in his seat, cast me a half-defiant, half-embarrassed look, and proceeded to lightly kick his feet against the seat in front of us. But he did it quietly. Mission accomplished. The madness around us continued, but due to the absence of that one shrill voice in my ear, it leveled out to a manageable roar. Clearly, the behavior of the third graders on this bus didn’t even come close to the level of respectfulness and quiet exhibited by children on buses when I was a child, but it would do.

I looked up and saw the bus driver flash me a smile that clearly said, “Oh thank you!” I smiled back. Her ear drums (and mine) were safe for another day.

I know. I’m a hero. They’re going to write songs.

Save the bus driver, save the world.

My work here is done.