November 2013 archive

D is for really big idiot

I was sim­ply hor­ri­fied today when I saw that a local gro­cery store, my gro­cery store, my neigh­bor­hood loca­tion was the scene of a rob­bery. Actu­al­ly, it was a bank satel­lite office inside of the bank. Per­haps the rob­ber was look­ing to cash in on Mr. Big Shot $24,000 ATM Slip? I was deter­mined to get to the bot­tom of it, so I threw on my Nan­cy Drew hat and head­ed to the super­mar­ket to sniff out some clues.

OK, so that is a bunch of crap. I was head­ed home from an event at Finnegan’s school and had to stop  to grab a few things for an event at work tomor­row. I gath­ered my items and made my way to the front of the store and head­ed to the only open lane, which hap­pened to be right next to the bank. I con­sid­er myself to be a friend­ly, out­go­ing gal (I hate the word gal, but in the fol­low­ing exchange, it seemed an appro­pri­ate name). Per my ususal, I whipped up the fol­low­ing con­vo with the 17ish male check­er and his trusty side­kick, the bag­ger.

Me: Wow, I can’t believe that some­one would real­ly rob a bank, in a gro­cery store, with all of the­se peo­ple around.
Check­er: Yeah, it was pret­ty dumb.
Me: I know. Who does that and thinks that they can get away with it with all of the­se secu­ri­ty cam­eras?
Check­er: Peo­ple do dumb things all the time.
Me: Walk­ing in here, to the front of the store past all of the cam­eras is like walk­ing in with a big sign around your neck say­ing, remem­ber my face, I am about to rob the place.They are just ask­ing to be picked out of a line­up.
Check­er: Yeah, peo­ple are dumb. They do all kinds of stuff that makes them stick out and makes them mem­o­rable. Some are just like hard to for­get.
Me: I know, peo­ple are just dumb. It’s like they want to get caught. Thanks so much for your help. Have a great night.
Check­er: You too, Mrs. Thomas.

Huh? Did he just call me Mrs. Thomas? I don’t write checks. He didn’t ask for my ID for the Diet Coke and water that I just pur­chased. I guess that I have shopped at this store so many times through­out the last decade that they have come to know me. What a nice young man. Wow, they real­ly are the friend­liest stores in town.

Or.…I am the biggest idiot in town.…you decide.….

Upon get­ting into my mini­van I real­ized that right above my heart was this God­for­sak­en name tag.….I was just ask­ing to be picked out in a line up.….idiot.….

Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies.…

There is one house­hold chore that I hate. No, not like I hate to do the dish­es, or I hate to pay my bills, or I hate to make din­ner for the­se kids that will like­ly look at it and say, “I HATE this!” No, I would glad­ly do any of those things before I have to change the sea­sons in my children’s clos­ets. I would rather clip their toe­nails with my teeth than take their itty bit­ty shirts, off of itty bit­ty hang­ers and put them in giant rub­ber tubs and then unpack oth­er giant rub­ber tubs filled with things that make me won­der why I ever saved this $h!+ in the first place. How many moms have pulled out one­sies from baby 1, 2, 3 etc. to use on the new child and found them rid­dled with holes and poop stains?  I look at this crap and think, “You are a moron. You would nev­er put this on your sweet baby? Why did you save it?” But as I am fever­ish­ly throw­ing dozens of shirts, shorts, pants and mis­matched socks into a new bin, it is very clear why. If it is locked away in an opaque bin, it is out of my face and I can for­get about it for a num­ber of years. I can stuff it fast, put a lid on it and Scott will glad­ly take it down the steps and hide it so that I quit cry­ing. Yes, there is cry­ing and scream­ing, but no one puts me in time­out for the after­noon and lets me fall asleep just to make me shut up. Oh no, I have to keep work­ing.

Please send the TLC truck away, this is not Hoard­ers. This is just and episode of ” Hey Guys, noth­ing to see here. I just wan­na kill some­one and am cry­ing in the cor­ner.”

While work­ing on my kids’ room this past week­end, I had my iTunes on ran­dom and “A Spoon­ful of Sug­ar” came on. This is quite a change from my nor­mal house-clean­ing sound­track, but the iPad was too far away to press next, so I fig­ured I would give Julie Andrews a shot. As the upbeat tune blared through the speak­er. I was sud­den­ly a bit more cheery and trans­port­ed back to being a kid. As chil­dren, we were all mem­o­rized by Mary Pop­pins. Her sweet smile, beau­ti­ful voice and quick-snap­ping fin­gers made clean­ing your room a game. Remem­ber how the toy sol­diers walked right into the toy box and the blan­kets flew up in the air and land­ed per­fect­ly fold­ed on the bed? Why, just a spoon­ful of sug­ar will make it all bet­ter, right Mary? Wrong! You lied Mary Pop­pins, not a damn thing was going to make this job a game! I could have downed a 5 pound bag of sug­ar this week­end and still need­ed a half a dozen Zoloft to take the edge off. The more I lis­tened the more infu­ri­at­ed I became. No mag­i­cal bird was appear­ing on my finger.No cute lit­tle boys is short sets were there to help? I would have set­tled for filthy Bert com­ing in and toss­ing crap in a bin with soot-cov­ered hands. But, nope, no one came to the res­cue. Sure, peri­od­i­cal­ly I would hear Scott down the hall warn­ing the boys not to come near the bed­room or they may not be seen again…ever.….But that was as much human inter­ac­tion as I saw for days.

It took me what felt like 72 hours to com­plete this one god­for­sak­en room, but when it was fin­ished, I had made a large pile of clothes to give to char­i­ty. But as I was on my way to the Good­will bin, I had the bril­liant idea to take the clothes to a children’s resale shop to see what I could get for them. Most were is good con­di­tion, but old­er styles that I like­ly won’t put on Hand­some #3, and I was tired of stor­ing them. I went to the store and was offered $43 for the haul, which seemed fair. I head­ed to the ATM at Schnucks to make my deposit, feel­ing like a big shot with a cou­ple of Andrew Jack­sons for my trou­bles. I made my deposit and grabbed what I thought was my receipt, but sud­den­ly my big score at the resale shop didn’t seem so great when I saw that the per­son who had vis­it­ed the ATM before me, and left their receipt,  had a mere $24,000 in their check­ing account.

Well look at you Mr. Big Shot! $24,000 in the check­ing, huh? I bet you can hire Mary and her team of snap­ping clowns to come over and clean your house every week can’t you? You think you are so great with your pin­striped suit and mono­grammed cuffs, don’t you? Your fan­cy spec­ta­tor shoes that you wipe off on your wel­come mat before you walk on your fresh­ly-shined wood floors that glow just like that bald head of yours? I quick­ly real­ized that this pompous jerk, who I made up com­plete­ly in my mind and was hat­ing because of his ATM slip, was built in the image of my own hus­band, right down to the lack of hair on his head. Well, except for the actu­al ATM slip and hoard­ing of $24,000. That and the shined floors. That doesn’t hap­pen unless he shi­nes them him­self, I am not a floor per­son. And he does that…pretty much every time that I ask him to. So in actu­al­i­ty, he is a fair, good guy, who I real­ly love, but some­times I need to direct my frus­tra­tion and he is an easy tar­get. Per­haps I had some deep-seed­ed resent­ment for the fact that I cleaned the room alone, and the remark, “You did this to your­self, quit buy­ing them all of this crap.” Some­how in my rage I had made my way through the store and picked up a gal­lon of milk, bananas, a pack­age of tor­tilla wraps, two cans of black beans, an avo­cado and a half gal­lon of ice cream. Whether or not I had a full-on con­ver­sa­tion with myself about the a$$hole who left the ATM receipt or just thought it is unknown.….I did how­ev­er pol­ish off half of the half gal­lon when I got home.….but that can be our lit­tle secret.…..

Peek-A-Boo.…thank God no one saw you.…..

I believe that God gives every per­son unique and spe­cial gifts and that He wants us to use those gifts to help oth­ers and to make the world a bet­ter place. My gifts don’t come in the form that most peo­ple would like­ly con­sid­er spe­cial. For exam­ple, God made Mozart an incred­i­ble musi­cian. I quit tick­ling the ivories after a not-so-unfor­tu­nate fin­ger break in fourth grade. I hat­ed piano lessons and want­ed to die every time I had to go because my teacher, a nun, would drink soda from a can with a straw and burp the entire time. Instead of play­ing my songs in the prac­tice room before my lesson, I would punc­ture the leaves of the aloe plant and watch the clear ooze drip to the floor. The day that my fin­gers bent back was God telling me straight out to quit wast­ing my par­ents mon­ey. I would nev­er ever make it to play­ing “The Enter­tain­er.”

My gift didn’t come in the form of an ath­let­ic abil­i­ty either. No, I was much more con­cerned with hav­ing blue and gold bows in my hair than I was break­ing a sweat. To this day, I day­dream about run­ning a marathon, OK, a 5K. But instead of train­ing, I eat Peanut But­ter M&Ms in bed while sip­ping a Diet Coke and watch­ing a doc­u­men­tary about a run­ner with one leg over­com­ing the odds and I just won­der if I can walk to the kitchen to get more can­dy with one foot asleep.

God didn’t give me those kind of gifts. Nope, it would take me much longer to under­stand what my gifts are and how to best uti­lize them. You see, God made me a sto­ry­teller. He gives me such incred­i­ble mate­ri­al, it is hard not to spin amaz­ing yarns. He fills my days with wacky inspi­ra­tion that he just doesn’t seem to give to oth­er peo­ple. For exam­ple, how many of you have gone for a quick eye exam and left look­ing like Mr. Pota­to Head? Or may­be, you used your Siri text to talk fea­ture when you had a cold and end­ed up with this?

I just don’t think that He gives every­one so much mate­ri­al to work with. Like just last week. I was work­ing, mind­ing my own busi­ness, leav­ing my third appoint­ment, when I felt a lit­tle some­thing on the back of my ankle. It was a brisk fall day and there were beau­ti­ful leaves of crim­son, amber and gold lying on the ground and peri­od­i­cal­ly danc­ing  across the earth with a quick gust of wind. I thought noth­ing of the feel­ing on my leg and got in the car. What began as a slight rub­bing sen­sa­tion began to slip down my leg quick­ly and caused a bit of alarm. I didn’t want to look down because I was sure that some sort of spi­der, or armadil­lo, was crawl­ing down my leg. It was bulky and uncom­fort­able and ter­ri­fy­ing.

When I final­ly got up the nerve to look, I was shocked. I was embar­rassed. I was appalled. I was like WTF? How in the world does this hap­pen? How do you go 3/4 of a work day with no one men­tion­ing it? Who in the hell put him there?

Do you see some­one play­ing peek-a-boo. .

At this point, you are like­ly think­ing that I have lost my mind and you are won­der­ing what it is that you are look­ing at. Kind­ly resist the temp­ta­tion to make the pho­to big­ger. You will be instant­ly offend­ed by the con­di­tion of my heels. Instead, just pull your com­put­er closer to your face. Those lit­tle green spots belong to Per­cy good friend of my good friend, Hand­some #2. Now before you get all, WTF is going on and why in the world would she have those in her pants? Let’s be fair and hon­est. As much as we would all like to pre­tend that we do 86 loads of laun­dry a week sep­a­rat­ed by col­or, fab­ric, tem­per­a­ture set­ting and fam­i­ly mem­ber, any mom with kids knows, you throw as many things into that machine as will fit and press go. Some­times that method caus­es things to get crum­pled up and stuck where they shouldn’t be. And if those crum­ples break free and appear in a pub­lic place where they shouldn’t, then some­times peo­ple get strange looks…or arrested.…Lucky for you, this hap­pened in the car and I lived to tell the tale. Thank­ful­ly, I was able to return them to their right­ful own­er before he noticed they were miss­ing and had an all out hor­ri­fy­ing stage three melt­down.……

I am so much more of a #1 Engine kind of girl, but what­evs.….

It’s Raining Men.….

We are all fierce from the neck up

Since I debut­ed my fiery red faux hawk a cou­ple of months ago, I have got­ten a lot of com­pli­ments. Here is the crazy thing, the­se com­pli­ments haven’t come from my fam­i­ly. They are cer­tain­ly not my father, or even real­ly my hus­band, but from com­plete and total strangers. I am lit­er­al­ly stopped at least once a day and com­pli­ment­ed on my do. As a five-mon­th-post­par­tum moth­er of three boys five and under, I will take any­thing to boost my
con­fi­dence. I was tex­ting with a friend the oth­er night about my phys­i­cal dete­ri­o­ra­tion in the past sev­en years. Now I am not say­ing that I have turned into a com­plete­ly use­less fat sloth who lives in only yoga pants and a Car­di­nal cap, though some days I would like to, but I am not the same per­son that I was at 27 when I walked down the aisle. As I said to him, I am not quite a tro­phy wife, but more of an atten­dance prize. I get up every morn­ing, get peo­ple dressed, make their meals and remem­ber all of their names, that deserves recog­ni­tion. Par­tic­u­lar­ly when I hear them wake up and I am so com­fy and cozy in my bed and I wait, and wait and wait for Scott to jump up, which he total­ly does a lot of the time, but real­ize that he is play­ing the same game and isn’t going any­where, so I make the move. Nor­mal­ly I find the two old­er ones draped limply across the fur­ni­ture look­ing like starv­ing Ethiopi­ans. Every­day it is the same thing, they keep want­i­ng meals, the keep expect­ing me to make them and they keep telling me that Eggo Waf­flers are not accept­able for din­ner. Ugh.…what is wrong with the­se peo­ple?

They keep want­i­ng me to feed them.every.single.day.

As I was say­ing, the com­pli­ments from strangers are abun­dant. But the mass major­i­ty of the admir­ers are teenage boys. Like all teenage boys, every­day. I have had teenage check­ers at Tar­get spell­bound, McDonald’s Dri­ve Thru kids give me a wink while pass­ing the Diet Dr. Pep­per and then there was the boy stock­ing the yogurt at Schnucks who walked across the room to com­pli­ment me. I think if I had stood there three more sec­onds he would have asked me for my num­ber, which is creepy and sort of amaz­ing all rolled in to one. I am no stranger to the love of a teenage boy, but this admi­ra­tion from the mass­es is new. I was nev­er pop­u­lar with teenage boys when I was a teenager. I was so awk­ward and ter­ri­fied that I couldn’t even speak to them. The fact that I wore a larg­er bra then most of their moth­ers was excit­ing and ter­ri­fy­ing to them, so they didn’t talk to me either. They would just stare long­ing­ly. But if we are being frank, had I let them close to me, which nev­er would have hap­pened, they wouldn’t have known what to do with those Dol­ly Par­ton D cups.  Look­ing back, it was a big huge dis­as­ter and I may need to make a quick appoint­ment with a ther­a­pist just to talk this one out. 

Ear­lier this week, I was head­ed to an off­site event for work and feel­ing pret­ty good. My hair was in place, my lips were on straight and my clothes all matched. Win, win and win.

Those lit­tle drops are big trou­ble
I could see the trou­ble brew­ing

While I was inside, Moth­er Nature thought that she would be hilar­i­ous and change things up a bit. The weath­er went from cool and part­ly cloudy to an apoc­a­lyp­tic thun­der­storm. While I may have been a Girl Scout in my younger years, I nev­er bought in to that “be pre­pared” crap. That trans­lates loose­ly to, girl­friend says, “For­get that. I don’t need an umbrel­la.” Per­haps you recall what hap­pens when my pro­duct fails me on a nor­mal day?  My knees were knock­ing at the mere thought of walk­ing out­side, but I knew that at some point a mem­ber of the jan­i­to­ri­al staff was going to sweep me right out the door, so I had to get mov­ing. 

By the time I made my way across the park­ing lot to the car, my hair looked and felt like it had been styled with maple syrup.We all know that water beats fire. It was an epic bat­tle and water was vic­to­ri­ous, leav­ing fire sad and bare­ly flick­er­ing in the cor­ner.…..

Did Lucille Ball have days like this?