Easterbunnyland

I am the boss of the Easter Bunny. I remind my son of this every time he acts up. I'm also the boss of Santa, which carries a lot more power because Jake doesn't seem to care as much about the potential loss of candy as he does about the potential loss of massive amounts of toys, but whatever, it works well enough. I've been the boss of the Bunny and Santa for about seven years now, taking only three seasons off for maternity leave and school. I love it. It's a great job. I manage an awesome handpicked staff that returns year after year, am pretty much left on my own by the corporate headquarters, and make fairly decent money a few weeks out of the year (although I'm cranky because my pay was cut this season due to the rotten, stupid economy).

I have very few complaints about my job. The stress that I have is familiar stress- bunnies and Santa's running late, stuck in traffic, panicking me into thinking they're not going to show up; figuring out camera and computer system glitches, why is the printer printing 10000 copies of the same picture (because I let Jacob within thirty feet of the system), why am I bleeding profusely while trying to plug in a fan, that sort of thing. My only major complaint about the job is parents. If it weren't for the parents, the job would be cake. I have a few major gripes that I'd like to get off my chest, because I'm bound by a contract to be polite to people in person.

Gripe one- If your child is terrified of the bunny or Santa, they're not going to "smile nice" no matter how many times I pretend to sneeze, let things fall off my head, or say "hey sweetie, smile for the camera!" It's cruel to force your children to sit with something that terrifies them. The world never ended because little Timmy didn't get his photo taken with the Easter Bunny. No child ever grew up to be a serial killer because he didn't like Santa. I'm not entirely convinced, however, that forcing them to sit with a mutant rabbit or a strange bearded man when they clearly would rather be having you pick out splinters with a sewing needle wont make them one day stand over you while you're sleeping wielding a machete and cackling about slitting your throat. But if you want to take that risk, go for it. Just don't expect us to stand there acting like idiots for twenty minutes trying to get your bawling child to "smile nice."

Gripe two- Let's talk more about that twenty minute issue. This is a small stand in the mall. It's not a magazine photo shoot. There are people behind you, and more people coming, all of whom have been waiting for their turn to drive me batty as well. Please don't make me take fifty pictures of your child while you insist on that perfect, fake memory, then tell me "you know what, the first one was the best, let's go with that." Especially when we told you in the first place that this is as good as it's going to get. We've been doing this for years. We've seen thousands of children. You may know your child best in all other respects, but we can tell you exactly how your child is going to react once they sit on that mutant rabbit or strange bearded man's lap. Just trust us. If sweet, darling Betty is giving the evil eye in the first picture, it's only going to get worse. At some point, she is going to open-fire on the entire mall if you don't get her out of there. So unless she's blinking or looking at you (because you can't follow directions and stand where we tell you to stand), go with the first shot. It's not going to get much better.

Gripe three- You've been standing in line for twenty minutes staring at our list of packages and their prices. We saw you looking at them, we heard you discussing the pros and cons of every one of them. We take an awesome picture of your child, you're thrilled, we're ready to take your money and get you off our set. But you stand there for another twenty minutes debating over how many pictures you need. Meanwhile, we can't take pictures because it'll just hold up the printing process and create a back log of customers. Take notice of how I shift from foot to foot and try to silently sigh in frustration. Be courteous to others, know what you want when you get up there.

Gripe four- This one is serious. The other stuff, I can live with, I can tolerate, and I'm a quarter joking about. But this one drives me truly mad. Please understand that there is a real live person inside the Bunny or Santa suit. They're not robots or aliens. They get hungry, they get thirsty, they have to use the bathroom, they need breaks. Most of all, they get hot. Especially the Bunny. When I say we need to go on a break, and we'll be back in 45 minutes, do not pitch a hissy fit and run down to the mall office to complain. Do not stomp your foot and proclaim that we have just ruined your child's day. Do not insist we take "one last customer." Have a heart. Understand that the person in that suit is dripping with sweat, dying of thirst, and ready to pass out. When we take a break, it's not to make your life miserable, it's to prevent a medical emergency from occuring. I know it sucks to have to wait, but get over it. If you hold us up with your complaints, we'll just take longer. We're spiteful that way.

Here are a few tips on how to be the type of customer we like- Know what you want, don't traumatize your child in front of us, be happy with a real memory photo and not some forced smile that will be worthless in ten years, and be understanding when I tell you if I don't take the bunny off right away, I'll need an ambulance. Be the type of customer we like, and we'll give you free stuff. We get really good coupons from the other places in the mall, we just hide them from you because we want them for ourselves. But if we like you, we share. We know exactly where you can get your photos copied cheap without having to worry about pesky copyright rules (actually, the company will give you a photo release if you call, but we can save you that call). We occasionally have some decent stuff that we want to get rid of. But you'll never see any of it if you're acting like a lunatic and making us want to throw the cash register at you.

Stir Crazy

I have an intense desire to get the hell out of this place for a night, a few days, forever. I don't know why it's so bad right now, maybe cabin fever or something. I just feel like I can't sit still, I can't stay in one place anymore. I want to grab my son, hop on the highway, and see where I end up. I know where I want to end up. Of course, there are several flaws with this plan that make it impossible. The first and foremost is that I don't drive on the highway. Merging scares the shit out of me. People flying by, big giant trucks ready to crush me, it's too scary for my anxiety-ridden being to take. I've driven on the highway twice in my life, both times out of absolute necessity. I hated it both times. I'm actually planning to overcome this fear shortly, but I'll never be able to make long trips that involve going through cities.

Second major issue, I'm broke, and going broker by the moment with no good prospects in sight. My car has crappy gas mileage lately, I keep hearing something about needing to put air in my tires, but that is beyond me at this point. (I'm only half kidding, it's pathetic really). I told my friend we should run away and waitress our way across the country. Again, there are flaws with that plan. I can't waitress. There is no way anyone is going to let me walk across the room carrying a tray with actual food on it. It would be dangerous to all around me. I can't even walk across the room carrying nothing without tripping over my own feet. I am the Queen of Klutz, and I wear my crown proudly, albeit crookedly.

Third, Jacob would be extremely pissed if we left all his toys and his dogs behind. I'm pretty sure he'd don a clown mask and torture me in my sleep if we left behind the Power Rangers, Spiderman, Planet Heroes, huge bin of Matchbox cars, the twenty gallons of Playdoh, Martian Matter, and all the scraps of random old toys that he refuses to relinquish.

So for now, I'm pretty much stuck here, wishing I was somewhere else and going out of my mind. Maybe I'll use some of this restlessness to actually clean my house and get rid of a bunch of crap. Doubtful though. Most likely I'll just continue to sit here bitching and moaning about things I can't do anything about right now. Divorces don't go faster because you whine, money doesn't grow on trees because you ask it to, and time doesn't past just because you cry about it.

Terror at McDonalds

Every Wednesday I take Jacob to McDonalds after speech class. He plays in the play area, I hang out with a friend or read. It is generally a peaceful, happy time despite the constant background noise of screeching children. Today we got settled in, Jacob kicked off his shoes and took off, I ate my crappy, always stale chicken tenders and cold fries and discussed the state of my bank account with my friend. Everything was normal. Until a little Bloody Mary in training unleashed her holy reign of terror over the entire play area.

My darling boy was happily waving to me from the very top of the gymnasium thingamajig. What is that thing called? You know what I'm talking about, that giant thing in which no parent of normal size can possibly reach their child if they make it to the top and get stuck. I look away. I look back and Jakey's face has crumpled and he is bawling. I throw off my shoes and shoot up the steps like a Mama lion ready to pounce. Jake tells me this little girl hit him (later, I found out she actually kicked him and I misheard him) in the face. I asked if that was true and she confirmed. I told her "don't you hit my kid!" Yes everyone, I yelled at someone else's child. Sue me, beat me, call me names. That little terror hit my child. Terror-girl promises she wont do it again, and Jake comes down to get a bite to eat.

Less than two minutes later, children are pouring out of the play structure, tears running down their little faces in horror and pain. Bloody Mary bit one child hard enough to almost break skin, hit several other children, and kicked yet more. Children all around are crying and pointing towards the purple-shirted lunatic. Grandma sits by oblivious. She suddenly glances up and asks "what child did this? What color pants is she wearing?" You could tell by the "oh shit" look in her eyes she knew exactly what little darling was responsible for the mayhem surrounding her. She pulls darling little Terror-girl aside, gives her a brief time out, and releases her back into the wild. Half the parents grabbed their kids and left. We were one of them.

Perhaps I sound cold, perhaps some are thinking "oh, that poor little girl, she clearly lacks discipline and boundaries. Maybe her home life is less than savory. How dare you compare an innocent child to the bloodiest queen of all time?" Well, I don't give a shit. She kicked my child in the face. As I said, I originally thought she hit him, but later Jake said "remember that girl who showed me her stinky feet at McDonalds and kicked me in the face? She should be put in a cage!" Jake thinks anyone who does something bad should be put in a cage. The other day, I wouldn't give him more milk (seriously child, no one drinks half a gallon of milk a day!) and he banished me to the outside where I was to live in a cage. I swear, my child has never been put in a cage, except for the times when he crawled into my brother's dog crate on his own. Okay fine, I may have shut the door on it to take a picture, but I swear, I let him out right away!

So next Wednesday we'll be back at McDonalds as usual, and I swear this- If that little girl is there and she kicks my child again, Grandma better get her out of there or I'm taking Grandma down.

Confessions of a bad morning Mommy

It is 10:30 AM fake time and I'm still trying to function. I refuse to accept any changes to the clock as being real time until several months have passed. I will walk around saying "it's 10pm, 9pm real time" until the middle of the summer. It drives my mom nuts. She likes Spring Ahead and extra daylight. I'm an equal opportunity time change hater. I used to love "Fall Back" because it meant an extra hour of sleep. Now it means my son will be waking up at 7 instead of 8. So I guess "Spring Ahead" means I get to get out of bed a pretend hour later, but it also means I have to wait an extra hour for peaceful time.

This morning I awoke to the sound of Jake singing "What do you do with a scurvy pirate?" at the top of his lungs. I brought him to bed with me, he chatted to me while I slept. He kept asking questions that I could have sworn I was answering, until his exasperated "Mommmmmeeeee!" makes me realize that I've only been answering in my head. Jacob likes to play in my bed while I sleep. In the past, he's brought blocks, trucks, superheroes, and giant stuffed animals in. This morning he brought a vacuum cleaner to bed. That was a new one. Nothing like waking up to find a cleaning implement staring you in the face. I'm wondering if it's a subtle hint that it's time to clean up all the fuzz balls that seem to leap off my dog faster than lemmings leaping off a cliff.

I am so awful at functioning in the morning that my son recently learned to change his own pull-up. He gets his own cup of milk (pre-made the night before) out of the fridge, and he finds his own breakfast. I guide him in that department. He'll bring Barbecue Pringles out, and I'll say "you can't have chips for breakfast! Get a Pop-Tart!" We lay on the couch together, and I rouse only long enough to change the episodes of Dora, Backyardigans, or Aqua Teen Hunger Force on the DVR. Yes, I let my kid watch Aqua Teen. He walks around singing "Meat Wad gets the honeys gee" all the time. The "educational programming only" Mommies everywhere would cringe at what I allow my child to watch. So far he hasn't tried to kill me. Well, there was that one time that he tried to push me down a mountain at the water park, but that doesn't count. I blame too much fresh air for that.

It's now 11am fake time. My son has been begging me to build a castle of blocks for the past half hour. He does not understand the concept of "trying to wake up." He rolls out of bed with more energy than I can muster even after fifteen cups of coffee. But his "Look at me Mommy! Help me Mommy! Play with my Mommy!" is starting to make me feel guilty, so it's time to launch into "good mommy" mode. I need more coffee.

Walmart rage

I don't know what the hell it is about Walmart that turns civilized people into savages. Maybe it's the garish lighting, the constant hum in the background, or the fact that everyone has to tack on a half hour to their trip just to pay for their crap. Apparently, even the anticipation of entering hell gets people all riled up, because the nightmare usually begins in the parking lot.

I am not lazy. I do not mind parking in the way back and walking (except at night and early morning, I generally don't look forward to getting raped, stabbed, or shot). In general, I never even enter the front section of the parking lot. I know pure misery awaits. But the last few times I've went, my mom came with me. She can't walk long distances, so I have to drop her off out front, where I'm forced to contend with vicious close-spot seekers. A kind old woman allowed me to turn left in front of her, but I was immediately nearly hit by a large van wanting to turn left out of another spot. After barely escaping that, the car in front of me stopped dead in the middle of the road to wait for someone they saw in the distance that may or may not have been considering approaching a close spot. I inch my way past this lazy prick and am almost sideswiped by some eagle-eyed bastard who noticed an open spot nearby and was in a panic that I may actually get to it first. By this point I'm screaming all sorts of dirty words that would make my grandparents cringe if they could hear me from beyond the grave. Words that rhyme with "hunt" and "socktucker." Words that I avoid at all cost yelling in front of my son, and do fairly well, but when I'm alone I don't give a shit who hears me.

Finally, I make my way to the back lot. All that is left is to cross the street seperating the two. Unfortunately, so many people are fleeing hell that it is impossible to cross. Apparently even waiting an extra three seconds to let me through would cause them horrid pain. Can't say I blame them. Again, a nice old lady lets me through. Could be the same one, the Walmart parking lot is a lot like Groundhog's Day, an endless loop of the same faces and same shit. I take my nice little spot in the way back, happy that it's daylight and I wont be stabbed, raped, or shot, and spend my walk back to the store avoiding getting hit by people who think I may be considering getting back in my car and stealing the prime spot that they're convinced will open up at any second.

I make it into the store, where my mom is nice and comfy in her motorized scooter, and spend the next half hour watching my mom nearly run people down, pissed because they can clearly see her coming and wont get out of her way. She wonders where I get this shit from. I am now hostile and ready to beat up the first person who tries to grab a box of Fruit Loops out from in front of me, thus continuing the cycle of rage ever present in Walmarts across the country. The whole time I'm thinking "I should have just went to Target."

To smash or not to smash?

I have a ganglion cyst on my left wrist. It appeared all the sudden. One minute there was nothing, the next a strange bump. I, being me, was of course convinced I had either somehow managed to break my wrist and didn't know it, or that I had a tumor. I asked the doctor to look at it, and he declared that it was merely a ganglion cyst. I could either let it go or smash it. I can't seem to do either. It's getting bigger, although not noticeable to anyone who doesn't know it is there. But it is freaking me the hell out! I am not a bumpy person. I don't get cysts, except maybe one on an ovary, but that only hurts every other month. Where the heck did this thing come from? It is driving me batty. I want so much to gain the courage to just smash it with a book, which apparently is the physician-recommended treatment. Seriously? We're still using the same method they used back in the 1600's? This is not reassuring to me. I want them to give me some sort of medicine, preferably in pill format, that will make it magically vanish.

In an attempt to educate myself on the ways of smashing this thing to oblivion, I googled directions. I refuse to accept that I can simply whack myself with a book and go on my merry way. One of the first phrases that stuck out was "There's no side effect to smashing a ganglion cyst except the horrid pain." I think horrid pain ranks pretty high on the side effect scale, just under imminent death actually. Minor pain freaks me out. Horrid pain pretty much has me running for the hills (Not the ones where cannibals eat you though. Getting eaten by cannibals ranks just under horrid pain in my book.) There is a really good reason why I don't have any tattoos, although if I'm trying to appear more brave than I am, I swear it's about the fact that I don't want anything permanent on my body that I could get sick of eventually. That actually is a blatant lie. I don't like pain. I don't get the whole "oh, it's just like getting scratched by a cat." I've been scratched by a cat, it was unpleasant. Why on earth would I want to be scratched by a thousand of them.

But back to the cyst. I want to smash the damn thing and be done with it. But I can see how this is going to go. I will make my friend do it, because she seems to really want to. She will come at me with a book, I will run and scream. This will last for about twenty minutes. She'll prevail. I'll faint. Several times. I will probably fall and hit my head, thus causing more horrid pain. Nothing good can come of this.