I'm going to a networking event in a few weeks and after I registered I realized that one of the men speaking at the event happens to be someone I was "matched" with online. I vaguely recall drooling over his pictures and fantasizing about our perfect future as a family of travelling foodies. And because I'm really, really bad at meeting men in general, let alone dating, I've blocked out what was certainly an embarrassing fail in the form of an online greeting that received no response. Awesome.
This event is important for my career and future and I really want to attend. But my pride (what little still remains) is almost certain to be completely shot afterwards. It would be good for me if he didn't recognize me, (or remember my terrible attempt to meet him online) and that's very possible, because I have a generic face. I'm not asking for pity, folks, I just have a really common face. Every single day at least one perfect stranger tells me I look familiar and they're sure they know me from somewhere. Every day. And if I had a nickel for every time someone waved furiously and wondered why I didn't wave back? Well, I'd probably have a couple of dollars by now. But back to the upcoming humiliation. It would be less embarassing if he didn't recognize or remember me. It would also reaffirm my deeply-rooted conviction that I am utterly forgettable. Although, that may serve me well in this case.
I could take another track and dream up ways that I could win him over in person. Perhaps I'll charm my way through the room and he'll seek me out and beg to buy me a drink after we discuss Very Important Things and network with lots of Very Important People. And if by some lightning strike of luck this were to actually happen, I'm pretty sure I'd have spinach in my teeth and I'd trip over the leg of a table after inadvertently offending a cause that he's dedicated his lifes' work to. Maybe I could even knock over a beautiful centerpiece full of glass marbles and hundreds of dollars of rare flowers while I'm at it. Oh, the possibilities are endless.
I'll be back with a full report in November. Because it wouldn't be fun if I took the safe road and just didn't attend. Plus, I already registered and you can bet your ass I'm going to get my mediocre hotel-fare lunch out of the deal. And who knows, maybe they'll have good pens in the swag. I really like a great pen.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Letting Go: The Real-Life Dangers of Preschool
As a woman who has been a stay-at-home-mom since the birth of my first child, I found it both liberating and devastating to send my children to daycare/preschool for the first time. After having gone back to school it became clear immediately that I would need some quiet time in my home in order to get my work accomplished in a (rarely) timely fashion.
It was bittersweet to drop my two-year-old son off and watch him run to play with his new friends and learn from a new environment. I was so excited for him to experience new people, places and things while also struggling with my lack of control. For his first childcare experience I was lucky to have found a lovely, brilliant woman with the patience of a saint and the like-mindedness I needed in regards to food, education and life in general. It was everything I could have asked for; in a word, Perfect. She was truly wonderful. The other kids? Not so much...
I've learned that you can choose your preschool setting with the utmost caution and only after hours upon hours of research, only to be introduced to Nasty Child whom your Perfect Child immediately connects with. And Nasty Child will have an undue amount of influence on your child, and thus your entire life. Seriously, he will leak into every waking moment of your life. Probably even your dreams. He's a soul-sucker, that one.
(it would be wise for you to prepare yourself for the coming onslaught of highly judgemental criticism of other parenting styles, and no, I won't be apologizing)
You see, Nasty Child lives in a world that my children can only dream about. One with unlimited and unsupervised time in front of the television, a host of video games violent enough to offend even me (notoriously non-offendable me), a bevy of scrumptious snack options whose only identifiable ingredient is sugar, no bedtimes, a complete lack of parental coaching on such trivial subjects as manners and respect, and a house full of furniture whose sole purpose is to function as an indoor trampoline and a place to spill their red Kool-Aid.
Among his other lovely quirks, Nasty Child has learned some spectacular vocabulary from home and he won't hesitate, not even for a moment, to share this delightful new language with your child. For while he may not be capable of sharing in the context of polite society, he's more than happy to share his oodles of life experience and impress upon your child the ways of a Cool Kid.
Save for hermetically sealing my home and rejecting society as a whole, pretty sure I can't find a way out of this unpleasant situation. In fact, I'm expecting that it will only get worse as time goes by. Awesome. So for now, I'll leave you with a few of my favorite phrases that my son has brought home from preschool. Enjoy, knowing that you aren't alone.
"Mom, go take a shower. I see some dirt on you. And you have a stinking butt."
"I'm going to kill you."
"The cops will come and blow your head off if you don't get off my bike."
"I'm going to kick your stinking butt." ("stinking butt" is the phrase of choice for October)
"The cops are gonna come and take your mom away forever if you don't give me all the train tracks." (cops: current favorite threat)
Believe it or not, my child isn't actually violent nor evil. Quite the contrary, actually. He's normally a sweet, empathetic child. I figure by first grade the son that I carefully molded and guided will be lost to me forever, in his place a sarcastic, unimpressed potty-mouth.
Wait, that sounds like someone I know... A little close to home, eh?
It was bittersweet to drop my two-year-old son off and watch him run to play with his new friends and learn from a new environment. I was so excited for him to experience new people, places and things while also struggling with my lack of control. For his first childcare experience I was lucky to have found a lovely, brilliant woman with the patience of a saint and the like-mindedness I needed in regards to food, education and life in general. It was everything I could have asked for; in a word, Perfect. She was truly wonderful. The other kids? Not so much...
I've learned that you can choose your preschool setting with the utmost caution and only after hours upon hours of research, only to be introduced to Nasty Child whom your Perfect Child immediately connects with. And Nasty Child will have an undue amount of influence on your child, and thus your entire life. Seriously, he will leak into every waking moment of your life. Probably even your dreams. He's a soul-sucker, that one.
(it would be wise for you to prepare yourself for the coming onslaught of highly judgemental criticism of other parenting styles, and no, I won't be apologizing)
You see, Nasty Child lives in a world that my children can only dream about. One with unlimited and unsupervised time in front of the television, a host of video games violent enough to offend even me (notoriously non-offendable me), a bevy of scrumptious snack options whose only identifiable ingredient is sugar, no bedtimes, a complete lack of parental coaching on such trivial subjects as manners and respect, and a house full of furniture whose sole purpose is to function as an indoor trampoline and a place to spill their red Kool-Aid.
Among his other lovely quirks, Nasty Child has learned some spectacular vocabulary from home and he won't hesitate, not even for a moment, to share this delightful new language with your child. For while he may not be capable of sharing in the context of polite society, he's more than happy to share his oodles of life experience and impress upon your child the ways of a Cool Kid.
Save for hermetically sealing my home and rejecting society as a whole, pretty sure I can't find a way out of this unpleasant situation. In fact, I'm expecting that it will only get worse as time goes by. Awesome. So for now, I'll leave you with a few of my favorite phrases that my son has brought home from preschool. Enjoy, knowing that you aren't alone.
"Mom, go take a shower. I see some dirt on you. And you have a stinking butt."
"I'm going to kill you."
"The cops will come and blow your head off if you don't get off my bike."
"I'm going to kick your stinking butt." ("stinking butt" is the phrase of choice for October)
"The cops are gonna come and take your mom away forever if you don't give me all the train tracks." (cops: current favorite threat)
Believe it or not, my child isn't actually violent nor evil. Quite the contrary, actually. He's normally a sweet, empathetic child. I figure by first grade the son that I carefully molded and guided will be lost to me forever, in his place a sarcastic, unimpressed potty-mouth.
Wait, that sounds like someone I know... A little close to home, eh?
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Mrs. Schroeder-Firefighter, I presume?
I got up early today. Like, 30 minutes early. And I didn't hit the snooze button, not even once. In fact, I bounced up out of bed to the strumming of an obnoxious guitar solo that serves as the alarm tone on my phone and raced to the shower. You might be thinking, why do I use my phone as an alarm clock, when as a bonafide adult I should have graduated to genuine alarm clock ownership? Well, funny you should mention it. As a matter of fact, I am the proud owner of a bright green, LED color-changing alarm clock. And being such a lovely, and apparently juvenile, addition to my bedroom made it automatically the property of my scared-of-everything almost-four-year-old. Why do I even bother?
But back to my early-rising adventure. Today was a big day. A really big day. A day so full of potential that I was already daydreaming about the three C's (cut, color and carat) and where we'd honeymoon. That's right, ladies, today was the day I was going to meet my future husband. The man who would make me reconsider hyphenating my name and would insist on rubbing my feet every evening and playing with my hair until I fell asleep every night. And I only had a few hours to prepare; he was to arrive promptly at 9:00 am.
I took my time in the shower and my children, clearly having sensed the magnitude of the day, slept late allowing me to throughly scrub all my bits and pieces until I was as fresh as the morning dew. I even managed to make it all the way through makeup application and dressing my top half before I heard the first mumurings of my babes. I waltzed in to greet them with air in my step and kisses aplenty, for who could be blue on a day so full of promise? After I'd dropped the babes off at daycare I raced home to prepare my house for The Visit.
While squealing excitedly through a conversation with D I pleated my curtains perfectly, artfully arranged my magazines on the coffee table, (Time on top, Cosmo on the bottom) tidied up the kitchen and generally raced around making sure everything looked effortlessly casual and inviting. The coffee was on and I'd lit a vanilla-scented candle because I read somewhere that vanilla makes men want stability and committment. Hell, if vanilla makes him like it so much he wants to put a ring on it, I'll start bathing in Vanilla Fields. I mean, it couldn't hurt, right? Nevermind the fact that vanilla-scented anything makes me want to die - life is all about compromise. You don't have to say it; I know, I'm brilliant.
Back to The Visit and more importantly, The Visitor. You see, ladies, I was expecting a Firefighter. A real, live, in-the-flesh Firefighter and an off-duty one at that. And we all know that off-duty is code for single-gorgeous-deep-sense-of-moral-obligations-and-seeking-a-committment-with-a-witty-single-mom-of-three. He was coming to my home to inspect my fire extinguisher. I mean, is that caring and kind or what? I felt a deep connection with him already, being as he was looking out for the safety of my family. And on his day off? Seriously, be jealous - I would be if I weren't me.
As 9:00 approaches I start to tingle with anticipation. I'm going to be so charming and interesting that he'll fall all over himself in his efforts to secure a date with me and my dashing wit. And if all goes according to plan, I'll ring in the new year as Mrs. Schroeder-Firefighter with a giant Tiffany sparkler on my left hand. The doorbell rings, the sound a perfect trill that only adds to my excitement and certainty that Mr. Right Firefighter stands waiting for me on the other side of the door.
I wait a few seconds - I'm not desperate you know - and slowly open the door with my eyes cast down and casually toss my hair over my shoulder as I look up expectantly. Turns out that's not my best move. In all the excitement I've forgotten that my hair is pinned back and the "casual toss" ends up making me look like I have a stiff neck. But I recover quickly and look into the eyes of my dashing hero: a gruff gentleman not a day younger than 70. He pushes past me, rushing into the kitchen and grumbling about needing to check the fire extinguisher. Before I've even had time to catch my breath he is on the way back through my front door, calling over his shoulder that he'll be back next year.
What? You must be joking. That's it? That's IT? No gorgeous, muscular, environmentally concious hunk? Apparently off-duty is actually code for off-duty-for-life-because-he's-too-damn-old-to-light-a-fire-let-alone-fight-one.
So this one didn't work out, but that won't stop me from dreaming. And hell, I have two sons and a very competitive daughter, there's bound to be an incident or five in their childhood that requires the assistance of men in uniform. A mom can hope, right?
But back to my early-rising adventure. Today was a big day. A really big day. A day so full of potential that I was already daydreaming about the three C's (cut, color and carat) and where we'd honeymoon. That's right, ladies, today was the day I was going to meet my future husband. The man who would make me reconsider hyphenating my name and would insist on rubbing my feet every evening and playing with my hair until I fell asleep every night. And I only had a few hours to prepare; he was to arrive promptly at 9:00 am.
I took my time in the shower and my children, clearly having sensed the magnitude of the day, slept late allowing me to throughly scrub all my bits and pieces until I was as fresh as the morning dew. I even managed to make it all the way through makeup application and dressing my top half before I heard the first mumurings of my babes. I waltzed in to greet them with air in my step and kisses aplenty, for who could be blue on a day so full of promise? After I'd dropped the babes off at daycare I raced home to prepare my house for The Visit.
While squealing excitedly through a conversation with D I pleated my curtains perfectly, artfully arranged my magazines on the coffee table, (Time on top, Cosmo on the bottom) tidied up the kitchen and generally raced around making sure everything looked effortlessly casual and inviting. The coffee was on and I'd lit a vanilla-scented candle because I read somewhere that vanilla makes men want stability and committment. Hell, if vanilla makes him like it so much he wants to put a ring on it, I'll start bathing in Vanilla Fields. I mean, it couldn't hurt, right? Nevermind the fact that vanilla-scented anything makes me want to die - life is all about compromise. You don't have to say it; I know, I'm brilliant.
Back to The Visit and more importantly, The Visitor. You see, ladies, I was expecting a Firefighter. A real, live, in-the-flesh Firefighter and an off-duty one at that. And we all know that off-duty is code for single-gorgeous-deep-sense-of-moral-obligations-and-seeking-a-committment-with-a-witty-single-mom-of-three. He was coming to my home to inspect my fire extinguisher. I mean, is that caring and kind or what? I felt a deep connection with him already, being as he was looking out for the safety of my family. And on his day off? Seriously, be jealous - I would be if I weren't me.
As 9:00 approaches I start to tingle with anticipation. I'm going to be so charming and interesting that he'll fall all over himself in his efforts to secure a date with me and my dashing wit. And if all goes according to plan, I'll ring in the new year as Mrs. Schroeder-Firefighter with a giant Tiffany sparkler on my left hand. The doorbell rings, the sound a perfect trill that only adds to my excitement and certainty that Mr. Right Firefighter stands waiting for me on the other side of the door.
I wait a few seconds - I'm not desperate you know - and slowly open the door with my eyes cast down and casually toss my hair over my shoulder as I look up expectantly. Turns out that's not my best move. In all the excitement I've forgotten that my hair is pinned back and the "casual toss" ends up making me look like I have a stiff neck. But I recover quickly and look into the eyes of my dashing hero: a gruff gentleman not a day younger than 70. He pushes past me, rushing into the kitchen and grumbling about needing to check the fire extinguisher. Before I've even had time to catch my breath he is on the way back through my front door, calling over his shoulder that he'll be back next year.
What? You must be joking. That's it? That's IT? No gorgeous, muscular, environmentally concious hunk? Apparently off-duty is actually code for off-duty-for-life-because-he's-too-damn-old-to-light-a-fire-let-alone-fight-one.
So this one didn't work out, but that won't stop me from dreaming. And hell, I have two sons and a very competitive daughter, there's bound to be an incident or five in their childhood that requires the assistance of men in uniform. A mom can hope, right?
Monday, September 26, 2011
Rage - the new fragrance by 28 Days
I don't recall if I suffered much from PMS as a teenager or in my early twenties. Perhaps because I wasn't as self-aware - going through a divorce can change that part of you forever, like it or not - or maybe because I hadn't yet had children and the entire contents of my abdominal region were still in the position that God intended. I have a few memories of days where my fuse was a "little short", if you will. But during that time I was also married to an asshole, so really, it's a wash.
Because I had all three of my children inside of 34 months, I had my period exactly four times in four years. And because of that, I was spared the reality of the post-partum, pre-menstrual hell that was to be my new reality. It's another one of those awful truths that sneak up on you - right in line with how no one tells you that three-year-olds are rotten and your breasts will be so very, very sad after you stop breastfeeding.
Beyond the cramps that feel like someone is driving a stake through my belly button and out through the tattoo on my lower back and the "fatigue" that does a great job of convincing me that I might actually die if I don't take a nap, I've come to realize that for a solid ten days of the month, I am going to be SuperBitch. As in, raging, extremely irritable, where-the-hell-is-the-saltshaker SuperBitch. And it's not like I'm unaware that I'm a bit out-of-sorts. By the morning of day three I'm past thinking my kids are out to get me and I've moved on to, Oh yeah, I'm supposed to get my period here pretty quick and that segues nicely into Well, it better come real damn soon because I can't even stand to be around myself right now.
Right around this time, I've acquired what I affectionately refer to as my "18 week bloat." You know, I look like I'm 18 weeks pregnant and not a damn thing in my closet fits - not that I've even attempted anything other than yoga pants because doing so would just hammer another nail in the coffin of I'm so fat and ugly right now, I just need to cry it out with this jar of Nutella and an afternoon of Sandra Bullock movies. And all this before the main event even arrives.
So let's see here; irrationally irritable? check; ridiculously hormonal? check; ravenously hungry? check; migraine? check; bloated? check; insomnia? check; looks like the gang's all here! Oh, and don't forget about that last-minute panicked race to Target because even though you were sure you bought enough to last for six months, you've run out. Again. The laws of nature also clearly state that this maniacal run through Target will be done with unwashed hair, mascara smeared under your eyes and you will run into no less than three people that you know but would never explain to, why you look the way you do right now. So by my calculations, I should be making this trip sometime this weekend. I can't wait!
I thought I'd end the day by yelling at my kids for reasons not good enough and an attempt to quell said rage with a salty binge. You know where I'm going with this, right? You guessed it: Ramen. And because the 1580 mg of sodium in ONE PACKET is not enough to tamp down the beast within, I made sure to make it a two-pack night.
Now I'm off to throw back a few Benadryl and a sedative with the hopes that I have a more successful nights' sleep than last. So wish me luck, ladies. And remember, if you think you're having a shitty day, feel free to give me a call towards the end of the month; we can rage together. But mostly, you'll just have to listen to me rage. Because it's All About Me.
Because I had all three of my children inside of 34 months, I had my period exactly four times in four years. And because of that, I was spared the reality of the post-partum, pre-menstrual hell that was to be my new reality. It's another one of those awful truths that sneak up on you - right in line with how no one tells you that three-year-olds are rotten and your breasts will be so very, very sad after you stop breastfeeding.
Beyond the cramps that feel like someone is driving a stake through my belly button and out through the tattoo on my lower back and the "fatigue" that does a great job of convincing me that I might actually die if I don't take a nap, I've come to realize that for a solid ten days of the month, I am going to be SuperBitch. As in, raging, extremely irritable, where-the-hell-is-the-saltshaker SuperBitch. And it's not like I'm unaware that I'm a bit out-of-sorts. By the morning of day three I'm past thinking my kids are out to get me and I've moved on to, Oh yeah, I'm supposed to get my period here pretty quick and that segues nicely into Well, it better come real damn soon because I can't even stand to be around myself right now.
Right around this time, I've acquired what I affectionately refer to as my "18 week bloat." You know, I look like I'm 18 weeks pregnant and not a damn thing in my closet fits - not that I've even attempted anything other than yoga pants because doing so would just hammer another nail in the coffin of I'm so fat and ugly right now, I just need to cry it out with this jar of Nutella and an afternoon of Sandra Bullock movies. And all this before the main event even arrives.
So let's see here; irrationally irritable? check; ridiculously hormonal? check; ravenously hungry? check; migraine? check; bloated? check; insomnia? check; looks like the gang's all here! Oh, and don't forget about that last-minute panicked race to Target because even though you were sure you bought enough to last for six months, you've run out. Again. The laws of nature also clearly state that this maniacal run through Target will be done with unwashed hair, mascara smeared under your eyes and you will run into no less than three people that you know but would never explain to, why you look the way you do right now. So by my calculations, I should be making this trip sometime this weekend. I can't wait!
I thought I'd end the day by yelling at my kids for reasons not good enough and an attempt to quell said rage with a salty binge. You know where I'm going with this, right? You guessed it: Ramen. And because the 1580 mg of sodium in ONE PACKET is not enough to tamp down the beast within, I made sure to make it a two-pack night.
Now I'm off to throw back a few Benadryl and a sedative with the hopes that I have a more successful nights' sleep than last. So wish me luck, ladies. And remember, if you think you're having a shitty day, feel free to give me a call towards the end of the month; we can rage together. But mostly, you'll just have to listen to me rage. Because it's All About Me.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Dinner's Here!
I'd like to preface this story with a little tidbit of information about myself: I don't embarass easily. I'm pretty adept at finding the humor in uncomfortable situations and I have no problem laughing at myself. Plus, humiliation makes for great story-telling. But while I don't embarass easily, I do, on occasion, find myself without words.
I'm self-employed and run my business from my home and I often receive packages relating to said business. Also, because I'm rich. Last week was a banner week for deliveries - I was expecting the UPS and FedEx guys to be by with no less than eight separate shipments. Things were going swimmingly until early evening on Thursday. A package that I needed for the next day had yet to arrive so I had my kids glued to the front window, keeping watch for me. I was also expecting the delivery guy to stop by with our Chinese takeout.
The doorbell rang, and not seeing a delivery truck, I assumed it must be the food. I open the door to see a guy holding out a cardboard box, wearing a striped polo shirt and khaki shorts. Since when did FedEx go casual?
"I have a special delivery," he says, all kinds of gorgeous and making me wish Fynn didn't have his hand down my shirt.
"You're not my dinner." It's a statement, not a question. He smiles and holds up his other hand, with the bag of food.
"Oh, you are my dinner." Buhhhhhhhhhh... Instantly red, I dig through my wallet and pull out an extra $5, pushing it towards him as he starts to laugh and walk back to his car.
I shut the door, wishing my filter worked better on days like today. I sigh and mentally add Beijing to the list of places that I can no longer order from.
Two days later, I'm following up on some work leads and see an unfamiliar number in my phone with a 612 area code. I call the number, expecting it to be one of my leads in the metro area and imagine my horror when the CHINESE TAKEOUT GUY answers. I'd forgotten he'd called to get directions to my house. I start stammering out some incoherent explanation about how I thought he was someone from work and blerb flub glank plugf... He sounds confused and then suddenly, "You're the lady from Thursday, aren't you?"
"Ummm, yeah. Sorry. I'll just, uh, take your number out of my phone." I hung up before I could further convince him that I was a stalker who wanted to have him for dinner. Oh. My. Goodness.
I'm self-employed and run my business from my home and I often receive packages relating to said business. Also, because I'm rich. Last week was a banner week for deliveries - I was expecting the UPS and FedEx guys to be by with no less than eight separate shipments. Things were going swimmingly until early evening on Thursday. A package that I needed for the next day had yet to arrive so I had my kids glued to the front window, keeping watch for me. I was also expecting the delivery guy to stop by with our Chinese takeout.
The doorbell rang, and not seeing a delivery truck, I assumed it must be the food. I open the door to see a guy holding out a cardboard box, wearing a striped polo shirt and khaki shorts. Since when did FedEx go casual?
"I have a special delivery," he says, all kinds of gorgeous and making me wish Fynn didn't have his hand down my shirt.
"You're not my dinner." It's a statement, not a question. He smiles and holds up his other hand, with the bag of food.
"Oh, you are my dinner." Buhhhhhhhhhh... Instantly red, I dig through my wallet and pull out an extra $5, pushing it towards him as he starts to laugh and walk back to his car.
I shut the door, wishing my filter worked better on days like today. I sigh and mentally add Beijing to the list of places that I can no longer order from.
Two days later, I'm following up on some work leads and see an unfamiliar number in my phone with a 612 area code. I call the number, expecting it to be one of my leads in the metro area and imagine my horror when the CHINESE TAKEOUT GUY answers. I'd forgotten he'd called to get directions to my house. I start stammering out some incoherent explanation about how I thought he was someone from work and blerb flub glank plugf... He sounds confused and then suddenly, "You're the lady from Thursday, aren't you?"
"Ummm, yeah. Sorry. I'll just, uh, take your number out of my phone." I hung up before I could further convince him that I was a stalker who wanted to have him for dinner. Oh. My. Goodness.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Being Neighborly
My doorbell rings after dinner one night last week and as usual, I have no pants on (does anyone else see a theme here? Why am I so often without proper clothing? Oh, that's right, I never get to finish a task because I'M A MOM) and my kids are racing eachother to the door, fighting over who gets to open it, heedless of my multiple warnings about Strangers and kidnapping etc. Strangers aside, I'm more concerned at the moment about the door flying open wide for the hot FedEx guy to see me in my panties. Of course, they were cute panties. But still.
I manage to hold the kids off long enough for me to wrap a blanket around my waist while I try to remember what exactly I look like at the moment. This proves too difficult a task so I say Eff It and open the door anyway. Lucky for me, it's just two 8-year-old neighborhood boys, one with the most intricate cornrows I've ever seen and the other with startlingly orange hair. And both of them are into their second can of Mt. Dew since school let out, but the looks of their inability to sit still long enough to complete a single, coherent thought. As they talk over one another, interrupting, stumbling and repeating random thoughts I realize they're trying to sell me something from a massive armful of fundraiser catalogs. I listen politely and do my level best to hold them back with my knee - they seem determined to come in for a visit and perhaps a Cherry Coke.
"So, whaddya gonna buy?" says the tall one with the braids that I want to touch, but won't, because it just showcases my ignorant white side. The red-head is out of breath and I take advantage of the moment of quiet, not to get my checkbook, but to hit them where it hurts.
"Sorry guys, not today. But thanks for stopping."
They stand, bewildered but not broken. Yet. Says the red-head, gesturing with his thumb to my next-door neighbors house, "Well, uh, your neighbors said you're rich. Soooo...?" Eyebrows raised, lip curled in confused expectation, he waits for me to recant my polite refusal and open my pocketbook to allow the stacks of Benjamins to flutter down into his outstretched palms.
It takes everything I have not to burst into hysterical laughter; instead I offer a bemused "Really? Well, that's nice. Have a great night, boys." I turn and close the door as they walk away, rejected by the Rich Lady in the 'hood.
Greyson looks to me and says, "Who's Rich?
"You know, Great-Uncle Rich? The one that looks like Grandpa D?"
"Uh-huh. But he's not here, Mom."
"I know, buddy. Maybe someday he'll come and visit us. Wouldn't that be nice?"
I manage to hold the kids off long enough for me to wrap a blanket around my waist while I try to remember what exactly I look like at the moment. This proves too difficult a task so I say Eff It and open the door anyway. Lucky for me, it's just two 8-year-old neighborhood boys, one with the most intricate cornrows I've ever seen and the other with startlingly orange hair. And both of them are into their second can of Mt. Dew since school let out, but the looks of their inability to sit still long enough to complete a single, coherent thought. As they talk over one another, interrupting, stumbling and repeating random thoughts I realize they're trying to sell me something from a massive armful of fundraiser catalogs. I listen politely and do my level best to hold them back with my knee - they seem determined to come in for a visit and perhaps a Cherry Coke.
"So, whaddya gonna buy?" says the tall one with the braids that I want to touch, but won't, because it just showcases my ignorant white side. The red-head is out of breath and I take advantage of the moment of quiet, not to get my checkbook, but to hit them where it hurts.
"Sorry guys, not today. But thanks for stopping."
They stand, bewildered but not broken. Yet. Says the red-head, gesturing with his thumb to my next-door neighbors house, "Well, uh, your neighbors said you're rich. Soooo...?" Eyebrows raised, lip curled in confused expectation, he waits for me to recant my polite refusal and open my pocketbook to allow the stacks of Benjamins to flutter down into his outstretched palms.
It takes everything I have not to burst into hysterical laughter; instead I offer a bemused "Really? Well, that's nice. Have a great night, boys." I turn and close the door as they walk away, rejected by the Rich Lady in the 'hood.
Greyson looks to me and says, "Who's Rich?
"You know, Great-Uncle Rich? The one that looks like Grandpa D?"
"Uh-huh. But he's not here, Mom."
"I know, buddy. Maybe someday he'll come and visit us. Wouldn't that be nice?"
Monday, September 19, 2011
I call him, The Negotiator
It's the Monday Morning Mad Dash and I'm still naked, hair dripping wet and exactly one and a half of my children are dressed. We're late, 'cause we're always late, but I'm not Frantic Late. Yet. Tuesday is having a hard time getting her socks on so I ask Grey to give her a hand.
"No, mom, 'cause I'll scratch her with my cheetah claws."
"Well, she's a cheetah too, so she'll be fine."
"But I'm the giant cheetah, so my claws will make her bleed all over the carpet. And that would make a mess."
He's got me here; I really hate messes. Meanwhile, Tuesday chimes in with "I got it" and continues on, dressing herself in true 2-year-old fashion: everything on backwards. The poor, neglected middle child, always having to fend for herself. I chase down the naked baby and wrestle him into his clothes, all the while being accosted by a never-ending refrain of "Can I open the gate, can I open the gate, can I open the gate, can I open the gate NOW MOM?!"
As we head down the stairs, Grey informs me that he's Spiderman, Tuesday is Batman and Fynn is Ironman. Who the hell is Ironman, by the way? I point them all to the shoe closet and tell them to put on shoes and grab their hoodies from the pile so we can leave. And every time I call my child by his name I am politely redirected, "You mean, Spiderman?" "Yeah, Spiderman, get your Crocs on and grab your orange hoodie."
"Can I go outside now, can I go outside now, can I go outside now, can I go outside now, can I go outside NOW MOM?!"
"Yeah, Grey, we're all ready now. Go ahead and go out to the car."
"You mean, Spiderman?"
"Right. Spiderman. Hey Batman, you ready too? How about you, Ironman?"
Oh, Monday, I'm so glad to see you.
"No, mom, 'cause I'll scratch her with my cheetah claws."
"Well, she's a cheetah too, so she'll be fine."
"But I'm the giant cheetah, so my claws will make her bleed all over the carpet. And that would make a mess."
He's got me here; I really hate messes. Meanwhile, Tuesday chimes in with "I got it" and continues on, dressing herself in true 2-year-old fashion: everything on backwards. The poor, neglected middle child, always having to fend for herself. I chase down the naked baby and wrestle him into his clothes, all the while being accosted by a never-ending refrain of "Can I open the gate, can I open the gate, can I open the gate, can I open the gate NOW MOM?!"
As we head down the stairs, Grey informs me that he's Spiderman, Tuesday is Batman and Fynn is Ironman. Who the hell is Ironman, by the way? I point them all to the shoe closet and tell them to put on shoes and grab their hoodies from the pile so we can leave. And every time I call my child by his name I am politely redirected, "You mean, Spiderman?" "Yeah, Spiderman, get your Crocs on and grab your orange hoodie."
"Can I go outside now, can I go outside now, can I go outside now, can I go outside now, can I go outside NOW MOM?!"
"Yeah, Grey, we're all ready now. Go ahead and go out to the car."
"You mean, Spiderman?"
"Right. Spiderman. Hey Batman, you ready too? How about you, Ironman?"
Oh, Monday, I'm so glad to see you.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Things I Love:
Meddling strangers at the grocery store.
I recently took the trip from hell to Super One in Kenwood. And let's be honest, most any trip by yourself with three tiny kids sucks, but this one was Extra rotten. It started out ok, except for my already foul mood. We grabbed one of the car carts and I thought my kiddos would be so delighted with the novelty that this quick trip would go off without a hitch. What a novel idea. I made my way through the produce section without incident. As we round the refrigerated juice corner, a woman stops me to tell me that I have "the most gorgeous children." Why thank you! You can have one if you'd like. Another woman standing nearby echoes lady #1's sentiment and proceeds to follow me through the store and comment on their remarkable beauty every other aisle or so.
By now Greyson and Tuesday have heard how beautiful they are enough times to feel that any behavior is darling and thus acceptable. Including but not limited to: jumping in and out of the cart, running away from the mom, pulling one another's hair, emptying shelves on the floor - glass jars in particular, and loudly sharing all the hilarious potty vocabularly recently learned from friends. Awesome. My specially formulated, for-public-use-only Rage Whisper is rapidly becoming an out-loud, constant reprimand that borders on out-and-out hysteria. I'm moments away from my own Mom Tantrum so I give up and race through the store, running over customers and my children alike in order to grab the items we absolutely have to have.
By the time we make it out to the car, in true Duluth fashion, it is at least 30 degrees warmer than when we went in the store and the humidity has risen to 400%. My wool sweater immediately sticks to my body and threatens to shrink and fuse to my skin. I rip my sweater off and race to the car, (praying that I rememered to put a bra on under my tank top) Grey with a leg hanging out the door of the car cart and Tuesday doing her level best to jump ship. Fynn is bawling but he's strapped in so he doesn't matter right now.
Grey hops out of the cart and the magnetic force of a giant puddle pulls him in, causing him to lose his mind and jump in with his brand new tennis shoes. While I'm yelling at him and trying to rangle him into the car, now soaking wet, Tuesday escapes and runs out into traffic, laughing maniacally and enjoying her freedom and ability to make her mother shoot fire out of her eyes. I slam the door on Grey and race to grab Tuesday, screaming about roads and cars and danger and "SQUISH YOU LIKE A BUG" and stuff her into the car. Meanwhile, my giant cart rolls into the middle of the road, Fynn still strapped in and bawling, and a nice gentleman gives me a dirty look and kicks at the cart to change its' path, lest it crash into his Buick.
My blood pressure is approximately 300/220 and I can feel a stroke in my very near future. With the groceries and Fynn safely in the car I go back to strap in the big ones, by now hysterical with the injustice of life as a child. Much shoving and stuffing commence as they pull out the trademark Flex Move, the one where their butt comes all the way up and out of the seat, rendering the strap-buckling impossible. About an hour later I have all three buckled, bawling and ready to get the hell out of there. My hair is sticking to my face, I'm sweaty and my eyes are bugging out of my head, pulsing in time with my blood pressure - imagine The Hulk, minus the greenish hue.
And it just gets better. The woman parked next to us has slammed both of my car doors in order to get by and is chain smoking with the windows rolled up in her truck, just enjoying the show. When I get the last door shut after my wrestling match with my kids, she rolls down the window, allowing me to share in her quest for emphysema, and holds out two suckers.
"Hey, can your kids have these?"
"No, they can't. But thanks." How cliche is that? Strangers offering candy? I mean, really...
"Well, they sure don't look very happy."
Yep, they aren't very happy. 'Cause I'm a horrible parent. And I thought I could get through Super One before lunch. By myself. With all three kids. And a car cart.
I recently took the trip from hell to Super One in Kenwood. And let's be honest, most any trip by yourself with three tiny kids sucks, but this one was Extra rotten. It started out ok, except for my already foul mood. We grabbed one of the car carts and I thought my kiddos would be so delighted with the novelty that this quick trip would go off without a hitch. What a novel idea. I made my way through the produce section without incident. As we round the refrigerated juice corner, a woman stops me to tell me that I have "the most gorgeous children." Why thank you! You can have one if you'd like. Another woman standing nearby echoes lady #1's sentiment and proceeds to follow me through the store and comment on their remarkable beauty every other aisle or so.
By now Greyson and Tuesday have heard how beautiful they are enough times to feel that any behavior is darling and thus acceptable. Including but not limited to: jumping in and out of the cart, running away from the mom, pulling one another's hair, emptying shelves on the floor - glass jars in particular, and loudly sharing all the hilarious potty vocabularly recently learned from friends. Awesome. My specially formulated, for-public-use-only Rage Whisper is rapidly becoming an out-loud, constant reprimand that borders on out-and-out hysteria. I'm moments away from my own Mom Tantrum so I give up and race through the store, running over customers and my children alike in order to grab the items we absolutely have to have.
By the time we make it out to the car, in true Duluth fashion, it is at least 30 degrees warmer than when we went in the store and the humidity has risen to 400%. My wool sweater immediately sticks to my body and threatens to shrink and fuse to my skin. I rip my sweater off and race to the car, (praying that I rememered to put a bra on under my tank top) Grey with a leg hanging out the door of the car cart and Tuesday doing her level best to jump ship. Fynn is bawling but he's strapped in so he doesn't matter right now.
Grey hops out of the cart and the magnetic force of a giant puddle pulls him in, causing him to lose his mind and jump in with his brand new tennis shoes. While I'm yelling at him and trying to rangle him into the car, now soaking wet, Tuesday escapes and runs out into traffic, laughing maniacally and enjoying her freedom and ability to make her mother shoot fire out of her eyes. I slam the door on Grey and race to grab Tuesday, screaming about roads and cars and danger and "SQUISH YOU LIKE A BUG" and stuff her into the car. Meanwhile, my giant cart rolls into the middle of the road, Fynn still strapped in and bawling, and a nice gentleman gives me a dirty look and kicks at the cart to change its' path, lest it crash into his Buick.
My blood pressure is approximately 300/220 and I can feel a stroke in my very near future. With the groceries and Fynn safely in the car I go back to strap in the big ones, by now hysterical with the injustice of life as a child. Much shoving and stuffing commence as they pull out the trademark Flex Move, the one where their butt comes all the way up and out of the seat, rendering the strap-buckling impossible. About an hour later I have all three buckled, bawling and ready to get the hell out of there. My hair is sticking to my face, I'm sweaty and my eyes are bugging out of my head, pulsing in time with my blood pressure - imagine The Hulk, minus the greenish hue.
And it just gets better. The woman parked next to us has slammed both of my car doors in order to get by and is chain smoking with the windows rolled up in her truck, just enjoying the show. When I get the last door shut after my wrestling match with my kids, she rolls down the window, allowing me to share in her quest for emphysema, and holds out two suckers.
"Hey, can your kids have these?"
"No, they can't. But thanks." How cliche is that? Strangers offering candy? I mean, really...
"Well, they sure don't look very happy."
Yep, they aren't very happy. 'Cause I'm a horrible parent. And I thought I could get through Super One before lunch. By myself. With all three kids. And a car cart.
Dear Conan O'Brien,
I've been a fan since my early days in college - the first time around, that is. I was so excited, like many others, to see you make the move to The Tonight Show. And like the rest of the world, I thought the show sucked. But don't worry, Conan, I have the answers to all of your problems.
You'll be relieved to hear that you aren't the problem, nor are the writers. You are a New Yorker, through and through and your appeal stayed in New York. The west coast is material, superficial and vacant, while the east coast is cerebral, ironic and witty. Am I the only one that can see why this is a problem? Hello? An audience who doesn't get the jokes, doesn't laugh. Take your freakishly tall, red headed self back to New York and have a cool show again. Because really, I can't watch you on TBS any more than I could watch you tank on The Tonight Show.
Someone should pay me for this stuff.
Love,
Not Laughing Leah
You'll be relieved to hear that you aren't the problem, nor are the writers. You are a New Yorker, through and through and your appeal stayed in New York. The west coast is material, superficial and vacant, while the east coast is cerebral, ironic and witty. Am I the only one that can see why this is a problem? Hello? An audience who doesn't get the jokes, doesn't laugh. Take your freakishly tall, red headed self back to New York and have a cool show again. Because really, I can't watch you on TBS any more than I could watch you tank on The Tonight Show.
Someone should pay me for this stuff.
Love,
Not Laughing Leah
So sue me...
Yeah, yeah, I've been absent for like a million years. Sue me. I can be counted on only for my unreliability, chronic lateness (although D says my lateness has not reached "annoyingly late" status yet, merely predictably late - so I guess I'm predictable if not reliable) and my charm and sharp wit. So stay tuned and you just might laugh 'til you pee.
I was at Walgreen's picking up some Sudaphed yesterday so as to minimize the chance of my left cheek and eye socket exploding and making a mess while I was at work. And it only took an hour, what with the DNA swab, blood sample and criminal background check. Thanks a heap, meth users; couldn't you have used something like Pepto Bismol? I never buy that shit.
While I was waiting to be frisked by the meth police, a brother and sister came back to the pharmacy, presumably to pick up something to do with the ginormous cast on his arm. Imagine my horror when he threw his arm around her and started to slurp on her lower lip while they waited. Seriously, there is NO WAY they weren't related. They looked IDENTICAL. Same nose, same eyes, same coloring. Opposites attract? Not so, with this couple. I went into full-on Inappropriate Stare state; I couldn't help myself, it was THAT disturbing. And if I'm being totally honest, I actually had to put on some lip gloss to keep my mouth busy so I couldn't ask them what the deal was with them lookin' all related and stuff. Creeeeeeeeepppppyyyyyy. Oh, and if you're wondering, yeah, I took my time getting out to my car so I could do a little more staring when they came out together. There was something not quite right about that pair. I wonder if their parent's know what they're up to?
I was at Walgreen's picking up some Sudaphed yesterday so as to minimize the chance of my left cheek and eye socket exploding and making a mess while I was at work. And it only took an hour, what with the DNA swab, blood sample and criminal background check. Thanks a heap, meth users; couldn't you have used something like Pepto Bismol? I never buy that shit.
While I was waiting to be frisked by the meth police, a brother and sister came back to the pharmacy, presumably to pick up something to do with the ginormous cast on his arm. Imagine my horror when he threw his arm around her and started to slurp on her lower lip while they waited. Seriously, there is NO WAY they weren't related. They looked IDENTICAL. Same nose, same eyes, same coloring. Opposites attract? Not so, with this couple. I went into full-on Inappropriate Stare state; I couldn't help myself, it was THAT disturbing. And if I'm being totally honest, I actually had to put on some lip gloss to keep my mouth busy so I couldn't ask them what the deal was with them lookin' all related and stuff. Creeeeeeeeepppppyyyyyy. Oh, and if you're wondering, yeah, I took my time getting out to my car so I could do a little more staring when they came out together. There was something not quite right about that pair. I wonder if their parent's know what they're up to?
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