Freak Flag Friday - intro & the Womb-Smiter

I've been thinking about doing this series for a while now. Let me explain. I'm going to be leaving my social work job in exactly 15 days to be a stay-at-home-momma. This field of work has practically defined me for the better part of my adulthood. My social work positions over the past 9 years have provided me with stories galore. Stories you wouldn't believe. Stories you won't want to believe. Stories that I really don't want to forget. Oh, I assure you that there have been many touching and beautiful moments, but I'm only going to be writing about the over-the-top out-of-control (usually hilarious) moments each and every Friday. Every story has one common denominator: someone felt the need to fly their freak flag proudly!

I've already written about the burrito escapade, which you can read about here.

Who's flying the Freak Flag this week? The Womb-Smiter

While living in Atlanta I worked as a foster home recruiter and trainer for a therapeutic foster care agency. "Therapeutic" means that the children that we place in our foster homes were not your sweet little newborns. Typically they are older children who have experienced significant abuse and neglect, which means that they are likely to have learned negative behaviors as a means of survival. "Like back talking" you ask? Um, no. Like poo smearing. 24/7. Or inappropriately touching other children in the home, if ya' get my drift. Big stuff.

My job was to train the classes of prospective foster parents, and help them to decide if doing this type of foster care would be right for them. Obviously you want people who are mentally stable. Who know how to handle children. Who are patient and kind. Who at least have put their freak flag at half mast for the sake of appearances. The class is called a "mutual selection" process, meaning that they can select to leave at any time if they feel it isn't right for them, or I as the leader can select them to leave the class if I feel they are not appropriate candidates.

Enter Mrs. Peach (names changed to protect the freak-flag fliers). She seems like the perfectly groomed Southern grandmother in her late 50's, who wants to love a child out of their negative behaviors. Frosted pink lipstick - check. A different Vera Bradley bag to match each outfit - check. Big hair that I can't discern if it is a wig or real hair - check. Everything down to the comfortable chair is labeled as a blessing - check. She was adamant that she hoped to adopt and would settle for nothing less. There was always something about Mrs. Peach that made me slightly uncomfortable, as if she was always attempting to manipulate the flow of the class, or the way that she always waited until I was alone to talk with me as I cleaned up.

One afternoon she began talking about her grandchildren. Apparently they were in the foster care system and she was not allowed to get custody of them, so eventually they were adopted by an unrelated family. Strange. Then she disclosed that she wasn't allowed to see the children, but she had no idea why this was the case. Really? She also said that when she found children to adopt, she would force them to change their first names to the names of her grandchildren that she missed so much. Whoa! She wanted her foster children to be the same ages as her grandchildren and hopefully look similar. Creepy. This isn't Mickey D's lady, we don't pick them up at the 2nd window!

When she returned the next week I knew that we had some serious issues to discuss. I was leaning towards selecting her out due to her obviously unresolved issues about the grandchildren, but maybe a talk would help to clarify her situation? I waited until Mrs. Peach and I were the last ones in the building. I took the opportunity to discuss my concerns, starting out by saying that she obviously was still very hurt about the situation with the grandkids. SHE. WENT. BERSERK! Attention readers: The Freak Flag was officially flying high, no longer at half mast! She said that she always got what she wanted. Her case in point? The fact that she had stalked her grandchildren's' adoptive family, broke into their vacation home while they were staying there, and told the kids to start packing up they were going with grandma. She snuck out with the kids and faced abduction charges! Oh, and did I mention that she brought a gun to this abduction? Then she brought God into it. I was going to hell because He wanted her to "replace" her grandchildren and I was standing in the way of destiny. She was going to become a certified foster parent "no matter what it takes".

Now I've had many uncomfortable conversations in which I encouraged people to hold up on the classes. I've asked couples to continue working through their grief related to infertility before pursuing our difficult and emotionally draining level of foster care. I've had to tell people that their home is too dirty. I've even confronted a registered sex offender after I got his background check back. But nothing compared to this level of discomfort. I actually felt afraid and was mentally calculating if I could reach the exit if necessary, or use her big wig/hair against her as a weapon.

Finally I made a break for it, slid past her and started walking out the front door, hoping she would follow me on her rant. Worked like a charm. But not before she threw a few more insults at me. From the middle of the parking lot she yells at the top of her lungs: "I SMITE YOUR WOMB!" Wha? Huh? Whatever, just get the car and drive. Fast. Then on the way home I'm thinking about the "smiting". We Presby-Catholics just don't discuss the smiting all that often, really, so it is a new term to me. I was prepared for her to tell me I was a dumb b*@%# or something, but the smiting just clinched it for me that she was a certified lunatic.
We got a good laugh out of it at work and felt like we dodged a bullet. Can you imagine an already traumatized foster child living in that home?

Oh, don't think that I ever forgot about that comment. Every time I was ready to break out the good ol' First Response test little Miss Smitey Pants snuck back into my mind. But then I reassured myself that no, she didn't really have the power to do that. Three years later, little Hania was born. *Big sigh of relief*

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be social workers!

Beautiful day in the neighborhood

If you've read my blog anytime in the past year you have most likely heard me raving about our neighborhood. Well, actually, our neighbors. We're very happy to live on a street with lots of other families that also have young children, and we have become very close and depend on each other frequently, as many of us don't have family nearby. And not just the women...the guys are all pretty close too. (Well, you know, as "close" as guys will admit they are. They no likey the feelings so much.)

You can imagine our shock when we discovered that TWO of these families would be moving out of state within the same week. Both were for positive reasons, for better jobs and to be closer to family. But still... talk about a double whammy!

So what to do when the going gets tough? BLOCK PARTY, baby!
Here are the girls posing for one last shot together. Erin (furthest on the left, striking her America's Next Top Model pose) and Jenny ( in the black print top - you can't even tell homegirl is pregnant with twins, huh?) are the two hens flying the coop.
I can't even express how much I will miss both of these amazing women. Our relationship with their families has made our time in Kentucky a great experience. I love a quote that I read somewhere (maybe on a card? I can't remember): "Each person who enters our life, each spirit that accompanies us upon our journey, leaves us forever changed and enriched".

And then someone had the grand idea to get all the neighborhood kids together for a photo op. Yep, that's my tiny redhead screaming her lungs out. I typically don't post pics of other peoples' children for privacy purposes, but I couldn't help this one!
Being the culinary overachiever (or perhaps delusional lunatic) that I am, I decided to try some ideas from my new book: Hello, Cupcake! Full of the cutest ideas that are all designed to use easy decorating items like candy, and no special tools, only ziploc bags to decorate.

I was hoping to modify their design for the doggy cupcakes to make Arkansas razorbacks on the cupcakes, for our neighbors who were moving back to Arkansas. Why didn't someone warn me that making red icing simply is not humanly possible? No matter how much red gel dye you use. No matter how much you stir. Please note the color of the icing (salmon) as compared to the icing lid (true red). Ahem. So I went on to plan B: sunflowers, which are pretty and summery, and had a very detailed guide in the book.
Ta-da! Not too shabby!
They were a huge hit with the kids and I was fairly proud of the final product, especially considering how quickly they were thrown together. Guess what the lady bugs were made out of? M&M's. And they were crazy easy.

And lest you think that I am a classy, culinary wizard soon to rival Martha, I present to you my 2nd dessert. This is a cake made for Tvrtko (Erin's husband) in reference to a joke he told about himself. And it has to do with poop. I'm so sorry to admit that, but truly that just speaks to how close we are in this neighborhood.

Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
Won't you be my neighbor?

I've got nothing, folks!

I know what you're thinking.
We haven't heard from her in almost a month.
Her last story was about the dude with the mullet in Kroger.
It all adds up... she must have gotten caught up in all his mullety-goodness and run off with him, never to blog again.

Fun story, but the real deal isn't nearly as interesting!

I'm just in a rut. Several factors, none of which are truly awful, just some things I need to work through without influence from outside sources. I want my blog to be authentic, but I didn't want it to turn into a rant or a pity party, and certainly didn't want to worry people with my absence. Actually, life is a lot more manageable without me staying up until 2am to blog, but I do miss it terribly and plan to return very soon. Life has been traveling so quickly for the past several years that recently I just looked up, took a breath, and was unable to recognize very much about myself anymore. I think it just freaked me out, plain and simple. That and the fact that for the first time in forever, I don't have a clear picture...AT ALL...of what my life is going to be like in the future. Deep breaths, just keep taking deep breaths. I'm a planner. I just need a little more time to wrap my brain around things.

Don't delete me from your blog roll just yet, folks! I just have to figure out how to get my groove back, and quick. Actually I have a plan. I'll call it the GMGB plan, as in "Gettin' My Groove Back". To be shared soon... in the meantime, I leave you with a cute Pooh pic. Because a little Pooh can really make your day sometimes.

Maxi-mize your shopping experience

Just a little story to make you laugh on a Friday. Let's set the scene:
Our weekend was so busy that I didn't get to the weekly grocery shopping, so we did it on Monday evening after work. Luckily, Hania is an excellent shopper and loves to ride along. She is obsessed with my paper shopping list, so I usually give her an extra piece of paper to play with and all is right with the world.

On this particular day, I had grabbed my favorite huge faux Coach bag that looks cute and summery. It is big enough to double as a diaper bag, and spills won't be a tragedy because it isn't the real deal. Here's an important detail that will play into the story later: I haven't used this purse since I was in the hospital for Hania's birth. I promise, it IS important.

As we stroll through the produce section I hear Hania cackling. Yes, this child cackles, she doesn't laugh. I turn around to find her bouncing and waving at a man that I shall henceforth refer to as "Mr. Mullet". Now Mr. Mullet is rockin' out in true 80's style while selecting his corn on the cob. He has spared no detail in recreating the look of that decade, down to the painted-on acid washed denim and concert t-shirt with the sleeves and collar ripped off. Hey, who am I to judge? Mr. Mullet sees me trying to reach a produce bag, and in gentlemanly fashion he pulls one down for me. Which is nice, but isn't there a rule out there about accepting favors from men with mullets? I think there is. I say thanks, Hania continues to wave at him, and we're on our way again.

Several aisles later, I hear Hania cackling again. Yep, you guessed it. Mr. Mullet is making cutesy baby faces at her, sticking out his tongue, bobbing his head. Hania has this effect on strangers, it seems. She thinks this is a riot. Mr. Mullet smiles winningly at me and winks saying "your little girl likes me". I smile back, but not too big. I'm not trying to encourage Mullet-love. And I'm hoping this isn't a pre-cursor to Hania's future taste in men.

In the dairy section Mr. Mullet appears yet again, and I try to pretend that I don't see Hania performing "so big" by raising her arms in the air. Oh no, he's trying to catch my eye. Hania, please stop engaging Mr. Mullet. See, you already have a da-da at home, and you never know if there is a MRS. Mullet around the corner waiting to kick the butt of any little mullet-magnet who is flirting with her man. Still my head is down, no eye contact, pretending I don't notice.

Then I hear the crinkling of paper. Hania is apparently playing with something in my purse. Still not looking...still not looking...don't encourage him... SPLAT! Something hits the floor. I look over to see that Hania has thrown the object from my purse into the middle of the aisle, and Mr. Mullet is dashing over to pick it up. Oh well, probably just some sticky notes or keys. I look over just in time to see what Mr. Mullet is handing back to me with a smile. It is one of those humongous post-partum maxi pads that the hospital gives you after you give birth! These are the ones that weigh 10 lbs and look like a diaper. Yeah, we're not bringing sexy back with that contraption. Apparently I left one of those bad boys in my purse, and forgot about it because I hadn't used the purse since my hospital stay. Thankfully, Mr. Mullet had no idea what he was handing to me, so I just graciously accepted it and then died laughing.

Hania thought it was a funny joke too. She had on a wicked little smile, similar to this one...

It was Jason

I've had some requests from old friends to clarify who the recipient of the lovely 6th grade Color Me Badd tape was... (drumroll please)... Jason Henderson. Lucky guy. He had a much older girlfriend that was into PDA, so perhaps the song wasn't terribly shocking after all.
And now please, take a minute to bow your heads with me while I pray that Jason doesn't Google his name and see this story when I haven't seen him since high school graduation 13 years ago. Amen.