tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18282942670948802752024-03-12T20:57:45.619-07:00Misadventures in MotherhoodMisadventures in Motherhoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04733618217432605890noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828294267094880275.post-66072162366374821062015-09-08T09:29:00.001-07:002015-09-08T09:29:31.319-07:00Busted Blog!Dear readers, I apologize for dropping off the face of the earth for the past two years. In short, I had a surgical back procedure that went terribly wrong, resulting in me being in the worst pain of my life. I spent a year in bed feeling like I was being burned alive from the waist down. It was pretty horrific.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I have recovered (mostly), but I seem to have a blogging block now. The snark and sarcasm have left the building. All I feel right now is gratitude for the healing I've received, the fact that I can play with my children again, and the ability to walk around the house and actually feel the texture of the carpet under my feet again.<br />
<br />
Everything has changed. I'm a new person, and that new person is no longer compatible with this blog. I am debating starting a new one... I'll keep you "posted." But for now, this blog is as busted as my back was for two years. <br /><br />So thank you for all of your support and comments, and I'll let you know if I relocate! Love and light to all of you! <br /><br />Sincerely,<br />
Jenn Misadventures in Motherhoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04733618217432605890noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828294267094880275.post-10951793800032833432012-05-20T19:06:00.000-07:002012-05-20T21:03:27.726-07:00Hoochie Mama?<br />
It's hard to believe that I'll be 35 tomorrow. When I was a kid—and even in my early twenties—35 sounded ridiculously "grown up," and 40 seemed positively <i>ancient.</i> Yet here I am, feeling perfectly fine about the milestone.<br />
<br />
I probably wouldn't be making much of a fuss about it at all, except that we're going on a cruise in a couple of weeks and my birthday is a convenient justification to go out and shop for some new clothes (hey, I'll shamelessly take any excuse I can get). <br />
<br />
I haven't been out shopping for myself in positively <i>ages</i>, so I decided to do it right. I found a babysitter and reserved an entire morning to go out to a local strip mall, my primary mission being to find beachy, sexy clothes to wear on our
upcoming vacation. <br />
<br />
When I arrived at the shopping center, I was disappointed to find that I'd been "out of the game" for so long that most of the stores weren't there any more. But I spotted one trendy shop still in business, so I headed that direction and told myself the trip would still be a great success.<br />
<br />
As I neared the store, I caught a glimpse of the displays and stopped in my tracks. The establishment had turned to the Dark Side—it had become a "hoochie shop."<br />
<br />
Unidentifiable hip-hop music pulsed from within the store, where headless
mannequins modeled scraps of fabric that didn't seem to serve any
particular purpose. Sequined bras and transparent lace leotards hung proudly in the windows, and neon posters shouted in capital
letters that the clothes were "ALWAYS ON SALE!! $19.99 OR LESS!! (some
more)." <br />
<br />
I warily crossed the threshold (I had come too far to turn back now) and was
instantly sized up by an employee. She looked me up and down, scowled
at my frumpy yoga pants and ratty tee shirt stained with unidentifiable child goo, rolled her eyes dismissively and
walked off in search of someone who might actually buy
something. <br />
<br />
I couldn't decide whether I should be offended or glad. <br />
<br />
I
probably would have just turned around and left then, but a little devil appeared on my shoulder, urging me to look around. <i>After all,</i> it reasoned, <i>there might be </i><i>something worthwhile hidden in the back. </i>I acquiesced and ventured deeper into the store.<br />
<br />
Upon passing a rack of clingy dresses with giant cutouts in the sides, a little angel appeared on my other shoulder and shouted, <i>"I just don't understand what kids are wearing these days!" </i><br />
<br />
I was immediately shocked that this thought had popped into my head—when had I become such a stick-in-the mud? I told the angel to shut up and stop making me feel old, and the devil on the other shoulder gave me a high-five and asserted that I was damn sexy and could pull off any of the outfits in the store. <br />
<br />
Well, except perhaps this one...even the little devil said "<i>WTF?</i>"<i> </i>when it saw this.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAybYj7iBV0c-CRK8ZqMsTkrJIexHJlqBuLgJbArmT5CC3P3tL1ngwc4i1KvdGEbGqS37G4t-06yQfiag2FTnJ6WXVXitMHsT9fBngV6cnWZdE9Ecmm2s_naIj-mVbt2twZZIAnl349tjx/s1600/IMG_20120511_120429.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAybYj7iBV0c-CRK8ZqMsTkrJIexHJlqBuLgJbArmT5CC3P3tL1ngwc4i1KvdGEbGqS37G4t-06yQfiag2FTnJ6WXVXitMHsT9fBngV6cnWZdE9Ecmm2s_naIj-mVbt2twZZIAnl349tjx/s400/IMG_20120511_120429.jpg" width="298" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>This just seems like a waste of a perfectly good security tag.</i><br />
<br /></div>
I gaped at the fluorescent orange "dress" for a couple of minutes—as if
staring at it would miraculously
cause it to make sense—then I shook my head, walked away, and ran smack into a display of bedazzled bras. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-GbGRZsZEpQh36FcUGhhJsLW3s9Nfgg19m_Ur4z2_ltXDSAJnnm3JaoHBNjUits9X0_v_AkslRTRSb370BewtLh5_JUN3oZzixm7PDcoIraYV6B0SdLwie6Kx2pBtfijQqexusg8iiyzK/s1600/IMG_20120511_120911.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-GbGRZsZEpQh36FcUGhhJsLW3s9Nfgg19m_Ur4z2_ltXDSAJnnm3JaoHBNjUits9X0_v_AkslRTRSb370BewtLh5_JUN3oZzixm7PDcoIraYV6B0SdLwie6Kx2pBtfijQqexusg8iiyzK/s320/IMG_20120511_120911.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<i>Is it just me, or does this bra seem to already have nipples on it? </i><br />
<i>(poorly placed, too)</i><br />
<br /></div>
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</div>
Once again, a little battle raged inside my brain. The angel was reacting with disbelief. <i>What a ridiculous piece of clothing! What would you even do with one of those? </i>it demanded.<br />
<br />
The devil immediately fired back, reassuring me that I could definitely wear one of those if I was in the
right environment (although the devil neglected to say what that
environment might be).<br />
<br />
The internal debate was making my head spin, and it was unclear which side was winning.<br />
<br />
Hoping things would improve, I continued deeper into the store. When I rounded a corner and came upon garments that I thought were tube tops but were actually skirts, the angel angrily yelled, <i>Where's the rest of that skirt?</i> <br />
<br />
The devil kicked it and and accused me of turning into my mother. <br />
<br />
I was getting a headache and finally decided it was time to leave, so I lifted my chin, threw my shoulders back, and proudly marched out the door. I thought I caught a glimpse of an employee laughing at me as I left, but then the little devil told me that I was being stupid and ordered me to get my head out of my ass. <br />
<br />
Back in the parking lot, I was unsure of what to do next. I didn't have a lot of time left, so after some consideration, I decided to hit my "standby store"— Ross Dress for Less. It's my default for finding shoes and dresses on the cheap. <br />
<br />
I wandered in and immediately felt my stress evaporate. No one was glaring at me or sizing me up; in fact, I'm pretty sure they're trained to ignore you in that store unless you're urinating on the bedding or shooting meth in the toy department. <br />
<br />
I zeroed in on a rack of summery dresses, picked up several—along with some cute denim shorts and a few breezy tops—and headed for the fitting rooms.<br />
<br />
Now, in my humble opinion, whoever designed the dismal lighting in fitting rooms should be shot. I don't know how women can be expected to buy <i>anything</i> when our bodies look like lumpy masses of tapioca pudding in front of those giant mirrors.<br />
<br />
I usually prepare myself for this when I go out shopping—so as not to be horrified when I finally disrobe—but it had been quite a while since I had really shopped for myself, and the disturbing effect when I tried on the dresses caught me off guard.<br />
<br />
Every lump was magnified; every roll was brought into sharp relief. Thighs that would probably look fine in normal lighting appeared to be coated in cottage cheese under those horrible fluorescents. I found myself discarding one garment after another in frustration.<br />
<br />
It didn't help that the devil on my shoulder was hurling insults at me, blaming me for letting my body get this way and insisting that I do something about it, pronto. The angel was disturbingly silent. <br />
<br />
I sadly brought the garments back out of the fitting room and handed the entire lot to the attendant. I didn't have time to try anything else on, but I didn't want the trip to be a total failure, so I decided to swing by the shoe department on my way out to see if anything appealed to me. After all, at least my feet weren't too disgusting. <br />
<br />
As I crossed the store, I spotted this highly airbrushed ass staring at me from a box in the health and beauty section.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWpa_9a_oRew5OXNIHw2v4cZP_b0ckZql5dXqnMFzRnuS3D2Qzg1CnA1tMOnBL7KwEut82keKPfuPE5nDvsinden_7GgFBf8f7qumSY5vcMfYi0W2jPuuYXeSmjkcOTUsY1tlbGf310dbj/s1600/cellulite+cream.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWpa_9a_oRew5OXNIHw2v4cZP_b0ckZql5dXqnMFzRnuS3D2Qzg1CnA1tMOnBL7KwEut82keKPfuPE5nDvsinden_7GgFBf8f7qumSY5vcMfYi0W2jPuuYXeSmjkcOTUsY1tlbGf310dbj/s200/cellulite+cream.png" width="115" /></a></div>
<br />
I went over to take a closer look. <br />
<br />
On the front of the package, shiny
letters announced that the cream inside would smooth skin and banish cellulite. I was intrigued...after the close-up view of my cottage-cheese thighs in the fitting room, I was just about
desperate enough to try anything. I picked up the box and turned it over in my hands. <br />
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The
instructions stated that the cream should be applied liberally to all
areas that need slimming. It went on to suggest some areas, just in case you were legally blind or couldn't think of any yourself. I did the mental math and realized that,
for best results, I would
probably have to fill a bathtub with the cream and soak in it every day for a month.<br />
<br />
That seemed rather impractical. <br />
<br />
In fact, I doubted that the discount cream would do anything at all, but the devil on my shoulder was jumping up and down excitedly and shouting that I should buy it, so I set my jaw and purposefully
marched to the checkout with my bottle of miracle cellulite cream in hand. The angel hung her head in shame as I paid the six dollars and ninety-seven cents for the product. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
As the cashier bagged up my purchase, it occurred to me that I had hit a new low; not only had I failed to find anything flattering for my cruise; I had actually bought myself discount cellulite cream for my birthday...and I'd been <i>excited</i> about it.<br />
<br /></div>
The angel shook her head at me as I did the walk of shame back to my mom-mobile. I strolled past the hoochie shop on the way, and suddenly it seemed like a good idea to remember the place...just in case I truly hit bottom and decide to try my luck in a brothel during the midlife crisis I plan to have when I hit 40.<br />
<br />
<br />
Perhaps I should have just gone to the spa.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Misadventures in Motherhoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04733618217432605890noreply@blogger.com40tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828294267094880275.post-84227001724741851302012-05-02T23:17:00.000-07:002012-07-11T08:51:53.420-07:00My Memories & the Eiffel "Cow"erAs we wrapped up our trip to Paris, I found myself longing for some souvenir of my crazy adventure. I had been fantasizing about finding a quaint little boutique where I could buy some ridiculously expensive French hand lotion made out of rare water lilies that only bloom on the sixth full moon of the year...when it rains. I figured Paris would be the perfect place to find such a rarity, and I kept my eyes peeled for cute little shops. <br />
<br />
Unfortunately, said quaint shops were not to be found. Instead, we were repeatedly confronted with junky tourist stores that were asking sixty dollars for tacky bedazzled hoodies that were made in China and emblazoned with the words "I heart Paris." When we wandered out of touristy areas in search of more authentic shops, we were harassed by scary-looking wandering salesman who were hawking plastic keychains featuring miniature, neon-colored replicas of the Eiffel Tower (only four for a dollar)!<br />
<br />
I had hoped we'd fare better at the more "official" gift shops, but when we went in we were surprised to see they sold crap like this abomination, which I've dubbed "The Eiffel Cow-er."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJUEA9mzuSeMdC4GsQ1_s1nZ4WMVMYnxf_GOZYptR2MlEL88SiwJp-X1FXrzkPDIUL3DRZB6z9lsATLeqEJGvbR0-8OPBI5WQMOn92p9BfgpFyBQbYMdEUXd1OvKhlHgSy464wDwy6K2rI/s1600/P1000217.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJUEA9mzuSeMdC4GsQ1_s1nZ4WMVMYnxf_GOZYptR2MlEL88SiwJp-X1FXrzkPDIUL3DRZB6z9lsATLeqEJGvbR0-8OPBI5WQMOn92p9BfgpFyBQbYMdEUXd1OvKhlHgSy464wDwy6K2rI/s320/P1000217.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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Seriously? WTF is this?!</div>
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Sorry, Paris—in the category of "Places with Great Souvenirs," you officially get a "fail" in my book. <br />
<br />
Even on the <i></i>Champs-Elysées, a place supposedly known for its great shopping, we encountered either high-priced brand-name stores like <span class="st">Hermès</span>, or copycat crap stores that were the Parisian equivalent of boardwalk shops. It was very disappointing. </div>
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<br /></div>
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But all was not lost. When I got home and began looking at our beautiful photos, I realized I had the best souvenir ever—gorgeous pictures of our trip that I can cherish forever.<br />
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(And to think...this picture of us at the Louvre won't even go rancid after a year like rare hand lotion!)</div>
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Now, I'm pretty good at taking lots of pictures; unfortunately, what I'm terrible at is actually remembering to <i>do</i> something with them. (<i>Pay attention...I'm about to do a</i> <i>Misadventures in Motherhood</i> <i>"first!"</i>) </div>
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Drumroll please...<br />
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This is why I'm excited to be sharing my experience with the My Memories software with you! (<i>Yep. I just endorsed a product. Go figure.) </i>See, the nice folks over at My Memories contacted me back in...um...December of last year (I'm a procrastinator) to ask if I'd be willing to do a review and giveaway of their software. I usually turn down things like this because, well, I write a humor blog, and it's difficult to make a product review funny. <br />
<br />
But in this case I made an exception. You see, I am a complete nincompoop when it comes to scrapbooking. Oh, I got quite excited about the fad when it first became all the rage, and I ran out and purchased all the scrapbooking paraphernalia I could get my hands on. I started about five different scrapbooks, but I always got distracted and never managed to finish any of them.<br />
<br />
At some point I realized that I just don't have the discipline to sit there and cut out frames and embellishments and all that stuff. Consequently, I am now the proud owner of several cleverly-themed but poorly executed scrapbooks containing two pages each, as well as a giant rubber tote of unused and picked-through scrap crap.<br />
<br />
So when My Memories asked me if I'd like to review their <a href="http://www.mymemories.com/" target="_blank">digital scrapbooking software</a>, I thought...what the heck? Perhaps this will solve all my scrapbooking dilemmas! So I decided to take it for a test-drive and see if it could spruce up my Paris pictures a bit. <br />
<br />
Now, if you've been living under a rock and have somehow missed all of the reviews of the <a href="http://www.mymemories.com/" target="_blank">My Memories Suite</a> that are floating around on the web already, I'll start by confirming what everyone else is saying: the software is AMAZING. And it's not just because you can whip out a lovely-looking, suitable-for-framing collage in five minutes flat...it's also because it takes all the guesswork out of the equation. <br />
<br />
For those of us who are a bit obsessive and feel compelled to compare fifty different triangle-patterned background papers to find the one that perfectly coordinates with that sparkly embellishment we paid $7.50 for, we can sit back and relax because they've done all the work for us. All we need to do is drag and drop our pics into the pre-designed layouts. (Of course, we are still free to go batshit crazy if we want and scroll through the gazillions of backgrounds and decorations to design our own layouts, too. The options are virtually endless—it's an OCD wonderland, people!) <br />
<br />
And, you can save $10.00 on this amazing software <i>right now</i> by using the code below! Feel free to share the code with friends and family, and spread the fun! (By the way, with the discount code, you can get this amazing software for less than $30! <i>And</i> you get a coupon code for $10 in free scrap downloads when you purchase, so really, this is an AMAZING deal). <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.mymemories.com/digital_scrapbooking_software" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqGGkZSDgUaQqLeP8M-Uw4AltDcQoShM4kZ19lIgy5vAc500YqXiudeU4aYQ68kilO54oFiD7dgZxHCgjX_k4QTHl4BxACkujmPZ9Dgb6hIrU2id9Q1tOXYS5C2OgRAQnDuSzvveNDPNYo/s200/my+memories+small+button.png" width="149" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Copy & Paste code: STMMMS44062</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And now for the <span class="st"><i>pièce de</i> <i>résistance</i></span>. Here is where I get to show off my mad digital scrapbooking skills (I'm kidding...I don't have mad skills; the program makes it easy.) Please enjoy my scrapbook from Paris! Here you'll get to see all the gorgeous pics that I didn't include in my previous entries because I was too busy posting embarrassing pictures of myself in front of a space-age toilet! <br />
<br />
<br />
So clicky clicky the pic below and enjoy! Then scroll down and leave me a comment! (To all the fabulous email subscribers...depending on your email program, you may need to visit the actual <a href="http://www.misadventuresinmotherhood.com/2012/05/my-memories-eiffel-cower.html" target="_blank"><u>blog</u></a> to view the album). Enjoy!<br />
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Whew! I'm happy to say that I'm finally done posting about Paris! Now I can go back to the regularly scheduled fare of making fun of my husband and enumerating the reasons why I suspect my children might actually be small mutant baboons. <br />
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Thanks for looking! Please leave me a comment...I'd love to hear from you!</div>
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<a href="http://www.misadventuresinmotherhood.com/2012/04/potty-and-pussycat.html" target="_blank"><i><---Read previous Paris post</i></a></div>Misadventures in Motherhoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04733618217432605890noreply@blogger.com54tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828294267094880275.post-51058218805074241472012-04-19T09:30:00.000-07:002012-05-02T23:23:22.113-07:00The Potty and the PussycatI was there—I was finally in Paris! It was the morning of my first full day in France, and after the horrific <a href="http://www.misadventuresinmotherhood.com/2012/04/fight-or-flight-to-paris.html" target="_blank"><u>travel adventures</u></a> I'd had on the trip over, I was happy that we were venturing out on foot.<br />
<br />
I was also chomping at the bit to put my high school and college French classes to good use.<br />
<br />
We decided to visit the Eiffel Tower first. It was a chilly day, and the walk over was invigorating. As we got close, my husband was practically sprinting to the monument, but I stopped him to remind him that we were supposed to take pictures of me wearing my friend Bob Butterbottom's yoga pants at the Eiffel Tower. (See the cute little cow on the pants? They're comfy too! You can buy them <a href="http://www.butter-bottom.com/" target="_blank">here!</a>)<br />
<br />
I'm an awful model, and picture after picture came out looking dreadful. I have no idea how to "pose," so after twenty minutes of painfully cheesy photos, I decided the following one was somewhat usable and stopped torturing us both with the project.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://photos.smugmug.com/photos/i-92wvthd/0/M/i-92wvthd-M.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://photos.smugmug.com/photos/i-92wvthd/0/M/i-92wvthd-M.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Can you imagine me on America's Next Top Model? </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>They'd laugh me off the show. </i></div>
<br />
With the embarrassing photo shoot out of the way, we excitedly proceeded to the Tower! Surprisingly, it looked just like all the pictures I'd ever seen of it, except for one thing—none of the pictures ever showed the mobs of people waiting for hours to go in for a tour.<br />
<br />
We spent quite a bit of time viewing it like this and feeling like cattle while we waited for the line to move. <br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>At least it made for a neat photo. </i></div>
<br />
By the time we were finally through the doors I was just dying to try out my French. Coincidentally I was also dying to pee, so I thought it would be a good time to test out my skills. I walked up to someone who looked official and politely said in smooth French, "<i>Où est les toilettes, s'il vous plait?</i>"<br />
<br />
He answered, "Go up one level and they're on your right." I smiled. "<i>Merci!"</i> I said, a little too cheerfully. When I got to the bathroom it occurred to me that he had answered me in English. Oh well...apparently I had "tourist" written all over me, but I didn't care—I had successfully navigated my first real interaction with the natives. <br />
<br />
After pottying, we took pictures of the view and milled about on the various levels, reading the informational plaques and occasionally wondering what some weird looking building in the distance was. The view was lovely.<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I just wish I knew what I was looking at! There were so many buildings! </i></div>
<br />
Lunchtime came, and I was excited to try out my language skills again. I easily ordered in French, and when my husband sat down next to me at the table I was feeling downright smug about my ability to communicate. <br />
<br />
Of course, it's usually when I'm feeling confident that I make a gigantic ass out of myself and am reminded that I'm a blundering idiot. Therefore, I probably should have expected what was coming. <br />
<br />
That evening we went out to a nice restaurant. I was translating the menu for my husband when I felt an odd—yet somewhat familiar—tickle on my neck. I turned around to discover a cat curled up in a little bed right behind my head.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Le chat.</i></div>
<br />
My husband asked me if it was real. Judging by the amount of fuzz and dander lining the little basket and considering it had just brushed me with its tail, I was pretty sure it was a real living cat. It was also breathing, which would be a heck of a neat trick if it was stuffed. <br />
<br />
I leaned in close to the snoozing animal, swelling with affection as I remembered my years of having cats as pets. My husband looked at me with annoyance. We were at a nice French restaurant, and instead of gazing lovingly into his eyes and cozying up, I was cooing over a ratty-looking fuzz ball. <br />
<br />
"Hey honey, what are <i>'haricots verts'?</i>" he asked.<br />
<br />
"Do you think we're allowed to pet it?" I answered.<br />
<br />
He rolled his eyes.<br />
<br />
"I'm going to ask the waiter if I can pet the cat," I said decisively.<br />
<br />
My hubby sighed. "Whatever," he said and went back to frowning over the menu. <br />
<br />
I thought about the best way to ask. I wanted to say, "Is the cat friendly," but I couldn't remember the word for 'friendly.' The closest I could come was "amorous." I couldn't remember how to say "pet the cat," but I thought I knew how to say "stroke the cat."<br />
<br />
I shouted "<i>Excusez-moi!</i>" as our waiter passed by. I smiled and stammered something that roughly translated to:<br />
<br />
"The cat—it is amorous and wants the stroking?"<br />
<br />
The waiter gave me a rather perplexed look, frowned, and said, "Euh, no, no, please no touch. Thank you." He shuffled off.<br />
<br />
My husband looked at me like I had two heads.<br />
<br />
"You asked if the cat was <i>amorous?</i>" <br />
<br />
"I couldn't remember the word for 'friendly.'" I said defensively. "Besides, the guy knew what I meant."<br />
<br />
"Yeah, and they're probably having a big laugh about you right now in the back," my husband countered. "What are <i>'haricots verts'?</i>" <br />
<br />
I'm sure I was beet red at this point. I felt like a complete ass, but there was no way I was going to let my husband think I didn't know what I was doing. I explained that <i>haricots verts</i> were green beans, and then I turned back to the kitty, who apparently sensed he was being talked about and wanted to be privy to the conversation. He had lifted his head and was squinting at me with disdain. <br />
<br />
Of course, all cats sort of look at people with disdain, so I didn't take it personally. <br />
<br />
It wasn't until my husband smacked my leg and said, "I'm over <i>here!</i>" that I stopped fussing over the cat and turned my attention back to dinner.<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>But seriously...a cat at the table? Who wouldn't be preoccupied? </i></div>
<br />
I made it a point to be sure to interact with my husband more than the kitty. And to minimize my embarrassment, for the rest of the evening I limited my French to phrases I was sure I knew. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://photos.smugmug.com/photos/i-qZgMRKp/0/M/i-qZgMRKp-M.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://photos.smugmug.com/photos/i-qZgMRKp/0/M/i-qZgMRKp-M.jpg" width="400" /></a><i> </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>We actually had a lovely dinner, despite our furry distraction.</i></div>
<br />
The next morning, I made my mind up to redeem myself from the previous evening's embarrassment. We were headed to the Louvre, and when we arrived, I made a show of picking up the French brochure instead of the English one. I made it a point to speak to employees in French (people were still answering me in English though), and I ordered in French in the cafeteria. <br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>We posed for pictures in the courtyard of the Louvre. </i> </div>
<br />
Afterward, we went shopping, and I successfully talked to a couple of salespeople. Things were going remarkably smoothly. Walking through the streets of Paris, hand in hand with my sweetheart, I was just starting to feel confident in my French skills again.<br />
<br />
It was right about then that we encountered a rather odd looking restroom out on the street.<br />
<br />
It was a futuristic silver dome, and my husband quickly identified as an automatic toilet. Apparently it did everything from flushing for you to washing and sanitizing the entire inside before the next person used it.<br />
<br />
I didn't need to go to the bathroom terribly badly, but we'd discovered that half the bathrooms in France are clogged, broken or filthy, and you can't be guaranteed toilet paper, a door, or even a seat in some cases. And you usually have to pay to use these sad facilities. Therefore, I decided I should take the opportunity to go while I had a sanitary—and free!—bathroom to use.<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I was pretty psyched about a clean potty, even if it did have bizarre symbols on it.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
I stepped inside and the door closed in front of me, encasing me in a windowless metal pod. I'm not usually claustrophobic, but this did feel surprisingly confining. I was just telling myself to <i>relax, silly</i>, when a female voice came through a hidden speaker, jabbering in rapid-fire, incomprehensible French.<br />
<br />
I had no idea what she was saying, but I assumed it was something along the lines of, "Welcome to the crazy-ass high-tech Star Trek toilet. You see the potty; notice how clean it is. We French are awesome. Thank you."<br />
<br />
I took that as my cue to sit and pee. <br />
<br />
When I was done, I stood up and looked for the 'flush' button. I couldn't find one. I searched around the toilet and in the general vicinity, but there was no obvious 'flush' mechanism.<br />
<br />
I remembered my husband saying that the whole thing was automated, so I thought perhaps it was waiting until I washed my hands to flush. So I walked over to the sink and pressed the button for water.<br />
<br />
No water came out, but the French voice returned, urging me to do something I didn't understand. I cocked my head and tried to catch a word or two, but I was getting nothing. This toilet was clearly not meant for anyone not highly proficient in conversational French. <br />
<br />
I pressed the 'water' button a few more times, and every time I did, the French voice cut off in the middle of its spiel and started the urgent message from the beginning. I could feel my heart racing as I began to panic. I couldn't get the water to turn on, I had no idea what was going wrong, and I was being verbally admonished by a scarily pleasant-sounding femme-bot. <br />
<br />
As I whacked the 'water' button with increasing force, I vaguely wondered if the pod would go into "lock-down" mode if I continued. I pictured being stuck inside until the authorities came to arrest me for tampering with public facilities, and I decided to quit while I was ahead.<br />
<br />
I turned around and punched the "open" button on the door. I was a little worried that it wouldn't open—since the toilet hadn't been flushed—but it immediately released me back into the street, where I grabbed my husband by the arm and hauled him quickly away. <br />
<br />
"What happened?" he asked.<br />
<br />
"I don't know. I couldn't figure out what to do. The water wouldn't turn on. I guess I panicked and just left."<br />
<br />
"You just ran out?"<br />
<br />
"Yep. Oh well..."<br />
<br />
He laughed and gave me a squeeze. "Only <i>you</i> would find a way to mess up using an automatic bathroom!" He kissed the top of my head and took my hand. <br />
<br />
What can I say? They didn't prepare us for the "potty pod" in high school French. Despite all my best efforts, I really was turning out to be a typical ignorant American. <br />
<br />
I guess that's why, when it's something <i>really</i> important—like safety—the French don't mess around. They just post a really obvious sign, like this one I spotted in a shopping center. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Nice.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Fortunately, the rest of the trip was mercifully disaster-free, and I considered it nothing less than a personal triumph when, on our last night there, we went to a super-fancy restaurant and the waiter actually responded to me <i>in French</i> when I asked where the bathrooms were!<br />
<br />
(Of course, I didn't understand a word of what he said. I nodded and said <i>"Merci," </i>and then I ducked around the corner, went up to the greeting station and asked the person at the desk, "Um, where are your bathrooms?" But no matter; I consider it a victory that I was even spoken to in French in the first place.)<br />
<br />
So all in all, I deem the trip a success. I may have had a terrible flight over and made an idiot out of myself in Paris, but at least I've got some great stories to tell.<br />
<br />
Oh, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to name my next cat "Amorous." <br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.misadventuresinmotherhood.com/2012/04/fight-or-flight-to-paris.html" target=""><i><---Read previous France post </i></a><br />
<a href="http://www.misadventuresinmotherhood.com/2012/05/my-memories-eiffel-cower.html" target=""><i>Read next France post---></i></a><br />
<br />Misadventures in Motherhoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04733618217432605890noreply@blogger.com37tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828294267094880275.post-34100263922757007202012-04-06T13:00:00.001-07:002012-04-06T20:43:05.348-07:00Fight or Flight ... to Paris!!I sat at the airport, fighting to gulp down the firmest (and most expensive) "pretzel bites" I had ever encountered. I had spent the whole week vacillating between frantic worrying and manic excitement, and I was aware that I was eating <i>way</i> too fast. I couldn't help myself...I was a bundle of nerves! I was taking my first international flight, by myself, to meet my husband in <i>Paris!</i><br />
<br />
My carry-on suitcase kept falling over at my feet and crashing into the legs of passersby. "I'm sowwy..." I said again and again, as I fought to swallow the concrete in my mouth and simultaneously haul my suitcase upright. <br />
<br />
It's not surprising the damn thing couldn't stand up straight—my carry-on was most certainly packed over capacity.<br />
<br />
See, I'd had a small...<i>situation</i>...with packing. <br />
<br />
My husband had insisted that I not check any bags. After all, I had a layover in Zurich, and all manner of mishaps could happen to my luggage between here and Paris if I didn't keep it with me at all times. So I had bought myself a rolling backpack to hold the stuff I'd need for the plane, and the rest I attempted to cram into a small carry-on suitcase.<br />
<br />
This would have worked out fine if I hadn't broken my tailbone recently.<br />
<br />
See, the first leg of the flight was seven and a half hours, and there was no way my sore bum was going to tolerate that much abuse without the specially-designed butt pillow I had purchased at a medical supply store. <br />
<br />
The only problem was that it was <i>huge.</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNaf_MRLvkJ3cRdeWnO8evJqvM9dJ_dEJtTrJgYszhh7EbijSIjrfGfP3C8ULNtTn5iCuaI8lQK2XWL7UjmDYAdFANzLnpRTpk7c2AaGsKZ-rWU4m2ppIR1KwEbzFComeFjh2h4JXs_Rau/s1600/P1000603.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNaf_MRLvkJ3cRdeWnO8evJqvM9dJ_dEJtTrJgYszhh7EbijSIjrfGfP3C8ULNtTn5iCuaI8lQK2XWL7UjmDYAdFANzLnpRTpk7c2AaGsKZ-rWU4m2ppIR1KwEbzFComeFjh2h4JXs_Rau/s320/P1000603.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>No, they did not have any smaller ones, and no, my butt is NOT that big.</i></div><br />
The ass cushion presented a serious packing dilemma. It definitely would <i>not</i> fit in my backpack, and even when I squished it up and stuffed it into the suitcase, it was nearly as large as the bag itself.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZs63rLxdRU86-tJPxsgXEbI351BhT_w68X2m1C-bMWgyDPZGhJk1KnvTZML9wouFyEVs41TJv0ZWKd5p3EqGsqpj7j2gbTA5X8HmeBrVCJIqJGiU7HBdea6IVNIMcjkOk3EgPAhPfgbKl/s1600/P1000601.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZs63rLxdRU86-tJPxsgXEbI351BhT_w68X2m1C-bMWgyDPZGhJk1KnvTZML9wouFyEVs41TJv0ZWKd5p3EqGsqpj7j2gbTA5X8HmeBrVCJIqJGiU7HBdea6IVNIMcjkOk3EgPAhPfgbKl/s320/P1000601.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>Hmmm...maybe some undies could go in the hole...</i></div><br />
Even with the bare minimum packed (I was in danger of having to wear the same pair of pants the entire trip by the time everything was stuffed in the bag), it <i>barely</i> fit. I had to unzip the expandable section and sit on the suitcase to get it closed.<br />
<br />
But none of that mattered now. I was going to <i>Paris!</i> In a matter of minutes they would be calling my section...oh, wait...they were calling my section. I chucked the remaining pretzel bites—which by this point could have served as substitutes for Lincoln Logs—threw my backpack on, and dragged my painfully overstuffed suitcase onto the plane. <br />
<br />
Now, as a vertically-challenged person (I'm 5'1" on a <i>good</i> day), I always need help lifting my carry-on bag into the overhead compartment. Picture a blond, pale-skinned Snooki—sans heels—trying to heave an overstuffed carry-on that's half her size into the overhead baggage bin, and you've got me...except without the horrible hair and the bad makeup and the slutty clothing and the obnoxious attitude...<br />
<br />
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Actually, never mind, don't picture Snooki.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I always end up holding up the boarding process while some poor shmuck behind me is stuck helping me stow my bag. Thankfully the embarrassment usually only lasts a couple of seconds, and most people are pretty nice about it.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, this time the kind gentleman who offered to help me was stymied by the fact that my bag seemed to be too <i>tall</i> for the overhead bin. It just wouldn't fit. People murmured and grumbled as the guy next to me sweated and grunted and shoved. I could see stewardesses gesturing in my direction, and I knew what was coming, They were going to ask me to check the bag.<br />
<br />
My voice goes all high-pitched and screechy when I'm stressed or embarrassed, so I'm pretty sure everyone in coach heard me when I shouted, "Wait! I know what the problem is! It's my giant ass-pillow!"<br />
<br />
I stood on my tip-toes, unzipped my bag and noisily wrestled the humongous piece of medical equipment from my carry-on, which was still precariously balanced over my head on the edge of the storage compartment. <br />
<br />
I'm pretty certain there was an audible sucking sound when my suitcase finally released the pillow, but I can't be entirely sure because I was too distracted by everyone staring at me as if I were a performing circus elephant that might, at any minute, fall off its ball and land in a pile of its own poo. (I guess now I know how Snooki<i> </i>feels, at least.)<br />
<br />
I heard a few murmurs of "What did she say?" so I held up the pillow to clearly display it to all the curious passengers.<br />
<br />
"I broke my tailbone, and it's a long flight, so..."<br />
<br />
I saw sympathetic looks and nodding heads. One passenger even blurted out, "Oh, you poor thing!" I signaled to my gentleman helper that he could probably easily stuff the suitcase in the overhead compartment now...and sure enough, it slid right in.<br />
<br />
Crisis over. *sigh*<br />
<br />
I tucked my backpack under the seat in front of me, settled into my seat—ass pillow in place, of course—and opened the hermetically-sealed package of blue dryer lint that the stewardesses mistakenly referred to as a "blanket." <br />
<br />
(On a side note...I'm not sure exactly what airplane "blankets" are made of. Like pork rinds, they seem to be made of embellished nothingness, and are therefore a complete mystery to me.<i> </i> But my sister bought me a Snuggie one Christmas, and the first time I washed it, I swear I peeled enough airline blankets from my dryer's lint screen to service at least three people.)<br />
<br />
I threw the mystery-fabric over my lap, settled in, and dug out my cellphone to snap the following picture:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj-zOBJQ2UDhI_8tMsyaK1q1Px5IXv2pfQzOoq26F-pVf0IUIhmXKy5Udod8ukSUBIB2Ouh3eyfMsYESjwzZtipaijJVGu6yJiCfDExZf4D4WtfKJ_GEy1mF6uO5vvtyKMpnoOVpL4o1cT/s1600/IMG_20120308_174125.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj-zOBJQ2UDhI_8tMsyaK1q1Px5IXv2pfQzOoq26F-pVf0IUIhmXKy5Udod8ukSUBIB2Ouh3eyfMsYESjwzZtipaijJVGu6yJiCfDExZf4D4WtfKJ_GEy1mF6uO5vvtyKMpnoOVpL4o1cT/s320/IMG_20120308_174125.jpg" width="240" /></a></div> <br />
I was going to Paris! (You can see how excited I am—I've gone all blurry from anticipation.)<br />
<br />
The seats next to me were blessedly vacant, so after a moment's hesitation and a brief internal debate about the importance of being environmentally responsible, I stole the little plastic bags of Snuggie lint from those seats too, piled up all the pillows, and built myself a little sleep nest. <br />
<br />
The plane was to arrive in Zurich early the next morning, at which point I'd have a brief layover, and then I was to finally arrive in Paris at around 10:00 in the morning. I was significantly exhausted from the stress of the week, and I was looking forward to getting some good rest on the flight over.<br />
<br />
I smiled as the pilot cheerfully introduced himself over the loudspeaker, dutifully listened to the safety precautions—nodding as the stewardesses assured us that <i>"even though your mask may not inflate, air </i>is<i> flowing,"—</i>and watched a few obnoxiously loud movie previews. Then the lights went out, the pilot wished us a pleasant flight, and I swallowed a sleep-aid pill and snuggled into my nest, looking forward to waking up to the sun rising in Zurich.<br />
<br />
I was therefore completely surprised when I was awakened in the middle of my personal snore-and-drool fest by the pilot's voice booming loudly through the cabin.<br />
<br />
"Ahhh...excuse me, ladies and gentlemen...I'm so sorry to disturb you, but..."<br />
<br />
I looked around—it was still pitch dark outside. What the heck?<br />
<br />
"You may not be aware of this, but two of the bathrooms on the plane have stopped working. We are about four and a half hours into the flight, and at this point, we feel it is a better choice to turn around and head back to base, then change planes. We're truly sorry about this inconvenience, and we assure you we will do everything possible to get you to your final destination as quickly and smoothly as possible."<br />
<br />
WTF????<br />
<br />
My sleepy brain attempted to process this information through its drug-induced haze. We were <i>more</i> than halfway there. Most people on the plane were <i>asleep,</i> and there were certainly still enough bathrooms left—since the plane wasn't even close to full—so why were we <i>turning around </i>and flying four and a half hours <i>back?</i> Wouldn't it just make more sense to continue?<br />
<br />
Now, I have no idea of what goes on in the inner workings of airlines, but I've watched plenty of episodes of <i>Lost</i>, and I know that some strange shit sometimes happens on flights. Perhaps the pilot suddenly realized that if we continued on that same aircraft we would all crash onto a mystical island with smoke monsters and talking dead people. In that case...by all means...get us the hell off that plane!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbffYGMEFymdXS4B0GS6awTIezEAuoDMobEfDjNdRz-MkGOM3IrcQPMh4XrzmPrEJJh4oEDci1NBV91f8ll_LbdzmAybMKXplCe3IzbEGOsSJdBa93gupLRP7tALd-e6LYB65lAscytC_p/s1600/3X15JulietfacesSmokeybehindfence.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbffYGMEFymdXS4B0GS6awTIezEAuoDMobEfDjNdRz-MkGOM3IrcQPMh4XrzmPrEJJh4oEDci1NBV91f8ll_LbdzmAybMKXplCe3IzbEGOsSJdBa93gupLRP7tALd-e6LYB65lAscytC_p/s320/3X15JulietfacesSmokeybehindfence.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Not digging this idea. </i></div><br />
But anything short of that seemed just ridiculous.<br />
<br />
The passenger across the aisle and I exchanged meaningful looks. "Why would they turn the plane around just because two bathrooms are broken?" she asked me in a conspiratorial whisper. I didn't know, but the adrenaline had kicked in again as I realized that I would now miss my connecting flight. My phone wouldn't work internationally, and since we were going to arrive back at our starting point in the middle of the night, I knew my husband's cell would just go to voice mail (which he may or may not remember to check). <br />
<br />
I spent the flight back alternately sulking and worrying. I didn't bother stuffing my giant ass pillow back in my carry-on when we arrived back at the home airport. Screw it...if they were going to yell at me for having an extra gigantic pillow on my person, they were going to get one hysterical cry-fest. <br />
<br />
I called my husband's cell, left a crazed message on his voice mail, and then texted him about ten times to tell him I would <i>not</i> be arriving in Paris at 10:00, and that I had no idea how I would get in touch with him when I finally did arrive.<br />
<br />
We hadn't planned for this possibility—I didn't even know what hotel he was staying at (which, upon reflection, seems like a rather important detail that we definitely should have gotten ironed out before I left).<br />
<br />
A very, <i>very </i>nice woman next to me told me that her phone did work internationally, and that when we arrived in Zurich I could call my husband from her phone. Thank God. I made a mental note not to let her out of my sight.<br />
<br />
The airline had to round up a new pilot, crew, and plane (per regulation), so we all sat despondently and waited anxiously, trying to ease our nerves with meaningless conversation. It was the middle of the night, so everything in the airport was closed. All we could do was to sit, sit, sit, sit...and we did not like it, not one little bit. (Thanks, Dr. Seuss)<br />
<br />
After an eternity of waiting, we finally boarded the new plane. The seating arrangement was the same, and this time I didn't even hesitate before angrily tearing into every airplane blanket within arm's reach. I reconstructed my sleep nest, paid no attention to the new pilot's "We're very sorry...blah, blah, blah" speech, completely ignored the safety warnings, flipped the little television the bird when the movie previews came on, lay down and angrily folded my butt pillow over the top of my head to block out any extra sounds.<br />
<br />
The pillow, mercifully, did <i>not</i> smell like butt.<br />
<br />
Thank God for small favors.<br />
<br />
I was awakened by a service cart smashing into my foot. I opened my eyes and squinted into the sunlight as a flight attendant asked me for my trash. We were preparing to land. <br />
<br />
Once we were off the plane, I stalked the international-phone-woman down the ramp and glanced at the clock as we entered the terminal. It was 2:00 in the afternoon. I was halfway through my first day in Paris, and I wasn't even there yet.<br />
<br />
The kind lady let me use her phone and I called my husband. He had—fortunately—checked his messages, and he was fully aware of what was happening.<br />
<br />
"Don't worry!" he said cheerfully. "The airline has already made arrangements for you to transfer to another flight. I have all the information right here online. You'll be coming in on flight "blah...blah...blah...at...blargety blarg...and I'll meet you there." My brain was so addled from sleep and stress that I didn't remember any of the information; all I knew was that he would be there to meet me, and I that was all I really cared about.<br />
<br />
I proceeded to the service desk, where they promptly issued me a new ticket and pointed me in the right direction.<br />
<br />
The flight to Paris was a blur. Somehow the sleep I had gotten on the other two plane rides seemed to have done absolutely <i>nothing</i> for me, and I passed out almost immediately upon takeoff. I woke up in darkness to the captain's voice thanking us for flying with Unmemorable Airlines. He announced that we were landing and that the local time was 6:15 p.m. It felt like three in the morning. I couldn't <i>wait</i> to see my hubby at the gate.<br />
<br />
There was only one problem: he wasn't there.<br />
<br />
I wandered about for a good twenty minutes, and when he still hadn't arrived, I approached the "help" desk, explained the situation to the employee and asked if my hubby could be paged. I was answered with a curt, "No. We do not page. He eez probably in zee cafe. Get a coffee and calm down. Can I assist zee next person?"<br />
<br />
Well, that was helpful.<br />
<br />
I wandered off aimlessly and tried to figure out my next move. I had no idea how to find my husband, and the new arrivals were clearing out quickly—there was no one around who looked sympathetic enough to help me. <br />
<br />
Then I spotted an internet station. <i>Hallelujah! </i><br />
<br />
I inserted my credit card and logged into my email. There was a message from my hubby! It was my flight change information—when I was landing and where he would meet me. Uh-oh...the information was all wrong. He was expecting me at Terminal 2, and I was at Terminal 1.<br />
<br />
(Now, in the retelling of this, my husband asked me why I didn't just go to Terminal 2 and find him. The answer was simple: I didn't think I could. I was so sleep deprived and stressed out that I didn't realize I could access Terminal 2 from where I was. I thought I had to go back through the airport to get to another terminal, and when I had tried to do that I had been stopped by security. I was so tired I didn't realize I could just walk around the outside.)<br />
<br />
So I composed a frantic email to my hubby, letting him know that I was waiting for him at Terminal 1. I figured he'd be checking his phone for any communication from me when he couldn't find me.<br />
<br />
I pressed <i>send,</i> then stared wide-eyed at the screen, tapping my foot restlessly and bouncing up and down like an overanxious chihuahua. I kept hitting the "refresh" button, waiting for a response. <br />
<br />
Finally: a reply!!<br />
<br />
I frantically opened the email to read this:<br />
<b>This is an automated message. Sugar Pie is out of the office on business and will be back in the office on blah, blah, blah... He will contact you as soon as possible when he returns. Thank you. </b><br />
<br />
I started to cry.<br />
<br />
I logged out and sat down on a bench, trying to figure a way out of my mess. When I looked back at the blatantly unhelpful "help" desk, I noticed a different employee was standing there, so I decided to inquire again. This time the lady was nice. Perhaps she took pity on me because I really was beginning to resemble a sleep-deprived, confused, sweaty cast extra from <i>Lost.</i> <br />
<br />
"Um, my husband's waiting for me at the wrong terminal. Is there any way you can call over to Terminal 2 and let him know I'm over here?"<br />
<br />
She nodded and dialed, then babbled something in French and waited. A couple of seconds later she smiled at me and gave me a "thumbs-up." I just about jumped across the counter and kissed her.<br />
<br />
"He knows you are here and is on his way," she said kindly. "It is a twenty minute trip from that terminal. Is a very big airport. Sit down. He will be here." <br />
<br />
I sat gladly and breathed a sigh of relief.<br />
<br />
In about twenty-five minutes, my husband came rapidly striding into view. <i>Had he always been this handsome? </i>He was looking around frantically, and I stood up and waved. He ran over to me, wrapped his arms around me and smothered me with kisses.<br />
<br />
"Oh my God, I was so worried," he mumbled into my hair. He looked me over, and it occurred to me that I had never seen him look more relieved—not even when our children were born and turned out to be perfectly normal-looking humans beings and not the hideous creatures from <i>Alien</i> that I'd had nightmares about birthing.<br />
<br />
"I am so, <i>so</i> sorry," he said. "I can't believe you had to go through all that. It's just terrible. You must be a wreck. Come on...we'll get a cab and go back to the hotel."<br />
<br />
I snuggled up to him in the cab and tried to clear my head. I was finally here...in Paris...and all I wanted to do was cuddle up to him and go to sleep.<br />
<br />
Still, he insisted that we get some decent food, so I changed my clothes, put on some makeup so I didn't look ill, and wearily dragged myself out to a restaurant. <br />
<br />
I don't even remember what I ate, just that it was French. I remember the dessert, though...mostly because I have a picture of myself with it. It was some berry sorbet that had liquor in it, and I'd never had it before.<br />
<br />
Its sweet creaminess was unbelievably comforting, like an ice cream cone on a hot day or a bowl of chicken soup when you're really sick. I perked up enough to smile for a photo before pretty much falling asleep at the table.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://memoriesinphoto.smugmug.com/Other/Random/i-GKTXL7b/0/S/french-dinner-S.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://memoriesinphoto.smugmug.com/Other/Random/i-GKTXL7b/0/S/french-dinner-S.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>A little makeup works wonders.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">After getting some real food and having that sweet treat, I was finally able to relax and look forward to the next day's activities...although I was still too tired to be <i>excited, </i>per se.<br />
<br />
But I was in Paris, where I'd always dreamed of going...and I was there with my wonderful husband.<br />
<br />
At least the drama was finally over. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">...For the moment.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
(To be continued....)<br />
<br />
</div>Misadventures in Motherhoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04733618217432605890noreply@blogger.com44tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828294267094880275.post-57940877414838234242012-03-16T10:46:00.003-07:002012-03-29T08:10:06.208-07:00Freaks of NatureWell, I have just returned from my weekend in France, and my head is spinning with all the crazy stories I have to tell. Regardless of where I travel, I seem to bring my own special brand of bad luck with me, and France was certainly not immune to my misadventures.<br />
<br />
I have one small problem, though—every time I attempt to blog about my foreign foibles, my train of thought gets derailed by mental images of blossoming begonias and sprouting snapdragons.<br />
<br />
See, I seem to have a strange affliction that hits me every spring; I become inexplicably obsessed with the overwhelming urge to plant stuff<i>—lots </i>of stuff. I call it my "rooting" instinct, and after attempting to write several stalled blog posts about my disastrous plane ride overseas, I realized that I would simply not be able to write about Paris until I got some of this flower fixation out.<br />
<br />
I suppose—if there were a term for my botanical dysfunction—I would be classified as an FSA: a Flora Shopping Addict. My obsession begins every year in late winter when my urge to sprout overwhelms my already questionable sense of reason. My compulsion drives me to stare endlessly at the glowing computer screen—well into the wee hours of the night—ordering seeds and consulting my flow charts to sort out critical issues like whether I should pot the lobelia with the petunias or with the impatiens. <i>Will that be too much sun? Will the lobelia dry out? Will they fail to thrive in a shady basket of impatiens?</i> <i>Would verbena be a more aesthetically pleasing pairing? If so, which colors? Etc...etc...</i><br />
<br />
I get a particular sense of triumph from buying hard-to-find seeds through the mail and sprouting them under grow-lights in my basement. In fact, the rarer the plant and the more complicated the germination, the more likely I am to become absolutely obsessed with growing it. Every spring, my basement ends up looking like Dr. Frankenstein's workshop—complete with eerie glowing lights and strange-looking, oddly-greenish living things.<br />
<br />
But as luck would have it, there are some plants that are simply not available to grow from seed. So it never fails that every year I become obsessed with some crazy, exotic plant that sounds like an absolutely <i>brilliant</i> idea on the internet but turns into a disaster once it's been installed in my home.<br />
<br />
For example, two years ago I decided I simply could not go on living without having my very own weeping redbud tree. <i>What the heck is a weeping redbud</i>? you ask. Well, I would have asked the very same question until I stumbled upon a picture of one in some obscure forum for rabid gardeners.<br />
<br />
I was immediately entranced. The whimsical-looking branches and beautiful blossoms were so unique that I knew the tree would instantly become the centerpiece of my yard and the envy of my neighborhood! <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFH736q8uqvoZZV64TJ_LLzD5T_2R2o7oHNbMZSG7qi6AxGY_MrZpFpBUn4uTYIDkSBb8wTo5aITP3IeZBaIDjJS2zLIR-A1IFWx_FxigPwds4e4xoKdkajv4xSsdVJpvOLT5L88dFZsfB/s1600/lavendartwist_big.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFH736q8uqvoZZV64TJ_LLzD5T_2R2o7oHNbMZSG7qi6AxGY_MrZpFpBUn4uTYIDkSBb8wTo5aITP3IeZBaIDjJS2zLIR-A1IFWx_FxigPwds4e4xoKdkajv4xSsdVJpvOLT5L88dFZsfB/s320/lavendartwist_big.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr></tr>
</tbody></table>Unfortunately, this is not what MINE ended up looking like. I paid $130 for a tree about a third of this size. Said tree nearly caused my husband and our neighbor irreparable spinal damage while being installed, and then it lived for about three weeks before drying up into a creepy pile of twisted sticks that could have starred in a Tim Burton film.<br />
<br />
I called the nursery that sold me the plant and told them that my tree had long surpassed "weeping" and was now clearly in "inconsolable" territory. A tree doctor made a house call. After carefully placing a stethoscope on several spots of the trunk and holding a mirror over the various limbs to watch for condensation, the doctor confirmed that the tree was indeed not breathing. He would not attempt mouth-to-trunk resuscitation due to the high probability of losing an eye to the sharp Edward Scissorhands-like branches that protruded haphazardly in all directions from the dead monstrosity.<br />
<br />
Depressed over my expensive dead pile of sticks, I distracted myself by spending the rest of the summer fussing over getting my hands on an exotic breed of impatiens plant from Rwanda. It was gorgeous, extremely rare, and I was in love. After several months of non-stop internet searching and a few emails that bordered on stalker-ish behavior, I finally found someone who was willing to ship me one of these rare gems. <br />
<br />
This is what the beautiful plant from Rwanda looked like when it arrived on my doorstep: <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDsQKctipxNd2GoEZnjEm1QYGDY1to5M-9JMdk_OpvT-YmvdFNbWTqADaJbnzzQbR_nkwt4XmvV8cd6uz5UcmmRW36xlA2gTWyrquJMpdYnKfrqTBpGQeScIBTB8ux9C56tJQkXLK103md/s1600/healthy+impatiens.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDsQKctipxNd2GoEZnjEm1QYGDY1to5M-9JMdk_OpvT-YmvdFNbWTqADaJbnzzQbR_nkwt4XmvV8cd6uz5UcmmRW36xlA2gTWyrquJMpdYnKfrqTBpGQeScIBTB8ux9C56tJQkXLK103md/s1600/healthy+impatiens.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I was over the moon for my unusual little plant. I fussed and fawned over it, moved it around for extra air flow and optimal humidity, and made sure it had a healthy level of self-esteem by telling it on a daily basis how absolutely gorgeous it was. I ministered to its every need, experimented with different fertilizers and potting mixes when it seemed unhappy, and rehabilitated it over and over again by taking cuttings and rooting new plants when the originals drooped and shriveled.<br />
<br />
But despite my tender care, after nearly a year of love and attention to every possible need this unique plant might have, <i>this</i> is what now adorns my windowsill:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXLf4R-sBceaQrMrAvikz_T_klQ0wPbXkhdc5-kTrRuU4wvEDV1sRUPRIwucwsm6qHTMsGRWZ0JAuAt4hK-f9xb_8fuCa620_6Kqz2G_X96oQpIsPF003zJPf8NQZGPwAzx4DNEE_8WEuF/s1600/picsay-1331909571.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXLf4R-sBceaQrMrAvikz_T_klQ0wPbXkhdc5-kTrRuU4wvEDV1sRUPRIwucwsm6qHTMsGRWZ0JAuAt4hK-f9xb_8fuCa620_6Kqz2G_X96oQpIsPF003zJPf8NQZGPwAzx4DNEE_8WEuF/s320/picsay-1331909571.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> Not exactly an award-winning specimen. </div><br />
My husband's response to my heartbreak and frustration was, simply, "For God's sake, don't you think there might be a good reason it only grows in Rwanda?!"<br />
<br />
<span class="st"><i>Touché.</i></span> <br />
<br />
My hubby tolerates my infatuation with bizarre and unusual plants with open distaste. He can't possibly fathom why I'd want to get some exotic plant that requires me to worry, bother, and persistently fuss over it. In his view, we already have two children who have those requirements, so why would we want to make our lives even <i>more </i>complicated?<br />
<br />
I understand where he's coming from―I really do. Yet for some odd reason, the weirder the plant, the more likely I am to go nuts over it.<br />
<br />
This year I have taken a fancy to the idea of getting something called a "Three-in-One Angel Trumpet Tree." Now, the fact that the photo on the website looks like it may have been heavily Photoshopped should be a clue that this could turn out to be a truly terrible idea—especially since I live in a zone in which said Trumpet Tree would need to be brought indoors for the winter.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHW_DdCzCRT-gFn3PAbbkzuEdpiSN96xAk4qJjZxGIU6w-Uh3mIF_Vbcs26HHY_bnC4a3eNbPOr4R5DmZFSdKkjgDbW28e-xJDLq-sR2VXoxGHPMPP8ZAeZY0Dp5IOmHgX2xlZcwU3CWyw/s1600/trumpet+tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHW_DdCzCRT-gFn3PAbbkzuEdpiSN96xAk4qJjZxGIU6w-Uh3mIF_Vbcs26HHY_bnC4a3eNbPOr4R5DmZFSdKkjgDbW28e-xJDLq-sR2VXoxGHPMPP8ZAeZY0Dp5IOmHgX2xlZcwU3CWyw/s1600/trumpet+tree.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
But, as I said before, all rational thought goes out the window when my rooting instincts are in heat. I mean, just look how gorgeous it is! I want it! I want it <i>now!</i> And the website says (and I quote)... "There is no sensation more unforgettable than that of an Angel Trumpet heavy with blossoms releasing its intoxicating scent." <br />
<br />
I mean, heck, people...according to the internet there's a good chance this tree will be better than SEX! <br />
<br />
Of course, there's also the distinct possibility that when the tree comes in for the winter, I will be put outside in its place. Especially since my plants have been getting more "action" than my hubby lately. <br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPI7eRZsj25QNG_AGdN19A8SGIYBHqd84e-ZTwAuyLmYhIgUDQmliOMrdggKmRqls30-gSPdpm8P7Kk3-kz_rYPqWeWHGstUAHi2rID4CZv4JBZ1-XKsdqaP1ribp87iFEsR_8iIYwvYBF/s1600/P1000039.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPI7eRZsj25QNG_AGdN19A8SGIYBHqd84e-ZTwAuyLmYhIgUDQmliOMrdggKmRqls30-gSPdpm8P7Kk3-kz_rYPqWeWHGstUAHi2rID4CZv4JBZ1-XKsdqaP1ribp87iFEsR_8iIYwvYBF/s320/P1000039.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>He's not too thrilled about it, either.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br />
</i></div>But all is not lost—after much consideration, I now have a fool-proof plan: The next time my husband gets worked up over some crazy specimen I'm ogling, I will lift his spirits by appealing to his sense of practicality. After all, he is an engineer, and he sees little value in things that are pretty just for pretty's sake. He likes things in our home to have multiple uses, so I've come up with the perfect solution―I will propose the purchase of the following rarity:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS-Sd9XdCG0FTglUap-u24oVOR_S_-UV5Ixj7r_OaAwGCy3q8MzH_J9sJi6_d26mifz721xPs80gXfX0KpiZDvZY801dhZY4LmqlX2eIgEhzKulCWOyVWAOj-Xl9qV5lcuARVZWgXIfQOy/s1600/rotting+corpse+lily.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS-Sd9XdCG0FTglUap-u24oVOR_S_-UV5Ixj7r_OaAwGCy3q8MzH_J9sJi6_d26mifz721xPs80gXfX0KpiZDvZY801dhZY4LmqlX2eIgEhzKulCWOyVWAOj-Xl9qV5lcuARVZWgXIfQOy/s320/rotting+corpse+lily.png" width="320" /></a></div> <br />
This freak of nature is called the Stinking Corpse Lily. It's the largest known flower in the world; it's very rare, hard to locate, it smells like a decaying/rotting carcass, and—here's the kicker—I think it might just make for the <i>perfect</i> "time-out" chair for when our kids misbehave! <br />
<br />
Sitting on a dining room chair for five minutes will be a thing of the past—we'll just duct tape our kids' butts to the Stinking Corpse Lily! <br />
<br />
As an added bonus—according to internet sources—the reservoir in the middle of this monstrosity can hold seven to eight <i>gallons</i> of water. So there will be no more cries of "I need to get out of time-out to go potty!" This "giant stinker" will be the perfect place on which to plop our little stinkers, for it will serve as a time-out chair and potty seat all in one! Now, if that's not practical, I don't know what is! <br />
<br />
Of course, I suppose it would probably be a wise idea to make sure it's not carnivorous first. <br />
<br />
It's brilliant! What could possibly go wrong?<br />
<br />
Misadventures in Motherhoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04733618217432605890noreply@blogger.com51tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828294267094880275.post-48539628617872263722012-02-21T19:09:00.001-08:002012-02-23T14:19:23.383-08:00Strange BrewI'm not a big fan of the mall—mostly because I tend to have horrible experiences there. I frequently get hoodwinked by enthusiastic salespeople who sell me junk I don't need and never use, and I have had enough dressing room blunders to write an entire book of anecdotes on fitting room mishaps.<br />
<br />
For example, when I went to the mall around Christmastime, I was confronted with the following dressing room horror show: <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirQ37tW3ihLHGpRxVfTMNJOdw2uzmIhPIWnbBi6ZJtAG-iTGmYm004PLpDRLXB9BNCpmLJ04LsfGjqYViHp7CACD2rTo5zeWfvThKyhfh_Y1hhPhKG-np0KZOXzWZQW51siDBSKbmXeXQB/s1600/IMG_20111227_172136.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirQ37tW3ihLHGpRxVfTMNJOdw2uzmIhPIWnbBi6ZJtAG-iTGmYm004PLpDRLXB9BNCpmLJ04LsfGjqYViHp7CACD2rTo5zeWfvThKyhfh_Y1hhPhKG-np0KZOXzWZQW51siDBSKbmXeXQB/s320/IMG_20111227_172136.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>(Yes, that is a used Band-Aid, a packet of ketchup and an open safety pin. I'm not sure what the pregnancy-test-like thing is. I can only imagine what was going on in this fitting room before I arrived.) <br />
<br />
For these reasons I generally avoid the mall, but when my husband's aunt recently offered to accompany me there to get some new clothes for the kids, I just couldn't resist. I had been lying around nursing my <a href="http://www.misadventuresinmotherhood.com/2012/02/broke-butt-mountain_08.html" target="_blank">broken tailbone</a> for so long that any opportunity to get out of the house was irresistible.<br />
<br />
We had a plan—we would start at one end of the mall and work our way through the department stores, purchasing clearance clothing for the kids for next season. All was going well until, as we strolled through the corridor between Macy's and Boscov's, I heard a friendly voice chirp, "Would you like to sample some tea?"<br />
<br />
I turned and found myself gazing at the most amazing tea shop I had ever seen. Wonderful, fruity smells wafted from the store, and I could see all manner of decorative teapots and pretty cups sparkling on the shelves. I heard heady, new-agey music pulsing inside, and I began wandering in that direction in an awed trance.<br />
<br />
Now, I think I should probably preface this next part by saying that I am not really a tea drinker—I prefer coffee. I do love a good iced tea in the summertime, but I'm just not a fan of hot tea (unless I'm at a Chinese restaurant; for some reason I always end up drinking ten cups of the addictive concoction they brew in there).<br />
<br />
Nevertheless, my curiosity was piqued by all of the sparkly tea paraphernalia, and between my good mood and the alluring music I just couldn't stop myself from wandering in. I happily sampled the tea being offered. It was delicious, and I readily agreed when the salesperson asked me if I'd like to try another.<br />
<br />
I was led to a table with some science-experiment-like equipment on it. I noticed little dried-up balls on a plate; they resembled owl pellets and I had a flashback to middle school science class. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkGwmSXPZb_Mf5E3QLY-FhVYTMTdlPHlhFYgre3PsWZFlsKBenKNwFbgMK1VSc9sM_XEnxPevffGQDJW1ulnPOheJ2g3GHg_-XUOGgRDevgnaVoPSH968YjWkZBKkwdk_1Ghwg9JO63gIb/s1600/blooming+tea+balls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkGwmSXPZb_Mf5E3QLY-FhVYTMTdlPHlhFYgre3PsWZFlsKBenKNwFbgMK1VSc9sM_XEnxPevffGQDJW1ulnPOheJ2g3GHg_-XUOGgRDevgnaVoPSH968YjWkZBKkwdk_1Ghwg9JO63gIb/s200/blooming+tea+balls.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgddHEEYovEFyzrEJUhyphenhyphenRQMBDuVKZ6tshtO5TxVt_7Gg_tIo9l4NcWoXSWP9Ho5T8U8muWg02_bk370m3WbixaagF1FGoN6JVdK65EGzKNDeh8Vf-L0eFwj_0dCJ-E-J59rpHwo5eVGTPsz/s1600/tea+ball.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>I screwed up my face and wondered if I was going to see some rodent bones. Fortunately I needn't have worried; they were just tea balls, and the saleslady—we'll call her Betty—directed my attention to a clear glass teapot with what looked like flowers and moss growing inside of it.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZXx-etdN4ZP73aJNNHEvyRlSMgiTdkKippPfceFAnDEBjOWfse-Sp7Hcm8nKNkW2FND4_SBmhbOBpgzdhJoUVkpGVb3PIm_ugdM_3XOV80N1LW4BUTLq2fE_qrBZsmgTN9ddF4V8Pbno8/s1600/teapot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZXx-etdN4ZP73aJNNHEvyRlSMgiTdkKippPfceFAnDEBjOWfse-Sp7Hcm8nKNkW2FND4_SBmhbOBpgzdhJoUVkpGVb3PIm_ugdM_3XOV80N1LW4BUTLq2fE_qrBZsmgTN9ddF4V8Pbno8/s320/teapot.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Betty explained that this was called "blooming tea." According to her, impoverished workers in China hand-roll dried flowers into these blooming tea balls for our American enjoyment. She stated that the workers get paid, "A penny for every twenty they do...or something like that." I thought this sounded like a lousy endorsement for buying owl-pellet tea balls assembled via slave labor, so I passed on those. <br />
<br />
I then continued my tea-sampling orgy, trying iced tea, fruit tea, jasmine tea, white tea, herb tea, and Chinese tea (which didn't taste <i>nearly</i> as good without the accompanying pork fried rice). I was particularly fond of the iced tea, and Betty explained that it was a mixture of two different blends. It was completely caffeine free, she said, and therefore it would be perfect for the kids.<br />
<br />
I envisioned myself having a Martha Stewart-ish moment, mixing up delicious pitchers of fruity iced tea for the family in the summertime. Heck, if I couldn't impress my family with my <a href="http://www.misadventuresinmotherhood.com/2012/01/fowl-play.html" target="_blank">lousy cooking</a>, at least I could make some yummy tea. I immediately told her I would take some.<br />
<br />
At the counter, Betty removed two giant metal tubs from a rack on the wall behind her. She began scooping contents from each tub into two different bags while telling me all about the health benefits of fresh tea.<br />
<br />
"We have doctors sending their patients to our store for holistic remedies," she said proudly. "The tea is so fresh and full of nutrients, it can even cure migraine headaches and other physical ailments." I immediately grew curious and began telling her about my chronic muscle and nerve pain, which I take painkillers and muscle relaxers for on a daily basis.<br />
<br />
"Oh, we have a tea that's <i>great</i> for muscle spasms!" she replied. "It's got these special cherries that have relaxing qualities. It would be very helpful for your problems."<br />
<br />
I told her to go ahead and add some of that to my purchase.<br />
<br />
By this point, my daughter Clara was getting restless. She had been sitting in the stroller for at least twenty minutes while I sampled teas and talked about health remedies, and she now wanted to get out of the store. Unfortunately we couldn't leave just yet, because scooping and bagging my teas was taking Betty longer than I'd expected, so I purchased a sugar spoon from the counter and handed it to my daughter.<br />
<br />
"Look, Clara! Lollipop!"<br />
<br />
Clara picked up the sugar spoon, took a couple of sucks, and then promptly dropped it on the floor and started to cry. I groaned.<br />
<br />
"Oh dear!" Betty said. "Would you like me to rinse it off with some water?"<br />
<br />
"No, no...I'll just buy another one." I gave Clara the new sugar spoon, and she successfully managed a few more sucks before dropping that one too. She started to wail.<br />
<br />
I told Betty I needed to get on my way, so I asked her if she could start ringing up my order. That's when I looked at the counter and noticed that I had several mostly-full bags of tea, and I had not a clue how much any of it cost. I buy tea about once a year—for my husband for Christmas—and I'm used to buying it at Target, where an $8.00 box of teabags will last us until the following holiday. I realized that I was most likely looking at a forty dollar tea purchase, and I started to sweat.<br />
<br />
As she started weighing everything, Betty asked me what I was planning on storing my tea in. After all, she said, tea will degrade if exposed to light or air, so I needed something both air and light tight.<br />
<br />
"Oh, I'll just put them in the ceramic canisters on my kitchen counter."<br />
<br />
"Well, see, that won't work," explained Betty, "because light penetrates ceramic. Only metal will block the UV rays, so you need to use something like these handy tea tins that you can purchase right here at the store. You'll probably need two, because you have a good amount of tea here, and you don't want it to lose its freshness."<br />
<br />
I looked at the obviously overpriced tea tins and tried to figure out if I could avoid buying them. Clara was still mourning the loss of her second sugar spoon and was nearing meltdown status. <br />
<br />
"Fine, fine...just ring them up too," I added, anxious to get out of the store.<br />
<br />
"Okay, and, um, how were you planning on brewing the tea?" Betty asked.<br />
<br />
"Uh...with my one-cup coffeemaker?"<br />
<br />
"Oh, well, this is whole-leaf tea, see, so you need a tea ball or other brewing device. We have some right over here..." and she walked me to one of the walls full of fancy tea accoutrements. I quickly selected what I hoped was a modestly-priced brewer and pulled out my credit card.<br />
<br />
As Betty rang up my order I watched the growing total with alarm. I silently prayed that my bill wouldn't exceed sixty dollars.<br />
<br />
"That will be one hundred and five dollars and eighty-two cents," Betty chirped.<br />
<br />
I'm pretty sure the blood drained from my face at this point, and I sensed the beginnings of a panic attack. I felt like a complete idiot. I hadn't, at any point, even <i>asked</i> how much the tea was. After all, how much could tea possibly cost? It's <i>tea</i>!!<br />
<br />
Apparently it costs quite a bit if you purchase a POUND of it. <br />
<br />
I quickly thought about my order and tried to figure out if there was anything I could put back. Short of emptying the meticulously-weighed-and-measured tea back into its original tin and returning it to the shelf, there seemed to be no solution...and I just didn't have the time to wait for Betty to re-measure a different quantity of tea.<br />
<br />
I sheepishly offered my credit card, stared at the floor and shuffled my feet while the ridiculously long receipt printed out. Betty bid me a friendly farewell, and I hustled out of the store with my tail between my legs. <br />
<br />
Once we were out of earshot of the saleslady, my husband's aunt laughed, clapped me on the back and shouted, "Well, she sure took <i>you</i> for a ride!!"<br />
<br />
My face burned with embarrassment. <br />
<br />
My palms sweated all over the steering wheel as I drove home. I realized I was going to have some <i>major</i> explaining to do. Not wanting my husband to arrive at the house and be surprised by a ridiculously huge credit card receipt, I called him at work to explain myself.<br />
<br />
"Um, I made a little, um...oopsie," I said in my most timid and remorseful voice.<br />
<br />
"Uh oh...what did you do now?" my husband asked.<br />
<br />
I sheepishly explained that I had been tricked into purchasing a pound of tea and accompanying paraphernalia for a hundred dollars. I tried to explain how the saleslady had used her wiles to con me, but I was interrupted. <br />
<br />
"Wait a second. You don't even <i>like</i> tea!! I'm the only one who drinks it! So you spent a hundred dollars on something you don't even like?!"<br />
<br />
I started to share my fantasy of making iced tea for everyone this summer, thinking that I could cheer my husband with talk of refreshing fruit tea, but he interrupted me again. <br />
<br />
"What the hell else did you buy?" he snapped. <br />
<br />
"Um...just some tea tins and a brewer," I said sheepishly.<br />
<br />
"Well, we're going to return the tins. We don't need them—we have canisters on the counter that will work just fine."<br />
<br />
I relayed Betty's assertion that light penetrates ceramic, so the canisters won't work.<br />
<br />
"Wait, wait... I call 'bullshit' on that!!" my husband hollered. "Seriously? I mean, think about it. <i>Ceramic isn't light-tight? </i>You mean if I sit in a glazed ceramic container on the beach I'll get a sunburn? That's freaking ridiculous!" <br />
<br />
I stared at the floor. "Well, we can return the tins if you really want to."<br />
<br />
He huffed. "We'll figure it out when I get home," he said before hanging up.<br />
<br />
I swallowed and took a calming breath. At least the worst was over. I stared at my glossy bag filled with overpriced tea and vowed to drink it <i>every day</i> for the next year if I had to, just to prove that it wasn't a complete waste of money. <br />
<br />
That evening I brewed my first glass of iced tea from my stash. As I scooped the tea out of the bag, this twig came out with the dried berries.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhORKbCGfsPOFBjtUzoR2hUGlmz8nT5Bk5pjcWSgIO-PTVP8bcnahzoIf5E09nsK8je7QnM4pGhDbWyTr9t9suVNNEEajP-zUEuSCgZIRxhyphenhyphenc3eyJGmsrsE_gUg8rsz8Ppbqp6MnTTEvwpH/s1600/IMG_20120209_133335.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhORKbCGfsPOFBjtUzoR2hUGlmz8nT5Bk5pjcWSgIO-PTVP8bcnahzoIf5E09nsK8je7QnM4pGhDbWyTr9t9suVNNEEajP-zUEuSCgZIRxhyphenhyphenc3eyJGmsrsE_gUg8rsz8Ppbqp6MnTTEvwpH/s320/IMG_20120209_133335.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">I estimate I probably paid about $1.00 for it. On the bright side, since it's a <i>gourmet</i> twig I'm sure it's one of the freshest twigs I'd be able to find anywhere. Too bad I couldn't bring myself to brew it. </div></div><br />
After disposing of the stick, I installed myself on the sofa with my iced tea and tried to look like it was transporting me to previously unachieved levels of ecstasy. <br />
<br />
"So, how's your ten dollar glass of tea?" my husband asked sarcastically. <br />
<br />
"It's good, actually."<br />
<br />
"Well, it better be. We've got enough tea to last us the next ten years."<br />
<br />
I had nothing to say. I was significantly admonished and completely embarrassed. <br />
<br />
"Well," my husband said, "All I have to say is...you'd better write a damn funny blog post about this!" <br />
<br />
Well, at least that's taken care of. <br />
<br />
Now I think I'll have a cup of tea.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Misadventures in Motherhoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04733618217432605890noreply@blogger.com77tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828294267094880275.post-44491336486935072602012-02-08T19:03:00.000-08:002012-02-08T19:19:07.512-08:00Broke Butt MountainMost people have love-hate relationships with their bodies, and I'm no different—although it's not for the reasons one might think. I don't hate the stretch marks that I bear as a result of having my children, and I don't get too upset over the venetian-blind effect that characterizes my tummy every time I slouch our bend. <br />
<br />
No—my issue is with my backside. For some reason, having children has caused my bum to go all flat and droopy.<br />
<br />
Now, I expected that my belly would be a bit loose after stretching to accommodate the equivalent of a small watermelon. I also knew that my boobs would begin their migration to what will surely be their final resting place—just north of my belly button. But I never thought my bum would go from "bootylicious" to "bootylifeless."<br />
<br />
I first learned of the unfortunate situation plaguing my backside when a friend happened to catch a shot of my rump at a child's birthday party. <br />
<br />
Exhibit A: <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3bBljsZtU_614SK6QT0WtmvPEsggALAU3NjTC9XLshovEp6FzfbTMWQQoyxi8Xhz8CkjYkM4iW_qFbbGW2ThUH0E6Rc0edXYIqJoa4Sst3Bk90R2QNNnXB9-LYGVpjuXpfbjFBiiZeAai/s1600/flat+butt.jpg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3bBljsZtU_614SK6QT0WtmvPEsggALAU3NjTC9XLshovEp6FzfbTMWQQoyxi8Xhz8CkjYkM4iW_qFbbGW2ThUH0E6Rc0edXYIqJoa4Sst3Bk90R2QNNnXB9-LYGVpjuXpfbjFBiiZeAai/s400/flat+butt.jpg.jpg" width="241" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;">Where's the beef?</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">After seeing this photo, I quickly dispatched with the offending jeans and replaced them with a "booty-enhancing" pair with flappy back pockets.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, the problem wasn't just aesthetic. My butt seems to have lost all of its functionality too. Lately, my hindquarters seem to be incapable of performing even the most basic of duties—like, say, holding my jeans up.<br />
<br />
I discovered that one of my comfiest pairs of jeans was failing me when my husband recently assaulted my derriere during my daughter's diaper change. I was bent over—busily tending to my squiggling little girl—when my hubby stealthily crept up behind me, stuck his finger in my butt crack, wiggled it and yelled something resembling "blalalalalaa!!" in a high-pitched voice. </div><br />
Seriously—he could have just told me my butt was sticking out. It would have been a lot less traumatic for all involved. <br />
<br />
Needless to say, those jeans were donated to Goodwill. It cheers me to think that some other gal can now unwittingly flash her butt crack every time she bends over...and for only six dollars (what a bargain)! I have since been guilty of buying those dreaded high-waisted jeans that most women avoid.<br />
<br />
But there's one side effect of my new condition that I never could have anticipated: I no longer have any padding on my bottom to protect me when I fall. Not that I fall a lot, mind you, but on a scale from "graceful" to "clumsy," I certainly come in closer to the "clumsy" end.<br />
<br />
I've suffered several major falls in the past few years, and one time I actually succeeded in herniating a disc in my back. I now deal with back pain on a daily basis, and any type of injury exacerbates things terribly.<br />
<br />
It was for this reason that, when I announced that I was planning to try snowboarding, my husband shot me a look that could have melted steel.<br />
<br />
"Do you really think that's a smart thing to do?" he asked me in disbelief. "You'll kill yourself!"<br />
<br />
"Well thanks for the vote of confidence, sweetheart!!" I responded, stomping off in a huff.<br />
<br />
Now, if anyone knows what a stubborn idiot I can often be, it's my husband. He can tell right away when I've got some crazy idea in my head, and he also knows that there's not much he can do about it. This didn't stop him from trying to talk me out of snowboarding, though. After much arguing, he realized he wouldn't be able to thwart me directly, so he sought to wear me down by calling everyone we knew and complaining on a daily basis about how unreasonable I was. <br />
<br />
My sister also joined the chorus of concerned voices. She had offered to teach me to snowboard, and when she arrived at my house she wasted no time in soberly warning me of the dangers I faced. She even insisted that my husband and I come in a separate car <i>just</i> in case I was in too much pain and couldn't continue at some point. <br />
<br />
I responded to her concern by rolling my eyes and grumbling.<br />
<br />
I probably should have recognized that people were honestly trying to help, but by this point I was so annoyed with everyone that any suggestion concerning my safety was immediately disregarded.<br />
<br />
When my husband asked me how my back was feeling on the way to the mountain, I fumed and huffed and told him I was fine. I just about bit my sister's head off when she suggested I get a helmet from the rental shop, and when a small argument erupted over whether I should start on the bunny trail or one of the beginner slopes, I had to restrain myself from forcibly ramming my rental board up someone's backside.<br />
<br />
I had sufficiently angered pretty much everyone in our party by the time we all had our gear, so it was decided that we should stop talking and just head out to the slope. I quickly became giddy with excitement—I had made it! I was on the mountain, and <i>no one</i> was going to stop me from having fun!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp5335RADbzJORR85hlNEoJVWXQn22ZcEI2JZONxij-2S_D-eigyuIAxzouMk_B0GOG45CQLvvHtf2x__hsrD0Y26_QuOm96mAYOgaZ2FVINYp0T1_XL2ril4QckAJyvS_wQ3pxZMpZ6ai/s1600/P1000007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp5335RADbzJORR85hlNEoJVWXQn22ZcEI2JZONxij-2S_D-eigyuIAxzouMk_B0GOG45CQLvvHtf2x__hsrD0Y26_QuOm96mAYOgaZ2FVINYp0T1_XL2ril4QckAJyvS_wQ3pxZMpZ6ai/s400/P1000007.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">I smiled for the camera, strapped on my board and promptly slid into a ditch, where I spent the next ten minutes flopping about on my back like a wounded beetle trying to right itself. </div></div><br />
My husband spent a few victorious moments laughing at me, then made some half-assed attempts to drag me from the rut with his ski pole. Eventually I swallowed my pride and took the board off. I walked back out to the middle of the trail and started again.<br />
<br />
My next attempt was significantly better and resulted in only a few falls. Before long I had made it to the bottom of the hill and was mounting the lift to try the slope again. I was excited to be getting the hang of it, but I had to admit that my sister had been right about one thing—I was falling a <i>lot,</i> and by the time an hour had passed, I was feeling quite beat up and sore.<br />
<br />
My back was hurting in the usual places, and my shoulders and neck were cramping and burning. Nevertheless, I pushed on—learning to snowboard was exhilarating! My hubby stuck with me as I repeatedly tumbled in the snow, even though he would much rather have been swishing down the advanced slopes on his skis. I was extremely grateful for his company, especially since I had been such a crabby-ass earlier.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCkILcwTzyQvDOMryfW-NYL10l4lDiq8k_9P7KYHCyUEuMpt73aPtBBmOj9_6XpxFCFdedzkMh7rmwewLthg2xnUnWXSn2oFUWvlspV0pP9_ofiTZ_GCag5vJMys1R8HTiQiQKk-tSw0YV/s1600/P1000010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCkILcwTzyQvDOMryfW-NYL10l4lDiq8k_9P7KYHCyUEuMpt73aPtBBmOj9_6XpxFCFdedzkMh7rmwewLthg2xnUnWXSn2oFUWvlspV0pP9_ofiTZ_GCag5vJMys1R8HTiQiQKk-tSw0YV/s400/P1000010.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Things were going along swimmingly until I caught the back edge of my board wrong, tipped over backwards and fell down hard on my woefully un-cushioned butt. Pain exploded in my rump and I curled up in a ball in the snow, rocking and moaning "Owwww...." </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My husband took the pause in activity as an opportunity to snap some scenic pictures. He captured some photos of the mountains around us, then turned the camera on me and said, "Smile, honey!" I struggled to my knees and slapped a smile on my face. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWDAmabqBBCcKa1zCjtFhqGvI9sTuGRddS1blGpWJc1UYiq0caO1cLjaErNQPJ1_caF0x2eMxvYTOl5Pve2rFmzrvJna3pGhvh-upZCLrX7TeVuJWDRbmvhj565v3TB4qUDhsEtAByVswD/s1600/P1000003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWDAmabqBBCcKa1zCjtFhqGvI9sTuGRddS1blGpWJc1UYiq0caO1cLjaErNQPJ1_caF0x2eMxvYTOl5Pve2rFmzrvJna3pGhvh-upZCLrX7TeVuJWDRbmvhj565v3TB4qUDhsEtAByVswD/s400/P1000003.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> <i>I think I did a pretty good job of hiding the fact that I had just sustained a massive tailbone injury. </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Great!" my husband shouted. "Ready to get going?" </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I wobbled to my feet and told myself that I was fine, even though I was nauseous from pain and a bit weak-in-the-knees. We were due to meet up with my sister in the lodge in an hour, and I was <i>not</i> about to let her see me admitting defeat. And I was certainly not about to say that I had to stop and go home early. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I struggled through another half an hour of falling in the snow before telling my hubby that I needed a break. We went back to the lodge and he worked on getting me some food, while I rested and took some pain medication and muscle relaxers. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When my sister arrived, she was thrilled to hear that I still had my snowboard (I had threatened to switch to skis if boarding sucked), and she couldn't wait to go down a run with me so she could see my skills. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My hubby was more than excited to be relieved of the task of babysitting me, and he quickly took off by himself to do some serious skiing. After he left, my sister looked at me sorta funny and asked, "Do you have any idea what you look like?" </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"What do you mean?" I asked. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"You mean he didn't tell you?" she asked in disbelief. "Here, I'll show you," she said, and she took this picture of me: </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilY6Atg9v1OKv_NNJU3E-xesqUatL1DzqQ-FAEKXiDe2-HSwgfO4AE5VnfIDcNQjQnxNJkFPPWR7MzrTUbAO8Z2Gjs8IuOe1VWV74yKhC7E3C1ZLM-U1uZQFhrGgU6rv0XSDAexPJ-_QHz/s1600/Crazy+Hair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilY6Atg9v1OKv_NNJU3E-xesqUatL1DzqQ-FAEKXiDe2-HSwgfO4AE5VnfIDcNQjQnxNJkFPPWR7MzrTUbAO8Z2Gjs8IuOe1VWV74yKhC7E3C1ZLM-U1uZQFhrGgU6rv0XSDAexPJ-_QHz/s400/Crazy+Hair.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I looked at the picture and affected an expression that I hoped communicated horror. Inwardly I was in way too much pain to give a whoopdie-doo about some errant hair. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"I can't believe he didn't tell you that your hair looks ridiculous!" my sister exclaimed. "I mean, how could he just let you sit here looking like that?!" </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I shrugged, but inwardly I thought that it was likely that my husband was afraid to give me any suggestions after my earlier displays of bitchy behavior. I put my hat back on and my sister gave me an approving look. She declared I was once again fit for public viewing, and we headed back out to the slopes. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I suffered through several more runs down the mountain on the board before deciding that I just couldn't endure any more falling. Besides, it was now absolutely impossible for me to latch my own board on—every time I sat on the ground to fasten the straps I was struck by excruciating pain in my bum. I was thus stuck awkwardly waiting for my sister to bend down and attach my board each time we got off the lift. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Common sense says that I should have just quit at this point, but I had packed my skis in my car, and I didn't want to leave the mountain before getting in a few good runs, dammit! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I took off my rental gear, limped to the car, retrieved my skis and got suited up all over again. Unfortunately I was in worse shape than I'd anticipated. My shoulders were on fire, I had pain shooting through my hips and back, my neck was a mess of knots, and I had a massive headache. I also felt like I had a red-hot coal embedded at the base of my spine. I went for a few clumsy runs on my skis and finally cried "uncle." </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I hobbled to the lodge on shaky legs and put my head down on a table. I breathed slowly, trying not to throw up because of the pain. My hubby found me, saw the state I was in and kindly offered to pull the car around for me. By the time it pulled up I could barely heave myself into it. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Once we got on the road I said in a shaky voice, "Um, I think I may need to go to the hospital. I think I may have actually seriously hurt myself." </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Silence. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I waited for the "I told you so," but it never came. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Instead, he just quietly said, "Well that sucks." </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">(Have I mentioned that my husband is wonderful?)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As it turns out, I had broken my tailbone in my fall. Stupidly, I had then proceeded to snowboard and ski with a fractured tailbone for another <i>six hours,</i> just because I didn't want to admit that I had hurt myself. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I told you I'm an idiot sometimes. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The next day I could barely get out of bed, and my husband took care of the kids by himself. He didn't complain once. When he came to check on me, he was tender and loving, and when I beat myself up for being stupid, he hugged me and said, "It was just one of those freak accidents. There's nothing you could have done about it." </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Well, I suppose I could have just skipped snowboarding in the first place. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I have spent the last couple of weeks taking painkillers and doing a whole lot of resting (hence why this post is so overdue...I've found it rather difficult to collect my thoughts on regular doses of narcotics). The docs say that tailbone fractures take a long time to heal, and that my rump could take up to <i>six months</i> to fully repair itself. I guess I won't be snowboarding again anytime soon. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But oddly enough, I sort of want to do it again. It was truly exciting to learn a new skill, and I was actually getting fairly good at it by the end of the day. My hubby's pretty sure I'm insane, but I think I would snowboard again if I had the chance. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Except, perhaps next time I should don some ass armor to protect my flat bottom before hitting the slopes. Anyone know where I can get a butt helmet?<br />
Misadventures in Motherhoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04733618217432605890noreply@blogger.com66tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828294267094880275.post-35568973700889026902012-01-13T16:23:00.000-08:002012-01-14T08:50:58.739-08:00Fowl PlayMy husband is considering nominating me for the show "Worst Cooks in America," and I think I may actually have quite a good chance at winning the title—assuming the title actually goes to the <i>worst</i> cook, and not the most-reformed <i>previously</i> worst cook.<br />
<br />
Actually, I don't think I'd even make it through the first round—mostly because I'd quickly be disqualified from the category of "cook" and placed firmly in the category of "meat mangler," or "expert re-heater." I'm <i>that </i>bad.<br />
<br />
When we were first dating, my husband once asked me to boil a potato for him so he'd have a head-start on dinner when he got home from work. He arrived to find a smoke-filled apartment and a very frustrated girlfriend angrily banging about in the kitchen. When he asked me what was going on, I pointed at the offending potato in the pot and yelled, "It just won't cook!"<br />
<br />
He looked at the pot, which held a whole potato sitting in an inch of water and said, "Um, didn't you realize you had to chop it up?"<br />
<br />
I had wondered why the water kept boiling out and the potato was burning on the bottom.<br />
<br />
My husband knew exactly what he was getting into when he married me, and thankfully he didn't really mind, because he absolutely <i>loves</i> to cook. On any given day, by seven in the morning he has already decided what he will be making for dinner, and little plans are hatching in his brain as to how he should embellish the meal to make it as "gourmet" as possible. <br />
<br />
For Christmas this year he asked for a subscription to "Cooks Illustrated," which is pretty much the equivalent of a Playboy magazine to him. When his first issue arrived in the mail yesterday, he tore the plastic off with abandon and hungrily scanned the pages—eyes bulging and mouth watering. As I gaped at him, he muttered, "Mmmmm.... <i>Food Porn...." </i><br />
<br />
Although I've tried, I just don't understand his passion for cooking or his zest for grocery shopping. My husband looks at the meat aisle in a supermarket and sees an extravaganza of possibilities glistening with juicy goodness, whereas I just look at it and see lots and lots of innards and pieces of dead things. <br />
<br />
This is why, if I had to cook for myself, I would quickly become a vegetarian. I don't see how chopping up bloody dead things could be tolerable—let alone <i>fun</i>, and the idea of dealing with raw meat just disgusts me. In fact, I pretty much feel like I need to don a HAZMAT suit to just <i>approach</i> a piece of raw meat, and afterwards I always feel like I need to shower off. Even after washing my hands numerous times with antibacterial soap and going through several applications of hand sanitizer (which I apply generously and often up to the elbow), I still feel like I have somehow been infected with some insidious germ that will turn me into one of those rabid, vomitous zombies you see in horror movies. <br />
<br />
So you can imagine my frustration when, this afternoon, my daughter asked for soup and I realized we were out of the canned variety. I asked her if she would settle for chicken nuggets, and she said yes....but when I looked, the closest thing we had to nuggets was uncooked breaded fish patties. Being completely unsure of how long it would take to cook said fish patties in the microwave (only baking instructions appeared on the package, along with a prominent warning about the dangers of eating undercooked fish), I returned them to the freezer. <br />
<br />
That's when I remembered that I had recently bought a collection of gourmet, ready-in-twenty-minutes soups-in-a-box. I picked up my daughter's favorite—chicken noodle—and glanced at the package. <br />
<br />
"This soup is SO EASY to make, we don't even bother giving you slow cooker instructions!" the box boasted. "Delicious homemade-style soup in under twenty minutes!" I decided to go for it. I mean, heck, how could I bungle pre-packaged chicken soup? <br />
<br />
I filled a pot with the requisite six cups of water and patted myself on the back for remembering to use the filtered water from the fridge instead of tap water. I put the pot on the stove and set the heat to high, and when it boiled I added the contents of both packets from the box. I stirred it a few times and walked away.<br />
<br />
When I returned twenty minutes later, what I had was a thick yellow liquid with tiny bits of unrecognizable colored stuff in it. I frowned, picked up the box again and looked closer at the directions.<br />
<br />
They read:<br />
<br />
1. Put six cups of water in a pot and add chopped chicken.<br />
2. When the chicken is nearly done, add the second packet with the noodles.<br />
3. Cook an additional ten minutes for the noodles to soften.<br />
4. When noodles are nearly done, add the seasoning packet and cook an additional 2 minutes.<br />
5. Add additional water if necessary and season to taste.<br />
<br />
OOPS.<br />
<br />
I decided that the worst mistake I had made was forgetting the chicken, and that the mess was possibly still salvageable. (And no, I had obviously <i>not</i> noticed that there was no chicken in the packets in the box.) <br />
<br />
I had a sinking feeling in my belly as I opened the freezer door and confronted the frozen chicken breasts my husband had neatly stacked in there. I was repulsed and had no interest in taking those things out of the bag, but my daughter was hungry, so I faced my fear. I clumsily shook the breasts out of the bag and onto a dinner plate (taking care not to let any part of them touch my person) and stuck the plate in the microwave.<br />
<br />
Hmmm....<br />
<br />
I had no idea how long it would take to cook two chicken breasts in the microwave, but since we have a rather intelligent model I decided to press the "frozen entree" button. After all, the chicken was frozen, and it was sort of like an entree. It was certainly a better button to push than "frozen vegetables," I reasoned.<br />
<br />
My daughter was now stomping around at my feet angrily because at least half an hour had gone by and I had not—as of yet—provided her with anything to eat.<br />
<br />
I stared at the chicken as it turned, willing it to cook evenly and thoroughly so I wouldn't have to deal with anything quasi raw-ish. <br />
<br />
The microwave beeped and told me it had a minute and a half left. I was confused—the chicken was clearly still pink on top, but the sides were smoking. I pressed the "stop" button and removed the plate. My daughter began jumping up and down at my side like a yippie dog, yelling "My chichin! My chichin!!" <br />
<br />
I calmly told her she would have to wait because it wasn't ready yet, picked up a knife and began clumsily sawing off the rubbery edges. Anything that looked edible got thrown into the soup pot.<br />
<br />
Halfway through the massacre I realized I was using a knife with a wooden handle and nearly panicked. Wood is porous. I had contaminated the knife! I would probably have to throw it away! But I had no time to think... my daughter was screaming "Chichin!! Chiiiiiichiiiiiinnnnnn!!!" <br />
<br />
"Yes, yes, honey, just wait," I soothed, grabbing a second knife with a plastic handle and continuing to hack at the offending chunks. My mom called in the middle of this, and just as she was exclaiming, "Dear Lord, if your husband ever dies, you'll all starve," it occurred to me that this whole incident might make for an entertaining blog post.<br />
<br />
I got off the phone, washed my hands five times, sanitized them three times, and then took a picture of the hateful chunks still left on the plate. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfHwJeFlrFZz4tzs9VTvwxfbLxmP0AAz688hwdE0_R7jxs-2-Eb-U8fRs5zgEnj1Vz1ZxPDGaVciL8dg2x0Cibmtgj8HEKJ5ceAtfzy7HXkHTQXkIeV7OutIzlWjOoD5FSZFm63e97334d/s1600/IMG_20120113_151728.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfHwJeFlrFZz4tzs9VTvwxfbLxmP0AAz688hwdE0_R7jxs-2-Eb-U8fRs5zgEnj1Vz1ZxPDGaVciL8dg2x0Cibmtgj8HEKJ5ceAtfzy7HXkHTQXkIeV7OutIzlWjOoD5FSZFm63e97334d/s320/IMG_20120113_151728.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div> <br />
In all fairness, I'm pretty sure this plate of mangled chicken harbored the same amount of resentment for me as I felt for it.<br />
<br />
My daughter was just about rioting now, since none of the chicken I had promised her was yet in her belly. She shrieked "Stop it!" as I dropped two handfuls of decimated meat into the pot, and then she burst into sobs when I put the above mess back in the microwave.<br />
<br />
"Wungry!!!" she wailed. "Wungry chichin!!!"<br />
<br />
"Yes, yes honey! Chicken soup! For you! It's just not done!" I yelled over her protests, hoping she heard sincerity in my voice rather than panic.<br />
<br />
My daughter was openly sobbing now, wailing in that "waaaaa...waaaahhh!!!" way that only little children do. (I've heard each child is specially calibrated to produce the specific frequency needed to tear its mother's heart to shreds.)<br />
<br />
She pointed to the microwave and yelled mournfully, "Chichin in dare!!! Waaaaahhh!" <br />
<br />
I stared at the microwave with intensity, willing the chicken to <i>cook dammit!! </i>When I saw smoke signals from within, I took it to mean that the meat was done, and I hit the "stop" button. I pulled out the sizzling meat, hacked off the burnt bits, shredded the rest and dropped it in the still-boiling pot.<br />
<br />
I turned to my daughter and said in the most excited voice I could muster, "It's almost ready!! Chicken soup! Yes! For YOU!!!" I'm sure I looked like a glassy-eyed lunatic at this point, but apparently it was enough to convince my daughter that food was really imminent. She walked over to the counter and pointed at the bowl she wanted.<br />
<br />
In all honesty, I wanted to let the soup cook for another ten minutes just to make sure there weren't any slightly undercooked bits I had accidentally missed, but I realized that my paranoia was getting the better of me and that no germs could have possibly survived two trips through the microwave and a rolling boil. <br />
<br />
I ladled the soup into my daughter's bowl, dropped some ice cubes in it to cool it faster, turned on her favorite Barney video and installed her at her table. She blew on the soup, picked up a large chunk of chicken and stuffed it into her mouth. As she chewed I observed and waited for any signs that there might be a zombie transformation taking place.<br />
<br />
When she was done chewing and had apparently swallowed the piece unscathed, I asked her hopefully, "Is the soup yummy?"<br />
<br />
(Pause) <br />
<br />
"No."<br />
<br />
(She never says no; chicken noodle soup is her favorite.)<br />
<br />
I questioned her again. "Is the soup <i>tasty?</i>"<br />
<br />
"No."<br />
<br />
*sigh*<br />
<br />
It certainly <i>looked</i> good enough. Surprisingly, after all that had transpired, I was actually left with something that resembled chicken noodle soup! <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWZjlD3wNF78DU0rVrvbXlU0SwMUc7BcPpJiBep66wVk-t0PpqypGJvBwi0uGJY4dYltqnm4-JIf0m1ejbiT70bWwdHug61Ayopzm0svdyXnJ8feNzEp4qY9CEgHmDijdewFK_coQEoD5N/s1600/IMG_20120113_154102%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWZjlD3wNF78DU0rVrvbXlU0SwMUc7BcPpJiBep66wVk-t0PpqypGJvBwi0uGJY4dYltqnm4-JIf0m1ejbiT70bWwdHug61Ayopzm0svdyXnJ8feNzEp4qY9CEgHmDijdewFK_coQEoD5N/s320/IMG_20120113_154102%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Unfortunately I can't tell you how it tastes because I couldn't bring myself to try any of it after handling all of those repulsive chicken pieces.<br />
<br />
I think I'll feed it to my husband. Yes... that's it... I'll clean the kitchen until it sparkles, and then when he arrives home I'll proudly present my homemade chicken soup. I'll tell him I wanted to cook <i>him</i> dinner for once, and that I lovingly prepared the soup in his honor. <br />
<br />
Perfect! He'll never know.....<br />
<br />
That is, of course, unless a zombie transformation occurs before he gets home. Then I imagine I'd have some explaining to do.<br />
<br />
Misadventures in Motherhoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04733618217432605890noreply@blogger.com61tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828294267094880275.post-64951262387302815892012-01-05T18:35:00.000-08:002012-01-05T18:41:31.508-08:00Till Death Do Us BarfWeddings are wonderful, festive, life-changing, and occasionally disastrous events. I suppose Forrest Gump's famous line could apply to them, in that you never know what you're gonna get.<br />
<br />
I was absolutely thrilled when my best friend asked me to be Matron of Honor in her New Year's Eve wedding, but if I had known what was in store, perhaps I would have asked for some extra-strength Valium to prepare me for the insanity and disaster that was to ensue.<br />
<br />
Before I continue I should mention that I use the term "best friend" loosely; I actually have several best friends—each just as dear to me as the others. In this case the best friend getting married was my pal Jen—we'll call her Chiquita (because that's what I call her, due to a high-school incident involving a banana. Just go ahead and let your imaginations run wild here, people).<br />
<br />
Chiquita's ceremony promised to be a glittery affair, and I came into the holidays woefully unprepared. If you're a follower of my blog, you're familiar with my typical everyday "mom look," which goes something like this:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xNDxlzRI13o/TwXES71OstI/AAAAAAAAAPA/FfAApCdZwXs/s1600/DSCF7848.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xNDxlzRI13o/TwXES71OstI/AAAAAAAAAPA/FfAApCdZwXs/s400/DSCF7848.JPG" width="266" /></a></div><br />
<br />
It was clear to me (and everyone else) that I was in need of a massive overhaul to properly prepare for Chiquita's wedding. Thus, operation "Pretty-Up the Dumpy Housewife" began.<br />
<br />
The first snafu happened when I got my eyebrows done. A previous waxing incident had damaged my skin and caused a cyst, so this time I tried a technique called "threading," which is basically like high-speed plucking. The "threader" uses strings to grab a whole bunch of hairs at once and rip them out in quick succession. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tXlL_j9U114/TwXF67UccpI/AAAAAAAAAPU/ZCggY25Y-BE/s1600/IMG_20111227_173227-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tXlL_j9U114/TwXF67UccpI/AAAAAAAAAPU/ZCggY25Y-BE/s400/IMG_20111227_173227-1.jpg" width="315" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I look quite peaceful, don't I? Actually, I was pretty much gripping the chair with white knuckles, imagining myself on a sandy beach with crashing waves to distract myself from the sensation of having my forehead attacked by a nest of angry hornets. After the procedure, I was left with what looked like an acid burn on my brow and nose. Unfortunately my sister and I still had a bit of shopping to do, so I had to walk around the mall looking like Ty Pennington had enthusiastically attacked my face with a belt sander. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QgyeIW0nwUo/TwXF6kva0pI/AAAAAAAAAPM/jzuv_vEgLJw/s1600/2011-12-279517.55.35-1%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="182" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QgyeIW0nwUo/TwXF6kva0pI/AAAAAAAAAPM/jzuv_vEgLJw/s320/2011-12-279517.55.35-1%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Fortunately the redness was gone by the next morning, and my brows did look pretty awesome. At least I was no longer sporting what my sister refers to as the "Angry Birds" look. According to her, my normal brows resemble the yellow bird. Having never played the game, I have no real idea what that means, but according to her.....<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ntIlc_0DwF8/TwXP8nyA6cI/AAAAAAAAAPg/CpSskZbIA1Q/s1600/I%2527m+an+angry+bird.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ntIlc_0DwF8/TwXP8nyA6cI/AAAAAAAAAPg/CpSskZbIA1Q/s400/I%2527m+an+angry+bird.png" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">I couldn't let that shit continue for the wedding.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">With eyebrows properly attended to, it was time to address my hair. It was dreadful. A stylist had once described my natural hair color as "dishwater blonde," and it's a term I've never been quite able to forget. I didn't want my hair to be the color of a spaghetti pot soaking in Palmolive for the wedding, so I foolishly decided it would be a good idea to color my hair <i>myself,</i> as I didn't have time to get an appointment at a salon.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I popped over to Target and bought a color called "dark blonde" to enhance my natural color a bit and make my tresses a bit shinier. Unfortunately, after waiting the required 25 minutes, I looked in the mirror and was horrified to see this: </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lgsma1k4wCU/TwWyStZwyaI/AAAAAAAAAOQ/ECun4OoPRP4/s1600/hair+color.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lgsma1k4wCU/TwWyStZwyaI/AAAAAAAAAOQ/ECun4OoPRP4/s320/hair+color.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>It had processed into a dull black. I frantically (and rather violently) washed my hair multiple times but was still left with a deep reddish-brown, which might have been fun under ordinary circumstances, but which was highly undesirable right before the big event!<br />
<br />
The previously mentioned extra-strength Valium would have come in particularly handy at this point, as I was just about hyperventilating. I raced out and purchased a lighter blonde color, which I then stayed up until three in the morning carefully interspersing with the darker color to make the whole effect less severe.<br />
<br />
The result came out surprisingly good, and when I met the girls at the salon on the morning of the wedding, the overwhelming verdict on my hair was that I should screw it up much more often, because the end result was fantastic. I breathed a welcome sigh of relief, accepted an extremely comforting cup of coffee from my stylist, and settled in.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">I chose an updo out of one of those odd books they have lying about in salons, and the stylist went to work. When she was finished, she sprayed the whole thing with "shimmer spray," which caused my hair to twinkle in the light as I moved about. It was freaking <i>fantastic,</i> and I felt like a princess! I dare say I hadn't even felt that glamorous at my own wedding! I was psyched and ready to enjoy the day, and I was sure that all the stress was finally behind me.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I couldn't have been more wrong. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tdH81gc28FE/TwW5xelnyaI/AAAAAAAAAO0/euA12AsA2Hc/s1600/salon.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tdH81gc28FE/TwW5xelnyaI/AAAAAAAAAO0/euA12AsA2Hc/s400/salon.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The rest of the morning was all girly-girl fun at the bride's hotel. We primped and preened, carefully applied our formal makeup and admired our gifts from the bride: beautiful satin clutches and bracelets that were so sparkly they were practically seizure-inducing.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Before we knew it we were being taken to the church and the ceremony was underway. It was beautiful and touching, and I proudly stood by my best friend's side, fighting back tears as she exchanged vows with her love.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And then, in the blink of an eye it was done—they were husband and wife, and everyone was smiling and kissing and hugging and congratulating. We were ushered back inside for pictures, and I relaxed in a pew while the bride and groom posed for their first formal photos as a married couple.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I was reflecting upon it all and enjoying the brief down-time when I suddenly started to feel a bit odd. My stomach was a tad queasy and I felt sort of fuzzy in the head. I was also rapidly becoming very hot and uncomfortable. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">My husband must have noticed that I looked droopy, because he swooped to my side and began rapid-firing questions at me: "You look like you're about to pass out. When was the last time you ate anything?" </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"Um, I had coffee at the salon..." I replied. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"It's three o'clock!" he shouted, horrified. "No wonder you're woozy! You're starving! I knew this was going to happen," he said, shaking his head at me like I was a naughty puppy who had piddled in the corner. He produced two energy bars from his pocket and asked me which one I wanted. I was about to choose one when he shoved both of them at me and said, "Never mind. You need to eat both. And when was the last time you had anything to drink?" </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"Um, I had coffee at the salon...." I repeated. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"Oh my God, you're dehydrated. You've been running around nonstop all day! No wonder you're about to pass out! There's a water fountain in the hall. Go out there and drink all the water you can. Eat the bars, get some fresh air. It will do you a world of good." He looked terribly concerned, and I was overwhelmed with love for this wonderfully thoughtful man I'd married—this man who had packed energy bars for me without me even mentioning it, who was certainly ravenous himself but chose to give me the small amount of food he had brought.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I drank some water, ate the bars, and felt a bit better. The bridal party was called in for pictures, and we posed for the usual formals, and also a few cheesy shots where a couple of us kissed the groom (to the apparent horror of the bride), before hustling ourselves out to the limo bus.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Here I am enjoying one of my last moments with the bride before the horror began. As you can see, operation "Pretty-up the Dumpy Housewife" had been quite a success. No "Angry Bird" brows here! Too bad I didn't get to enjoy it for long.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8Ahc8bGQ22M/TwYsXVpAJxI/AAAAAAAAAPs/EJGJfTw7a2w/s1600/chiquita+and+me+cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8Ahc8bGQ22M/TwYsXVpAJxI/AAAAAAAAAPs/EJGJfTw7a2w/s640/chiquita+and+me+cropped.jpg" width="427" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Once on the bus I was struck with the dizziness and nausea again. I thought perhaps it was motion sickness—after all, it was a big bus, and the driver was taking the turns a bit roughly. As soon as the bus stopped in front of the hotel I bolted out the doors and ran for the lobby, where I seated myself in a chair and tried to catch my breath. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">A groomsman saw me and looked alarmed. "You look terrible!" he said. "Do you feel all right? You're all sweaty and your color is awful." </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I said that no, actually, I felt sort of like I was going to pass out or puke. A glass of ice water was quickly placed in my hands, and the mother of the bride came rushing over to tend to me. All manner of suggestions were made as to why I was suddenly ill.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">One person said that I should probably go for a walk outside in the fresh air; it had been so hot on the bus after all. Another said that a walk was <i>not</i> what I needed... what I needed was to sit for a while and just rest, as all the activity had clearly been too much. A third party brought me a sandwich and some chips and said the salt in the tortilla chips would help replenish my electrolytes, which were clearly all out of whack from not eating.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">When I balked at the sandwich, the mother of the bride brought me up to her personal room at the hotel, ordered me to take off my tight dress and lie down in her bed in my bra and underwear to cool off and rest. I was given a can of Coke to drink and some pretzels and a bit of hoagie to nibble, and I sorrily picked at them, painfully forcing down each sip of soda and each bite of bread while my hubby stood over me and fussed.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">A decision had to be made. We had planned on taking the two cars we had come in separately back to the house in the down-time before the reception, returning with just one car so that at least one of us could drink at the reception and not have to worry about driving home. We were running out of time, so I put on the jeans and tee shirt I had worn that morning and took the dress with me, intending to change into it back at the house after dropping off my van. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">It was freezing outside, but nonetheless I blasted the van's air conditioning in my sweaty face as I drove. I tried to take deep breaths to keep the nausea at bay, but about five miles from my house I was suddenly aware that I was going to throw up, and <i>soon. </i>I looked for a place to pull over but got stopped at a red light. I looked frantically around in my car—there was a CVS bag on the floor of the passenger side that I could use if I couldn't pull over in time.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Just as I reached for the bag, the light turned green. I floored the accelerator, pulled off the road, jumped out of the van and violently vomited everywhere as I ran for the grass. My husband, who was following me, pulled over in front of me and jumped out of his SUV. He went to approach me, but then decided to keep his distance when he saw what was happening. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I fell to my knees, choking and coughing and continuing to hurl as he asked me if I was all right. (I always wonder what the correct answer is to that question—when you are projectile vomiting so violently that you are barely able to catch your breath, what are you supposed to say when asked if you're all right?) I guess I can take comfort from the fact that my gorgeous hair was certainly shimmering dazzlingly in the headlights of my van, so at least part of me still looked pretty while I puked. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">When there was a brief lull my hubby asked me a much more appropriate question: "Do you think you're done?" I wiped the rancid liquid that was dripping out of my nose on my sleeve and nodded uncertainly. "Can you drive?" I nodded again and wobbled back to the van. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I sat down and realized that my bum was soaked. Here's the best part, folks: I had peed my pants. See, birthing my son pretty much destroyed all the muscles down there in charge of holding things together, despite the thousands upon thousands of Kegel exercises I had done before <i>and</i> after his birth. Right after my son was born, I peed when I coughed, sneezed, laughed, tripped over something, or even took the steps too quickly. I've since been able to tighten things up enough so that it's hardly ever a problem any more. But when I vomit, well, let's just say that the dam just breaks and there's not one darn thing I can do about it. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">I arrived home and raced upstairs so my hubby didn't see my soaked pants. I did a lightning-fast change into pajamas, brushed my teeth and collapsed in bed. I almost immediately started shivering violently with a fever. Of course, I was still planning on attending the reception—after all, I had a speech to give—so I was lying in bed shivering very carefully so as not to mess up my beautiful hairdo. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">My husband sat down on the bed in his suit and tie and asked me how long I thought I'd need to pull myself together before I could put my dress back on. I told him to give me twenty minutes. Then I carefully got out of bed and took an experimental wobble down the hall. I made it back to the bed just in time to avoid puking. Every time I tried to stand up I was overcome with dizziness and nausea. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I started to cry. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">My husband, ever supportive, said, "Well, maybe you could put the dress on, and we could just plop you at a table in the corner and you could just sit there all night? At least then you'd be making an appearance." <br />
<br />
A vision of myself projectile-vomiting on the guests while peeing all over my beautiful dress flashed through my mind, and I was aware that there was a distinct possibility I could turn into the gal from <i>Bridesmaids</i> who publicly pooped herself. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Og0gqNZ8WGU/TwZXmILJmHI/AAAAAAAAAQc/CbqwRe6dkrU/s1600/bridesmaids+poop+scene.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Og0gqNZ8WGU/TwZXmILJmHI/AAAAAAAAAQc/CbqwRe6dkrU/s320/bridesmaids+poop+scene.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3-TX4JWXsQ0/TwZXPXOwoXI/AAAAAAAAAQQ/LyJ3hReXpTA/s1600/bridesmaids+bathroom.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">That definitely did <i>not</i> seem like a viable option for the evening. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I started to sob. I had to face the fact that I just couldn't do it. After all, I feared I had already infected some unwitting attendees—I had kissed the groom on the cheek during pictures, and during the passing of the peace I had kissed everyone in the surrounding pews too! </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I called the bride on her cell and sobbed as I told her I was sick and couldn't make it. She was unbelievably understanding—she told me to go to bed and promised that she'd send me pictures from her phone of the reception throughout the evening. She assured me that all that mattered was that I got better, and that she was just thankful that I made it through the ceremony and the formal pictures. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">This, dear folks, is why Chiquita has—and will forever hold—the title of Best Friend in my book of life. I missed half her wedding day, and all she cared about was that I felt better. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And after three days of this... (look, my brows still look cute even when I'm at death's door!)... </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nO_K_qPnQ8Q/TwY4uhlUVjI/AAAAAAAAAQE/ycX-zf8Fp6U/s1600/IMG_20120103_110807.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nO_K_qPnQ8Q/TwY4uhlUVjI/AAAAAAAAAQE/ycX-zf8Fp6U/s320/IMG_20120103_110807.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">...I am finally done puking, done feeling sorry for myself, and ready to laugh about the whole thing. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">You know, Chiquita and I used to go on many excursions together, and something would inevitably go wrong every time. Our motto has always been "Always an Adventure!" And although her wedding is technically filed in my "misadventures" category, we will definitely have some great stories to tell for years to come.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">So congratulations to Jen and Ed! I didn't get to give my speech at the reception, but I can certainly tell her now how much she means to me. I love you, Chiquita, and I'm so happy that I could be by your side on your big day. I wish you and Ed all the blessings and happiness in the world.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And while I'm at it, I'd like to make a brief appeal to our Heavenly Father. AHEM... (clearing throat and assuming formal voice....)<i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Dear God, can we please forget that I kissed the groom on the cheek and let their post-wedding days be blissfully puke-free? I'd really appreciate it. Oh, and thank You for blessing me with such wonderful friends. You officially rock. </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> Amen. </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Misadventures in Motherhoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04733618217432605890noreply@blogger.com42tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828294267094880275.post-65727499304356443372011-12-21T12:51:00.000-08:002011-12-21T12:51:56.290-08:00I'm a Naughty Little SantaNo, not that kind of naughty Santa—although I admit that would be fun. I have often thought it would be nice to dress up in one of those sexy Santa-girl costumes and pose for my husband á la Mariah Carey on one of her album covers... you know, where she is attempting to look cute but unfortunately only succeeds in looking like she's anxiously waiting to do it "reindeer style." <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb4viIo1sk6Km860HKAmF6rDAlz18VBC04CWWKKXvPbeC5A4zUYkca8gYhdXyItnLgIFz0eHyc7N0btNOfXvH9JbnfIF_oNQ9UNoiNs3gnGBtHeNu4hqHGibhR3qwEUy_fa0eUk-WZvbhe/s1600/mariah-carey-merry-christmas-ii-you-2010-album-cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb4viIo1sk6Km860HKAmF6rDAlz18VBC04CWWKKXvPbeC5A4zUYkca8gYhdXyItnLgIFz0eHyc7N0btNOfXvH9JbnfIF_oNQ9UNoiNs3gnGBtHeNu4hqHGibhR3qwEUy_fa0eUk-WZvbhe/s320/mariah-carey-merry-christmas-ii-you-2010-album-cover.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I mean, if this pose doesn't say, "Come and get me, Rudolph," I don't know what does.<br />
<br />
But unfortunately, dressing up in a sexy Santa costume would just be a waste of time and money, for I found out a long time ago that my husband prefers me in my boring tees and sleep shorts. I learned this difficult lesson early in our marriage when (look away now, mom) I thought I'd spice things up a bit by donning a naughty french maid outfit—fishnets and all.<br />
<br />
We were away on some couples' getaway (probably for Valentine's Day), and I sauntered from the plush hotel bathroom in my getup, ready to see my husband's jaw drop and the tv remote hit the floor.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately I didn't get the reaction I was hoping for. <br />
<br />
When my hubby saw me, he screwed up his face, furrowed his brow and said, "What the <i>hell</i> are you wearing?" I did my best "I've been a bad, bad girl" impression, clasped my hands together in front of me and pouted, and said in a rather suggestive voice, "I've been a naughty maid—I forgot to clean the bedroom. I think you need to do something about it." I winked at him. <br />
<br />
He laughed as if he had just witnessed a particularly offensive scene from one of the Jackass movies. "Honey, take that crap off," he said. "You look ridiculous." <br />
<br />
Now it was <i>my</i> jaw that dropped. "You don't like it?" I asked, completely crushed at being so obviously snubbed. <br />
<br />
"No. It's trashy," he said. <br />
<br />
"But isn't that the point? I did all of this for you!" I argued, my feather duster trembling in my hands as I grew more upset. How could he not appreciate all the effort I had gone to for his benefit? I struggled not to cry; tears would certainly ruin the five coats of extra-black lengthening mascara I had meticulously applied for the occasion. As I stood there fuming, I realized that my rock-hard lashes could probably be used as weapons if need be, and I considered going in for a kiss and stabbing him purposefully in the eyeball for his obliviousness. <br />
<br />
"Honey," he said gently, "I love you the way you are—in your flannel jammies or your tee shirt and boxers. This whole... getup... just isn't <i>you.</i>" <br />
<br />
I wanted to tell him that it was <i>indeed</i> me—that there was a part of me that longed to be naughty, but my husband was just too "nice" a guy for that, so I sullenly changed back into my plaid pajama pants, scrubbed the mascara off my face (half of my lashes came off with it) and snuggled up next to him to watch an episode of <i>Mythbusters</i> on the Discovery Channel. After the <i>Mythbusters</i> had produced a few massive explosions, my hubby grew more excited, rolled over and asked me if I'd be up for some nookie. <br />
<br />
I realized I'd been barking up the wrong tree with the french maid outfit; it's likely I would have gotten a much better reaction if I had just set myself on fire instead.<br />
<br />
I suppose I should have anticipated his behavior to some degree—after all, he'd always been the "nice guy." When we were dating, I was never able to uncover any reading material racier than <i>Popular Science</i> or <i>Consumer Reports</i> in his apartment. He didn't own a single issue of <i>Playboy</i>, or even <i>Maxim</i>. There were no posters of scantily clad girls anywhere in his bedroom; instead he displayed tastefully painted landscapes and the occasional motivational poster depicting a mountain climber with the word "Inspiration" printed in large letters underneath.<br />
<br />
He confirmed his "clean" image when he saw my belly-button piercing for the first time and nearly had a seizure. <br />
<br />
"Ugh! You've got one of <i>those?</i>" he said with revulsion. I looked at my belly, worried that perhaps I had grown a third nipple since the last time I had seen my midsection; I couldn't fathom what he was so upset about. "Your belly button is pierced! That's such a turnoff!" he complained.<br />
<br />
"A turn-off?" I asked, completely shocked. At the time, my pre-baby belly was flat and firm; I was taking martial arts classes and had developed quite the set of abs. I thought the sparkly adornment would be the perfect surprise for him to find underneath my usually stuffy schoolteacher attire. <br />
<br />
But in my hubby's eyes, the sparkly gem was the ultimate "tramp stamp." Despite his protestations, I left the bangle in for several months anyway—heck, I was proud of my flat belly and it had certainly been quite the pain in the ass to get it pierced... I wanted to at least get my money's worth out of it—but eventually, as we got more serious, I realized that the belly-button piercing was way more of a turnoff for him than any dimples on my bum would ever be, so I removed it. <br />
<br />
And so the eight years of our marriage have passed by with no naughty outfits, no nudey pics, and no odd piercings or tattoos. <br />
<br />
But this year when my hubby gave me his Christmas list—which consisted of socks, dress shirts, a watch, boxer shorts, some new ties, and white tee shirts to go under his work clothing—I thought, wow... we have really hit rock bottom here. I can't do <i>anything</i> fun with this list. And something inside me sort of snapped.<br />
<br />
I went out Christmas shopping and spotted a pair of <i>killer</i> platform patent-leather stilettos. Instead of passing them over and reminding myself I was out shopping for my <i>husband's socks,</i> I just threw those babies right into the cart. I did the same with a cute gray pair of Skechers boots (even though I already had two other pairs of gray boots.) I bought myself some lip plumper and sleek hair serum, and on a particularly decadent excursion flexed my credit card at my favorite top-of-the-line makeup store. <br />
<br />
And then, one night, I called my girlfriends and we went on a pilgrimage to the nearest club to shake our tailfeathers and celebrate our sexiness. I wore the killer stilettos and a slinky black mini that my sis had picked out for me, and we did shots of tequila and spent quite a bit of time shaking our fannies and twirling about on stage before the night was over.<br />
<br />
Here I am pretty much assaulting one of my girlfriends with a bear hug at the end of the night. Come to think of it, it's a wonder I didn't actually break my ankle in that footwear.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEchgq0jtuZKWfLNoUQGBtFcDSEaojUN1rZH77lpDACt_-TXtgQuL_y3fpnGAB3QAnVnlSu7stsD8lnzt20wFjSoTTOe-sKiHKEEpEjotKqKjDe37BPwxfWyoRuwf33t3iXQfWHJ6oOtCQ/s1600/2011-11-269501.51.43.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEchgq0jtuZKWfLNoUQGBtFcDSEaojUN1rZH77lpDACt_-TXtgQuL_y3fpnGAB3QAnVnlSu7stsD8lnzt20wFjSoTTOe-sKiHKEEpEjotKqKjDe37BPwxfWyoRuwf33t3iXQfWHJ6oOtCQ/s400/2011-11-269501.51.43.jpg" width="297" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div> But, you know, by 2 a.m. my feet were killing me—I was pretty sure I had at least four broken toes (said toes were actually <i>purple </i>when I took off the shoes), and I couldn't <i>wait</i> to get out of the uncomfortable dress and wash all the gloppy makeup off my face. <br />
<br />
Once I got home, I showered, changed into my comfiest jammies, and climbed into bed next to my softly snoring hubby. He immediately turned over, entwined his fingers with mine, snuggled up to me and planted kisses in my hair.<br />
<br />
I felt a swell of affection and was suddenly very thankful for this wonderful man in my bed—this man who didn't expect me to dress up for him—who loved my body exactly as it was and didn't want me to defile it with piercings, tattoos and other unnecessary adornments.<br />
<br />
This man thought the most beautiful and sexy parts of our marriage were the normal, everyday interactions, the snuggles after a long day, the tender, exhausted kisses after putting our children to bed, and the special way we sleep with our fingers entwined under the pillow.<br />
<br />
It's great to dress up and go out with the girls and feel sexy and naughty and daring, but I have to admit that it's even better to come back home to the man who loves me exactly as I am.<br />
<br />
Although I do admit to wondering what he'd do if I showed up under the Christmas Tree one year looking like this! <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAOMn0SEw5v2JUgWmc0UjDUIFN3Rs8e20Cf5lMM3eKPyPhjT50VLKWrCVReVCLCisC509OWszgDxzdu1PWPLxBlmy8fam2_FGh0IISjOzoSBFRuCK3OH6b2J5QqHjf01joWSQrGDmug90b/s1600/sexy+santa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAOMn0SEw5v2JUgWmc0UjDUIFN3Rs8e20Cf5lMM3eKPyPhjT50VLKWrCVReVCLCisC509OWszgDxzdu1PWPLxBlmy8fam2_FGh0IISjOzoSBFRuCK3OH6b2J5QqHjf01joWSQrGDmug90b/s400/sexy+santa.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy of faceinhole.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Misadventures in Motherhoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04733618217432605890noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828294267094880275.post-56667065409299520612011-12-02T14:40:00.000-08:002011-12-02T14:49:16.410-08:00Who Wants a New Vajayjay for Christmas?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></div><div style="text-align: center;">Warning—this one's not for the faint of heart!! </div><div style="text-align: center;">Men, look away while you still can!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"> * *</div>I don't consider myself a fickle person, but unfortunately I have a bizarre tendency to adopt ridiculous fads once I've been exposed to them long enough. Take capri pants, for example.<br />
<br />
When capris first came out and women across the country began walking around in pants that stopped at their calves, I thought—damn, that looks freaking ridiculous. I shall <i>never </i>wear that. Well, after a summer or two of seeing my fellow ladies blithely—and often proudly—exposing their cankles, I began to waver. Then one day I was browsing through Target and I saw a rack of capris, and I thought—what the hell—I might as well try on a pair. Twenty minutes later I had purchased a set in every color, and as I marched to the car with my bags of loot, I smugly congratulated myself on being "on trend." I modeled the pants for my husband, who asked me what the hell I was thinking. I didn't have an answer. <br />
<br />
My dislike for capri pants was nothing, however, compared to my general opposition to cosmetic procedures. I have always been staunchly opposed to plastic surgery and cosmetic injectables, fillers and all that fake stuff that people stick into their bodies. When Botox made its debut, I went on a bit of a righteous rampage. I believe I shouted something to the effect of, "The <i>name</i> of the product has the word 'toxin'<i></i> right in it! What idiot would get poison injected into her face?" <br />
<br />
So you can imagine how surprised I was when I found myself pausing to read the Botox advertisement in my Glamour magazine the other day. The ad featured an ageless, beautiful woman who gazed calmly at the camera with a look on her face that seemed to say, "Look how lucky and smart I am! Don't <i>you</i> want to be pretty too?"<br />
<br />
I walked to the bathroom and scrutinized my face in the mirror. I frowned at the little creases in my face, but this motion only succeeded in making the furrows much more obvious. I forced myself to unscrunch my face, did some ridiculous facial shake-out maneuver that created a sound that was half "raspberry" and half gargle, and resumed perusing the article with curiosity.<br />
<br />
I read through all the carefully crafted promotional speak and was starting to think that Botox might not be that bad after all... until I came to the part where they listed all the possible adverse reactions to it. I bent closer to the magazine to read the small text, and there—in tiny little print—it said "Botox could cause death."<br />
<br />
Um, holy crap... <i>what?</i><br />
<br />
So, you mean, I could go in for a simple facial line-softening procedure and... <i>die?</i> I ripped out the page, crumpled it into a ball and angrily threw it in the trash. I then spent the next week being disgusted with myself for being taken in by a Botox ad in the first place. What was happening to me? I became convinced that our society was going to hell, courtesy of Hollywood and pop culture. <br />
<br />
Then, last night, I happened to see a post on <a href="http://massholemommy.com/2011/12/01/laser-vaginal-rejuvenation/" target="_blank">Masshole Mommy's</a> blog discussing Vaginal Rejuvenation. Apparently Masshole Mommy had been harassed by so many radio advertisements for vaginal rejuvenation that she felt she needed to address it publicly. I had to admit my curiosity was piqued.<br />
<br />
First of all, I'm not quite sure what Vaginal Rejuvenation even <i>is.</i> I know it involves a laser, and when I think of lasers, I remember a show I saw in middle school gym class where the teacher brought in a little fold-up screen and some dude came in with a projector thingy that made dancing dolphins appear in shiny green light. <br />
<br />
I highly doubt there are dolphins involved in this particular procedure (although I'm not ruling out sharks with frickin' laser beams attached to their heads).<br />
<br />
I admit to quickly skimming Masshole Mommy's post, mostly because I didn't really want to know what the whole procedure entailed. It sounded dreadful and unnecessary and vain, and I didn't want the disturbing details infiltrating my brain.<br />
<br />
About three quarters of the way though the post I skipped down to the comment section to see what people had to say. Most folks had a similar reaction to mine—WTF??!! Many, I think, took the mere mention of vaginal rejuvenation as an insult to their own cha-chas, and used their comments to assert that their vajayjays were <i>just fine—</i>thank you very much (although many did suggest that perhaps Michelle Duggar might benefit from the procedure).* <br />
<br />
Then I happened upon a comment by a doctor, who proceeded to defend the surgery, discussing the many benefits the procedure can have for women with bladders or rectums that *gasp* bulge into the vagina... or... (lalalalalalala)—this was the point at which I covered my eyes and shouted, "No more! The horror!!"<br />
<br />
I stopped reading. I was afraid I wouldn't sleep for a week.<br />
<br />
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" 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" /></a></div><br />
However, knowing my tendencies, I do fear that the whole concept of revitalizing my vajayjay might lodge itself into my brain like an insidious little worm, whispering from my subconscious that my own cha-cha would certainly look prettier if it were a tad lighter pink...or some other such nonsense. <br />
<br />
I'm sure I'll start seeing billboards advertising the procedure soon; society is certainly quick to adopt any new beauty trend. Heck, if Oprah were still on the air, I would half expect to see her do a Vajayjay Giveaway on her next Favorite Things episode. I could just picture it... "And YOU get a new vajayjay! And YOU get a new vajayjay!" (Cue shrieks and squeals).<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4fuLDEQ6tUjluQwbhj7T1vyavKmsZWmz5vuO_NBeAmMlvfr8Zs08t616s2QX8HxGh6UMpB-dqXqRwi4C91kDIjoWUWH-BHqf1io30UrRQSL1fcPRK1crWHCDzHGNlM-x2i9eblQiskwee/s1600/oprah3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="157" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4fuLDEQ6tUjluQwbhj7T1vyavKmsZWmz5vuO_NBeAmMlvfr8Zs08t616s2QX8HxGh6UMpB-dqXqRwi4C91kDIjoWUWH-BHqf1io30UrRQSL1fcPRK1crWHCDzHGNlM-x2i9eblQiskwee/s320/oprah3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
In fact, I wouldn't be terribly surprised if, next year at Christmas, Target offers a sale on rejuvenated vajayjays. I imagine I would be there—in spite of myself—perusing the rack and eventually selecting a petite one in the coveted "baby pink" shade.<br />
<br />
I'M GOING TO HELL IN A HAND MIRROR.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">------------------------------------ </div>If you'd like to read Masshole Mommy's post, click <a href="http://massholemommy.com/2011/12/01/laser-vaginal-rejuvenation/" target="_blank">here!</a> <br />
<br />
*Disclaimer—I am not slamming Michelle Duggar; I am just relaying what was written on another blog. I have nothing but respect for Michelle. I might not agree with her, but I admire that she has the gumption to follow her beliefs even when it means being harshly criticized by much of society. How many of us have the guts to do the same?<br />
Misadventures in Motherhoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04733618217432605890noreply@blogger.com50tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828294267094880275.post-66989577768765847232011-11-22T12:27:00.000-08:002011-11-22T12:33:26.593-08:00Who Stole My Pants?I believe that at some point in my family's lineage, an unsuspecting and dimwitted gal with a penchant for very hairy men accidentally mated with a rather handsome baboon. The resulting genes lay dormant for generations, finally manifesting themselves in my offspring.<br />
<br />
This seems to be the only logical cause for my children's animal-like behavior. What else could explain their tendencies to bang their large craniums against walls for fun and take howling leaps from sofas and easy chairs—occasionally swinging from unfortunately placed window treatments? <br />
<br />
At any rate, it became apparent early in their lives that they needed outlets where they could express their, uh, urges. Someone suggested enrolling them in swim class, and while the idea of squeezing my embarrassingly jiggly post-preggo body into a bathing suit went against all of my personal primal instincts, I thought it might actually be beneficial for the kids.<br />
<br />
So now, every week I schlep the little monkeys down to the local swim center, where I spend fifteen minutes before class trying to wrangle them—and myself—into swimsuits, and at least another half an hour after class trying to wrestle everybody back out of them. And undoubtedly, while am I frantically peeling the swimsuit off of one little monster, the other is shutting himself in a swim locker, wriggling under the bathroom door to peek at some poor mom in a stall, or twisting himself up in a shower curtain to see how tight he can wind it before the whole assembly comes crashing down.<br />
<br />
This past week was no different.<br />
<br />
I had just finished dressing my daughter and was trying as quickly as possible to gather my own clothes so I could be dressed in case I needed to chase my naked son down the hallway. I plopped my son's clothes on a bench, told him to keep an eye on his sister (he's actually pretty good at this, as he relishes any opportunity to tattle on her and get her in trouble), and shut myself in a bathroom stall to dress.<br />
<br />
As I began to strip off my suit, I heard the telltale giggles and shrieks that meant my son was up to no good. I peeked out of the stall and saw him streaking back and forth in the locker room, completely naked. My daughter was running after him, laughing and squealing. The other moms were carefully trying to stay out of the way as they hurriedly dressed their own calm and compliant children, packed their bags and made their escape. <br />
<br />
I ducked back into the stall and frantically threw my shirt on. I was pulling on my pants when my patience abruptly ran out. I was tired of being laughed at...tired of being on the receiving end of pitying looks, and sick of feeling like I might just be a good candidate for the Super Nanny.<br />
<br />
I steeled my resolve, and in my most intimidating voice hollered "Evan, if you aren't getting dressed when I come out of this bathroom you are in <i>big trouble</i>! I mean it! Get dressed—NOW!" <br />
<br />
The giggles abruptly stopped. There was a pause, and after a moment of silence, Evan said, "Mommy, where are my clothes?" <br />
<br />
Gathering up my swimsuit and towel, I called back out to him, "They're on the bench!"<br />
<br />
"Um, no they're not."<br />
<br />
I sighed in frustration. <br />
<br />
When I emerged from the stall, I found my daughter three feet off the ground, giggling and jumping up and down on top of the row of sinks. My son—still naked—was looking around for his clothing. I was about to yell at him for letting his sister climb up onto the sinks when I saw that he was visibly upset.<br />
<br />
"Mommy—my clothes are gone!" Evan wailed. He was getting red in the face and beginning to cry. I told him to calm down and assured him that his clothing had probably just gotten moved around in the shuffle. We looked under the benches and asked the only mom still remaining if she might have accidentally scooped up my son's clothes. She searched her bag, but came up empty.<br />
<br />
We took everything out of our swim bag and shook out the towels. We looked in the lockers and the showers. We searched the bathroom stalls. Evan's clothes were gone. My mind flashed back to the image of the ladies frantically gathering their things to avoid getting run over by one of my insane children. One of the moms must have accidentally scooped up my son's clothing!<br />
<br />
I started to panic. What was Evan going to wear? It was cold and raining outside and I didn't have an extra change of clothes for him. Fortunately whoever wandered off with his clothing had left Evan's socks and shoes—so Evan could walk to the car at least—but I was stumped as to what I was going to do about the rest of him.<br />
<br />
The solution hit me like a lightning bolt, and for the first time ever I was actually grateful that I had gone out in public in my frumpy stay-at-home mom attire. I had thrown an over-sized, dumpy sweatshirt on top of my tee shirt because it was so damp that day, and I immediately knew this was my solution. <br />
<br />
I stripped off the sweatshirt and told Evan he could wear it; I would be fine in my tee shirt. Evan screwed up his face—he gave me the same look of distaste that my husband sports when I suggest he wear a plaid shirt embroidered with smiling pineapples on vacation. "I don't <i>want</i> to wear that!" Evan wailed. <br />
<br />
"But honey, you don't have anything else to wear," I said, trying desperately to remain calm for my son's sake. "Just pretend it's a big fuzzy blanket." Evan burst into tears—he sobbed and begged me to find his clothes. I said that the best I could do was to leave my name and number at the front desk and hope that the unwitting thief would call as soon as she realized she had our clothing. He wasn't happy with this answer, but he resigned himself to doing what was necessary. <br />
<br />
I stuffed the sweatshirt over his head and tugged it down as far as it would go. Evan sniffled, looked down at his naked legs, and wailed "I want my pants! Who stole may paaaants!!?" Then he dissolved into tears again.<br />
<br />
Given my son's fondness for public <a href="http://www.misadventuresinmotherhood.com/2011/11/nudist.html" target="_blank">nudity</a>, I was rather surprised to find him so visibly shaken by the turn of events. I briefly thought of using the opportunity as a teachable moment and doing the whole, "This is why we don't run around like crazy people in the locker room" speech, but I just didn't have the heart. He felt terrible enough already. <br />
<br />
We hurried out to the car after leaving our information with the receptionist, and somehow I managed to buckle him into his car seat without pinching his delicate, exposed boy parts in the harness clip. I put a video on in the van in hopes of distracting my son from the current situation, but when my cellphone rang, Evan sat up straight and snapped to attention. "I think that's the person who stole my pants!" he shouted. "Let's go get 'em!"<br />
<br />
As you've probably already guessed, it was not the pants burglar calling. <br />
<br />
My son returned home with his proverbial tail between his legs. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGgn9HjgsYpD7HErSsL2gwJiok9rL8cFsXhEzFcyHAtb_FlwbQjdB_edvfJqSHfTYfQz7H1yZ8Ql4V0nQZlYnfVu1LwQXGjaFnozvGVbH8Gp-T8qHLYrvPGErs8ffWr68rstBH7AVbzeXm/s1600/IMG_20111116_184813.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGgn9HjgsYpD7HErSsL2gwJiok9rL8cFsXhEzFcyHAtb_FlwbQjdB_edvfJqSHfTYfQz7H1yZ8Ql4V0nQZlYnfVu1LwQXGjaFnozvGVbH8Gp-T8qHLYrvPGErs8ffWr68rstBH7AVbzeXm/s400/IMG_20111116_184813.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br />
He was clearly hoping for some sympathy from his Daddy, so when my husband laughed about it and tried to convince Evan of how darn <i>funny</i> the whole thing was, my son just sulked and stomped off. Fortunately Evan hasn't mentioned the incident since that night, and I'm glad for that—hopefully this won't traumatize the poor kid for life.<br />
<br />
But as I examine this photo of him in my gigantic sweatshirt, I think I might see a bright side: if Evan ever needed to be in drag, he could probably rock a dress pretty convincingly.<br />
<br />
He's got the legs for it, I think!<br />
Misadventures in Motherhoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04733618217432605890noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828294267094880275.post-13466054404522251012011-11-15T07:29:00.000-08:002011-11-15T07:29:19.198-08:00The NudistFor some reason, my four-year-old boy seems to be allergic to wearing pants. Underwear too, for that matter.<br />
<br />
I've heard of kids who spontaneously strip off their clothes at random and inappropriate times, and I suppose I should be grateful that he's not doing that. Instead, he chooses to express his disdain for covering his privates by getting conveniently distracted while changing. He'll take his pajama pants and Pull-Up off in the morning, but then he just never seems to get around to putting any underwear or pants on. <br />
<br />
This isn't so much of a big deal on weekdays, when he has to hustle to get dressed so he can be taken to preschool, but on the weekends he seems to believe that the house is his own private nudist resort. <br />
<br />
On Saturday mornings it's not uncommon to find him jumping up and down on the easy chair with just his pajama-shirt on and his "parts" merrily flapping about. One would think it would be uncomfortable to have all that floppage, but apparently he gets a kick out of it. I'm glad he enjoys himself, but I just wish he'd engage in an activity that was a tad more visually appealing for the rest of us.<br />
<br />
My husband is even more put off by Evan's behavior than I am; while I find it merely distasteful to see my son's privates displaying themselves at every turn, my husband sees Evan's nakedness as a general threat to the safety and cleanliness of our home.<br />
<br />
On weekends I will hear my husband holler repeatedly, "Evan! Don't sit down on the sofa with your naked butt! Your butt is dirty! For God's sake, put some underwear on before you sit on anything!"<br />
<br />
This tactic is usually counterproductive, as my son finds it tremendously amusing to get his daddy riled up. So he'll stall and come up with odd positions to sit in where his bum isn't actually <i>touching</i> the sofa, which just annoys my husband even more.<br />
<br />
And thus, the weekends turn into the nudey-wars at our house.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsYxKMSFBLk-UAiCERJdNTw-0VZXn_POK7NPiHgbJ92AWdWn8ALNixfPR5OzePeW0zJwrR2qwPCvNUNzLcqaMleXkZSoJGTjP1JiWnkcLBUh_fkel-tDp1U4ouATvWDDboS4MA1MtpdJL0/s1600/DSCF6548.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsYxKMSFBLk-UAiCERJdNTw-0VZXn_POK7NPiHgbJ92AWdWn8ALNixfPR5OzePeW0zJwrR2qwPCvNUNzLcqaMleXkZSoJGTjP1JiWnkcLBUh_fkel-tDp1U4ouATvWDDboS4MA1MtpdJL0/s400/DSCF6548.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Notice the naked bum, <i>not</i> in contact with the sofa.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Evan's nudist tendencies manifest themselves outside the home as well. Recently, when he had to go to the hospital for a procedure, he adamantly refused to wear the little kiddie hospital pants that went with the cute little hospital shirt. Despite the nurses' insistence that he would be cold, my son stubbornly shunned the pants, claiming that he was fine with just the tiny shirt that stopped at his belly-button. He paraded down the halls proudly, getting odd looks from passersby, while I held the hospital pants in my hand and returned people's confused expressions with a look that I hoped said, "I tried to get him to wear them, but what can I do?"<br />
<br />
One nurse joked that I will inevitably receive an angry call someday from Evan's college dean, telling me that my son has gotten in trouble for streaking naked across campus. <br />
<br />
Truth be told, I am a bit worried that one day my son is going to offend someone with his shameless displays. After swim class the other day, Evan stripped off his suit and began singing and prancing about the locker room—completely naked. While I struggled to wrestle my daughter out of her suit, my son ran up to the other moms, turned his naked butt in their direction and shouted "I fart on you!"<br />
<br />
He then erupted into maniacal giggles and shut himself inside one of the swim lockers.<br />
<br />
"I'm so sorry," I babbled to the ladies, "I think he's part baboon..."<br />
<br />
"Well, I think it's nice that he's so comfortable with himself!" a kind grandmother said, although I have reason to believe she was merely taking pity on me.<br />
<br />
To make matters worse, I'm convinced Evan is deliberately upping the ante with his naked cavorting, engaging in more bizarre and dangerous behaviors to shock my husband and me. This past weekend he happily plopped his naked bottom on the Sit-and-Spin, and when my hubby yelled at him for putting his bare butt on the toy, Evan said, "Fine, then, I'll just do this!" And he stood up and started spinning. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbai9K3oVHNboOtNp93-GIBTfhh8wvQX5ZfM1Zfsvtfx9cZxPXqeDswmibpnZaqMzhyphenhyphen5H5VHgV7iLsXY2H7QpMoqt7j8xFcjywC3lS5n8vBO6FKHTpthcGJ_ORgJk2n0TLzOqTIcwzFmRg/s1600/IMG_7837.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbai9K3oVHNboOtNp93-GIBTfhh8wvQX5ZfM1Zfsvtfx9cZxPXqeDswmibpnZaqMzhyphenhyphen5H5VHgV7iLsXY2H7QpMoqt7j8xFcjywC3lS5n8vBO6FKHTpthcGJ_ORgJk2n0TLzOqTIcwzFmRg/s400/IMG_7837.JPG" width="266" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Needless to say, this turn of events went over like a lead balloon. My hubby immediately started yelling at him, "Evan! That's not safe! You can't spin on that standing up! Get off of that and put some pants on!"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Evan responded to this by kneeling down and continuing to spin. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKaZYme-QXkavM5MGqzKjB7e0p1IDaSLo5wnP-2HDl69fa3vcaFW9ick0xIgAtMos5lUojWy9EKniQ3gnVJsisMvW7yMXuDM0HCMMYKZomt3ue_YHarulFNuprbwcNelMlJ9BprZA-JoQb/s1600/IMG_7836.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKaZYme-QXkavM5MGqzKjB7e0p1IDaSLo5wnP-2HDl69fa3vcaFW9ick0xIgAtMos5lUojWy9EKniQ3gnVJsisMvW7yMXuDM0HCMMYKZomt3ue_YHarulFNuprbwcNelMlJ9BprZA-JoQb/s400/IMG_7836.JPG" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Look, Daddy, I'm not standing anymore!"</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">My husband let out an annoyed huff and glared at me. "Why are you taking pictures? You're just encouraging him!" he hollered. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I shrugged. In all honestly, I do find Evan's antics somewhat hilarious. If you've never seen a four-year-old bent over the wheel of a Sit-and-Spin, turning around and around with his naked rump in the air, then you should stop by my house on a Saturday morning sometime—it's definitely something you should observe at least once in your lifetime. How could I <i>not</i> take pictures of something so ridiculous?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">At any rate, I think justice will be mine in the end; my hubby will undoubtedly forgive me when Evan turns sixteen and my husband discovers how useful the pictures will be for blackmail purposes. After all, if we have to stare at my son's bare bottom for the next ten years until Evan realizes that civilized people wear clothes, we should at least get some mileage out of it. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And I have a <i>very</i> special scrapbook planned. Just wait until he brings home his first girlfriend! </div>Misadventures in Motherhoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04733618217432605890noreply@blogger.com57tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828294267094880275.post-7776810916195366592011-11-04T13:15:00.000-07:002011-11-04T14:32:20.891-07:00Potty HumorMy son is a VERY strong-willed boy. This is particularly true when it comes to the issue of potty training.<br />
<br />
It's pretty much guaranteed that if someone <i>suggests</i> that he should use the potty, he will stubbornly insist that he does not have to go. It doesn't matter that he can barely speak, his legs are firmly crossed, and he is pink in the face and hopping up and down... he will grunt out some excuse about just wanting to "take a break" from playing to stand in a random corner behind some shrubbery and look at the plants. If you press him about it, he will yell at you and explain that he is <i>not</i> hiding because he has to go; he is merely pondering the unique idiosyncrasies of the holly bush.<br />
<br />
This had made for a generally hellish potty training experience. We've tried incentives like stickers, treats, stamps, charts—even money or trips to the Dollar Store. Each incentive works for about three days, after which time my son decides he'd rather go through the day in wet underpants than suffer the indignity of having his daddy tell him when to pee.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqFNiJsQXU8I6EilL7O2JuzxLEwm2VZTqZ2wZ3zvcJCbGudlabEduyjTQypOFkDXYzwQd2bs0I7UpQj7ym-qjtCiwyzD01PVwQ1a6JwVSGu2Lry4df54rlAEECumtkG9Jkk2O8h-RjYGEp/s1600/IMG_7794.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqFNiJsQXU8I6EilL7O2JuzxLEwm2VZTqZ2wZ3zvcJCbGudlabEduyjTQypOFkDXYzwQd2bs0I7UpQj7ym-qjtCiwyzD01PVwQ1a6JwVSGu2Lry4df54rlAEECumtkG9Jkk2O8h-RjYGEp/s320/IMG_7794.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"But I don't want to go potty!"</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>To be fair, it isn't entirely his fault. He has some sort of sensory issue which makes it difficult for him to tell when his bladder is full. It also makes it difficult for him to empty his bladder properly. He briefly went through physical therapy for this, during which time we accompanied him to the potty and attempted to engage him in ridiculous breathing exercises to relax his pelvic muscles. The "pretend you're blowing out candles on a cake!" trick worked for the predictable three day period, after which time he decided it was stupid and started refusing to use the toilet again. <br />
<br />
We have seen doctors and counselors, and the general consensus now is to just let him be—that eventually he'll grow out of it and will go potty consistently on his own. Alas, we are still waiting for that glorious day. <br />
<br />
So you can imagine my delight when my daughter—who hasn't formally started potty training yet—recently announced that she had to poop, marched herself to the bathroom and happily hopped on the potty of her own accord. (Yeah, I know we're perhaps potty training her a little late, but we're trying a lower-pressure approach than we used with our son in the hopes that she won't become oppositional about it too!)<br />
<br />
She sat on the toilet with a huge grin on her face and congratulated herself, clapping and saying "Good job!" I did a little happy dance and praised her enthusiastically—perhaps we would be mercifully spared the nightmare that we are enduring with our son!!<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinu7j6RgJnlxePKEUZgwFzas6n_bciJDNU056JlNEJ1U1IDw4Z2WFxKkmUrgBxSj24YskeijNski1Jr4UfuAQbBIeZSNtvAmDUK2IQFCmpuisfCEZC18vJxE1lf8KNNxj9P56DRKilI7J0/s1600/Clara+on+potty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinu7j6RgJnlxePKEUZgwFzas6n_bciJDNU056JlNEJ1U1IDw4Z2WFxKkmUrgBxSj24YskeijNski1Jr4UfuAQbBIeZSNtvAmDUK2IQFCmpuisfCEZC18vJxE1lf8KNNxj9P56DRKilI7J0/s320/Clara+on+potty.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Look how happy she is!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Unfortunately it doesn't look like it's going to be quite the cakewalk we'd hoped.<br />
<br />
The other night my husband was getting the kids ready for their bath, and he took my daughter's pants and diaper off but then got distracted and left her to run about upstairs with no bottoms on. I caught her standing on her brother's bed, grunting purposefully.<br />
<br />
"Clara, do you have to <i>poop?</i>" I asked cheerfully. I then noticed that she wasn't wearing a diaper, and that she was standing on my son's pillow. Scooping her up in a panic, I ran to the bathroom and plopped her on the potty just in time for a teensy bit of poo to fall in. I breathed a sigh of relief. Clara smiled at me and announced that she was "All done!"<br />
<br />
I was doubtful; although she clapped her hands, congratulated herself, and squirmed to get off the potty, I was not convinced that it had been a "complete performance."<br />
<br />
I had just started encouraging her to try some more when my husband appeared in the doorway to help me with my cause. He said, "Clara, push!!"... and then he screwed up his face, balled up his fists, and began grunting in an embarrassing manner. My daughter was thoroughly entertained by this, but I was a tad disturbed—it was overwhelmingly odd to see my husband engaged in theatrics that suggested he might be giving birth.<br />
<br />
Despite his spirited efforts, Clara again insisted she was done, so I cleaned her bum, congratulated her and sent her on her way—which was presumably to see my husband, who I thought was waiting for her with a diaper.<br />
<br />
Alas, when I finished washing my hands and went to my son's room to see how the diapering was going, my husband was nowhere to be found. I saw only Clara, who was bending down and carefully picking something up off the floor. She turned and held it out to me.<br />
<br />
My brain was a tad slow in comprehending what I was seeing. Clara was surrounded by poop. She had a nugget of poo clutched in her paw and was contemplating it with fascination, and when she saw me in the doorway she held the ball of poo aloft and said merrily, "What's this? <i>Treat?</i>"<br />
<br />
I recovered and shouted something like, "Oh my GOD, Oh my God!!"... at which point Clara caught my meaning and dropped the poo ball like a hot, smelly potato. "Oh my God! Honey!!!" I screamed. He was downstairs again. "Get up here <i>right now! </i>Your daughter pooped on the floor! She had some in her hand! And now she's touching Evan's toys! Get up here!!!" <br />
<br />
My husband showed up at the door wearing a look of disdain. "I had a feeling this was going to happen," he said regretfully. I wanted to scream, "<i>Then why did you walk away from her again?!</i>" but I bit my tongue. I needed his help. <br />
<br />
He cleaned Clara up, and I disposed of the poo balls that were strewn across the floor like freakishly large mutant-rat droppings before frantically dousing the carpet and surrounding areas with Lysol. I sprayed some lavender-scented mist in my son's room so it wouldn't smell like a chemical factory, or worse—a sewage treatment plant. <br />
<br />
I got my daughter to bed and went downstairs to stew. I was rather furious with my hubby. After all, who in his right mind walks away from a toddler with no diaper on... twice? I was in the midst of rehearsing some choice words in my head when I heard him holler "AAAAARRRRGGGGGGHHHHH!!! EVAN!!!"<br />
<br />
He came rushing down the stairs and shouted at me, "Your son just peed on the carpet!!!"<br />
<br />
I had to stifle a giggle. Justice is sweet. <br />
<br />
Now, you're probably thinking, "<i>Naw.... there's no way that all happened in one evening. She's making this up." </i>I assure you, I am not making this up—this is exactly how the evening unfolded. Frankly, it makes me thankful for the years I spent taking care of multiple cats, during which time I cleaned more than my share of poop, pee, and vomit out of the carpets. If it weren't for those years of experience, I'm not sure I'd have the constitution for this whole messy process of potty training.<br />
<br />
Of course it helps to keep a sense of humor through the whole thing, and to remember that, unlike cats, the children will grow up and stop having accidents in their own time. Until then, it might be wise to at least invest in some HAZMAT suits, and perhaps some litter boxes and piddle pads to leave in strategic locations of the house.<br />
<br />
At any rate, I hope my kids get their act together soon. Our potty is feeling quite rejected, and I'm not sure its self-esteem will ever recover!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5OAIVoLi5UWDC9M9lV3hMRIF1RMXLWGzk4F8lCKlfcx-C_4myRyz-XzUIREyp01FwX6Y7knX9lJqsK56KNUnp_QWfgPn-_xFDiSIBq5QL3oDD27F1O47Fghcn9rWs5_4Z67r32DKzIFdh/s1600/sad-toilet+captioned.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5OAIVoLi5UWDC9M9lV3hMRIF1RMXLWGzk4F8lCKlfcx-C_4myRyz-XzUIREyp01FwX6Y7knX9lJqsK56KNUnp_QWfgPn-_xFDiSIBq5QL3oDD27F1O47Fghcn9rWs5_4Z67r32DKzIFdh/s320/sad-toilet+captioned.png" width="186" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">You've got to admit<i>—that's</i> some good potty humor!</div><br />
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</div>Misadventures in Motherhoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04733618217432605890noreply@blogger.com50tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828294267094880275.post-58169966771792618412011-10-28T11:28:00.000-07:002011-10-28T11:35:25.225-07:00Costume ConundrumIs it just me, or does Halloween seem to get bigger and bigger, and last longer and longer each year? We've already been to several Halloween events already, and the kids' "treat box" is currently overflowing with all manner of sugary joy. I would normally be disgusted by the kids slobbering over the treat box like pigs that had just heard "Zoooweeee!!!"... except that I myself have been guilty of rummaging around it in it for the choicest goodies over the last week.<br />
<br />
Tonight is trick-or-treat night in our neighborhood, and my son is very much looking forward to adding more booty to his trough of junk food. One would think that, with so much candy suddenly pouring in, the kids would stop begging for treats in the checkout lines of stores and at the windows of banks, but alas, the plethora of candy seems to have actually <i>raised</i> my children's awareness of how much junk food is readily available.<br />
<br />
If I go through the drive-thru at the pharmacy, my son will shout, "Do they have lollipops? I think they have lollipops!! I want one!!" If I'm in the grocery store, the kids will keep their eyes peeled for any candy that might be lying about "for the taking."<br />
<br />
"I bet they have Halloween candy!" has become my son's new battle cry. <br />
<br />
This gets tiresome, but not nearly as tiresome as the obsession over Halloween costumes that has been going on for the past month. Apparently, to children today, the choice of costume has a significant bearing on one's social standing.<br />
<br />
I don't remember it being such a big deal when I was a kid. I have fond memories of Halloween when I was little: I happily went out as a punk rocker year after year—a costume which required little more than some bright clothing and colored hair spray. I remember one year when a friend of mine defaced a gown with some ketchup and went trick-or-treating as a bloody bridesmaid. That was perfectly acceptable back then.<br />
<br />
Now it seems that the Halloween costume has become some sort of crazy indicator of social status. I saw this trend when I was a teacher too—the popular kids would show up in school with <i>Scream</i> masks that dripped blood down the inside (have you seen those things? They're dreadful!). Or they would have fancy superhero costumes expensively modeled after the star of a recent blockbuster film.<br />
<br />
The shy kids would arrive in dubious homemade costumes that were difficult to identify. "Awww, look... it's an elephant!" an unwitting teacher would say, only to have the child don an injured expression and yell, "I'm not an elephant... I'm a kitty cat!" <br />
<br />
I think last year was my final chance to outfit my son for Halloween before pop culture dominated his little mind completely. I had found an adorable costume at the thrift shop, paid three dollars for it, and happily dressed up my boy as a dragon. Evan proudly announced "I'm gonna be a <i>dragon</i> for Halloween!!" to anyone who would listen for an entire month leading up to the big day.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately I was rather uneducated about the details of imaginary animals at the time, so it wasn't until Evan went to school in his costume and all his teachers said, "Awww... what a cute dinosaur!" that I realized I had been mistaken.<br />
<br />
Evan donned the familiar injured look and announced that he was, in fact, a <i>dragon.</i> My husband took the opportunity to laugh at my ignorance and blame me for possibly scarring our son for life.<br />
<br />
"How was I supposed to know it wasn't a dragon?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"It doesn't have wings!!" my husband replied. "That should have given you a clue!" <br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"Well, not all dragons have wings, do they?" Um... yep... they do. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGrapRYzTvA4zA0hNWNIB7lZxgubP8SdnxnS-EKLVyi9b1tEJbnJ1iQPM3OJXLP4ESOdgoX3FtUpzsMoYpbrfP_z3JWoVwWmnpMF9NcfqVPNQM3bl4tnCPLoGxK2_JBfvhPSDGk_tkJVqu/s1600/IMG_0154.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGrapRYzTvA4zA0hNWNIB7lZxgubP8SdnxnS-EKLVyi9b1tEJbnJ1iQPM3OJXLP4ESOdgoX3FtUpzsMoYpbrfP_z3JWoVwWmnpMF9NcfqVPNQM3bl4tnCPLoGxK2_JBfvhPSDGk_tkJVqu/s320/IMG_0154.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Apparently NOT a dragon.</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
To make matters worse, we went trick-or-treating with friends last year, and my son's best friend went as... you guessed it... a <i>dragon.</i> With bright, shiny wings. I could see Evan looking at his friend's costume with envy, so I pulled a ridiculous explanation out of my ass.<br />
<br />
"Evan, your friend is a flying dragon, but you're a <i>fire-breathing</i> dragon. You don't need wings. Isn't that <i>cool?</i>" He bought the story and even added the "fire-breathing" description to his "I'm a dragon!" chant. This lasted right up until we started canvassing the neighborhood and were greeted at every door by a well-meaning adult who said, "Awww...look! A dragon, and a dinosaur!! How cute!" <br />
<br />
Apparently I'm the only moron who <i>didn't </i>know a dinosaur when she saw one.<br />
<br />
Well, this year there will be no mistaking what my son is for Halloween—for the past several months he has been obsessed with Spider-Man, so I shouldn't have been surprised when he demanded to be Spider-Man for Halloween. <br />
<br />
We searched for costumes online, and I let him choose the one he liked the best (which, fortunately for me, cost a mere $9.99 on Ebay). Unfortunately, when it arrived I noticed a significant flaw in the design—where there should have been some sort of transparent fabric for eye holes, there were merely tiny pin-holes. My son looked <i>awesome</i> but couldn't see to save his life. He insisted he was fine, posed for a picture, then promptly stumbled into a nearby wall. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5TCEZboxsJprJ2hEE89Q8Z3nMOqVBujWpRH9EulztUYv7DGm9d-f1AeZ_N2uRJeYrrUVWlMsp84-uV76zs0equ9w2zDZ4slkbRiPnZKiJ4rZWyqEdfSMyrImbTyZ991ZswHie2czTLtdJ/s1600/Spider+Man+Costume.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5TCEZboxsJprJ2hEE89Q8Z3nMOqVBujWpRH9EulztUYv7DGm9d-f1AeZ_N2uRJeYrrUVWlMsp84-uV76zs0equ9w2zDZ4slkbRiPnZKiJ4rZWyqEdfSMyrImbTyZ991ZswHie2czTLtdJ/s640/Spider+Man+Costume.jpg" width="464" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">What the heck?!</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;">So, what I really <i>should</i> be doing right now, instead of writing this blog post, is sewing the white mesh fabric I purchased into the eye holes of his Spider-Man costume. I also have to use a Sharpie to draw webbing on a pair of cheap red gloves I bought for fifty cents (Evan saw another child in a Spider-Man costume, and the other kid's costume had gloves. Needless to say, he had to have them too).<br />
<br />
Eh, I have a couple more hours. Plenty of time.<br />
<br />
You know, this all seems like a whole lot of unnecessary fuss for what used to be a one-night event. My son is already telling me what I should be for Halloween <i>next</i> year. Apparently he thinks I should dress up as Tinkerbell.<br />
<br />
"But, then you couldn't wear a shirt," he said.<br />
<br />
"Tinkerbell doesn't wear a shirt?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"Nope," he answered, "she just wears nipples."<br />
<br />
Ahhh.... I see. Nipples. Silly me. And here I was, thinking that I might just get away with being a punk rocker next year. <br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Misadventures in Motherhoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04733618217432605890noreply@blogger.com37tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828294267094880275.post-51904076627123627262011-10-21T10:24:00.000-07:002011-10-21T11:12:49.990-07:00A Bad Case of "Mom Hair"Bedtime is always a nightmare in our house—the children fuss and whine, ask for snacks, beg for water, complain that they're hot, and just generally stall in every conceivable manner possible. To make matters worse, they also use nighttime as a chance to employ their most effective mind-control tactic: the "Wail of Torture."<br />
<br />
Every parent knows what I'm talking about here—it's that siren-wail that sounds like a cross between a fire engine and a wolf baying at the moon. It can shatter glass and is sure to damage the hearing of any adult within a thirty foot radius. Each child has his or her own variation, and I firmly believe that nature helps each individual to hone his or her particular screech so that it produces maximum annoyance in the parents.<br />
<br />
My children are particularly gifted at the Wail of Torture, and they frequently use it to beat my husband and I into submission. I am ashamed to admit that my torture tolerance is fairly low, so after enduring about two minutes of ear-shattering misery, I generally fold and say, "Okay, okay! You want a snack? We'll find you something! Just please stop screeching!!"<br />
<br />
I've gotten so used to anticipating the wail that I was taken by surprise when my son said to me the other night, "Mommy, I don't <i>like</i> it when you put my pajamas on for me." No screeching, no crying, no wailing!<br />
<br />
I saw the opportunity for a teachable moment (and the distant hope of saving my hearing) and jumped all over it. I praised him heartily for using words to describe how he was feeling. I said, "Evan, I <i>really</i> like it when you use your <i>words</i> to say what you don't like. It's so much more helpful to me than when you yell. I really, <i>really</i> like it when you just <i>tell</i> me what you don't like."<br />
<br />
Apparently my praise inspired him, because Evan looked thoughtful for a moment, then said in a firm voice, "Mommy, I don't like your hair. It's messy."<br />
<br />
Wellllll..... that tactic worked like a charm, now didn't it?!<br />
<br />
I suppose I shouldn't fault him for being honest. I glanced in the mirror and was immediately shamed by my reflection. If I hadn't shampooed my hair just that morning, I might have expected to run my hands through it and find a small family of birds living somewhere amongst the mop of unruly frizz.<br />
<br />
I've never had good luck with my hair—it's the kind that's not really straight but not really curly; it's very thick with a lot of waves, and if I don't make an effort to straighten it or tame it somehow it just gets bigger and bigger until I could rival Helena Bonham Carter on the red carpet.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV-ySYVy8w3WpX8YvT-fYYObNb4Yhf53qXXhMjpZm1pOGXPTRUxK2V_ibuKXai6IeggGy2m8sUyRFR_nosEMheTgFx1V8biM9YjjROwrTd7LOV5bB6w4I9LnEpoujqP_sWmvqkqe8dCYBa/s1600/Helena-Bonham-Carter-Bad-Hair-435x580.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV-ySYVy8w3WpX8YvT-fYYObNb4Yhf53qXXhMjpZm1pOGXPTRUxK2V_ibuKXai6IeggGy2m8sUyRFR_nosEMheTgFx1V8biM9YjjROwrTd7LOV5bB6w4I9LnEpoujqP_sWmvqkqe8dCYBa/s400/Helena-Bonham-Carter-Bad-Hair-435x580.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Someone get this poor woman a stylist!</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-size: small;">I</span>'ve always been under the impression that going to an expensive salon and getting a "quality" haircut would fix my styling misery. So when my friend organized a group trip to her favorite ritzy salon this past weekend, I was pretty excited.<br />
<br />
My stylist's name was Joey, and he was well-coiffed and perfectly pomaded. I was surprised to see that he was wearing more makeup than I was, but I decided to take that as a sign that he knew what he was doing. I settled in the chair with a smile.<br />
<br />
He took my hair elastic out, and a giant mop of frizzy tangles tumbled around my shoulders. I think a few butterflies may have taken flight too. He frowned at my reflection in the mirror and said, "Okay... so, exactly <i>what</i> are we doing today, hmm??"<br />
<br />
I sighed and told him that my hair was in massive need of an overhaul. I probably launched into more detail than was necessary, but I felt the need to explain why I looked like an extra from a disaster movie. I told him that, as a stay-at-home mom, I don't get out much, and I don't have the opportunity to get my hair cut on a regular basis. I shamefully described my philosophy on hair care: wait until I notice that my hair looks generally terrible, do a quick calculation and realize that it's been four months since my last haircut, and book the first available appointment at the local Holiday Hair.<br />
<br />
The shame.<br />
<br />
He told me he would get everything taken care of, and soon he was artfully snipping away, chopping off all the dried out ends and tidying up the entire situation.<br />
<br />
Once he had finished cutting, we discussed styling options. I told him that my hair just <i>doesn't</i> cooperate. He asked me what products I use.<br />
<br />
"Um, excuse me?" I said.<br />
<br />
"Pro-ducts. What products are you using?" he asked again, speaking slowly as if I might be slightly hard of hearing or mentally challenged.<br />
<br />
I thought about the cabinet in my bathroom that's jammed with styling creme, hairspray, curling mist, smoothing gel, pomade, body-building mousse—none of which I use—and frantically tried to remember what any of them were called. I came up blank.<br />
<br />
"Um, I don't really use anything," I said sheepishly. He gave me a withering look and was about to suggest something when I offered, "but I have a whole drawer full of every styling product imaginable. It's just that I never remember to use any of them."<br />
<br />
He frowned at me and said rather accusingly, "You're not one of those moms who wears those awful track suits and sweatpants out in public, are you?"<br />
<br />
Um, guilty.<br />
<br />
My mind called up the image of my dresser drawer that barely closes because it's stuffed to the gills with "yoga" pants, and I blushed. I felt the odd need to apologize. "Being a stay-at-home mom just isn't very... glamorous, I guess."<br />
<br />
"You could make it glamorous," he replied optimistically. "Do your hair in the morning. Put on some makeup. Dress up. Look nice for your husband when he gets home."<br />
<br />
Truth be told, those were all things I once swore I would faithfully do. I vowed never to be one of those moms that just lounged about in shapeless workout attire, sans makeup, looking like a candidate for <i>What Not to Wear</i>. What had happened? When had I become that person?<br />
<br />
I pondered this as Joey gave me a fabulous blowout and styled my hair to perfection. It fell around my face in bouncy waves, and I instantly felt beautiful. I thanked him profusely and promised him that I would clean up my act. I owed it to myself (and to my extremely expensive haircut) to maintain the new look.<br />
<br />
But regardless, just a couple of days later, there I was—wearing my comfy pants and sporting a hairdo that could have worked on a scarecrow. And my<i> son</i> called me on it. My four-year-old boy!<br />
<br />
*sigh* Something had to be done.<br />
<br />
So yesterday I got out my straightening iron and my curling iron. I moved the junk on my bathroom counter out of the way and cleared a work area. I set out bobby pins and styling products—I was determined to look pretty for my boys.<br />
<br />
Just as I was getting warmed up (literally), my son ambled into the bathroom to see what I was doing. Before I could shout, "Stop!", he reached up and grabbed my curling iron by the barrel. He gasped and reflexively pulled his hand back, cradling it against his body.<br />
<br />
I just felt terrible. Evan didn't cry or whine; he insisted he was fine. I took a look at the angry red patch on his hand and decided it would be best to keep an eye on him to make sure he was okay, so I unplugged my styling tools, put my hair back in a ponytail, and went to join my kids at play.<br />
<br />
Attempt to look good=failed. Back to square one.<br />
<br />
I frolicked with my little ones, but the fun was tainted by paranoia—did my son frown at my baggy sweatshirt? Did he glance at my hair and look quickly away? Was he going to be ashamed to be seen in public with me in a few years?<br />
<br />
Does my appearance really matter that much when I'm in the house most of the day?<br />
<br />
Is <i>this </i>really that bad?<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyBqz9y5Wad23x2X3iCYEETKwX-b9x9oiVjC23lwgSE6CitEUzkgintXpS6u16QBM2GJ1FN-y0nMFPr-6YnB1EyHQdnvq3hl_Ig-b1SsTkaoskbaKjm2-y-RBWbT5CbHhfnwb1956aYohq/s1600/DSCF7848.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyBqz9y5Wad23x2X3iCYEETKwX-b9x9oiVjC23lwgSE6CitEUzkgintXpS6u16QBM2GJ1FN-y0nMFPr-6YnB1EyHQdnvq3hl_Ig-b1SsTkaoskbaKjm2-y-RBWbT5CbHhfnwb1956aYohq/s400/DSCF7848.JPG" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Ack, well, perhaps it is. </i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
I don't have all the answers, but if anyone has a brilliant idea about how to look beautiful and put-together while caring for two children, I will be the first to take notes.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, I think the next skill I will teach my son will be how to say, "Mommy, you're pretty just the way you are." <br />
<br />
.Misadventures in Motherhoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04733618217432605890noreply@blogger.com70tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828294267094880275.post-21556553391121842622011-10-07T18:44:00.000-07:002011-10-08T09:21:39.722-07:00When Toddler TV Attacks!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div>I think we can all agree that toddler television is generally intolerable.... although some shows are clearly more irritating than others. We endured a particularly rough patch when our 4-year-old son Evan was younger and had an all-consuming love affair with Elmo.<br />
<br />
His constant obsession with the furry red guy really pushed the limits of our endurance for tolerating high-pitched, squeaky creatures that talk in the third person, and every time we'd hear Elmo exclaim, "Oh yay!" we'd have to steel ourselves against the urge to stick sharp objects in our ears.<br />
<br />
At some point we have most likely owned every Elmo video that was ever made. These videos are obnoxious at varying levels; one of the worst is "Elmo's Potty Time," which features horrendously catchy tunes exalting the joys of peeing and pooping. In the trenches of potty training, these songs swirled around and around in my head like an excremental carousel featuring crapping mules and pissing stallions.<br />
<br />
Others, like "Elmo Being Green" are more tolerable, as "Being Green" features Paul Rudd repeatedly making an ass out of himself while dressed in a giant round Earth costume.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv28maVF2hVsA_OmNcJkCx218Tb9JEnYglqju4NrU5RFBolTlf_F-CSACOktdw9MNcD98EiRnDNFs-fKmIS41GiVuIzw6StF6DfW6WZvtqX2XBhw6zfXpt1piH_YFf1-bdSY6vecZV3FXD/s1600/rudd-earth-dance-feat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv28maVF2hVsA_OmNcJkCx218Tb9JEnYglqju4NrU5RFBolTlf_F-CSACOktdw9MNcD98EiRnDNFs-fKmIS41GiVuIzw6StF6DfW6WZvtqX2XBhw6zfXpt1piH_YFf1-bdSY6vecZV3FXD/s400/rudd-earth-dance-feat.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> You've got to admit it—that's entertaining. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But regardless, they are all pretty dreadful. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So you can imagine my excitement when Evan was finally old enough to sit through a full-length movie, and we were able to enjoy Pixar's movie Cars. And enjoy it we did—about five <i>hundred </i>times in a row. Within a month we could recite the whole damn movie from beginning to end, and we had accumulated enough Cars paraphernalia to open our own themed gift shop.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We then moved on to Toy Story and Ratatouille, and of course the many incarnations of Thomas the Tank Engine. It didn't take us long to learn that Evan's love affairs with movies followed a pattern: if he saw a movie he liked, that movie would completely consume his psyche for the next few weeks.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There would be movie quotes made at the dinner table, drawings of his favorite scenes lovingly taped to his walls, and requests filed for any merchandise that might feature his favorite characters (we dropped a couple hundred bucks on a Thomas the Tank Engine toddler bed when Evan was in his Thomas phase). </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And, of course, he would ask to watch the object of his affection nearly every day during this honeymoon period, which pretty much meant we were stuck buying every movie he became fixated on. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Unfortunately, once the novelty of each new film wore off, Evan would quickly move on to something else and dump his previous favorite like a jilted lover. He barely had the attention span of George Clooney in a room full of models, and we began accumulating movies faster than bargain-shoppers at a liquidating Blockbuster store.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">You'd think we'd catch on and just say, "No more movies—you have enough." But nope... we're kind of suckers that way.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So we began developing a problem. Our movie storage bins were literally overflowing, vomiting DVDs of Thomas and Elmo and Buzz Lightyear and Big Bird all over our family room floor, where the cases were getting stomped on and the contents damaged. This also caused a significant safety hazard, as occasionally an unwitting family member would slip on a DVD case and go crashing into the nearest piece of furniture (this was usually me). </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Something had to be done. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And <i>that's</i> when we discovered Netflix </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">(insert angelic choir of oohs and aaahs here).</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Netflix provided my son with a veritable <i>smorgasbord</i> of shows and movies—he could watch anything from Care Bears to Diego to Spiderman to *ugh* Power Rangers. He loved this new variety, and since he was able to navigate Netflix by himself, we were spared the endless drudgery of searching through multitudes of mixed-up DVD cases to find the exact movie he was jonesing for at the moment. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It was freaking <i>great.</i> ....</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Until it wasn't. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Did you know there are no parental controls on Netflix? I once caught Evan pulling up an episode of South Park while my oblivious parents smiled and sat down with him to watch what they thought was a harmless kids' show!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I also caught Evan watching the original Batman once... the one with Jack Nicholson. I put a stop to that right away... the last thing I needed was my son running around shouting the Joker's famous quote, "This town needs an enema!"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Basically, once Netflix came on the scene, it became a <i>lot</i> more difficult to police what Evan was being exposed to—especially since a lot of the stuff on Netflix is obscure made-for-tv shlock that we've never even heard of, so we had no way of really knowing what was appropriate. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Well, the other night Evan happened upon an adorable looking movie called "Impy's Wonderland." It was rated TV-Y and described itself as a child-friendly film about the last dinosaur on earth, who lives happily on a little island with his animal friends until he gets lured away by a trickster who promises him fame and fortune. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Cute, right?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje70i8_1Hfj7AuuMpJqf0aFaNt82mnePvMhcdZGkhhPGIc5PrbMLi8Y5jMqHyHEJpnkp-oxpX7vBv8QbAY8xchyphenhyphenQxucKjbFs25sMqdjcHqnKiGTsAEloh3oWT-dzQ5LTxYkeacuXHIc1ly/s1600/impy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje70i8_1Hfj7AuuMpJqf0aFaNt82mnePvMhcdZGkhhPGIc5PrbMLi8Y5jMqHyHEJpnkp-oxpX7vBv8QbAY8xchyphenhyphenQxucKjbFs25sMqdjcHqnKiGTsAEloh3oWT-dzQ5LTxYkeacuXHIc1ly/s1600/impy.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I sat down and told Evan we could <i>try</i> watching it. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Well, the beginning was just charming. The characters were adorable. There wasn't a shred of violence, no one called anyone else an idiot or told each other they were stupid, and the movie actually seemed to have a decent plot. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I hunkered down on the sofa with Evan and relaxed into watching what I thought was going to be a really nice family film—one that wouldn't lead him into a "What the <i>heck?</i>" streak, cause him to yell "Step off, MAN" at his daddy, or inspire him to randomly shout exclamations like "Freaking swine!"...(which, by the way, has become my personal favorite of all his inappropriate outbursts—both for its shock value and its mysterious origin.)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">So all was going swimmingly; we were enjoying our movie and snuggling together on the sofa, and I was thrilled to have found something that was both age-appropriate and enjoyable (a rare combination).<br />
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As expected, about halfway through the film Impy was lured from his island by a trickster who promised the baby dinosaur fame and fortune. Surprisingly, I was pleased to see that even the villain wasn't at all offensive (not even a shred of questionable language)!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
So you can imagine my surprise when Impy's daydream of stardom began and the movie took a startling turn from wholesome to horrifying. I've included the segment below—believe me, you'll want to watch it. Aside from its obvious shock value, I've added some captions so you can really experience what was going through my mind while I was viewing it with my kids.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The scene begins with Impy being shown around the amusement park, and, well.... you'll see where it goes from there.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='460' height='406' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzL3n0zfY8DSz9KBulu07-TeSUU-fgRGcL7AaPmA0-Je78PcTJ2MmzG-JEHoDMypuNS_EnjYyVwSi6sP85t' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">If you are having trouble viewing the video, click <a href="http://youtu.be/t6NboFnVb2A" target="_blank">here</a></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
Eventually the scene mercifully ended, and I just sat there with my mouth hanging open. I was beside myself and completely unsure of what to do. I tried the "pretend it never happened" approach and stayed as quiet as possible, hoping Evan wouldn't remember much about the offending scene.<br />
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But as luck would have it, Impy's Wonderland became not only Evan's newest favorite film, but it also inspired him to repeatedly sing various interpretations of Impy's performance (which, for those of you who didn't watch the video, was a horrible rendition of "Sex Bomb.")<br />
<br />
Obviously Evan doesn't understand the real lyrics, but that didn't stop him from inventing his own. So for the past week we've watched Evan go back and forth between shaking his bum and singing "Six butts, six butts, you've got six butts," and jumping around shouting "Sick bum, sick bum, you're a sick bum." Oh, and the third variation: "Six balls, six balls, you've got six balls!" </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">As horrible as these interpretations are, Evan actually has a decent sense of pitch, and thus most people can figure out <i>exactly</i> what song he's <i>trying</i> to sing. Sigh. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
The toddler television army had launched a subversive surprise attack, and we were woefully unprepared. <br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Score: Toddler TV-1 Parents-0 </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">I'm not sure I have the stamina for a rematch. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Misadventures in Motherhoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04733618217432605890noreply@blogger.com59tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828294267094880275.post-34237795458248332302011-09-14T07:52:00.000-07:002011-09-14T08:35:37.960-07:00Who Wants to Marry Me ... Again?Our family recently had the pleasure of going on a lovely beach vacation. In fact, if you've read my recent post, <a href="http://www.misadventuresinmotherhood.com/2011/08/stress-on-beach.html" target="_blank">"Stress on the Beach,"</a> you already know about my disastrous swimsuit mishap. <br />
<br />
But there is another story worth telling from this vacation, and this once revolves around my in-laws, with whom we were staying in a large, multi-bedroom rental house that afforded us the luxury of our own space while still allowing us to spend time together.<br />
<br />
The house was really lovely, which was a relief after our disastrous trip down. We had gotten stuck in traffic, and every time the car stopped, my 20-month-old daughter Clara would scream and cry from the backseat—so essentially, we'd move a few feet and she'd take a breath and pause, we'd think we were in the clear, then traffic would come to a standstill again and she'd resume her wailing. I'm pretty sure I have some permanent hearing loss as a result of the screeching—it literally went on for <i>hours.</i><br />
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At one point we stopped at a rest stop to get some more snacks and drinks for the kids (we'd thrown everything we had at them so far in an attempt to keep them distracted from the fact that we weren't going anywhere), and the children leaped out of the car and pranced around with huge grins on their faces. My four-year-old son Evan shouted "We're here! Where's the ocean?" *sigh*<br />
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After begrudgingly piling the kids back into the van (with new snacks and beverages in hand), we resumed our stop-and-go pattern until we finally found an alternate route that was less jammed up, and let me tell you, it was absolutely exhilarating to be able to exceed five miles an hour.<br />
<br />
Despite our delays, we finally arrived at the house. We were haggard and tired, but grateful to be there, and we were immediately distracted from our recent ordeal by whispered rumors that my sister-in-law's boyfriend had brought along <i>a ring.</i> We already knew that he was planning on asking her to marry him, and it was now obvious that he planned on proposing during our stay at the beach! The excitement was palpable, and we began placing our bets on when the proposal would take place.<br />
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As it happened, they were engaged by day three. There was much celebrating and admiring of the ring (it's an absolutely <i>gorgeous</i> blue diamond), and after lots of shouting, squealing and hugging, we grew wistful and began telling stories about our own engagements and laughing about our own wedding mishaps. <br />
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Evan, sensing the excitement in the air, donned a ring-pop and pranced about, proudly announcing that the ring meant that he, too, was engaged. When we asked him who he was planning on marrying, he cuddled up to me and said sweetly, "I'm going to marry Mommy, because she's my <i>best girl</i>."<br />
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I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I think I did a little of both.<br />
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Evan continued to wear the ring-pop stub even after he had devoured the lollipop, and he showed it off to every passerby in town who would take notice, proudly announcing, "I'm getting married!"<br />
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It was a magical time for everyone, and I had the honor of doing the engagement photos (I'm a photographer in my "spare time"—it's something I don't talk about much on my blog, but it's a passion of mine). Here's a photo I took of the gorgeous ring! <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfk6yqz5ZH5ui_y-C2ucL3PwfuK32MSPExrgQsdnNzvNQm4-0qk4C_Js9wZhpLNnHG0Zr_gqwGfeSeSBsk7dJHf-g6FPjJ5DMYOiPouK8pu0ajOmFmbgcW65O2X0fQfaJOB1mAWC1faUZe/s1600/shell-with-ring-flattened-X3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfk6yqz5ZH5ui_y-C2ucL3PwfuK32MSPExrgQsdnNzvNQm4-0qk4C_Js9wZhpLNnHG0Zr_gqwGfeSeSBsk7dJHf-g6FPjJ5DMYOiPouK8pu0ajOmFmbgcW65O2X0fQfaJOB1mAWC1faUZe/s400/shell-with-ring-flattened-X3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
There was much to be happy about in addition to the engagement, for my husband and I had just celebrated our eight year anniversary. And when my in-laws offered to put the kids to bed one night so that we could have a rare evening out to celebrate, we wasted no time in accepting the offer!<br />
<br />
We chose a fancy restaurant with a view of the water and had the pleasure of enjoying a rare romantic dinner at sunset. The baked brie was pure heaven on a plate, my scallops were amazing, and the view of the sunset over the water was stunning. We held hands, drank wine, reminisced about our wedding and marveled at the fact that, in two years, we'll have been married for a decade.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibzUhyGR8XrtjTQ5QgM-FZlTUo_feceCnH0gdLS5fxUuwteEbbFxfzwczaQ8LPfta21quWWMYtqqI_2ek5rzo0Alwj9vTJD6DwW-7mebcTwe-E7lTaXn8H0_ACsWjqWhkUrhno19XNW18Q/s1600/DSCF7311.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibzUhyGR8XrtjTQ5QgM-FZlTUo_feceCnH0gdLS5fxUuwteEbbFxfzwczaQ8LPfta21quWWMYtqqI_2ek5rzo0Alwj9vTJD6DwW-7mebcTwe-E7lTaXn8H0_ACsWjqWhkUrhno19XNW18Q/s320/DSCF7311.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
We posed for some photos between dinner and dessert. It was all very romantic; the combination of drinks, music and sunset definitely had us feeling all warm and fuzzy inside. My thoughts drifted wistfully back to my wedding, and by the time our desserts had been eaten and our alcohol-laden coffees had arrived, I was feeling quite inspired to do something romantic and wedding-ish again with my sweetheart. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUaVkIiWlnnzKy-Q5inNrsuiVl7KqjpaEBP0pLmbs9285WZaI0achoLszuYpi9An7FWvexk3PJxc5aS1i6Zk9LfWbRfs763XUHWwwrY4UxDmmq0JbVgUHE2PHV57ynsyySrNEhPWExHISa/s1600/DSCF7313.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUaVkIiWlnnzKy-Q5inNrsuiVl7KqjpaEBP0pLmbs9285WZaI0achoLszuYpi9An7FWvexk3PJxc5aS1i6Zk9LfWbRfs763XUHWwwrY4UxDmmq0JbVgUHE2PHV57ynsyySrNEhPWExHISa/s320/DSCF7313.JPG" width="213" /></a></div><br />
I shot my hubby a flirty look as he snapped my picture with my decadent coffee, and as he gazed at me lovingly across the table, I proposed my brilliant idea. <br />
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<br />
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"So honey, what do you think about renewing our vows for our tenth anniversary? Wouldn't that just be <i>perfect?</i>"<br />
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I was met with a blank stare from my husband. "Why on earth would we want to do <i>that?" </i>he asked. "What—didn't we mean them the first time?" I just stared at him with my mouth hanging open. Did I really have to explain this?<br />
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I said, "We could go somewhere and do it on the beach. I could wear my wedding dress again."<br />
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He responded, "Oh, I get it. This is just to prove it still fits, isn't it? It's some kind of female validation thing." I was horrified. That couldn't be it, could it? I mean, sure—it would be <i>awesome</i> if my dress still fit, and I would <i>love </i>to have an opportunity to wear it again, to get photos taken, to carry a bouquet... but surely this wasn't all about <i>me.</i><br />
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I started waxing poetic about how romantic it would be, and how much more meaningful the vows would be now that we had kids, and...<br />
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"So we'd get a vacation out of it, at least," he interrupted, "<i>without</i> the kids?" I said that yes, naturally if we renewed our vows we would take a second honeymoon, and that it would be without the kids.<br />
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He snorted. "Good luck convincing anyone to watch the rugrats for a whole week. And what—I'd have to get all dressed up in a tux again and pay someone to do a ceremony and everything? Can't we just take a vacation?" <br />
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I stared at him and began to realize that he had <i>zero</i> interest in renewing our vows. Absolutely none. I slumped in my chair and pouted. "So, you really don't like the idea of renewing vows?" I asked sorrowfully.<br />
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He smiled and said, "Heck, if you can find a guy who's willing to do it with you, I'm all for it."<br />
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(dramatic pause)<br />
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"And THAT," I said, "IS GOING ON MY BLOG."<br />
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He glared at me and I thought I detected some smoke emanating from his ears. "Well," he said ruefully, "apparently I have to watch <i>everything</i> I say around you any more." I informed him that if he'd stop being an idiot, he'd stop getting quoted on my blog.<br />
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So, I guess now I should start the search for a stand-in for my husband for that renewal of vows. But whoever submits his application is going to have to remember something—this handsome little guy has already claimed me, and he's got the ring to prove it!<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge2BtiPLDQ5qT4ZIkNyrZFPlWyY_ua_qYI7ucHOSaZkQ8f_ABAyY0Mi_t68HIQm6at8NFmBFF5yubyp_48HzIHdWkIgLQC1bvpq48h9gc31EGNkZpzrQTEe6QlRIbqtyzls-LLZTAi45Iq/s1600/DSCF7260.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge2BtiPLDQ5qT4ZIkNyrZFPlWyY_ua_qYI7ucHOSaZkQ8f_ABAyY0Mi_t68HIQm6at8NFmBFF5yubyp_48HzIHdWkIgLQC1bvpq48h9gc31EGNkZpzrQTEe6QlRIbqtyzls-LLZTAi45Iq/s320/DSCF7260.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love my Mommy!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Misadventures in Motherhoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04733618217432605890noreply@blogger.com59tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828294267094880275.post-53438688658023075802011-09-06T15:12:00.000-07:002011-09-06T15:12:03.209-07:00Our Trip to "Crazy-Land"We are fortunate to live extremely close to a major amusement park—let's call it Crazy-Land for the sake of this post. For the past two years we've endured our son's endless pleas to go to Crazy-Land (we drive past it at least once a week). We finally gave in this past Friday.<br />
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On Friday morning we schlepped the kids, the giant jogging stroller, changes of clothing, swim gear, towels, water shoes, sunglasses, sunscreen, snacks, sippy cups, extra underwear for my 4-year-old son (just in case), and our proudly purchased discount-passes (my husband saved $13 off of each ticket at our local grocery store) to the park for a day that promised to be all sorts of... well... crazy. <br />
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My husband bragged about his genius at finding discount passes as we pulled into the parking lot, and I was forced to acknowledge that, as always, he was the bargain master, and yes—generally his skills at ferreting out the best deals were under-appreciated in our household.<br />
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I believe I was still stroking his ego as we tried to unload the heavy bags that vomited out the back of our van as soon as the hatch opened, when the man from the car next to us approached us and said, "Hey, you guys wouldn't by any chance want some free passes, would you? I have four extra and they're only good until Monday, and we're looking to give them to a family who could use them."<br />
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I had begun to say, "Oh, isn't that nice of you, when I was cut off by my husband, who said, tight-lipped, "No, we have passes already..." then, "<i>dammit!"</i> under his breath. <br />
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I patted him on the back comfortingly as we strolled toward the park. He was taking the whole matter rather hard (he is <i>very</i> serious about saving money, and I knew he was already thinking about what he could have done with the cash we had spent on the tickets), but he promised he would get over it, and we proceeded into the park. <br />
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As soon as we crossed through the turnstiles, our son Evan began strutting about, hands on his hips and rump shaking, shouting "Oh YEAH!!! Oh YEAH!!!" He then began running back and forth in a random zig-zag pattern, flailing his arms about and shaking his head, and the looks he was attracting from the passersby said that they were slightly concerned he might be having some sort of seizure. I returned their worried gazes with a look that I hoped communicated "He's fine—he's just a spazz." <br />
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We decided to start the day with a nice, calm train ride to get our 20-month-old daughter Clara warmed up to the idea of the park. We boarded the train and Evan was <i>extremely </i>excited—he continued his endless chant of "Oh yeah!" during the ride (this occasionally morphed into Justin Bieber's "Baby, Baby, Baby...Ooooh...and then back into "Oh yeah!" ...it was like the remix from hell), while Clara—who was downright <i>terrified—</i>spent the whole ride shrieking in my ear and frantically screaming, "No CHAIN!!! BYE-BYE!!! DONE, DONE, DONE!!!" Needless to say, it was not a very relaxing ride.<br />
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Once we had extracted ourselves from the train and steeled ourselves for what the rest of the day promised to bring, we redirected the children to the kiddie area, where there were more age-appropriate rides available.<br />
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What ensued was rather predictable—Evan saw the various attractions and began frantically running from ride to ride like a chihuahua on speed.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibLQu5gRyzsOlyj4eMIBPdyDGKPdvoCxTkCOtzG4LRWarfUIblM7kho2vsogc6-WkGtxjn90gLOaRuwbRcCfxWN0f61Ue3thFCdpBgjyyxE6oZoCeEpRk_4-XBffyNgfLoY-mRmQyTX8wL/s1600/DSCF7649.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibLQu5gRyzsOlyj4eMIBPdyDGKPdvoCxTkCOtzG4LRWarfUIblM7kho2vsogc6-WkGtxjn90gLOaRuwbRcCfxWN0f61Ue3thFCdpBgjyyxE6oZoCeEpRk_4-XBffyNgfLoY-mRmQyTX8wL/s320/DSCF7649.JPG" width="225" /></a> Clara was initially scared, but then she spotted this statue of Snoopy and was quite content to stand there and molest it for a good half an hour, so I babysat her while Evan went on some rides with his daddy. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And, fortunately, we were actually able to convince Clara to ride a couple of attractions (especially if they resembled a swing set) before we took a break for lunch. </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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After lunch we decided to head to the water park. I took both children into the ladies' room with me to change while my hubby rode one of the new coasters that had recently been installed. Changing myself and two children into swimsuits is quite the feat on an ordinary day, but considering that my son was still running about like a yippy-dog on crack, and that I had no leash with which to tether him to a toilet, it was absolute chaos. <br />
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Clothing was thrown randomly into whatever bag was closest as I tried to keep Evan from running out of the bathroom, giggling, with just a shirt on and his wee-wee flapping freely in the breeze. I considered it a triumph that we didn't leave a shoe behind and I still had both of my own children with me when all was said and done. <br />
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The stroller was now completely useless, as in my panic I had randomly loaded it down with bags that were now bursting at the zippers, threatening to explode and haphazardly spew our belongings onto the cement. My husband returned from riding the roller coaster, flushed with excitement. He saw the stroller and the look on my face and frowned.<br />
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"Was there... a problem?" he asked. I glared at him and said, "Take her!" thrusting our daughter into his arms and grabbing Evan by the hand before he could dart away again. <br />
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We trudged over to the water park and headed for the kiddie play area. Clara wanted nothing to do with it. She wouldn't set foot in the water without shrieking, and when I tried to take her down one of the little baby slides on my lap, she panicked and ended up pooping in her swim diaper. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEmMq4EbFfwxCQ-UZfcYjd9yoSFss0xoA4Ld7ikDgbad9kfCZ9LcBthXt98PHnPvOK7XXTuYAHlRK9PmgSa7QnQ-0N1ynqZTJSwIjQO0BzqfUYsil7U3NrtnMVZ5NnJrCfbVXnwJdAdl7U/s1600/DSCF7668.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEmMq4EbFfwxCQ-UZfcYjd9yoSFss0xoA4Ld7ikDgbad9kfCZ9LcBthXt98PHnPvOK7XXTuYAHlRK9PmgSa7QnQ-0N1ynqZTJSwIjQO0BzqfUYsil7U3NrtnMVZ5NnJrCfbVXnwJdAdl7U/s200/DSCF7668.JPG" width="200" /></a> No, Clara wanted nothing to do with water play. She instead found a reclining chair, pulled a towel from one of the bags, and sprawled across it. She said, "Night, night," closed her eyes and lay there sunning herself.<br />
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Meanwhile, Evan had discovered the greatest thrill in the park so far—the squirting fountains!! Why would squirting fountains be more exciting than, say, a kiddie coaster? Well, basically because a kiddie coaster doesn't spray water in your crotch. Take a look—this is just brilliant. I'm... so.... proud.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwMlLfMv_13PIHWkFPFgILtcaVkQ0EIG3QfGz9h0JPldBXpSS5GyxiRic6eJUwIXam6fh3TK_EDauZlhiDXQWNjUPu1406THwa8QbZsiVbasG_YiNKkUxHpbBFtMNpLOK7OrGXBlNoNwSp/s1600/DSCF7656.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwMlLfMv_13PIHWkFPFgILtcaVkQ0EIG3QfGz9h0JPldBXpSS5GyxiRic6eJUwIXam6fh3TK_EDauZlhiDXQWNjUPu1406THwa8QbZsiVbasG_YiNKkUxHpbBFtMNpLOK7OrGXBlNoNwSp/s320/DSCF7656.JPG" width="227" /></a></div>We spent quite a bit of time like this, with Clara rearranging herself on the towel and Evan experimenting with the water jets. We were exhausted and began talking of getting everyone back into normal clothes, but Evan refused to leave until his crotch had been sufficiently sprayed to his satisfaction. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAVXRUKJkXYthZ__RPcLv1z-wjOrhM2k6jZns5myrtSEA22i6qJLZHH7v7H2tS4RHA2k3WQ6hyz70nbuqDTQ7m-snfdFkRUiQuucTz41YodP8-Mr8KKWZ6mg_vnP0tXXDrVUTPMW8nvyNj/s1600/DSCF7674.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAVXRUKJkXYthZ__RPcLv1z-wjOrhM2k6jZns5myrtSEA22i6qJLZHH7v7H2tS4RHA2k3WQ6hyz70nbuqDTQ7m-snfdFkRUiQuucTz41YodP8-Mr8KKWZ6mg_vnP0tXXDrVUTPMW8nvyNj/s320/DSCF7674.JPG" width="231" /></a><br />
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It also didn't help that he found it quite enjoyable to have the water spray his bottom too.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">Yep—that's my boy. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>We practically had to <i>drag</i> him out of the water park, but we finally did manage to get back to the changing areas. I took Clara with me into the ladies' room, and my husband took Evan, but the bags were so mixed up it was impossible to tell who had whose clothes. I ended up with my husband's shirt, Evan's socks had been lost completely, and I simply couldn't find my underwear. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbLcnYCG4OL8lA57rxJ5NF5cFT0CjYAnyjVVT5s6sBJcZbuSKVniLQ4gdeWz1nd7PZTx2dD32IfZV1NexgZlXXwFAOlEfi39jZFh1Sd7wcHILRx3w3_HEX447JXI0iyYjg70OJeWDnW_jC/s1600/DSCF7676.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbLcnYCG4OL8lA57rxJ5NF5cFT0CjYAnyjVVT5s6sBJcZbuSKVniLQ4gdeWz1nd7PZTx2dD32IfZV1NexgZlXXwFAOlEfi39jZFh1Sd7wcHILRx3w3_HEX447JXI0iyYjg70OJeWDnW_jC/s320/DSCF7676.JPG" width="239" /></a> What I did have, however, was an extra pair of Evan's toddler-sized Calvin Kleins. I debated whether I'd be able to squeeze my butt into his teensy undies.<br />
<br />
Nope.<br />
<br />
(You may be asking yourself why a 4-year-old needs Calvin Klein underwear. Basically, he doesn't. They were on sale at Ross, and I caved.)<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Fortunately, I finally located my undies at the very bottom of the diaper bag, underneath some crushed peanut butter crackers. I shook the crumbs out of them and hoped peanut-butter crackers were vajayjay friendly; I did not want to get some bizarre infection from half-eaten toddler snacks.<br />
<br />
We got some semblance of order to our bags and headed back to the main park, where Evan resumed his routine of running, yelling, going on rides, and shouting "Oh YEAH!!" But eventually even he started to run out of steam, and we began to trudge our way to the park's exit. <br />
<br />
Before we left, I asked him to pause for a picture with me and Snoopy, and he agreed, but only on the condition that he could "pose" me. This is the result, and I must say, it's ironically my favorite picture from the whole day!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieb997PMpawhcrUw477YCHCsJCaZp36PsGSRqMXgbLLCJys3oPfAXer6CJW9QIXv8nNTf5YZmNTGoYel1uyJaSkIp9b_TTdxTmafF_MMlWtJuab2dRevD6uvzejwataDyDz5LpzEUpYeHN/s1600/DSCF7696.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieb997PMpawhcrUw477YCHCsJCaZp36PsGSRqMXgbLLCJys3oPfAXer6CJW9QIXv8nNTf5YZmNTGoYel1uyJaSkIp9b_TTdxTmafF_MMlWtJuab2dRevD6uvzejwataDyDz5LpzEUpYeHN/s400/DSCF7696.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>By the time we got to the car, we were all weary and worn out, and in my husband's and my case...absolutely starving! The kids were asleep by the time we were out of the parking lot, and they continued to snooze while my husband ran into the grocery store to buy a turkey sub for dinner from the deli counter. <br />
<br />
We pulled into our driveway and listened to our children snoring loudly in their car seats. We decided not to wake them up for dinner; instead we gingerly carried them upstairs, changed them into their pajamas (they didn't even wake up during this process), and laid them gently in their respective beds.<br />
<br />
My husband and I then got to enjoy the first quiet dinner at home together we'd had in a LONG time. It was nice. At one point my hubby said, "Hey... we should do this amusement park thing more often! Putting the kids to bed was a breeze!"<br />
<br />
I shot him a murderous glance. <br />
<br />
"Just kidding!" he said. <br />
<br />
Good—just making sure.<br />
Misadventures in Motherhoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04733618217432605890noreply@blogger.com52tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828294267094880275.post-56731753219860280672011-08-28T19:26:00.000-07:002011-08-28T19:29:31.051-07:00Stress on the BeachI adore the beach—I love everything about it: the sand, the sun, the crashing waves, the trashy clubs...even the stupid seagulls. Long ago, in my BM years (that's "Before Marriage," people, not "the days during which I pooped a whole lot"), my girlfriends and I had an established routine when we went to the beach. In fact, our routine was not too much different than that of those airheads from "Jersey Shore"—except that instead of "gym, tan, laundry," our mantra was "swim, nap, party," followed by sleep (optional). Then repeat. <br />
<br />
But those days are long gone now. Since my children came on the scene, my idea of the perfect beach vacation has morphed into "anything which requires little to no effort on my part." Presently, my idea of heaven on earth would be to simply alternate between lazily bobbing in the ocean and languishing on a towel in the sun. A trashy chick-lit novel might make an appearance in there somewhere, but only if I felt the need to engage my brain in something more stimulating than people-watching. <br />
<br />
Unfortunately, on our recent trip to Bethany Beach in Delaware, I was neither afforded the opportunity to nap on the beach nor to frolic in the waves. And the only people I got to watch were my children, who, left unsupervised, would have quickly wandered down the beach to disappear amongst the throngs of vacationers. (Dammit, why don't they sell leashes along with the beach toys on the boardwalk?)<br />
<br />
No—I spent most of my time struggling to confine our little rugrats to our family's immediate area, which only served to annoy the little monkeys. They expressed their frustration by alternately throwing sand at me and marauding through nearby vacationers' areas to plunder the unsuspecting tourists' beach gear. <br />
<br />
My 20-month-old daughter was particularly interested in everyone else's flip-flops, and occasionally she would insist that some grave mistake had been made, and that the nearby ten-year-old's Spiderman Crocs were not his, but instead were—in fact—her own. We were forced to ride out several theatrical tantrums before my little girl found my Glamour magazine and discovered that tearing pages out of it was almost as much fun as stealing shoes.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCh4lBxf4W4wsAWz2dxfRpjNN2XKwwi3i68iOOo6MCXPG8xzbSGm-hk2g__6-rz3hxWmFwRnpwRncTSJRc48waLAZTiLnfU6yZLfilnL5GAIMemyd1sJb6_bySFI2bvh7zE6q1rz2lOZJA/s1600/DSCF7226.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCh4lBxf4W4wsAWz2dxfRpjNN2XKwwi3i68iOOo6MCXPG8xzbSGm-hk2g__6-rz3hxWmFwRnpwRncTSJRc48waLAZTiLnfU6yZLfilnL5GAIMemyd1sJb6_bySFI2bvh7zE6q1rz2lOZJA/s320/DSCF7226.JPG" width="229" /></a><br />
I decided I was happy to sacrifice the mag if it meant I could plop my ass in a chair for a few minutes and could stop apologizing to everyone in our immediate vicinity. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
And I must admit that she did look quite adorable in her little shades, paging through my Glamour mag and occasionally tearing out the choicest pages. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Even though I knew that bringing little children to the beach would be wrought with complications, I was nevertheless determined to have a <i>damn </i>good time. I had been looking forward to this trip for at least six months, and I had actually begun preparing back in March when I had formally initiated my search for <i>the perfect swimsuit.</i><br />
<br />
Now, I think we can all agree that bathing-suit shopping is one of the most torturous activities we endure as women. I don't know of a single woman who <i>enjoys</i> swimsuit shopping, even if she's a size 00, has had no children, and is built like a praying mantis with boobs (I'm talking about long arms and skinny legs here... not bulging eyeballs—that would be creepy).<br />
<br />
But once you add a belly that has accommodated two children and boobs that have gone south from having breastfed two greedy little mouths for many long months, it's damn near impossible to find a suit that makes you look like anything other than what you are—a MOM (unless you're Heidi Klum, in which case I will refer back to my previous praying mantis reference).<br />
<br />
Last year I was still nursing during our beach trip and had yet to lose some baby weight, so I was in full-on mom-suit mode. I had purchased my suit at K-Mart from the Jaclyn Smith collection, since those suits, although ill-fitting and generally unflattering, offer ample coverage of—well—everything really. Let's just say that the skirt on the tankini was so long I could have worn it out to a nice dinner. <br />
<br />
But this year I was determined to wear something that was at least slightly reminiscent of the sexy gal I used to be, and since a dear friend had <i>raved</i> about what Victoria's Secret suits do for "the boobies," I had gone on a full-out VS Swimsuit-buying mission, beginning five months before the actual vacation to make sure I had enough time to find the perfect suit.<br />
<br />
I perused catalogs, searched the web and sent my family and friends endless messages via Facebook, asking them to help me decide between the merits of swimsuit A vs. swimsuit B, then comparing them to the other ten I had proposed the previous week. I knew I had started to go overboard when, upon logging in to check my Facebook messages, I was repeatedly greeted with the message "[Insert name here] has left the conversation." My friends started dropping out of the voting process with startling frequency, but I just couldn't stop—I had to find that perfect suit, and I just didn't trust my own judgment.<br />
<br />
One day, after I had whittled down my choices to two finalists and sent out the photos for voting purposes, my mother responded angrily, "Just buy both of them for God's sake and be done with it!" So I did, mostly for fear that in the future, any person that I would approach for advice would stick her fingers in her ears and shout "La la la la la... I can't hear you!!!" <br />
<br />
Fortunately, my bathing suits arrived and were <i>glorious</i>. My boobs stood at attention (well, almost... it pretty much takes an act of Congress and some heavy-duty construction equipment to haul them back up to their original location these days, but at least the effect was light-years better than what Jaclyn Smith had to offer), and the bright patterns nicely camouflaged my post-baby pudge. They even had cute matching skirts that hinted at being sexy while still managing to hide my cellulite and sagging rump. I was <i>ready</i> for the beach!<br />
<br />
Ready, that is, until hurricane Irene turned the calm surf into chaotic seas on our last day at the beach before being evacuated. <br />
<br />
Before that day, I had spent all my time on land, supervising my children and making sure that they didn't suck on too many broken seashells (Clara was fascinated by their texture on her tongue), eat too much sand or ingest any seagull crap. But dammit, regardless of the fact that the seas were ridiculously rough, it was our last day at the beach, and I wanted to go <i>in the ocean.</i><br />
<br />
My husband bravely volunteered to accompany me down to the edge of the water, where the waves were crashing heavily and lifeguards were alternating between whistling at people and occasionally rescuing floundering swimmers. The rest of our family was huddled under umbrellas, safely out of reach of the angry seas, and my in-laws had promised to keep an eye on the kiddos while my hubby and I attempted to take a romantic stroll in the surf on what was to be our last day at the beach. <br />
<br />
Wading a few feet into the water was awkward—the waves kept crashing on us full-force, knocking us around. I tried to convince my husband to accompany me slightly farther out, past the breaking point, where the ocean was a bit calmer, but he looked at me like I had two heads and basically said, "No freaking way.... LOOKOUT!!!"<br />
<br />
I turned just in time to see a huge wave about to break on top of us, and I reached out to grab my husband's hand, but it was too late. The wave crashed right into me, knocked me off my feet, and forcibly ripped off my bathing suit bottom. I was fortunate to save it with my foot before it got washed away, and I frantically thrashed around, trying to get both legs back into the bottoms while being repeatedly pounded by the waves.<br />
<br />
My husband saw me flailing about in the surf and tried hard to yank me to my feet. "Hold on!!!" I kept shouting. "Wait! I can't stand up!"<br />
<br />
I had my bathing suit bottom tangled around my knees and was frantically trying to get it up over my butt while the undertow threatened to suck me back out to sea. Honestly, at that moment I would have been content with being dragged back out—at least I could have held my breath while using both hands to get my bottoms back on! Instead I was stuck in no-man's land, being tossed around in the surf, trying to get my skirt back up over my butt with one hand while my husband yanked so hard on the other arm that I thought it might just pop out of its socket. <br />
<br />
"Get up! Hurry! Another wave's coming!" he screamed at me, frantically trying to haul me to my feet while struggling to keep himself upright. <br />
<br />
(Apparently, while this was all going on, our relatives were watching from the shore with mild concern. Various theories were being tossed around as to why I was flopping around in the surf like a dying fish.)<br />
<br />
But despite my husband's continued insistence that I stand up <i>right now</i>, the absolute <i>last</i> thing I wanted was to be the girl that lost her bathing suit bottom in front of an entire beach of vacationers, my in-laws, and the numerous other relations that had come along.<br />
<br />
Eventually I got the skirt back on (albeit twisted halfway around), allowed my hubby to yank me to my feet and wobbled back toward our towel on shaky legs. When we returned to our family and told them the story, the following picture was taken to commemorate the moment. I'd like to note that, in this picture, I have about a <b>pound</b> of sand lodged in my butt crack and lady parts. Thank God for the skirt, or the entire beach would have thought I'd pooped myself. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYFxJirlzZBr_20yFxldYndoG0arr3w2wvETwETC17vkTslIYo5SzblRjCXsaQsSWqegGZeN6iAw8_yGYCaNSlq6fgV3pvYLywfs4jUFz1XvgcOGiRse5LIw_jG3C9IiwlBD9OQwQvYI6q/s1600/DSCF7346.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYFxJirlzZBr_20yFxldYndoG0arr3w2wvETwETC17vkTslIYo5SzblRjCXsaQsSWqegGZeN6iAw8_yGYCaNSlq6fgV3pvYLywfs4jUFz1XvgcOGiRse5LIw_jG3C9IiwlBD9OQwQvYI6q/s320/DSCF7346.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Looking back on the incident, I suppose it's rather sad that I would have preferred being dragged back out to sea over having the entire beach population see my pale, dimpled ass and C-section scar. But I'm not going to waste the precious few brain cells that motherhood has left me with by analyzing this.<br />
<br />
No—instead, I'm taking this as a learning experience. And what I've learned is this:<br />
<br />
A. Buying an expensive, brand-name swimsuit does not guarantee that said suit will stay on my body when it matters most.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXiuDV7Q7cGwPRrVW-nxi1zeaVoOnCSI_1G6Vu3VPPeUszc9zeM5pTY6oh9VeblFCMfoOghFctyBefC7GvALNtZ6NVVwlEadzYpLQrf14VH8Y8YyaqBiM0XpbMKZVVtUtgsfdHasev5Q9s/s1600/DSCF7373.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXiuDV7Q7cGwPRrVW-nxi1zeaVoOnCSI_1G6Vu3VPPeUszc9zeM5pTY6oh9VeblFCMfoOghFctyBefC7GvALNtZ6NVVwlEadzYpLQrf14VH8Y8YyaqBiM0XpbMKZVVtUtgsfdHasev5Q9s/s320/DSCF7373.JPG" width="240" /></a>B. Victoria's Secret suits are great for lounging, playing in the sand, and being gawked at... (the boobs do look rather good, no?), but when it comes to real water action, I'm best off buying a sexless racerback by Speedo. <br />
<br />
C. I don't necessarily have to go in the ocean to have the perfect beach vacation; sometimes, it really is enough to just stay on land, "read" a magazine with my daughter, and help my son dig his hundredth hole in the sand. <br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Lesson Learned.</b></div>Misadventures in Motherhoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04733618217432605890noreply@blogger.com54tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828294267094880275.post-16687346437225685492011-08-17T20:57:00.000-07:002011-08-17T20:57:34.031-07:00What's That Smell?For the past week I've noticed a rather odd odor floating around me—something vaguely chemical—oh I know! It's that cheap self-tanner I'm slathering all over myself in preparation for our trip to the shore!<br />
<br />
Okay, maybe it's wrong of me to call it cheap—just because I bought it at the Dollar Tree I shouldn't automatically assume it's crap—it is made by Hawaiian Tropic after all. I discovered it in my local Dollar Tree approximately six years ago and have been planning on using it every summer since... but first I just forgot, and then I got pregnant and didn't want to slather myself with chemicals while incubating a human fetus for fear my child might be born with a palm tree sprouting out of its head—after all, that's what's pictured on the bottle of the self-tanner (a palm tree, not a mutant baby. Obviously.)<br />
<br />
And then when I was breastfeeding I still avoided slopping on the goo, for fear of my baby ending up looking like this:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnCSw8AZ67yDIbtkOurAKyjL8LR1MVy1ATYWdGLE6qA4uNSC75Esii3liNNfi5k11i-baAhbKRsBhp-Xi9vHHenF1cqxW3T7vSgHkueL1lU088zBWWPgTFQxvWg2XONlqAlw71DBJhq4m7/s1600/baby+palm+tree+text.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnCSw8AZ67yDIbtkOurAKyjL8LR1MVy1ATYWdGLE6qA4uNSC75Esii3liNNfi5k11i-baAhbKRsBhp-Xi9vHHenF1cqxW3T7vSgHkueL1lU088zBWWPgTFQxvWg2XONlqAlw71DBJhq4m7/s320/baby+palm+tree+text.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>By the time all the breastfeeding was done, I had gotten so out of shape that the thought of bothering to tan anything didn't matter, since the idea of showing my legs in public made me want to cry and I was therefore not planning on revealing anything anyway.<br />
<br />
Then I got pregnant again, breastfed again, finally lost the baby weight...and, well, now I'm giving the self-tanner a try, especially since it promises to camouflage such terrors as spider veins, and, ahem, cellulite. Of course, at this point I believe the goop has been expired for at least five years, so it's no surprise that I've merely gone from "pasty white girl" to "pasty white girl who looks like she might have gone outside for ten minutes on an overcast day" during the past week that I've been slathering it on.<br />
<br />
Still, I feel like I should at least make the effort, especially since I purchased eight bottles of the stuff when I found it all those years ago, and those eight bottles have been taking up precious real estate in my bathroom cabinets ever since. Come on...Hawaiian Tropic self-tanner for a <i>dollar?</i> How could I <i>not</i> stock up?!<br />
<br />
At any rate, all of this slathering of goo has caused me to be a bit stinky, and frankly, I'm surprised my husband hasn't noticed yet. He is blessed with an unbelievably sensitive nose and usually notices the slightest change of odor in <i>anything. </i><br />
<br />
In fact, when I got pregnant with my first child, at some point during the first month I climbed into bed next to him to snuggle up, and he remarked, "Hmmm.... you smell different." (He was just referring to my skin, by the way... we were barely even touching at the time). I made the mistake of asking how exactly I smelled different, and he pondered for a minute, then responded, "I don't know exactly. You just smell kind of... <i>gamey.</i>" <br />
<br />
I don't know if there's any <i>good</i> way to take it when your husband tells you you smell gamey, but according to him I took it the <i>wrong</i> way because I pretty much burst into a fit of hormonal sobbing and turned my back on him, refusing to touch him for the rest of the evening. I then spent the rest of my pregnancy obsessively sniffing various areas of my body to see if I detected anything that might smell like, well, alligator per se. Or maybe wild boar. <br />
<br />
But at any rate, I explained to him yesterday as I climbed into bed that any strange smells emanating from my person were to be attributed to self-tanner, and he predictably laughed at me and asked me why the heck I was bothering with self-tanner.<br />
<br />
"Because we're going to the beach, and I don't want to be pasty white!" I responded. He argued that he and the kids would be pasty white too, so what difference did it make?<br />
<br />
How could I explain that I secretly fantasized that this little bottle would magically transform me from an average housewife into THIS!!???<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcRKcHl0WC31AqNWN_dBEv7ph67axLto_NVK8Nf8ithv7bUx3E5lB968CCqIeq_vV2qTaEMZMEHIFTh7r0C-qi9NAlVNSvq34Bmvp1jkp7A7BaozgudYIDNk6nh50ANUczVjxs1PweB7qB/s1600/face+in+hole2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcRKcHl0WC31AqNWN_dBEv7ph67axLto_NVK8Nf8ithv7bUx3E5lB968CCqIeq_vV2qTaEMZMEHIFTh7r0C-qi9NAlVNSvq34Bmvp1jkp7A7BaozgudYIDNk6nh50ANUczVjxs1PweB7qB/s320/face+in+hole2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I know... keep dreaming, right?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I decided not to point out that no one would really care if <i>he</i> was pasty, or to go into the details of how cellulite is significantly less noticeable on <i>tanned</i> skin, so I just told him that he wouldn't understand, that he should shut up about it already, and that he'd best not make any comments on how I smell for the next few days if he had any hopes of "getting lucky" before our trip. He nodded. Good—we were on the same page. <br />
<br />
So this morning I was doing my usual ritual slopping-on of goop, and I think I added a bit more than usual in a frantic effort to eek at least a <i>little </i>of the "natural island glow" this product promised to impart. I also applied super-duper amounts of the stuff to my inner and outer thighs in an attempt to "contour" my legs, as I'd been advised to do by Glamour magazine in order to provide the optical illusion of slimmer "gams." (I didn't tell my husband about the contouring part... I would never hear the end of it.)<br />
<br />
So I smelled particularly offensive this afternoon while making my daughter her lunch, which is probably why I didn't immediately notice that she had pooped herself massively, soiling not only herself, but her outfit, the carpet, and the surrounding toys too. <br />
<br />
Normally I would have smelled something like that in a heartbeat—the whole room stank. But I didn't notice her condition until I approached her to tell her that lunch was ready, at which point I promptly gagged and reconsidered the idea of lunch altogether. I was immediately forced to strip my daughter down, throw away the outfit she was wearing and frantically carry her upstairs—held away from me at arms' length—to plop her in the bathtub. <br />
<br />
After bathing her I convinced her to take a nap (she didn't even want lunch, and I had lost my appetite too), and then I tiptoed back downstairs to face the waiting mess. I tackled the carpet with a rag and some knockoff Oxi-Clean (also ironically purchased about six years ago from the Dollar Tree), shuddered viscerally at the stink of it all, threw the rag in the laundry and went upstairs to have some "quiet time" for Mommy (this usually involves my bed, the computer, and some Valium). <br />
<br />
So now the house is quiet, and here I sit, typing away and calming myself down. But what's killing me now is that I can't seem to shake the poo smell. I still faintly detect it, even though I've thoroughly wiped myself down and cleaned everything downstairs. But even with all that effort, between the poo odor and the self-tanner smell, I'm just about ready to yack, and I have a nagging feeling that I'm now infecting my bed with invisible poo molecules. <br />
<br />
Oh, who am I kidding? I'm a mom—what I really need...what I seem to always need, in fact—is another shower, not skinny thighs. Screw "contouring!" I'm going to wash off!<br />
Misadventures in Motherhoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04733618217432605890noreply@blogger.com37tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828294267094880275.post-42840900501891896652011-08-11T12:24:00.000-07:002011-08-13T10:15:40.298-07:00I Pee MyselfThis past weekend I had the privilege of getting together with some college girlfriends whom I haven't seen in a long, long time. And we weren't just any gals that happened to spend time together in our college days; no, we were the girls who held each others' hair back while we puked; the ones who picked each other up after terrible breakups—the ones we'd shared our dreams and ambitions with.<br />
<br />
Needless to say, I was looking forward to this reunion with unbridled anticipation!<br />
<br />
I was third to arrive at the beautiful lake house, and after making probably the only important decision I would need to make during my stay—whether to sleep in the bedroom with the leopard-print sheets or the one with the cozy blue country decor—we settled in, reminisced, procured some fancy wine and donned our bathing suits for a delicious soak in the hot tub. <br />
<br />
We retold the usual college stories: the ones involving guys we wish we'd kissed and guys we regret kissing in the first place, and occasionally a new confession would arise and we would all gasp in amazement that our friend had kept us in the dark about said scandal for <i>all these years!</i><br />
<br />
But once we had downed enough booze, the conversation turned. We began lamenting what our bodies had become since hitting thirty. Gray hairs were cursed at repeatedly (which I personally think only served to anger said hairs, causing them to recruit troops even more rapidly for the inevitable takeover), boobs were likened to saggy pancakes, bellies and butts were disparaged, and fat rolls were treated as stealthy shape-shifting invaders from another planet. <br />
<br />
We talked of all the ways our bodies had betrayed us as we had gotten older. Eventually, when we ran out of wine, we relocated from the hot tub to the bar in the basement where there was more alcohol to fortify us for the depressing conversation. The lamentations continued over various bottles of liquor.<br />
<br />
There were the usual statements like, "Oh <i>yeah?</i> You think <i>your</i> boobs are saggy? I can hold a whole pack of <i>markers</i> under mine!" And "When did my ass get so huge?"<br />
<br />
All was going well until I chimed in with, "And don't you hate it when you laugh too hard or jump around too much and accidentally pee yourself?!"<br />
<br />
Silence. Stares of disbelief. Everyone just gaped at me—stunned. It was sort of like one of those moments in a crowded bar when suddenly everything goes quiet and you hear some random guy drunkenly shout, "And so then the fire department had to come and surgically remove my penis from the hole in the tree! Who wants to see the scar?!"<br />
<br />
I turned beet red. One of the girls quietly said, "Really? Wow... that <i>sucks.</i>" Another girl, in awe, said "Yeah, you definitely win with that one."<br />
<br />
Apparently I had just won the "most pitiful problem since turning thirty or having children" game, and I silently wondered how convincing I could be if I shouted "Just kidding!" Two of the gals who openly planned on never having children high-fived each other and said, "Well, another reason not to have kids! Glad we won't have to worry about <i>that!</i>"<br />
<br />
I didn't think this "involuntary peeing" was such an unusual problem; in fact, I'd heard about it frequently amongst my circles of local mommy friends. But here, with this crew, I felt like some bizarre freak-pageant winner.<br />
<br />
I wondered when I would be presented with my official "I PEE MYSELF" sash.<br />
<br />
I decided <i>not</i> to tell them the details about how, right after my son's birth, I had partially choked on an apple slice and had wet myself so badly that I had soaked my pajamas and limped upstairs, hysterically sobbing, to tell my husband that I <i>just couldn't take it—</i>he would have to take care of our son for the evening while a very understanding girlfriend (who happened to be a nurse and was completely unfazed by such things) escorted me to CVS and held my hand as I hobbled down the "incontinence" aisle in a state of absolute horror and depression. <br />
<br />
No, I didn't tell that story. Instead, I believe I shouted rather desperately, "Who wants another round of shots!?" How about this stuff?! I pointed to a bottle that looked like this:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Fk67RjfVUOKdld5DPqmEuYF8B4HlaO0aKf6AcbZUi2sTRmn1l5wYtZmcxL-Rl30uZ_Ose2cuWreaigwvdWFkKxNFmdoPYdvViqUgjSFmh0XkbLaRnK6f9hysTQ1cymOwk5towbwDnD7Q/s1600/tequila+bottle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Fk67RjfVUOKdld5DPqmEuYF8B4HlaO0aKf6AcbZUi2sTRmn1l5wYtZmcxL-Rl30uZ_Ose2cuWreaigwvdWFkKxNFmdoPYdvViqUgjSFmh0XkbLaRnK6f9hysTQ1cymOwk5towbwDnD7Q/s1600/tequila+bottle.jpg" /></a></div>Never having studied Spanish in school, I announced that I wanted to try the "El-May-Whore"... which nearly got me laughed off the proverbial island. We did a few shots and then made some mixed drinks that put the Kool-Aid-and-plastic-bottle-vodka concoctions we drank in college to shame. We got tipsy and silly, and it was glorious to be together again, laughing and shouting over each others' conversations, occasionally losing our balance and collapsing on top of each other in fits of giggles.<br />
<br />
At some point, after much alcohol had been consumed, we thought it would be <i>awesome </i>to do an interpretive dance to that quintessential classic: "Baby Got Back." Someone queued up the song on her iPod, and we all grabbed our rumps and began smacking them and swinging them wildly about in the direction of whomever was filming at the time. It was our own "thirty-something" take on Girls Gone Wild (minus the boob-flashing and girl-on-girl action.) We did, however, lament the absence of a stripper pole, which we believed would have added considerable interest to our performance. <br />
<br />
Towards the end of the song, whatever alcohol I had ingested inspired me to repeatedly whip one of my friends in the rear with a super-sized Twizzler before tying it around my neck (the Twizzler, not her butt). In short, it was <i>epic</i>, and while I am <i>dying</i> to share the video here, I have sworn a solemn oath never to let it go public. (And despite my husband's assertion that it's a bunch of shaky-blurry schlock that makes no sense at all, I am personally certain that it would become an instant internet sensation, get featured on Tosh.O, and eventually get us nominated for "America's Got Talent.") <br />
<br />
This was just like college—except in some ways it was better. We were now adults who knew what and how much we could drink without completely regretting it, so no one was throwing up all night or so hung-over the next morning that she couldn't go swimming. And no one was crying over a boy or trying to wander out and find one to take home.<br />
<br />
Our company was enough, and it was perfect.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDpJSJ3rJKVvlQfGfs_ZZ3n15E7HU1zdaLzEEbWJf83tgxkoc4bXYNsM6Xxh3TBxqsnny4dfvN5UuPMQj9V8RzkKKUsoQ_HGksXmwujgMKn5DpvPeos83CzMzIKGcH_BIwYyS0haSBMu_q/s1600/DSCF7126.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDpJSJ3rJKVvlQfGfs_ZZ3n15E7HU1zdaLzEEbWJf83tgxkoc4bXYNsM6Xxh3TBxqsnny4dfvN5UuPMQj9V8RzkKKUsoQ_HGksXmwujgMKn5DpvPeos83CzMzIKGcH_BIwYyS0haSBMu_q/s400/DSCF7126.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
On my final afternoon at the lake house, we were involved in a game of Blokus—an intriguing strategy game that is incredibly frustrating for those of us who aren't good at spatial-awareness type endeavors—and I suddenly felt tears forming behind my eyes. Before I knew it, I was weeping on my pretty plastic Tetris-shaped game pieces, causing them to float about in a shallow saltwater moat of sadness and gratitude.<br />
<br />
I couldn't believe how quickly the weekend had gone by, and as much as I missed my family, I didn't want to leave these dear girls who had played such an essential part in my life over the years. We had come together for the weekend from various states on the East Coast, and I had no idea when I would see them all again. It made me sad for all that was lost, and incredibly grateful for all we still had. <br />
<br />
So to my girls, who've definitely still "got it," I love you, I miss you, and I thank you for one of the best weekends of my post-thirty life. <br />
<br />
But I've got one bone to pick—where's my damn sash already?<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Oh, wait... here it is—and I model it like a pro, if I do say so myself!</div><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJGoFky75ILgX0ZEobjOWOnu4_-JT_v0nuMWdWAjfm-25pAMX08K1kPWH0mwfkTNkAKkLXCGtrm-SG5JnEGGmUQJEVARNlIfsPpVDxTYIojAArK2FrWNqDvztRHU4YjxvVJlnrP8y_XL5X/s1600/sash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJGoFky75ILgX0ZEobjOWOnu4_-JT_v0nuMWdWAjfm-25pAMX08K1kPWH0mwfkTNkAKkLXCGtrm-SG5JnEGGmUQJEVARNlIfsPpVDxTYIojAArK2FrWNqDvztRHU4YjxvVJlnrP8y_XL5X/s400/sash.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">This picture was taken during our drunken fun, and I just thought it was the perfect shot to use for the sash!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
Misadventures in Motherhoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04733618217432605890noreply@blogger.com60tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828294267094880275.post-51956179417250019472011-08-04T12:15:00.000-07:002011-08-04T12:15:38.488-07:00Must... Get... Out!!!!Well, here I am, in a familiar predicament once again. Very soon I will be on the road, driving to a lakeside paradise where I will rendezvous with some dear girlfriends that I haven't seen since college. Actually, I had hoped to be on the road by now, but as usual, endless unpredictable factors seem to be conspiring against me.<br />
<br />
Well, to be honest, the first problem was sort of predictable—I am a notoriously bad packer. Well, not exactly <i>bad</i> per se, but I do tend to over-pack, obsessively cramming every combination of clothing that I could possibly need into my tiny suitcase. My philosophy has always been that we never know what might happen—we might get caught in a hurricane, the roads could get flooded with ice-cold water, and I might just need that full-body wetsuit after all. <br />
<br />
I admit that my tendency to over-pack has caused problems in the past; however, the worst situation by far occurred several years ago when my husband and I decided to take a "pre-kids" trip to Hawaii. I had <i>always</i> dreamed of going to Hawaii, and I wanted the trip to be perfect, so I had planned on packing enough outfits that I would have a full week's worth of clothing that would account for <i>any</i> possible climate, situation, or opportunity we might encounter.<br />
<br />
To prepare for the momentous trip, I had selected a couple of my finest dresses and heels, two pairs of sneakers, some flip flops, other casual shoes, jeans, tee shirts, a sweater or two, and of course, all manner of swimwear. I was also bringing my professional digital camera, two other digital cameras, and three (yes, three) tripods. <br />
<br />
I was happily stuffing my second suitcase past its limits of tolerance and merrily "condensing" the suitcase's contents by bouncing my rump up and down on top of the luggage, when my husband came in and promptly berated me for my packing methods. He gave me a considerable lecture and repeatedly emphasized that I was over-packing, but he soon realized that despite his best efforts I was simply <i>not</i> going to just abandon an entire suitcase's worth of carefully selected shoes, dresses, and coordinating Aloha-wear. <br />
<br />
He then came up with an idea.<br />
<br />
He was a <i>Boy Scout,</i> and dammit, Boy Scouts were nothing if not efficient packers. He boasted that he could fit all of my stuff into only one suitcase, and when I protested, he smugly said, "Just watch the expert and learn."<br />
<br />
So he dumped everything out of the second suitcase that I had been bouncing on, furrowed his brow in concentration, and began folding up my garments like he was engaged in some demented form of origami. <br />
<br />
I watched in annoyance as he completely unpacked and repacked the contents of my two suitcases—defying the laws of physics to cram everything into the one larger suitcase—and when I protested that my clothing was going to be completely wrinkled and useless by the time we arrived at our destination, he merely responded, "Well I'll be damned if I'm going to lug <i>two </i>of your suitcases through various airports when everything will clearly fit into one." <br />
<br />
I decided it would be a poor time to point out that the zipper on the suitcase appeared ready to split at any given moment, and given its condition, it would most likely not survive the trips between airports anyway. I kept my mouth shut, and we headed off.<br />
<br />
We arrived at the airport, waited through the security line and went to the counter to check our baggage. My husband hefted my overstuffed bag onto the scale, and—surprise, surprise—it was <i>way</i> over the weight limit... by, say, twenty pounds or so. <br />
<br />
Not being experienced travelers, we didn't realize that we could just pay a fee for the overweight luggage and be on our merry way. Instead, my husband thought that we had to redistribute the weight through the rest of the bags before we would be allowed to get on the plane. <br />
<br />
"Hold on... I'll take care of this!" he shouted, and he stepped to the side and frantically began unzipping the overstuffed piece of luggage. When the zipper was halfway open, the bag simply gave way, and my clothing literally exploded out of the bag and rained down onto the airport floor like confetti at an underwear parade. <br />
<br />
I believe I turned some horrible shade of purple at this point; I wasn't sure what to be more embarrassed about—the fact that my bras and underwear were strewn about the airport—or the fact that it was <i>my</i> husband that was frantically shoving those bras and panties into his laptop bag, my purse, his pockets, my camera bag, and any other possible place he could think of to keep the weight out of the suitcase. <br />
<br />
Needless to say, twenty pounds of clothing is not that easy to redistribute. <br />
<br />
We shifted clothing and accessories around repeatedly, stuffed panties into our pockets and bras in our carry-ons, and did quite a bit of silent praying, but each time the luggage was weighed we were told that they were sorry, but the bags were still overweight. <br />
<br />
The baggage-check attendant then informed us that we would need to purchase an <i>additional piece of luggage</i> when we got to our destination so that we would be able to island-hop without having the same problem at every airport. <br />
<br />
I just about lost it at this point. I won't bore you with the details of exactly what I screamed at my husband in front of the other bemused travelers, but I believe it had something to do with the fact that because of his damn pride, now the whole freaking Philadelphia airport knew that I preferred bikini-cut undies, often with cute little designs on them like polka-dots or the occasional Hello Kitty moniker. <br />
<br />
My husband is nothing if not thrifty, so he absolutely refused to buy an additional piece of luggage. Instead, he called his sister, who broke all manner of speed limits to race to the airport with an extra backpack she owned so that we could move enough clothing around to make the weight limit. <br />
<br />
And so, instead of island-hopping with two coordinating suitcases that neatly strapped together as I had originally planned, we were now forced to carry a hodge-podge collection of bags that seemed intent on fighting amongst themselves over which bag got the honor of tumbling underfoot to trip us. <br />
<br />
We still had a wonderful time, but to this day we debate over who was in the wrong. My husband still insists that there would have been no problem in the first place if I hadn't over-packed. I claim that if he had let me bring my second bag along, we would have breezed through the airports with nary a glitch. I suppose we both have our points.<br />
<br />
But back to the present—this still doesn't help me with my situation of getting out the door on time. My daughter is now refusing to eat her lunch. I have offered her pretty much every food she likes, and she is rejecting them all, throwing them on the floor and sullenly turning her back on me. Sigh. <br />
<br />
And, although I'm now completely packed and ready to go, I still have to deal with <i>this</i> before I can actually get on the road:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7GBcWr1V3COkk1MUBO-om3F3fwt6NSRfuLu11KsT9VYkEriap1oEHs8MrnOSlEx7aYE5agrtBYU7QuSKhCMB0RienYGdK_HIAfMII__8lbbtsQNPudzaEQ-vO9lkCTds5a8Q2DBNdDnKQ/s1600/DSCF7103.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7GBcWr1V3COkk1MUBO-om3F3fwt6NSRfuLu11KsT9VYkEriap1oEHs8MrnOSlEx7aYE5agrtBYU7QuSKhCMB0RienYGdK_HIAfMII__8lbbtsQNPudzaEQ-vO9lkCTds5a8Q2DBNdDnKQ/s400/DSCF7103.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Notice how she's deliberately IGNORING all the food in front of her, and how much of it is on the floor.</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
But regardless... the lake awaits! And I think my first order of business upon arrival will be to have a good, stiff drink. Ahhhhhh! My daughter will be staying with my mother-in-law tonight, and I will have freedom!!! (Oh yes it's ladies' night... and the feelin's right... oh yes it's ladies' night....) Um, excuse me.... I don't know what came over me just then. <br />
<br />
But anyway, happy early weekend everyone!Misadventures in Motherhoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04733618217432605890noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828294267094880275.post-80690280201955223892011-07-28T17:22:00.000-07:002011-07-29T07:00:25.169-07:00Sucker PunchApparently I have the word "sucker" tattooed on my forehead. Who put it there? Oh, yeah, it was probably me.<br />
<br />
Over the years I have fallen victim to numerous scams, including many infomercial deals that simply looked too good to pass up. My "doh!" moments have ranged from the obviously regrettable—$400 spent to get a bulk discount on a door-to-door salesman's concentrated organic cleaner—to the marginally worthwhile.<br />
<br />
First, there was the home electrolysis machine I purchased when I was a mere teenager. After receiving my battery-operated hair removal system in the mail, I spent hours hunched over my bikini zone with a crick in my neck, painstakingly inserting a little needle into the root of each errant hair follicle and zapping it with radio waves or whatever the heck those things emit.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately this process only served to provide me with numerous tiny scabs; the stubborn hairs remained exactly where they were and eventually had to be removed in the normal fashion anyway. I suppose I shouldn't have expected much in the way of permanent hair removal from a device that cost $29.95 and came with a free book light.<br />
<br />
I also purchased some gadget that promised to "massage" away cellulite. Ironically, I bought this contraption in my early twenties—way before having children—when I thought a little dimple here and there was actually something to worry about (oh, how naive I was). Said machine succeeded only in greedily sucking and munching my flesh with its rollers, abusing my skin to the point of bruising. Even so, I suppose it's true that the cellulite was a tad less noticeable afterwards; it was hard to spot the dimples amidst the blue and purple splotches that decorated my thighs.<br />
<br />
I also bought the ThighMaster and the Ab Roller. I bought Coral Calcium and those bra clip thingies that pull the straps together in the back and are supposed to make your boobs look perkier. I purchased a speed-reading program that guaranteed I'd be able to read forward, backward, and vertically (all at the same time), which would significantly enhance my comprehension rate.<br />
<br />
After having my second child, I purchased the Ab Circle Pro in an attempt to get rid of my flabby belly. Despite the fact that this workout required me to be on all fours while lewdly swinging my ass back and forth for all to see—I caught my husband gaping at me several times as my rump waved about in the air—I actually felt like I was getting a good workout from the contraption... until it broke a month after I had purchased it. I bought a replacement, which also wore out within four weeks.<br />
<br />
At least, to date, I have avoided purchasing the Shake Weight on principle, but let's be honest -- if the price of the thing dropped below ten dollars, I'd probably give it a shot. What can I say? I'm a sucker.<br />
<br />
And so, when Guthy Renker contacted me and proposed I try a revolutionary hair care system they were selling called Wen, I thought I'd give it a go. I've never been thrilled with my hair; it gets frizzy and puffy and requires copious amounts of smoothing agents and polishers to be good for anything besides a pony tail. I lack the ambition to clear-coat my hair with sealants, polishes, waxes and sprays on a daily basis, so I was excited when Wen promised to give me the same results as all that goop <i>just</i> by using their conditioning shampoo!<br />
<br />
My kit arrived two days ago, and I tore it open with enthusiasm!<br />
<br />
The first thing I noticed was the photo of Chaz Dean -- the developer of Wen (or at least the guy Guthy-Renker thought looked like someone chicks would trust with their hair). He struck me as a cross between Fabio and Jesus, and I found myself gazing at his photo and being taken in by his piercing gaze. If this guy were a therapist, I would <i>definitely</i> be reserving a spot on his couch.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY_UKf6hRa_iI2Ym58a_Rci5T4vS6H96wUxisXphQbIsj-Xpz0-eDCA4tcOkr44Bjnlg-o4VkcMuGzPvoB7u_y5VS0mIftaQRU7uLR8wXmvgQg_xjEQoxNPLHcZyStsi7irJvha7PqzIhyphenhyphen/s1600/Chaz+Dean.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY_UKf6hRa_iI2Ym58a_Rci5T4vS6H96wUxisXphQbIsj-Xpz0-eDCA4tcOkr44Bjnlg-o4VkcMuGzPvoB7u_y5VS0mIftaQRU7uLR8wXmvgQg_xjEQoxNPLHcZyStsi7irJvha7PqzIhyphenhyphen/s320/Chaz+Dean.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> <br />
The picture had an odd effect on me—on one hand, I felt compelled to confess a lifetime of hair sins (drying it on my way to work with the car vents—the <i>shame!</i>), but I also had a strange sort of fantasy brewing—one that involved him whisking me away to an exotic desert oasis and sensually shampooing my hair while muscled Arabians fed me grapes.<br />
<br />
I turned the page in the pamphlet and was confronted by this next picture of Chaz:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6a0VPd7vrAshEA4BvQbdpSpkSWIsXQEi0PjDk4rRXN2M4zjB7ZwBKKVsGXOjhuVXIGC4oy0DxkCQr9U8IutyzY77gln9WsRMq6umKNC87YUCpqqJCG2VlH9k4YBUmbAPqPKJ0QCchpVga/s1600/Chaz_Dean_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6a0VPd7vrAshEA4BvQbdpSpkSWIsXQEi0PjDk4rRXN2M4zjB7ZwBKKVsGXOjhuVXIGC4oy0DxkCQr9U8IutyzY77gln9WsRMq6umKNC87YUCpqqJCG2VlH9k4YBUmbAPqPKJ0QCchpVga/s1600/Chaz_Dean_2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Wait... is that <i>eyeliner </i>he's wearing? Ugh... there goes the Jesus resemblance and the desert fantasy. Now he just reminds me of an airbrushed, Botoxed Hollywood creep.<br />
<br />
But regardless, that first evening I excitedly washed my hair with Chaz's conditioning shampoo and awaited the inevitable glorious results. Two hours later, my roots were greasy and plastered to my head, and the bottom half of my hair was frizzy, dry and poufy. I wondered if I may have done something wrong. According to the brochure, my hair was supposed to look like this:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvjeI1mveTXU-cPyVprjayK5IQghnEZBUerHKbXtUPJS5Mp_U1bBjvjaPnJbP-uUHW_u8xe_brxKUNgrIhJHPdpTddJHc_82cYwyDRtwY0B9kNUFUy8nwJ7PhkI9OmC3diIP9XTxMVL2uU/s1600/wen+gorgeous+hair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvjeI1mveTXU-cPyVprjayK5IQghnEZBUerHKbXtUPJS5Mp_U1bBjvjaPnJbP-uUHW_u8xe_brxKUNgrIhJHPdpTddJHc_82cYwyDRtwY0B9kNUFUy8nwJ7PhkI9OmC3diIP9XTxMVL2uU/s1600/wen+gorgeous+hair.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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So last night I tried again, paying attention to slather more product on the ends and less on the roots. This morning when I woke, my hair looked like it hadn't been washed for a week and a half. My roots were actually <i>glistening</i> with oil. Is this what they meant when they guaranteed shiny hair? Ugh!!<br />
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I placed a call to customer service, and a kind, soothing representative promised I would have much better results with the <i>other</i> type of shampoo Wen offered—something based on cucumbers or eggplant or some other member of the vegetable kingdom. The company is actually sending me a bottle of it for free. So now I wait.<br />
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Meanwhile, I can't help but ponder this Chaz guy. There's part of me that feels just a tad naughty buying hair products from a guy who looks like he's undressing me with his eyes through the pamphlet.<br />
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But whether this hair system ends up being a success or a bust, I must nevertheless keep my eyes out for the one product that I really need:<br />
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Something to get this damn tattoo off my forehead!!!<br />
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</div>Misadventures in Motherhoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04733618217432605890noreply@blogger.com76