This doesn’t work at my house. And I don’t think it’s worth the battle. So, believe it or not (RICARDO) I try to not yap on the phone when it’s just me and the kids.
I really am looking forward to summer days with my kids. I’ll keep telling myself that because I just dropped off the kids for what is their last full day of school. Tomorrow is a half day, and I’ll be there for half of that. So, today is my last full day all to myself. I suppose I’ve been spoiled with all this me time. However, I feel a sudden sense of urgency to call all of my girlfriends and tell them goodbye for the summer. I won’t be able to talk and have coffee and yap on the phone until late August. I will be tied up with swim goggles, PB&J’s, tennis lessons, and lots and lots of sunscreen. I’ll miss you all! I’ll call you in August!
That’s how I roll.
To the untrained eye, this may seem like a store. But to the veteran scrapbooker _ this my friends _ is a goal to be met for the home “Office”.
Did she just say “scrapbooking”? Is that even a word? To scrapbook? Scrapbooky? Scrapbooker? Scrappity Scrap_o. Yep, it’s all real.
Most people learn that I scrapbook and are a little confused. “Wow, Les, I thought your edgy cynicism and the way you wear that thick black eye_liner and steel_toed boots _ I would have never guessed you for a _ what did you say…Scrapbooker. Doesn’t really match your love of gangsta rap either.”
Super _ thanks. Make fun of it all you want, but I scrapbook for many reasons. First of all, the shoe boxes holding all of my pictures were starting to crumble. Something had to be done.
Secondly, I’m the youngest in my family. So, it’s a desperate attempt to right the wrongs in my childhood… And if you’re the youngest in your family, you know what I’m talking about:with the youngest, there’s pretty much a picture when you were born, maybe if you’re lucky and your parents were still talking enough to communicate to get the polaroid out, there’s like your first birthday picture or first day of school picture, but that’s it, and certainly not both. Then, after that, there’s a few pictures of you with pals in high school, but it’s only two_thirds of your face because you are literally taking your own picture. Luckily, I’m the youngest of the two of us. So, it was only THAT bad. I SCRAPBOOKED a book of my grandmother’s ELEVEN children for her 80th birthday. Child #1 had about 7 double_layout pages of beautiful pictures and professional portraits. By the time I got to #11, he had a baby picture, and a deep sea fishing picture from his 30s. I have the book, it’s documented, I’m totally not even exaggerating. Because the youngest child NEVER exaggerates. EVER.
Thirdly, I scrapbook for the same reason I blog. I have to document these things or I will forget. Because I am like Dory from Nemo…look, something Shiny! In my experience of early motherhood, I was sleep deprived, hormones were everywhere, no sleep, couldn’t even remember if I’d brushed my teeth that morning, very tired, and had only my camera to help me document each moment.
“How much did Max weigh?”
“I don’t know, let me go check.”
“The birth certificates?”
“Oh, no, the scrapbook, it’s in there.”
“When did Lucy roll over the first time?”
“Dunno, here, I’ll get her book too.”
“You have Max’s first bowel movement listed in here.”
“It’s publishable, leave me alone.”
Many a days, we’ve referenced the scrapbook for infinite reflection and enlightenment is all I’m sayin.
I also like to scrapbook because I have my “dealers”. I may or may not have a few. I simply support the at_home business moms. And they, in return are JUST LIKE a good drug dealer. They score me my dime_bag of tape_runners or emergency paper packs on a moment’s notice. And yes, on occasion, it’s an emergency. To fuel the need and keep me coming back for more _ they slide a little extra something in there for me to try _ to experiment with _ to fall in love with and buy more of…and I love them for that!
Finally, I scrapbook because yes indeed, it’s a good get_away. At some point, a scrapbook retreat came into the mix of my life. Now I go twice a year. And the very people who poke fun at my scrapbooking crafty craft, bask in their own misery of jealousy and lack of sleep. Because I’ve actually heard, “Wait, you go _ all weekend? Friday through Sunday? You have a chef cook for you, and your own bed in a cabin? And snacks all day? And what did you just say about a milkshake machine?” Yep, it’s all true. “Well, do I have to scrapbook, or can I just show up and eat and sleep there in peace?” Nope, you gotta get your pictures of your beautiful babies out of those nasty aging and gluey photo albums and actually write what they are doing in the picture. Because if I hear your kid ask one more time, ‘Mommy, is that the time I’m wearing my Dora shirt at the zoo or right before I barfed at the parade, and which parade’, I might slap you. You MUST document these things. Doi.
Going on these retreats may seem like a crazy foofy_foofy goody_two_shoed mommy thing to do. But we’ve got vodka for the milkshake machine _It’s our dirty little secret. And it’s perfect therapy: Alone time, and you get to stare at your beautiful children…in pictures. In pictures, folks, they can’t scream or cry at you. It’s the perfect refresher and then reminder of the goodness you’ve created and in essence _ of what you just ran away from for a weekend.
So, Scrapbooking IS a verb, a noun, an adjective, an adverb, and if used creatively, it too can be a preposition.
And that’s how me and my effn scrapbooks roll. So, back off.
With school getting out, I suppose I better put this up in storage. But come August, it’s going right back next to the coffee pot.
Last week the high was 50, so summer is quickly approaching. I have gone into panic mode because the kids will be home…all day. No more cocktail parties at 10:30a.m. No more 4 hour lunches. No more tequila shooter Tuesdays or Jello Shot Friday. No more 3 hour grocery shopping. I’ve got T_minus one week to get my list of projects done that I made the first day of school.
Max and Lucy have been in a rigorous Kindergarten program. These kids will be desperate for intellectual stimulation, and they’ll be looking to me for answers. Shit. We’re doomed. Desperate, I’ve managed to design a color_coded chart of summer activities. I’m looking forward to having them all to myself this summer. I realize I have only a few more summers that won’t be loaded with practices and games and bff’s, sleepovers. For the most part, we plan on living at the gym. I haven’t informed the manager of it, but we will. Workout in the morning, lunch poolside, swimming all day! Bring it on. And just in case I haven’t had my coffee yet, and perhaps don’t know what to do with my children. I even made a stickie note of options:
Just in case I get in a pinch. The moments before my coffee are very dazed and confused. But the only moments of clarity I have all day, are the one hour I’m chugging coffee.
I’ve explained to the kids as well, this week being the first week they could actually wear shorts and all _ after many tear_eyed spills at the park _ that this is the year of skinned knees. They’re 5 1/2 now, riding bikes, roller blading , skateboarding. Heck, Lucy was just skipping today and face planted into asphalt. And Farley took ME for a ride today through someone’s yard, but made sure my knee grabbed some gravel first. When the kids scrape their knees and elbows, they act like they need stitches.
“You’re not even dripping blood. Just relax.”
“But mom….whaaaaa….whaaaaaa…whaaaaa” is all I hear.
“Look, get used to it. This summer is the year of the skinned knee and elbows. You’re gonna love it, trust me.”
“Yeah, it was on my fortune cookie yesterday.”
It’s going to be a fun summer.
That’s how I roll.
Now, who could walk away from THIS life?
I was on the phone with a plumber the other day, and he asked me what my schedule was like so he could get out here to make a bid. I said my schedule is pretty clear because I’m a stay_at_home mom. Later I said something about having to pick up the kids from school. There was a brief pause, and clearly the man was married because he didn’t actually SAY anything, but it may have felt like he was saying in his head, “You’re a Stay_At_Home Mom and your kids aren’t even there?” Uh, yes. I suppose that makes me a kept woman. Right?
I have friends who work full_time, and they have to use all their vacation and sick time on picking up kids from school when they get the stomach bug, or fall off the monkey bars and need stitches and new glasses, or forgot their lunch.
More importantly, I was driving out of my neighborhood the other day around lunch time, and saw what I assessed as punk_ass kids up to nothing but trouble (oh my dear Lord, I have just channelled my Gramma) in their drive_way. High school teenagers and off_campus lunch. Sigh. I’m pretty sure they were drrrrrinking. A kegger at noon on a Wednesday? I should have pulled over and showed them how it really works. Probably would have scared them off the juice more than any intervention, for sure. “Shut up kid, and just hold my legs up higher.”
So, I will stay home with my kids. If I have to serve five_course meals at lunch time so they come home, and they’re safe, I will do it. They can bring all their friends. Well, the ones I like.
That simply affirms my big idea that I will stay home until my children are in college. And then I can’t get a J_O_B, because, I’ll be travelling the country watching them play sports, then the NFL draft, the Olympics. I’ve got a busy schedule of supporting and loving, people! Then maybe I’ll retire.
That’s how I roll.
If only it had been this easy.
This weekend was absolutely beautiful. And by beautiful, and after this winter, I mean, it was above freezing. So, that’s nice. We’ve been going on lots of bike rides to the park. Max can ride. He’s ridden his bike so much, he wore it out. Really. He did. The other day, his pedal fell off. This was after two weeks of us conferring that he needed new tires. The threads were showing and he was enjoying lengthy skids on our driveway. So, he literally earned himself a new bike this week.
Lucy, on the other hand, bikes about half the time, and takes great pride in walking the dog the other half. A 5_year_old walking a 120 pound dog says what? I know. Lucy is weighing in at a whopping 50 pounds. She stands at 50″ tall. Just tall enough to walk the dog, I guess. Those two have always had a little bond. I think Farley the Wonderdog likes Lucy because he can get to her snack first.
But when we let Lucy walk Farley, it’s like he knows. He never pulls like he does with me. So, when we left the park yesterday, Max went flying over a hill while Lucy ran with Farley. Ricardo and I stuck back and commented on how good Farley was with Lucy. And when we smiled at our lovely little family, then looked up to see Farley in a dead sprint to go meet another dog, and Lucy’s legs running faster than they ever should have, and then, out from under her. Ricardo sprinted down to help Lucy, and then we got Farley from the dog, tending to Lucy and the miniature dachtsun’s owner.
“We’re so sorry ma’am.”
The lady was extremely generous. Ultimately, Farley is a lover, not a fighter, and just wanted to make friends.
“That’s okay. Are you okay sweetie? You did so good with your dog. You did everything right sweetie.”
That was so nice. So refreshing. Because the other day, when we were walking home from school, and Farley tripped a kid who CLEARLY had a snack in his backpack. The response when I checked in on them and apologized was to ignore me. So, this lady was nice.
I had Ricardo take Farley while I checked on Lucy. She was a bit in shock that her dog would do that to her. I mean, he’s an ass to me, the shit ate EIGHT PIECES of leftover Cheesecake Factory Cheesecake the other day. But he doesn’t do that to her. He sleeps in her room, he wakes her up when he needs to go out early in the morning.
“Lucy, you okay sweetie?”
“My hands and knees are BLLLLEEEEEDING!” Big tears. She’s so sad, so betrayed.
“Aww, I know sweetie, we’ll go home and clean it up and get bandaids on it. You want a piggy_back ride home?”
Sniff. Sniff. “Okay.”
I get her on my back. “Hey Lucy, I didn’t see how you fell. Did you land on your side or your front?”
“On my front because when I got up, I had a mouthful of grass I had to spit out.”
That damned dog.
That’s how I roll.
It’s confirmed. This is the enemy.
My original goal purpose for the crap hole doctor’s visit was to see an allergist who would tell me how to eat a burger without raging heartburn lockdown on my esophagus.
I’ve never been to an allergist, so, when she came in and said they wanted to run a few tests, I thought I could handle it.
I think at Guantanamo Bay, instead of waterboarding, they should just test for allergies.
“Take your nice warm cozy sweater off that you wear just for doctor’s visits because you have prepared for the cold sterile 30 minute wait in silence while doctor is negotiating your time with actual patients versus getting wooed by pharmaceutical reps. Take off your bra too. You know, the one you just bought yourself in the last attempt for a push up of your itty bitty A’s. Take all that off and wait, for that 30 minutes.”
So, I do it, and hang out in the lovely paper top I’m now sporting. Nurse comes in and explains, “First, I’ve got to write on your back and make the markers.”
That tickles, and I flinch a couple of times, messing up her pretty handwriting on my back, I’m sure.
Then, “Ok, now I’ve got to run these tests. I’m going to have to prick you.” She said it apologetically, and now I know why. A needle would have been way more pleasant than this. It was like a plastic toothpick. Unfun. Three columns down my back 15 times. 45 pricks _ a jab and then a twist, because she has to get it under my skin. And the lower on the back, the more it starts to feel less like a stabbing and more like electrical shock.
“Okay, now we wait. I’m going to leave now and let all that stuff I just inserted in your skin ferment. So, just sit there with your gaping robe. Do you itch anywhere?”
“Not yet, am I supposed to?”
“Well, if I do itch, can I scratch it?”
“ABSOLUTELY NOT. Whatever you do, don’t scratch!”
And cue the torture part of this scene. “You want me to sit here with this open paper robe for 20 minutes and not scratch an itch of something you injected in to me that I might be allergic to?”
“Um, yes.” And then she bolted out of the room with a faint after thought: “And if you feel wheezy or have shortness of breath _ just stick your head out and tell someone.”
“Really? That’s your system? What should I yell: Fire?”
“Sure that’ll work.”
“Maybe not _ if I yell Fire, won’t everyone run?”
Dead stare and silence.
“Well, just push this button that says ‘PUSH FOR HELP IN EMERGENCY’”. Super.
We wait and I’m pretty sure the dog marker is itching profusely for 18 of the 20 minutes. Great. I’m going to have to put the dog down.
The doctor and her henchman _ the stabbing nurse _ come back in and start rattling off skin rash measurements. I’m definitely allergic to Mold and Dustmites. Dang. I can’t hang out with those two anymore. Darnit.
The skin test provoked what I now know to be $90 blood tests. EACH. Each allergy you’re tested for …$90. I need to be a petri dish lab girl is all I’m sayin. Here’s what I might be allergic to: Celery, almond, sesame seed, corn, rice, green beans, green peas, and grapefruit.
Thankfully, red meat and chocolate didn’t come up. I will live then.
WAIT! Did you just say corn? If I’m allergic to corn, I will be marked with a Scarlett C. I will be run out of the state of Nebraska. Please don’t report me to Tom Osborne. Please! I realize there are other departments of the state, and other coaches, but Osborne is still in charge here. Don’t let anyone tell you any different. When the poop hit the fan at UNL, and they did the shakedown and fired the coach _ they called Osborne’s red phone. He came out of retirement, with his cape, and drove down in his batmobile, and was interrim coach/atheletic director until they found a replacement. I think he’ll stick around just to make sure they know who’s boss. So, being allergic to corn, in Nebraska, that’s kind of funny.
I’m cracking my jokes while I sit in my paper robe. “Isn’t that funny, corn, in Nebraska!?”
Doctor: “It’s really not.”
“It’s kind of funny. I KNOW funny.”
“Um, Leslie, corn is in EVERYTHING. You won’t think it’s so funny. Trust me.”
Fine you little fun_hater. Fine.
The other thing I’m allergic to is CATS. Even better! I hate cats. Hate them. Yes, I do. There is hate in my heart, and it’s devoted to cats. When my dad died, we cleaned out his house, and in his garage, we found cat traps. I have never been more proud of my father than in that moment. I used to have cats, and they were fine, I guess. I have friends with cats, and I’m not going to visit, wait for you to go to sleep, and then back over your cat with the car. Unless provoked. There’s a handful of people that I’m okay with your cats. I just don’t really like them. So, being allergic to them is great. Because I try very hard to not lie to my kids. But I’ve been telling them I’m allergic to cats for a few years now. And yay, it’s not a lie! So, that’s a relief.
That’s it, that’s all I’m allergic to, Cats, Dustmites and Mold. They think the whole esophagus clinching up is a breathing allergy. So, I’m going to have to stop huffing the dustmite& mold. I went home and took a good look at my house, and the way I live. And I think I’ve figured out a few things.
I vaccuumed our mattress, and then got an allergen free cover thing for it and our pillows. I do love to vacuum in general, so, I’ll just do it more often. And I’ve been instructed to wash my sheets once a week, in hot water. I’m sure I’ve done the washing part, maybe let it go a few more days than needed, but the hot water will be a good change too.
And then ofcourse, I will blowdart any cat that walks in my path. Just kidding. Sort of.
That’s how I roll.
Tonight Ricardo and I are going to the Police & Elvis Costello concert. I’m excited because it’s pretty rare we share the same taste in music (except our constant love for the gangsta rap). I grew up bopping to the 80′s pop scene. Ricardo may or may not have sported a mullet while listening to metal and rock. I like Van Halen with Hagar. He prefers David Lee Roth. But when it comes to a superdelegate band like The Police, we both appreciate it. And dont’ get me wrong, we are total bandwagon concerteers. I just downloaded The Best of both bands. It’s fun to go back to that song and time.
I am especially excited because we never go out. Ever. I mean it. Seriously. Typically, we just enjoy hanging out with our kids. Or, one of us stays at home while the other goes out. We go out together so infrequently that we’ve pissed off babysitters. “Oh, you? I haven’t heard from you in 2 years. I sooooo have moved on to better kids to watch.” Super. So, Julz(Holla!) is stepping in to the rescue for us so we can go to see this concert.
I wonder if Sting is going to give a brief seminar on the whole Tantric Sex gig. Hmm.
And I like Elvis Costello. I didn’t have much of his music, but he just oozes cool to me. Including the fact that he’s married to Diana Krall. I LOVE her music. She’s jazzy, saucy, fun. Check her out. Even more of the bond I share with ol Elvis is that they just had twins. How fun is that family? Who sings them to sleep, I wonder? So cool.
Back in the 80′s I was young enough to bring a poster to concerts. I never actually had the gumption to do it, but I’ve considered it a few times for this concert. Provided that Ricardo wouldn’t leave me at the concert, go pick up a hot chick without a poster, I would probably have one of these on a poster for Elvis Costello:
“I have twins, Elvis. I can help you.”
“I have ALL of your wife’s albums!”
I so stalked Ricardo to get these tickets. There’s just a handful of concerts that I hope to go to before I die. I’m still sick that I never made it to a U2 concert. I hope they come back on tour! I’d also like to see Elton John. It’s a pretty short list of concerts I MUST go to. But for tonight, I’ll scratch one off the list.
What’s your dream concert?
I hope that someone gets my MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE. That’s how I roll.
So what if this was my Mother’s Day Card? What of it?
This is an interesting Mother’s Day celebration. Leading up to today’s festivities, to celebrate my unearthing constant devotion to my children I have managed to schedule two girlfriend very long weekend getaways, Ricardo put the kids in bed 3 of the 5 weeknights, I went out to lunch 4 times this week with pals, I never quite got the laundry done, and I spent the last two Saturdays scrapbooking…all day.
The guilt started settling in as I realized that all of these things I was doing was not for my family nor my children (my job). And don’t start with the, “Well, you have to take care of YOU too speech.” Because trust me, I’m well taken care of. As I type on my laptop, I’m lounging on my new chaise debating whether to take a bubble bath or surf the web when I’m finished here. Very well taken care of. Maybe too well taken care of. And thus, ensues the guilt.
Even better, I’m just ounces away from my goal weight at Weight Watchers, and have also spent the entire week completely sabotaging any possible success.
As if the guilt handed to you when you see the positive mark on the pee stick, because it starts at that very moment recounting every moment of whether you’ve had a beer, or caffeine, or taken too hot of a bath since conceiving _ as if that guilt isn’t enough, today is the first Mother’s Day I haven’t celebrated at church. Super. Being a Mom and a Catholic on a Diet is totally serving its purpose.
Usually my Mother’s Day epics are comical and ironic, and worthy of beginning an entire blog about. I was told I could sleep in, and had the honor of hosting my in_law’s, of which, MIL could sleep in too. We told the kids to let us sleep in, because if there’s one person the children would rather wake up other than me, it’s Gramma. We threatened them kindly with reminders that it was Mother’s Day.
We were offered Plan A _ breakfast in bed. Or Plan B _ go out to breakfast. Being the awesome women we are, very accomodating, we couldn’t decide. “Whatever you want to do.” “No, no _ whatever YOU want to do…” We never did settle on which plan.
Ricardo awoke early opting for plan A _ to go to the store and get the ingredients for my request: blueberry pancakes. I think he may have been in go_mode to not only make it a nice day for me, but a nice day for his mom as well. So, he got dressed, shut our door so I wouldn’t be awakened, and went to the store. Four minutes later, Lucy walks in talking: “Mommy, can I wake up Gramma yet?” NO! “But Mommy, I want to tell her Happy Mother’s Day.” No one is downstairs for you to talk to, is there hunny? “Noooooooo.” Okay, let’s go.
I got up, went downstairs with her and had the best time listening to her chit chat. Because she is me. Chatty, hillarious,brilliant, blue_eyed me.
Ricardo got back, and everyone else woke up. Breakfast was served to me and I was left alone to eat and enjoy the best blueberry pancakes, fresh fruit, and landscaping 101 on HGTV all to myself. It was just perfect. I got homemade cards that the kids worked so hard on _after all, “Happy Mother’s Day” is a lot of letters to get just right on entire piece of notebook paper, let alone, a little card. Not to mention, they each added how much they loved me and their names. And they didn’t even abbreviate the “from” part, which they usually do after they swear writers cramp has set in. Just a sweet, sweet day.
Parents_In_Law even got me my new all_time favorite movie: P.S. I love you. It’s good. Watch it. I say this because my PIL’s are thoughtful, and my children proclaimed the rest of the day, “Mom, happy mother’s day, P.S. I love you!”
After Gramma & Bean_Bean left, it was time to get in the car and go celebrate Mother’s Day, but instead of church, we went to Lowe’s Home Improvement. Insert your own judgemental reasoning here, now. Just go on ahead.
You done? No? I’ll wait.
We good now?
Okay, we did go to get the kids’ new vanities and sinks for their bathrooms. On the surface this may SEEM selfless and sweet and a good mom thing to do, since their sink doesn’t work. However, since their sink doesn’t work, they use mine. We have a small 3/4 bathroom. Four people are using it. So, on this Mother’s Day, I RECLAIM MY BATHROOM! And POOF, with a swipe of my credit card/fairy godmother made it all happen. And knowing in good faith that I had a selfish motive _ I still felt guilty.
So, as we ate lunch (out), I pondered in my little head how I was going to pay back Ricardo on Father’s Day. The man wants a PS3 all for the glory of the new Grand Theft Auto. Typically, I wouldn’t condone such immature violence. But the man is thirty_something, and listening to him giggle with his high school buddy as they crash, mame, or steal, well _ it’s fun to see him let loose like that. Better in a game at home, than after a night of shots of courage at a casino or strip club, right?
But here’s the deal, how am I going to surprise him with this? How am I going to keep it a secret from him. In my day, I’ve learned to keep a secret. But with Ricardo, I just cannot tell a lie. It’s not real unless he knows about it, and it must be immediately. How will I manage this? I have to get out a fairly large chunk of change from the bank. That might be noticed. And the last video game I purchased was Frogger. The ATARI version, folks. So, how do I get this guy exactly what he needs? And I only have a month to plot and plan this…I’m stressing over all of this while kicking back a big burger. Mmmmmm. When Ricardo jokingly makes a slight mention of the PS3…again.
And I say all in one word and exclamation: “Baby lets go get it right now! You need it and i want you to have it right now and i don’t know exactly what to get you so lets go right NOW!”
Ricardo knowing that in one time in his whole life to not question this moment: “Uh, ok. Let’s go get it.”
And we did. An hour later, our kids know EXACTLY what a PS3 is. And Ricardo has a proud little grin on his face. Me too. Because ladies and gentlemen, I have just bought off that guilt I mentioned. Turns out, it does have a price, and I feel good. The kids are happy and safe. And Ricardo is happy.
All is right with the world. It truly is a Happy Mother’s Day.
That’s how I roll.
I’m a woman on the edge, and this is my therapist…
I’ve decided _ just right now _ A Mommy, and pretty much all other girls, need two thing in life to keep them stable, and out of prison, at minimum. A Mommy needs girlfriends. Good solid girlfriends. Not the ones that will meet you for lunch and a pedicure, but the ones who will pick up the phone while her own kids are screaming. Ones who, in a moment’s notice will let you shlep your kids OR dog off on in the event you’ve been let down by some other jackass. Someone who can just hear it in your voice that you need one of the following:
a bar open at 10:30a.m.
or even a good cry
or even a good slap
I can’t tell you how many times, I’ve been watching the news and see a mom has lost it, gone over the edge, and I thought, “How could any mom do that?” It’s not that I’m a better person, it’s that I’ve got girlfriends who would help me, and if need be, slap me out of it. I expect them to do this. And they do, right girls?
I realize husbands out there, who have been searching this blog high and low on what my infinite wisdom can offer you for Mother’s Day _ you can’t go out and get her one of these girlfriends. Please don’t try. She’ll take it the wrong way, trust me. “Here honey, I got you a new friend, happy mother’s day! Isn’t she cute!?” She’ll have to find one on her own. But if your wife doesn’t have a handful of solid friends, as your husband, it is your deed to help her find some. Or at the very least suggest it. Careful though. Rmember when you suggested to her that she cook more?
And please, I’ll spare you now. DO NOT get in a fight with your beautiful wife and then in the heat of the argument say, “God woman, you need to find some FRIENDS! WHY DON’T YOU HAVE ANY FRIENDS!” Or just because you don’t like her current friends, go out and find her some new ones, hotter stripper ones. Please don’t do that. Sidenote: Don’t bring home a girlfriend for yourself either. Keep that one in your little cyber or mental image. Never make THAT one real. Got it?
But you CAN get her my next insistence. Every Mom NEEDS an Ipod. Seriously. And no, I do not even have personal stock in Apple, I promise. Yet. Steve Jobs, you should call me. I do have plenty of emotional stock vested there though. I used to fight the Apple Man. I had knock off Mp3 players. But ultimately, the grace and availability of an Ipod is so perfect for a Mom. It’s as if a Mom said, “What if there was a screen, with pictures of the albums, and it scrolled like a jukebox, and it needs to be able to hold a charge, and maybe a cool little spinny scrolly thingy.”
An Ipod takes the edge off. I don’t even care to work out, but somedays, if I can check the kids in at the gym and slap my Ipod on, if that means I have to get on a treadmill or run three miles, that’s fine with. It’s worth it to have that time all to myself. And then if someone comes up to chat, you can just yell hi real loud and keep going, because you can’t hear. The loud hello confirms that you can’t hear anything but the gangsta rap.
Did she just say gangsta rap? Well, yes. Yes, I did. I just love it. I think 2 Pac said it best:
My homies dyin ‘fore they get to see they birthdays
These is the worst days, sometimes it hurts to pray
And even God turned his back on the ghetto youth
I know that ain’t the truth, sometimes I look for proof
I wonder if heaven got a ghetto, and if it does
Does it matter if you blood or you cuz
I’m tryin to tell you when it’s on
You gotta keep your head to the sky and be strong, most of all hold on
Hold on. Be Strong. Hold on.
Cuz when it’s on, it’s on. Hold on.
A mom and a gangsta can relate. You don’t believe me? Fine, here’s why:
1. We’re both fightin “the man”.
2. Gangstas smoke their weed and drink their 40′s, Mom’s have their Xanax and Boxed wine. Same effect. Same twelve_step program.
3. (This is mostly for SAHMS) We’re both pimps, sending our bitches out to make us money. Both waiting at the door when they get home, “Where’s my money, Bitch?” You know it’s true.
I have other playlists. One to help me get to sleep at night (there’s only one 2 Pac song on that list), one to sing_a_long in the car with, one to work out with, one to cook to, one to rock out with the kids to. Because I can on my awesome IPOD. And every mommy needs her favorite songs at a clicks notice. Even if just for five minutes to stop and get a moment _ whether it be calming, soothing, motivating, or if a mom just needs to take a minute to relate being a mom to a pimp. Or, if you want to rock out to an 80s Hairband, or Celine Dion, you can do it. And no one will ever judge you because it’s all to you in your little ear buds.
So, if you’re having a rough day, and need a little break, put your ipod on. When the kids come around the corner tattle_telling on brother and asking for their 3rd cookie knowing that you’ve told them no already them no. Just crank up the tunes and exclaim, “I CAN’T HERE YOU! COME BACK LATER.” They will leave, you’ll get your 5 minutes, and they WILL come back, but you’ll be refreshed. Then you can call your girlfriend and tell her all about it.
If you’re having a rough day, and you don’t have one. Go get one. You just go straight to the Apple store (there’s one at Village Pointe) and tell them I sent you. It’s worth the investment. It’s less calories that a double_doozie cookie at the mall, and WAY cheaper than a therapist.
That’s how I roll.
My terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days are pretty few and far between, but this one went from funny to “I’m just going to go home and sit very still so that nothing else happens.”
I have discovered what may very well be potentially my calling for a career: Physicians Critic. Where do I sign up? Who do I call? And what should my asking price be?
Since having my endoscopy, I’ve been waiting around for “follow_up” appointments with the endoscoper, and now an allergist. It’s been months that I’ve had this scheduled. I dropped the kids off at school and went straight to the allergist. After my skin test (that’s a post in itself), I was instructed to wait in the lobby for a phlebotomist to come get me and take my blood. Better a phlebotomist than a vampire is what I always say. Right?
After 20 minutes, I asked the lady at the front desk what’s up. She say they never transferred my labs. Long pause. K. So, what now? I have to go back to the other desk. When I got there, I saw the lady who never checked my labs over to blood people. We make eye contact, I SEE that she RECOGNIZES ME. She stares at me, and before I can get a word out, she looks into my eyes, and says to her co_worker, “I’m going to lunch.” And walks away. So, I stand in the co_workers line.
Maybe it’s me, but you shouldn’t be able to go to lunch if you don’t get your shit done. What are you breaking from? Your break from transferring my paper work? But I was too chicken to say that. So, I stood in what I thought was the line. Apparently others didn’t, because they just breezed right in front of me. Most other patients look way worse off than me, and know they’ve got to push and shove to get one of these people to now make eye contact, God forbid ask if they can help me. After 15 minutes of that, I walked back to the front counter lady and announced loudly, “I’m 6’3″ and apparently invisible back there. NO ONE WILL HELP ME. It’s NOON, MY APPOINTMENT WAS FOR 9a.m. NO ONE SEEMS TO CARE.”
“I care honey, let me call back there for you.”
She calls, says something to someone, and I’m instructed to sit back down, that I’m not in the computer system, someone will be out with me soon. 10 minutes later, my nice nurse who just pricked me with a plastic toothpick is in front of me.
“Do you know which lady checked you out?”
“The one on lunch break. And I know this, because I went back to ask her for help and she announced she was on lunch break.”
At this point, I just feel violated, and I want to cry and perhaps report this crime to the police.
“Okay, I’ll be right back.”
10 minutes later: “Are you sure you don’t have your paperwork with you?”
“You look. Here.”
She flips through it.
“I think she lost your paperwork. I can’t find it. Would you like to come back another day?”
In my nicest southern patronizing voice with a smile, but like it’s a question, “Absolutely Not?”
“Okay, then you don’t mind waiting?”
Same voice: “Yes I do?”
Shit, now she’s confused. I take a deep breath. Emmulate my best kick ass lecturing look and exhale with restraint from exploding: “I will not be coming back. I will not wait. My appointment was for 9 a.m.”
“I understand. I just can’t find the paperwork.”
“It’s now 12:30.I will not wait for you to find the doctor, just find some papers, make it happen. At 12:35 I am going to go get my co_pay back and walk out the door. ”
She looks at her watch, shocked, she had no idea it was that late. And says she’ll take care of it. And she does. A few minutes later, she comes back, relieved. Nice girl, so I try not to continue the ass kicking mantra in my head, atleast not to her.
The personality_of_the_rock_garden_in_my_front_yard (because, it too, has no eyebrows) takes my blood. But she can’t just take it. Nope. She’s gotta dig. And my veins are rolling. Dig. Dig. It’s a good thing I’m TOTALLY into needles. Can she try the other arm? Well, I suppose, or I could just slit my wrist. Whatever. Yes. She takes my blood, I go.
But in the time I’ve had to think about my visit, in my rage, I’ve had some time to think. This is dangerous for doctors to do to me. Because I’ve just been sucked in, and now, I’m liberating, so watch out.
I have been diagnosed for the whole swallowing issue which has happened a handful of times in the last year, only two very bad episodes. Allergist has just written me prescriptions for FOUR ITEMS: Flovent, Singulair (of which she has tried to put my apprehension with the whole depression and suicidal tendencies to rest with the fact that she ‘hands it out like it’s candy and rarely sees anything of the sort’), Prilosec, and an antihistamine. PharmRep_so_far_up_your ass says wha? I’ve been on the Flovent since after the surgery. When I asked endoscoper, “Well, is it the chicken or the egg _ how do you know what works, the stretching out of my esophagus, or the steroid inhaler?”
“We don’t know. So, we just do both.”
All my life I’ve thought doctors were smarter than me. But I’m starting to catch on so watch out!
Now, someone correct me if I’m wrong (but I’m not), this is not a life_threatening issue. How about we do an If_Then scenario. If the stretcher doesn’t work, THEN we go to the meds. And one at a time. Mind you, I haven’t had one ioda of an episode since the endoscopy. Geez.
And if those people think I’m going back to follow_ups to tell them how I’m feeling EVERY MONTH _they are wrong. Tomorrow, I’m calling them to tell them to cancel my appointments. I’ll call them when I need them. Thanks for the stretch, and I’ll be shredding the prescriptions for my compost pile.
I leave the building, wondering if I’ll remember where I parked my car, because I’ve been there THAT long.
I try to call Ricardo to meet him and some friends for lunch, but he won’t answer his phone. I’m not mad at him, but still slightly frazzled shall we say, and may or may not have thrown my own private temper tantrum in my minivan. Just a little one. So, I have been craving this palak paneer (don’t get me started) from this restaurant. We’d tried to go the night before, but it was closed, and now they won’t PICK UP THE EFFN PHONE AND TAKE MY DAMN ORDER! Phone is thrown gently down _ since now it’s insured, and cue the 2 Pac. Awww..soothing. It’s calming me down.
I decide to go look at Whole Foods for reusable pull_ups, because thanks to Earth Day/Week/Year and Al Gore, I’m just now realizing now that my kids are potty trained, that I’m killing the earth with pull ups. Diapers are bad, folks. They don’t break down, gases are involved. I go to Whole Foods, and they don’t have what I’m looking for. The lady looks at me like I’m crazy. I’m trying to spare the Earth, here people.
I get back in my minivan. My precious minivan. So good to me. And head back towards home. But convince myself that I need to stop at the mall for some things, one of which is some perfume for mother’s day for my mom, who now, I realize has picked the one perfume that’s impossible to find when procrastinating. I’m certain she’s done this on purpose. She’s checking on me. You win, moms. I get to a store called of all things THE PERFUME PLACE, tell the guy what I’m looking for, he repeats only the last of the whole name, looks for about 30 seconds, and without even trying simply tells me no. (He couldn’t understand me, language barrier. But I bet he had a recipe for Palak Paneer is all I’m sayin.)
No Palak Paneer
No ReUsable PullUps
I go up to the Indian Food place in the food court, knowing good and well it’s a gamble, at this point, I’m setting myself up for failure. And do they have it? NO.
I resolved that desperate times call for desperate measures. I’m absolutely infuriated from the doctor’s office, and now all of this. So, I resolve to patch it all up with a double doozie cookie. I think this may be what they are talking about with “emotional eating” in my Weight Watchers meetings. I pay for it. Go down the escalator, reach for my keys to go home and speak to no one, and realize, I’ve left the double doozie cookie of greatness and about 2 days worth of Weight Watcher points on the counter. Back up the escalator, Oh sweet Jesus, it’s there. Thank you Jesus. Thank you for this little morsel of goodness in my very bad day.
I got home just in time to get the leash on the dog and pick up the kids who made my day better by just being funny. It was very hard to snap out of it for them. I may not have, completely. There’s even more. But I think it’s time to in my Dad’s words “build a bridge and get the hell over it.”
So, without further ado: That’s how I roll.