Archive of ‘Good Times’ category

Bad Boys, Bad Boys, What’ca Gonna Do?

I have learned all kinds of things in my last eight years par­ent­ing boys. Frogs, bugs and rep­tiles are a reg­u­lar part of con­ver­sa­tion and I am expect­ed to lis­ten intent­ly and care about the sto­ries being told. Cloth­ing will be filthy by the end of the day and no amount of hand wash­ing, wet wipes or nap­kins on the lap can pre­vent it. Boys will beat the crap out of each oth­er one min­ute and hug it out the next and there are nev­er hard feel­ings, at all. No mat­ter how much I preach about lift­ing the seat and aim­ing, my bath­rooms, despite an inor­di­nate amount of bleach and vine­gar used, will always have a slight uriney smell. I have come to accept, albeit begrudg­ing­ly on the urine thing, all of this. It is a way of life in my house and that house is filled with hap­py, hand­some men.…and a cou­ple of girls.

For the most part, my Hand­somes are well behaved, have decent man­ners and do what they are told with­out much trou­ble. Sure, they all have their moments, but I can hon­est­ly say that I don’t wor­ry too ter­ri­bly much about how they will act when I am not around. I am not a huge list of rules kind of per­son either. We have the basics, be kind to one anoth­er, don’t talk back, put your dirty laun­dry in the bas­ket, please don’t pee on your broth­er while you are both in the tub, all that kind of stuff. But, there is one thing in our house that my sons will unan­i­mous­ly announce as being the ulti­mate don’t cross mom on this one or she will lose her mind rule. I can han­dle any of the afore­men­tioned and hand out a quick, knock if off, but when it comes to the Gold­en Rule in Come on Colleen land, there is no excep­tion.

Pic­ture if you will a love­ly break­fast, lunch or din­ner table. You are per­fect­ly fam­ished and could eat just about any­thing. Thank­ful­ly, there is a deli­cious spread before you, the com­pa­ny is equal­ly as divine and you are feel­ing just delight­ful! Then, out of the cor­ner of your eye, you spot a man at the table in a tank top. He could be the rich­est, kindest, fun­ni­est and most hand­some man on the plan­et, but the sec­ond he lifts his arm to reach for the rolls, you see it. His sweaty, strag­gly, nasty armpit hair is danc­ing in the breeze. Pieces of dried deodor­ant are hang­ing on like the last bit of snow on a rock after the weath­er warms up. No mat­ter how hard you try, you can’t look away and now you have com­plete­ly lost your appetite and are resist­ing the urge to barf all over the table. Just, me? No, prob­a­bly not any more.……

Did you get your tick­ets for the gun show? Nope, no way, not at my table. Not today, not tomor­row, not ever. The Hand­somes know that they absolute­ly must have a shirt on when we are eat­ing. Often times they sleep in their under­wear so that they can be like their idol, The Grillin’ Fool, who inci­den­tal­ly is the only per­son in our house with actu­al armpit hair, and will wan­der down the steps blur­ry eyed and half naked. I don’t even have to say any­thing. A vic­to­ry in and of itself, I have mas­tered, “the look” that sends them scur­ry­ing in to the laun­dry room to find cov­er­age.

And before you get all, “But Colleen, Hand­some #1, your old­est, is only eight years old, he doesn’t even have peach fuzz in those pits.” I gagged just typ­ing that. No, you are right, he sure doesn’t, but, I wouldn’t hand him a Salem Slim Light and a Bud­weis­er, two of my old favorites back in the days when I was fun, so why let him engage in oth­er risky behav­iors that could lead to his mother’s pre­ma­ture pass­ing from gag­ging on her on vom­it at the table lat­er on in life? Just not worth the risk.

This rule is infal­li­ble at our home. As a mat­ter of fact, even when I was pot­ty train­ing my youngest boy, oppo­si­tion was quick­ly squelched my by eldest.
Me- Boys, you know the rule, you must put on a shirt before break­fast.

Hand­some #2- Why? Hand­some #3 isn’t even wear­ing any under­wear!

Me- No, he isn’t, but he is also tucked under the table and no one can see that.

Hand­some #1- Why are you even argu­ing with her on this one? You will nev­er win.

Yes. A vic­to­ry. I won! I won! I won! I felt so val­i­dat­ed. They respect me and love me and know that this is impor­tant to me and a firm rule in our home. My hand­somes are allow­ing me to mold them into strong, respect­ful and respectable young men that will make me proud. I was on cloud nine for exact­ly 11 sec­onds and then I got this series of pic­tures from Mau­r­mi. Remem­ber that whole, I don’t real­ly wor­ry about their behav­ior when I’m not around bolog­na? Well, well, well, appar­ent­ly at my house the min­ute I leave it’s a great big, naked, let your arm pits hang out all over the place buf­fet.…..




They are lucky they are cute.……

You Better Work.…

Sweet Mary Moth­er of God. Have you ever had one of those days when you walk out the door look­ing fierce, or so you think, and in a mat­ter of min­utes you dete­ri­o­rate com­plete­ly. You spend a great deal of time on your look, par­tic­u­lar­ly your hair, because your phys­i­cal appear­ance is impor­tant for your line of work and you need to be on trend and put togeth­er. But, then the plan­ets shift and your are in trou­ble. Not like you for­got your lip­stick, and need a pick me up. No, I am talk­ing more of the holy $h!+ if Sta­cy and Clin­ton saw this they may rein­car­nate “What Not to Wear” just for you.

You catch a glimpse in the rear view and notice a prob­lem

The scarf seemed like a good idea when I left the house, but after fur­ther inves­ti­ga­tion the col­or and tie tech­nique is resem­bling an infect­ed goitor. But, that isn’t the worst of my prob­lems. Take a look at that lip­stick. It looks as if I put it on with my feet or let Hand­some #2, my three-year-old, give it a shot.

Hmm, did you style your hair with a fork, Ariel?

Here, you can real­ly see how great that lip­stick appli­ca­tion is.I appear to be hemor­rag­ing, but just on the sides. Some­how, the cen­ter has noth­ing on it, at all. Shall we dis­cuss the hair? I am quite sure that I used AT LEAST five dif­fer­ent prod­ucts to keep my faux hawk in shape, but some­how it looks more like I just got a fresh trim from a flow­bee.

Excuse me Eric Car­men, can we dis­cuss those Hun­gry Eyes

Holy $h!+ this was the shock of the day. I knew that I looked ter­ri­ble, but when in the hell did I devel­op a lazy eye? Look­ing at this makes me ner­vous, I am not sure which one to look at. They both look like they hurt and could induce instant ver­tigo and vomiting.…

Just cov­er your whole face and no one will know it’s you

I fig­ured that putting on my sun­glass­es would make things bet­ter. Let’s see about that, idiot. Not only does my hair look like Blanche Dev­ereaux after a romp in the woods, but those damn glass­es are so big, they are near­ly wrap­ping around my head. WTF is going on?

Since there was noth­ing that I could do to make things bet­ter from my car, I did the only rea­son­able thing that I could. I drowned my sor­rows in a 440z Diet Dr. Pep­per, drove to my office and hid. I sup­pose it could have been worse. I could have been stand­ing on the beach in a bikini think­ing that I was real­ly hot stuff.…oh wait.…..

Oh look, an awk­ward boy in a bikini with a popeye.….

There’s no place like home.….well, kind of.….

It is Sun­day in St. Louis, so the boys, Mau­r­mi, Grand­pa and I head­ed to Strange Donuts, a new culi­nary hot spot, for a break­fast treat. As is typ­i­cal for any adven­ture, we weren’t in the car five min­utes before some­one start­ing to tor­ment some­one. Today’s pester fest starred Grand­pa and Hand­some #2.

Hand­some #2: Guess what? We are going to Strange Donuts, Grand­pa.
Grand­pa: No, we are going to famil­iar donuts.
Hand­some #2: No, not fur­mi­lyur, Strange Donuts.
Grand­pa: I think famil­iar sounds good.
Hand­some #2: AGGGGHHHH! Not fur­mi­lyur, we are going to Strange Donuts.
Grand­pa: I think I like famil­iar donuts.
Hand­some #2: (Cry­ing) I hate fur­mi­lyur donuts, Grand­pa.

This went on and on for twen­ty min­utes until we arrived. There was a line out the door and inside was a tight squeeze. The line moved fast, and once wait­ed on, we swift­ly made our selec­tions and were out the door. As we head­ed home, we lis­tened to a Hal­loween CD and attempt­ed to make friend­ly con­ver­sa­tion.

Me: Hand­some #2, how old are you?
Hand­some #2: I am three.
Me: Hand­some #2, when is your birth­day?
Hand­some #2: May 28th.
Me: Hand­some #2 what is your address?
Hand­some #2: I don’t have one.
Hand­some #1: Yes you do! It is XXXX Lol­ly­Dol­ly Lane.
Hand­some #2: No it’s not! I do not have a Lol­ly­Dol­ly! You are a Lol­ly­Dol­ly.
Hand­some #1: Yes it is. We all live there!
Hand­some #2: No!I!Do!Not! I do not have an address, Hand­some #1! Guess what? You are a girl.
Hand­some #1: Mom! Hand­some #2 called me a girl.
Hand­some #2: You are a girl, Flana­gan, with a bow in your hair!

PS: We do not live on Lol­ly­Dol­ly, but I don’t find it nec­es­sary to give the entire Inter­net, or the 25 of you read­ing this, my real address.
PPS: Flana­gan is what Hand­some #2 calls Hand­some #1 when he is real­ly pissed off.
PPPS: A three year old should prob­a­bly not have the cog­ni­tive abil­i­ty to fig­ure out how to real­ly anger his old­er broth­er with name call­ing and use it to his advan­tage every.single.time.
PPPPS: I did noth­ing about the above con­ver­sa­tion but laugh and be sure that I didn’t for­get the good parts. And, yes, I am work­ing real­ly hard for moth­er of the year.

Whatchu Talkin’ Bout Colleen

Span­dex is my friend

For­give me read­ers, mom, it has been about nine months since my last confession.…err.…blog post. I have absolute­ly no rea­son for not post­ing oth­er than the pure unadul­ter­at­ed lazi­ness that comes from cool­er weath­er and mater­ni­ty leg­gings. I swear to God, the sec­ond those suck­ers go on for the first time, it is like my body turns from semi-func­tion­al moth­er of two to sloth.  All I want to do is watch Hon­ey Boo Boo, pure­ly to make myself feel bet­ter about my own life, and eat peanut but­ter straight from a jar. Plus, the thought of hav­ing to get out the wire­less key­board for my iPad, or God for­bid grab a lap­top, has proven too much as of late.

My preg­nan­cy has been easy, like insane­ly easy, to the point that I for­get I am even preg­nant until I am set­ting off auto­mat­ic hand dry­ers in the bath­room with a quick move of my ever-grow­ing bel­ly. I have been pret­ty even tem­pered, aside from a few emo­tion­al out­bursts that nor­mal­ly revolve around boy bands and the face that I real­ly wish the world still thought over­alls and flow­er hats were OK. Oth­er than that, it is smooth sail­ing.

I am look­ing for­ward to actu­al­ly giv­ing birth. I don’t know my baby’s gen­der, yes inten­tion­al­ly, so that moment is espe­cial­ly excit­ing. I am one mil­lion per­cent ter­ri­fied of being sliced in half and from the moment that I peed on that stick, all three times, I have remind­ed every­one around me; includ­ing, but not lim­it­ed to, my hus­band, moth­er, doc­tor, nurs­es, extend­ed fam­i­ly and occa­sion­al cus­to­di­an at Wal­mart, that I will not be hav­ing a c-sec­tion. Giv­ing birth is the only time in my life that I have ever been even remote­ly ath­let­ic, so I feel this is my time to shine. That is, of course, as long as no one dies along the way. Wait, what, WTF did she say?

Per­haps that is a bold state­ment, but please, let me explain. I have this thing, about, well, black celebri­ties dying on pret­ty sig­nif­i­cant days in my life. Like the time Nate Dog died the night before my birth­day and forc­ing a 24-hour con­tin­u­ous loop of Reg­u­late. Or, the trag­ic day that I lost my best friend and companion,the beau­ti­ful blue lux­u­ry sedan that was with me for sev­en years. As if my Mer­cury Sable dying weren’t enough for me to take, Sher­man Hem­s­ley moved on up to his deluxe apart­ment in the sky the same day. But the day my sweet Hand­some #2 came into this world, well that one takes the cake.

There is noth­ing quite like the bond between a girl and her lux­u­ry sedan

I was extreme­ly enor­mous toward the end of my preg­nan­cy, think Macy’s Thanks­giv­ing Day Parade bal­loon, and eager to get the baby out. I was due on Memo­ri­al Day and opt­ed for an ear­ly induc­tion. I had a baby already, via an induc­tion, and every­thing was per­fect­ly fine, aside from the meco­ni­um that caused the new­born to be rushed to ICU and the quick seda­tion of an over­wrought first-time mom, I was knocked out and don’t remem­ber much. I wasn’t in too much pain the first go around, opt­ing for an epidu­ral and I expect­ed my sec­ond birth to go the same way

One last Diet Coke, so many less calo­ries that way

I arrived at the hos­pi­tal, checked in, got hooked up to the pitocin, got the epidu­ral mov­ing and began the Thomas-fam­i­ly tra­di­tion of the birth view­ing of Nation­al Lam­poons Vacation.….No, not one bit of me is kid­ding. If you are real­ly doubt­ing my affin­i­ty to the Griswalds, please see exhibit A. The Thomas Fam­i­ly Christ­mas card. I quick­ly real­ized that this expe­ri­ence was not going to be the smooth sail­ing that I was expect­ing.

Exhibit A.….Pure Awe­some­ness

Once the epidu­ral was in, I was told that I could have more med­i­cine, if I real­ly felt that I need­ed it, but not to push the but­ton with­out first con­tact­ing the nurs­es. Easy enough, I thought. I quick­ly real­ized that the pain was com­ing fast and strong and it wasn’t less­en­ing, at all. After con­tact­ing the nurs­es three times ask­ing for more med­i­cine, I was given the go ahead to push it as much as I want­ed. That should have been the first clue.

I have seen child­birth as depict­ed by Hol­ly­wood hun­dreds of times. It is always dra­mat­ic, sweaty and loud, but I had always called bull­shit on that.I had a baby, that doesn’t hap­pen. Well, as mat­ter of fact, it does when your epidu­ral fails. WTF!!!!!!!!!!!!!

After lis­ten­ing to me writhing in pain for what seemed like hours, OK, prob­a­bly 20 min­utes, my dar­ling hus­band, my com­pan­ion, my sup­port sys­tem, the one who would get me through the next few dif­fi­cult hours, sat up from his makeshift bed and exclaimed,

Coll! Please be qui­et, I am try­ing to get some sleep.”

As God is my wit­ness, he said it.…And the only rea­son that he made it to see the birth of his son is because I was in so much pain I couldn’t move, or I would have killed him right there. Cer­tain­ly this moron had lost his f&*$%ng mind!

I want my mom. I want my mom. I need my mom,” I sobbed.

Here. Do you want your phone to call her,” the moron said, straight faced as he tried to hand me my phone.

When I didn’t respond because I was try­ing to tele­ki­net­i­cal­ly kill him, he real­ized that he bet­ter make the call. He was able to rouse my moth­er from a dead sleep at 3 am and get her to the hos­pi­tal. As we wait­ed for her arrival, there was a staff change and I was given the choice to have a sec­ond epidu­ral, or a cesare­an. Clear­ly, the­se peo­ple didn’t read the, “No way are you cut­ting me, but I would be hap­py to cut you” look on my face. I opt­ed for the drugs and we were on our way.

I quick­ly began to become numb and felt remark­ably bet­ter. My mom arrived and for a few min­utes every­thing was A-OK. And then it all when down the drain. I start­ed to freeze and asked for sev­er­al blan­kets. Scott and my mom were watch­ing some news pro­gram fea­tur­ing a black man and wom­an being inter­viewed. I peered from the com­fort of the bed and began to say over and over, “My God. Gary Cole­man looks like shit.”

At first, they thought it was fun­ny, or that I was kid­ding, but quick­ly real­ized that some­thing had gone wrong. In an effort to spare you the long, bor­ing details, they brought in the STAT team for fear that I was hav­ing a stroke. It turns out, that is was just a bit too much med­ica­tion, and I was just fine after a few more min­utes. The remain­der of my labor was unevent­ful and pain­less, aside from the part where the baby got stuck and I was instruct­ed to lay on my side and go to my, “qui­et place.” Hon­est to God?!!!??! I am any­thing but qui­et, but the trick worked and I was soon hold­ing my dar­ling 9.4lb, 22in Hand­some #2. He was gor­geous, and per­fect and worth every moment.

Hand­some #2

After I had been moved back to my room and put on my make­up and fixed the hor­ri­fy­ing bed head, this time my hair will be much longer in an effort to curb that look, I felt that it was appro­pri­ate for Hand­some #1 to see his mom­ma. My sis­ter-in-law, Lolo, came in with a bal­loon and the big broth­er and announced to the room, “I hate to be the bear­er of bad news on such an excit­ing day, but Gary Cole­man has passed.”

My Sweet Baby Boys
RIP Arnold.….. WTF did she just say? Gary Cole­man is dead? No way. Cer­tain­ly this was a joke. Some sil­ly nurse must have tweet­ed about a real live one in L&D hav­ing visions of the 1970s. I quick­ly grabbed my phone and there it was, right in front of my eyes. May 28, 2010, Gary Cole­man dead at 42. I had a quick moment of silence for lit­tle Arnold Jack­son, lat­er Drum­mond, and vowed that I would instill in my chil­dren the impor­tance of accep­tance and that above all, they must always remem­ber that, “The world don’t move to the beat of just one drum. What might be right for you, may not be right for some.”

Now, I didn’t kill Arnold Jack­son, I don’t think. I mean, not any more than I killed George Jef­fer­son. But if I were JJ Evans, I would be a lit­tle con­cerned that May 27, 2013 might not be so, “Dynomite!”

You might want to sleep with one eye open come May, just say­in’

Are you there God? It’s me Colleen.…..Just Kidding.…

Gen­tle­men, or should I say ‘man’ because if any guy is read­ing this it is like­ly my hus­band, the fol­low­ing post may make men uncom­fort­able; there­fore, pro­ceed with cau­tion.
Turn­ing 13 is a mile­stone for young wom­en. We look for­ward to the dis­tinc­tion of being grown up, the excite­ment of going to high school, dri­ving, buy­ing cigs… the 1990s that was a big one, and final­ly mov­ing out of the house in just a few short years. WTH is wrong with kids? The teenage years are awful days filled with oil, and hair, and awk­ward bod­ies and changes.…I just threw up.…Why do we need the­se years? But then again, being an adult is cer­tain­ly noth­ing to hur­ry. Sure, hav­ing your own chil­dren to live vic­ar­i­ous­ly through is a nice perk, but God the 20s are a bitch filled with bad jobs, ques­tion­able dates, hang­overs (so very many hang­overs) and a myr­i­ad of bills that no one real­ly wants to pay. If I knew then what I know now, I would have paused at around 8 years old. Not a baby, but a rea­son­able sized girl who could read, write and ride a bike….not well….but that is anoth­er sto­ry for anoth­er day.
What a cute boy. Wait, what?
That is a killer pose, I can’t believe the agents passed…
Becom­ing a teenager means being dis­cov­ered as a mod­el or mega tal­ent. In my case, I thought sports illus­trat­ed swim­suit issue.
March 16, 1992, my thir­teen­th birth­day, brought none of the spoils that most girls found. No, I didn’t get a Swatch phone or a boom box; there were no Guess Jeans or that perm that I had begged for. (Thank you mom for that, although I am still angry about not hav­ing bangs) Oh, no, I got the chick­en pox. A nice fat case of itchy sores all over the out­side and INSIDE of my body. They were in my eyes, my nose, my mouth. I sin­cere­ly believed that there was no way that I would see my 14th birth­day, this was sure to be the death of me.  Mid­way through my week from hell, my dad ran into a friend’s mom at the bank and said, “Well, she feels bet­ter, but damn she looks ter­ri­ble, so she won’t be back to school for a while.” Per­fect. The sin­gle perk to my quar­an­tined state was that I would be able to spend my final days watch­ing reruns of Press Your Luck and it just hap­pened to be MTV’s Spring Break, so I had Daisy Fuentes and Pauly Shore to keep me com­pa­ny.
Eye­brow wax­ing is option­al, the nat­u­ral look was in
In between chants of No Wham­my, No Wham­my and TLC’s “Ain’t to Proud to Beg” on what seemed to be a loop on MTV inter­rupt­ed only by “Save the Best for Last” by Vanes­sa Williams, I decid­ed to do a lit­tle read­ing. I have nev­er been, nor ever will be a big read­er. But I quite frankly got bored with TV and need­ed a new diver­sion.  I turned to my good friend Judy Blume for some insight into the life of oth­er awk­ward girls. Judy had always peeked my inter­est and I can dis­tinct­ly remem­ber read­ing snip­pets of Just as Long as We’re Togeth­er about Jere­my Drag­on and his hairy legs that meant he was more “expe­ri­enced.” I think that I went to col­lege believ­ing that was a real sign of a true Adonis.……idiot.…..
I had heard that read­ing Are You There God, It’s Me Mar­garet sent some kind of super­son­ic sound wave right into your uterus and to get things mov­ing toward “wom­an­hood.” But, I was cer­tain that it was just sev­en­th grade folk lore, so I dove right it. Hor­ri­fy­ing. OMG what was wrong with this girl try­ing to make her boobs big­ger and she real­ly want­ed her period…..Thankfully, Judy and Margaret’s voodoo didn’t work on me. I walked away unscathed. Two weeks went by, the phys­i­cal scars of my bout with the pox had healed, but the emo­tion­al dam­age done by that book, well that would take years and years of ther­a­py to recov­er.
Pop­ping that leg is elon­gat­ing and sexy
April 8, 1992 was a big day, my youngest broth­er turned sev­en and my mom took the boys, Nani and I out for the occa­sion and head­ed to Burg­er King. Clad in a killer pair of white Guess shorts, a white but­ton down with navy blue stars and large gold but­tons and a pair of Navy Coast­er Bow Shoes, yes I know you wore Sam and Libby’s I wore Coast­ers from Payless….the hor­ror….. I head­ed straight for my mother’s Red Pon­ti­ac Trans­port that the kids at school affec­tion­ate­ly referred to as “The Dust Buster” mor­ti­fy­ing. I didn’t feel great, but cer­tain­ly noth­ing that a big fat greasy Whop­per couldn’t fix. Upon arrival, I head­ed to the bath­room and at that moment I damned Judy Blume and that b@#$h Mar­garet to hell forever. There was no deny­ing what had hap­pened, but WTH was I going to do. I began to get woozy and at one point hit my head on the stall wall. The 33-year-old me is inter­ject­ing here. Real­ly, Colleen? I was act­ing like a gun­shot vic­tim, or at the very least like some­one who had been shanked in pris­on! Appar­ent­ly my flare for the dra­mat­ic can’t be snuffed.
I decid­ed that there was no way that I could escape this and I head­ed into the din­ing room to find my entire fam­i­ly with crowns on. Awe­some. Please let’s draw as much atten­tion to our table as pos­si­ble because the­se peo­ple clear­ly all know what has hap­pened and are already talk­ing about me. I turned to my moth­er and very qui­et­ly said,
“I think I just got my peri­od,” hmm, there was no think­ing about it, idiot.
“That is just great. That is won­der­ful,” she said with this alarm­ing smile on her face.
The flow­ers, sym­bol­ic of the bloom­ing young woman.….feel free to vom­it.
Was she nuts? What was so great about this? It was dis­gust­ing. It was painful, and I was ready to call it a wrap 10 min­utes in. My moth­er, the fab­u­lous wom­an that she is, is a con­sum­mate pleaser. She passed me a pack­age from her purse and pro­ceed­ed with the birth­day par­ty with­out miss­ing a beat. I couldn’t believe that she was tak­ing this so casu­al­ly, this was a cat­a­stro­phe. She knew I was read­ing that book, was this part of her grand plan? Did she know the pow­er of Judy Blume and she didn’t pro­tect me? How could she? Despite my hor­ror and feel­ing that she had total­ly turned on me, I was deter­mined to keep this between the two of us. Oh my God, was she going to tell my dad? I would choke her in her sleep. He can’t know about this. I am gag­ging now just think­ing about it.
Look at that guy, he does not want to know!
Once we had fin­ished eat­ing, we all got back into the dust buster and head­ed home. As we approached our neigh­bor­hood, my moth­er did the unfor­giv­able. She pulled into Tar­get and asked us all to get out. What was she doing? She couldn’t pos­si­bly be doing what I thought that she was doing! No, no this was not hap­pen­ing! We all got out of the car and head­ed toward the door. She wasn’t real­ly con­sid­er­ing shop­ping for those things. Not here! Not with my broth­ers! Not in my neigh­bor­hood where some­one could actu­al­ly see me! OMG, I was hyper­ven­ti­lat­ing. She was so casu­al, so calm, as if noth­ing was wrong. Like this was a per­fect­ly nat­u­ral, nor­mal occur­rence. I hat­ed her. I hat­ed Tar­get. I hat­ed birth­days. God I real­ly hat­ed that B!@#H Mar­garet!!!
I fol­lowed her sheep­ish­ly down the aisles as she pranced through the store. She looked like Dorothy on the Yel­low Brick Road, click­ing her heels, skip­ping along and wav­ing at all of the munchkins in the store until she turned down the aisle clear­ly labeled, “Fem­i­nine Hygiene.” Again, I am gagging……I looked around to make sure that no one saw me, and quick­ly slipped down the line. WTH was she doing? Com­par­ing brands? Prices? Coupons? OMG!!! Grab a bag and let’s get the hell out of her.
“Which one would you like?” She sang mer­ri­ly.
“Uh, please just grab some­thing so we can go. Please! I don’t care. I just want to go. Please!” I begged…and begged…and begged…..There was anoth­er wom­an com­ing down the aisle and I could not make eye con­tact. I was going to melt. I could die. Just as I began to evap­o­rate. The sweet lit­tle birth­day boy exclaimed,
“I know what those are. Those are the pink your preg­nant blue your nots. You got pink. Colleen’s preg­nant. Colleen’s preg­nant.” The hor­ror.
That was 20 years ago this past East­er Sun­day. Between the ER vis­its, vom­it­ing, and beat­ing my chil­dren with bats, I was remiss in remem­ber­ing my “spe­cial day.” I real­ly wish that I could have cel­e­brat­ed it like Rudy and Claire on the Cos­by Show. Do you remem­ber that shit? Bizarre! As young wom­en, we prayed that it wouldn’t come again, that we would be one of the lucky ones that had an irreg­u­lar cycle. Now we pray like hell that it comes. If we are 10 min­utes late we are run­ning for the EPT. Sure­ly I am not the only one that keeps preg­nan­cy tests on had all the time….right….right? But, as I think about my life today in com­par­ison to 20 years ago, I wouldn’t change a thing. After all, if it weren’t for that dumb b!@#h Mar­garet, I may nev­er have had the two loves of my life…….so I real­ly can’t complain……..right now…….about that anyway…….I can always com­plain……
The smile that make their eyes dis­ap­pear time.