The Cosmic “Kick Me” Sign

You know that proverbial little straw that broke the camel’s back? Well, this week I’ve been dumped with pounds of those straws and I’m fixing to break. Seriously. Lord, y’all, where do I start?

Tuesday I got to my German language class just barely on time. When I reached the parking garage, the car in front of me wasn’t moving. Cars began piling up behind me, waiting, and eventually blocking the priority road behind us. Turns out the machine wasn’t spitting out a ticket. So, after some maneuvering, I drove down the busy street and around the block to find a parking spot. This was going to suck since my class lasts four hours and the parkschein (parking pass) only lasts two. I'd have to go down later and move my car and buy another one. The first time I tried that I was late and ended up with a 5-euro parking ticket.

But that was a moot point anyway because when I got to the machine I realized I only had a bunch of two-euro coins and pennies, and the machine only took one euro coins and smaller silver money. So I jumped in the car again, spilling my coffee and polluting the air with some foul language, and I drove around the block to see if the garage machine might be working again.

Wow! Hope on the horizon! I saw the arm lift and a car go in. So I tried it too. But it did not work for me. The readout gave me a bunch of words that I had yet to learn in my class, so I sat there with my dictionary, trying to do a quick translation before another car might come and block me in. It turns out that I could have gone in without a ticket if I’d had a German debit card. Which I didn’t.

So I went back again to park on the street, and I dug around between the seats of the car and in the console until I came up with one single euro coin. I bought my parkschein and went to class. I wrote 9:53 in black ink on top of my hand so I would not forget to run out to the meter on time.

I finally arrived in class 30 minutes late. I made change with a friend and left class an hour later to buy another parkschein and move my car, trying not to interrupt our instructor as I did so. But, oh wait, I forgot my keys. So I went back into class and grabbed my purse. But then I realized my keys were in my coat pocket. So I went BACK in again, grabbed my keys and went to the meter. By then the garage entrance was fixed and I parked there.

When I got home to pick up Luke from Kindergarten, I found out that the day before he had painted his two American friends, sisters, with blue paint. They were wearing brand new matching Gymboree shirts (you know, the kind that cost more than my whole wardrobe) and the mother told me she had washed them three times with no luck. I of course offered to pay for them. She said she wouldn’t let me. I need to buy her a gift certificate or something.

So are you tired yet? There’s more.

I then spent my afternoon agonizing over whether or not to let Claire begin Girl Scouts that day. It would mean skipping her after-school German class that her teacher set up for her. But she had been saying that the class was way easy for her, that she was with a bunch of younger kids and they just colored and learned easy words that she already knows. German class is every Tuesday. Girl Scouts is every other Tuesday at the same time. As of yet she has no real extra-curricular activities, and she is not involved with any other American kids except the ones she plays with sometimes in the neighborhood. So we picked Girl Scouts with the caveat that I would speak to her teacher the next day about the class. (She is checking on it and will get back to me).

So Girl Scouts was fine, but I was instantly overwhelmed by the amount of work it would entail for the mothers. Wow. Cupcakes, crafts, catalogs, cookie sales. We moms attended a special meeting with the troop leader while the girls made masks and painted faces. When the cupcake list came around, I signed up to do the Halloween ones. The lady next to me said, “I’ll sign up for cupcakes on the 4th. That’s election day.” I said, “Oh yeah, that would be cute. You could make little red, white and blue ones with little elephants and donkeys on them.” She looked me right in the eye and said, “You mean Jackasses! Don’t get me started on them. I don’t want to swear in front of the girls.”

I sat there, stunned, wishing I had a clever comeback. I didn’t. Should I tell her, “Hey, not all of us Jackasses are so bad”? Should I say, “Maybe you should not assume that people you don’t know will agree with you.” Or maybe I could have said something about my being rubber and her being glue. I dunno. But instantly I realized just how little I really fit there. That woman felt it was safe to assume my political beliefs simply because of where I was (at a Girl Scout meeting on a military base). But she was wrong. My choices and opinions don’t really fit neatly into any box, and certainly not into hers. So I sat there like a 99th wheel, anxious to get out of there.

When I finally did, I found a nasty note on my car. I had parked in a lot with no signs in it, but apparently it belonged to housing and I had unintentionally pissed someone off. Yet again, I felt that old "I don't belong here" vibe. Suddenly I was in junior high again, desperately wanting to be liked and accepted by people I didn’t really like or accept.

That evening I fed everyone, read stories, got kids to bed, and drew myself a big bubble bath. Just as I got settled with my Fannie Flagg book, my dear sweet husband came in, all sweaty and gross from riding his bike. He wanted to join me. I love the man, and usually I’m happy to share a bath, but this night the last thing I wanted was a big sweaty man in my tub. So I just went to bed.

Yesterday was a little better, although a little neighborhood boy attacked Luke with a big stick out of sheer meanness (I watched him do it), I lost an earring, and for the first time nobody but me showed up to hula hoop group. Feel sorry for me yet?

Today I determined to set off for class early in case the garage machine was having trouble again. But as I left the Kindergarten I stepped in a warm heap of cat scat that I did not notice until after I had tracked it all inside the floor of my car. After getting myself and the car cleaned up (not an easy task), I was late again.

On the way home from class, my travel coffee mug leaked out all over my books and pretty much ruined my already battered German dictionary. I need a new mug. And a new dictionary. And a hug.

So that is why I wrote on my Facebook page this week that I felt like I had a cosmic “Kick me” sign posted on my butt. My friend Stephen wrote back and said, “But what if aliens don’t have feet?” I answered, “Or what if they have hundreds of feet?” He retorted, “Yeah, but what if their feet are tiny and their kicks feel like a nice massage?” So says the optimist to the pessimist.