Pre-Thanksgiving *fun*

This is not a Thanksgiving post. My Thanksgiving was nice but very anti-climatic. It was more like a Regular Day, except we spent it at my Father-in-Law's where my (step-) MIL made some truly scrumptious food. I am always thankful for delicious food especially when someone else cooks it!

Why was my Thanksgiving anti-climatic? Because it followed what proved to be a truly bizarre Tuesday. The Tuesday before Thanksgiving was fraught with events that alone would have made the day interesting and long and emotional. Taken all together and topped off with a (*thankfully* dead) night at work, it made for a most overwhelming day.

Event I:

Yes, this is another tale in what is becoming a Feller Preschool Saga. Is it any wonder I never leave the house alone with these three little men?

It started like any other Tuesday. The weather was mild, the sun shining. The Fellers were adequately cooperative getting ready for preschool. Everyone was packed in the car and destined for an on-time arrival. All in all, an uneventful trip to the preschool. The trouble began the instant we walked through the door.

I mentioned the Feller's preschool is in the high school where Hubz' teaches. It is a small suburban school, quiet--at least compared to a larger city school. Quiet, that is, until Eighty-Eight Fingers paid a visit. Tuesday was another day in the ever-growing list of days that EEF earned his moniker yet again.

It happened the instant we walked through the door. Boompas distracted me with requests leading to demands to be the one to open the automatic door, even though EEF had beat him to it and we were standing in the doorway in danger of the thing closing on us. EEF instinctively recognized his opportunity for action: Mom was distracted. It was now or never. He reached out his hand to touch the bright red and white devise mounted on the wall conveniently at eye level. The Principal of the school, walking by, sensed the crime and shouted out a warning: Young man, DON'T YOU TOUCH THAT! Of course, his warning fell on deaf ears. To EEF, the temptation was too great. His hand darted out and he pulled down on the appealing white lever. Instantly, a loud blaring noise and flashing lights filled the school. I looked from the principal to EEF, while my jaw dropped and eyes popped from my head, and spotted him just as he covered his ears and dove for the ground. Oh, the HORROR! My son, sweet blue-eyed blond boy, had just pulled the fire alarm. And I, as the mortified mother of such a monster, could not deny the crime, walk away, pretend it was someone else's monster (although, believe me, the thought crossed my mind). In such a small school the principal recognized the wife and children of one of his favorite teachers. Busted. Damn. I walked my brood down the long high school corridors muttering sheepish Sorrys, dropped off the Fellers, and marched EEF out again past the fire trucks and police cars and clusters of freezing students huddled in the entranceways, my head hung in shame. The thought crossed my mind to present EEF to the Fire Captain to confess his crimes, but my overwhelming desire to get the hell out of there overruled my urge to be a responsible parent. After buckling EEF and myself securely our respective seats as quickly as humanly possible, all set to burn rubber on out of there, a sweet little voice pipes up from the backseat: "Are we going to the indoor playground now?" to which I responded in a clipped angry voice that sounded a little as if I hit every word with a hammer: "No We Are Not Going To The Indoor Playground! You are going home and going to BED!" after which followed a twenty minute lecture about why what he did was bad, yada yada yada. Yes, I took him all the way home just to send him to bed and packed him back into the car when it was time to pick up the Fellers and commenced with my lecture. The thing is, he knows not to touch the fire alarm! He goes to school now where they teach him not to touch it. And the principal of the high school warned him not to touch it as he was reaching out his hand. Poor Hubz endured ribbing the rest of the day for being the father of the troublemaker, too.

Event II:

I live in a suburb (hahaha) that borders right on one of the worst parts of the city. The benefit for me is a nice house on a nice street, excellent school district, and responsive police force. The downfall is that the city's crime doesn't care that my house is in BlahBlah instead of the City. All the better to rob from you and deal drugs on your doorstep, my dear. On Tuesday another example of Why I Hate Where I Live and Wish I Could Afford To Move presented itself.

One of my friends, another stay-at-home mom which enables her to also have weekdays off, had stopped by for a rare visit because she lives over an hour away. I had just gotten EEF off to school and the Fellers down for a nap when an older red pick-up truck parked in front of the hospital parking lot that sits kitty-corner from my front yard on the opposite side of the alley (which is technically part of the City--the alley is the border--but the BlahBlah police still respond because if I, a resident of BlahBlah can see it from my house, then I can call the BlahBlah police). The baseball-capped guy pulled out a cell phone, talked on it briefly, and then commenced with flipping through a newspaper, apparently waiting for something. I said to my friend, Shit-drug deal (or something to that effect). How did I know this, you may ask? Sadly, through much experience--for whatever reason that is a popular spot for drug deals and I have proudly narced on many I witnessed there. My friend decided it would be a good time to go out for a smoke. She figured that would deter the drug dealer from completing the transaction with a witness sitting not fifty feet away. How wrong she was. The drug dealer boldly drove up in his silver Caddy, parked behind the truck, lumbered (he was a fat guy) over to the passenger side and accepted money from the driver, all of which my friend on the porch and myself through the window witnessed (except I did not specifically see the money exchange--she did). Silver Caddy drove off and Red Truck stayed, again flipping through his paper. My friend came back in, told me about the money exchange, and I called the cops--stat! I told them Red Truck was still sitting in front of the house. Within minutes, Silver Caddy returned cruising down the alley that borders my house. He had brought presents, apparently. As he lumbered back over to the passenger door of Red Truck, I whipped out my phone and hit redial to the police to inform them Silver Caddy was back. The police hurried over and were able to intercept Red Truck. Silver Caddy got away. My friend and I watched the dancing red and blue lights through my picture window (I bet the architects that designed this subdivision and my house in the fifties never envisioned a day when the picture window would be a tool through which we witnessed a drug bust). Soon after, a BlahBlah police officer knocked on my door and asked if we would be willing to be witnesses--they had busted Red Truck with a ton of Oxycontin--a very strong morphine-based prescription drug favored by the likes of Rush Limbaugh. My friend and I readily agreed and sat down with the officer and gave her our story. People I have told are surprised that I would volunteer so readily to be a witness. They ask, Aren't you afraid the drug dealers will attack you? Drive by shoot you? Harm your family? I think these people watch too much TV. More likely, the drug dealers will decide this isn't an ideal corner for business and take their trade elsewhere. Also, by not standing up I believe I am condoning it and giving the bad guys the nod that it is OK to take over my neighborhood too. No way. They can't have it, not as long as I have to live here.

Another side note to this drama: Silver Caddy had a kid in his car with him. How F**ked up is that?

Event III:

I delivered a long overdue lecture to my step-son where I informed him that my days of riding along in the passenger seat and letting his dad handle him (a strategy I adopted so he and his dad could develop a relationship--since my step-son had lived in a different state and only visited occasionally for summer and holidays--I did not want to interfere). Anyway, he had been here for more than a year, he has been making bad decisions lately, and I could tell he wasn't taking me seriously. So it was time for me to step-up. Just letting him know. I guess it went okay...time will tell.

Alas, my day was not over for I had a job to do. I had to drive richies around and around the glorious downtown of our fair City. Fortunately, it was a slow dead pre-Thanksgiving night. I was able to read a good chunk of one of the Dexter books Dad had brought over (excellent quick reads and now a Showtime Original series).