Whisky Tango ... a little dab'll do ya

Do you mind If I just do a regular Thriftymom blog entry?

I just feel like rambling/venting. So if you're here for an update on Dad: Run! Run while you can! Save yourself!

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So, anyway, Evil Genius Husband had a late meeting (last day of the semester) and so the babies and I went out yesterday. We needed to run errands and pick up some chickens someone was giving us.

I've met a lot of interesting folks while wheeling and dealing over livestock: Suburbanites Gone Wrong, country folks, small town folks, Bewildered Northerners and the occasional Piece of Work.

Well yesterday's person was the latter: a real piece of work.

I finally found his house (People Who Give Bad Directions: a blog entry for another day), and fairly lept out with my crates. I was trying to proceed with some alacrity since the babies were all in the van.

The man who owned the chickens (4 purebred miniature Kelso Gamecocks, in case you're interested), began his ramble before I even reached him: "...is good chickens, really ace, they could be showed in that there fair down in c'lumbya, got 'em fum Alabama, ya know, they's good chickens, cost a lot, really ace, they ..."

I'm used to this. Many of the guys I meet, who fool with livestock on a small scale, are older men. They all have this same monologue. I always listen carefully and respond every now and then because A) I might learn something and B) I was raised to be polite (I know many of you who have just recently met me are thinking; "So what happened with that?"). So anyway, he's mumbling on and there bursts out of the house a boy of seven. He has my least favourite of all little-boy haircuts: buzzed with a rat-tail down the back. Why don't they just put them in a tee-shirt with a big WT on the front?

This child is loud, he's rude, and he's obnoxious. He never introduced himself, asked me a thousand intrusive questions, made ignorant comments (including the gem about my facial piercing and how "blacks get them things") and kept messing with my van. When he did this last I asked his grandfather (who was off muttering somewhere) to please ask his grandson not to mess with my van. His reply was:"He's a mean one, he likes to get into stuff."

Oh, great. Another version of the "boys will be boys" and "they're just being kids" cop-outs. These drive me insane. My children are just as rambunctious as any kids, but in public they are polite and quiet. This isn't hard to accomplish. It's called Mothering and it involves a bit of attentiveness, accountability, and discipline. I can't abide it when someone says to me: "that woman's children are all so good. She is blessed!"

No. She's not blessed. She's doing her job well. Kids aren't born with respect or manners. Their mothers (and/or fathers, of course) instill these qualitites. If your child is beastly it is YOUR fault.

So I say, clearly, "I am going to ask your grandson to not mess with my van". He grunted what I interpreted as a 'suit yourself' and added some lovely sentiments on his grandson's school being "fulla blacks". Gosh. Guess we know where rat-tail got his egregious prejudices, eh?

But before I could go attend rat-tail the man and I got into a standoff about the chickens and the crates. There were 4 small roosters and I had brought two standard peanut crates. I could have put all of them in one. He wanted one chicken per crate. Math was not his strong suit. Neither was tact.

He sez: "Lady, these'r games, they don't like each other."

Blue to self: "Well, duh, sir. I'm not an idiot. They'll be crowded into a dark crate in a dark van for the 4 and-a-half-minute drive home. I doubt seriously there will be a problem."

Blue to man: "We're going to tie their feet."

Man: "I got some bags ..."

Blue to self: "Ahhh, finally a good idea. Drop 'em into those woven feed bags. This is a good emergency fix for moving chickens." (Also good for transporting snakes ... if you ever find yourself needing to.)

While I'm musing, the man returns from house carrying ... two plastic trash bags. As I'm standing there with my mouth hanging open, he tosses the 3rd chicken in and ties the top closed. I had a Forrest Gump Moment. (I'm not a smart man, but ...)

I announced that we could just tie their feet.

So while we're getting the 3rd chicken secured, I hear the distinct heavy click of my side van door unlatching. All of my children are strapped in their carseats so that means only one thing: rat-tail Whisky Tango boy.

I quickly excused myself from grandpa ("He's a mean 'un, that boy, he goes to that school fulla blacks ...") and come around the van like a ship under full sail. Sure enough, van door is wide open and rat-tail is rummaging though one of my grocery bags.

Now, I'm a person who believes that a parent should discipline her own child. I don't think anyone has a right to discipline anyone else's child in most cases. An exception would be if you saw a child hurting a smaller child and Mom was not immediately available, for example.

Unfortunately, I wasn't going to get any help here and I still had to load these chickens. "Please don't do that." I said. He just grinned and continued rooting through my bags. My small children were all sitting there staring at him (rather like he was a wild animal loose in their vehicle. Not too big of a stretch, there.) What if he thought it was cute to, oh, say, put a blanket over my 6 month old's face while I was getting a crate? "Sweetie, it's impolite to mess with other people's stuff" wasn't going to work here.

Fortunately I speak White Trash.

I put my hand on the bag that he had, leaned in till I was inches from his face, and quietly said: "If you don't quit messing with my stuff, boy, I'm gonna wear your butt out."

He reluctantly vacated my van and amused himself by beating a stick against a cagefull of terrified little hens. This bit of nastiness kept him occupied long enough for me to load my chickens and escape.

And, damn, I never found out what school that kid went to. I want to make sure mine never attended. It's fulla white trash.