I am not necessarily a frugal person. I mean, I like to save where I can but I’m not afraid to spend either. I like to get things on sale and I don’t love making unnecessary purchases. I don’t like to waste things. I try to think about each and every purchase as a need versus a want. Do we need 75 rolls of paper towel because it’s on sale? Possibly. Do I need seven different shades of pale pink lip gloss? Yes. Do we need clothes? Yes. Does Bird need a pair of shoes for every occasion? Yes. Do I? Absolutely. Do I need a manicure and a pedicure every other week? No. I would like one but, since we now live on one income, some things have had to go. I’m okay with that. I am. It’s all about priorities, people. If I do my own nails, I can have more shoes and a huge lip gloss variety. You see? Need versus want. It’s rather simple.
I feel the need to share this story with my internet friends because it makes me laugh and laughter is the best medicine. There is a bit of a back story here. Please bear with me; I’m tackling this as best I can as I’m a wee out of practice here. It came to light that something was wrong with our bed. It seemed to be sagging in the middle and there was no support. Our mattress is less than three years old so, in my mind, there was no way we could need a new one. Aren’t those bastards supposed to last 10 years or something? Hell, I know people who have slept on the same mattress for 20 years.
We have a bed frame, complete with a headboard and footboard, purchased from IKEA at about the same time we got the mattress. Bread and I discussed it and he thought, perhaps, it was the frame causing out mattress to sag as there wasn’t a ton of support underneath. He said we should get rid of the frame. What? No! I love this bed! It “goes” with our room! We need this bed! We aren’t going to buy a new one! That’s a waste! There’s nothing wrong with the frame! After some eye rolling and heavy sighing, Bread’s solution was to put some more boards underneath. This worked for a while. Let’s say six months. Then the problem began again. So bread actually built something (he’s so handy!) to go underneath the bed and hold it up better. This worked for a month or so until it became apparent neither of us was sleeping well.
Again, I told Bread it was the damn mattress. They should let you sleep for a night on the damn things. How in the hell are you supposed to deduct if you like a mattress or not by laying awkwardly on it, in the middle of the store, while dozens of strangers mill about you waiting for their turn? And, you don’t want to actually put your head on it because God knows what else has been there. There could have been some stranger’s ass or a child’s snotty face! No, thanks! Welcome to my world of germaphobia! I cannot Purell my entire face! My skin would dry out! Welcome to my world of complete and total vanity!
Moving on then, after a brief “discussion” where I insisted that it was not, in fact, our cheap IKEA bed frame causing our distress, “we” decided it would be best if we tried the mattress on another frame. We have a guest bed, so the plan was to bring the frame from the downstairs guest bedroom upstairs in order to try it with our mattress.
I believe it was a Tuesday night. Bread decided he couldn't sleep one more night on the shitty bed. He begins the process of moving things around. At some point, I suggest we just throw the mattress on the floor, on top of the box springs, for a night or two. It’s the same idea, right? Bread agrees. I’m trying to save him the trouble of having to move all this stuff around. Admittedly, this is because I’m afraid it actually is the bed frame creating the problem and I don’t want him to beat the shit out of me when we finally conclude this.
He gets the mattress all “set up” on the floor. When Bird sees what we’ve done, she exclaims, “Oh! I like this! It’s a little bed!” No, actually, it’s ghetto as hell. But, it does go really well with the sheets we currently have hanging as “curtains” (another story for another day).
I think we slept like that for about two weeks. I wanted to be sure. I’m positive now. It’s the damn mattress. No, wait! Maybe it’s the box spring! Yes! Yes! That’s it! The mattress is saggy because the box spring is two pieces. There is a crack in the center and this is causing the mattress to feel saggy. Our solution to this problem, you ask? We put the frame back together and put the mattress on the frame sans box springs. Problem solved, right. No! No! It’s the mattress, I say! That was terrible! It did not work at all!
Over the course of all this, I’m keeping my brother, who has recently gone through a similar debacle, abreast (I so wanted a reason to use that word) of the situation. He suggests we try the Memory Foam mattress topper he bought and only used once because it was too soft. At this point I’m desperate because I don’t want to get rid of my cute bed frame or spend money on a new mattress (must determine if it’s a need or a want, you know) so I agree.
He brings us the mattress topper, which barely fits in his car. This sucker is huge! Since it’s placed in two garbage bags, it appears we are carrying a body into our home. We are now giving our neighbors more to talk about. They have already alluded to the fact that they believe we are growing marijuana in our basement because we never turn the light off. It’s a long story but, essentially, our dog used to sleep down there in her crate and, for some reason, we just never turn the light off. Once they began saying stuff to us it sort of became a game of us not wanting to turn the light off because we enjoyed having our neighbors believe we were, in fact, growing pot in our basement. Don’t you know that’s why we live the luxurious lifestyle we do- spending money like it is water? I mean, seriously, if I was doing that, don’t you think I’d have a nanny? I would certainly have an Escalade with over-sized, chrome rims and a kicking system. There would be some extra cash and I would definitely, at least, be getting my bi-weekly mani and pedi. Geez.
That brings us to where we are now. The mattress topper is huge. Our mattress pad barely fits over it. And, coupled with our pillow-top mattress, the sheet can barely fit. But, we are trying it! I do not want to get rid of that frame! It’s not the frame! It’s the damn mattress! I swear! So, now, thanks to the mattress topper, the pillow-top and our semi-high bed frame, I now have to heft myself in our bed. I am five foot and six inches tall! I’m not short by any means. I have to practically get a running start! This has nothing to do with my weight, by the way, it is purely because the damn bed is like seven feet tall! Bird can no longer jump on our bed for I fear she will catch her head in the ceiling fan! Wouldn’t that be a mess! And, the end result after all this? We need a new fetching mattress. Jesus. I told you so. And, in case you did not hear me, I TOLD YOU SO.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Monday, August 23, 2010
You're On Your Own
My little girl is obsessed with the world of Cinderella, Belle, Sleeping Beauty and Tiana. She is constantly asking questions about life as a princess, specifically marrying Prince Charming. She is fascinated with weddings, she has yet to actually attend one, and the idea of wearing a “beautiful gown and dress,” especially a white dress. She loves putting on her princess dress-up clothes and dancing with Bread, who in a pinch, acts as her very own Prince Charming. Any time a member of the male species comes over, or is on their way over, she has to put on a gown, her “glass slippers,” and accessories.
I’ve said before she’s boy crazy. I’m not sure how this happened; I know Bread is scared silly for her teen years. I have been a bit frightened, being the semi-modern woman that I am, that she has all these crazy notions about life based on her obsessions with being a princess and living happily ever after. In her two year-old mind a prince can save her, protect her and define her happiness. While I realize she is only two, it is certainly a bit frightening to think of how this notion might grow. I hope it will disappear because I definitely don’t want my little girl growing up thinking she has to find a man to make her happy and her only goal in life is to be married. I am happily married and all but I also went to college and had other goals as well. Those are the things we want to teach her. We want her to be self-sufficient and fulfilled. We don’t want to teach her that finding a man will make her happy and be the only way she’ll be valued in society. Obviously we might be a bit ahead of ourselves but best to keep an eye on the situation before it gets too out of control. AND, the child is really, really obsessed!
Yesterday, Bread and Bird were reading a book of nursery rhymes on the couch. I was casually flipping through a magazine, half listening to them. Bird was reciting the nursery rhymes to Bread as she remembered them. She was getting most of them right; it was impressive! She knows all of Mary, Mary Quite Contrary! They got to Jack and Jill. She said, “Jack and Jill went up a hill to fetch a pail of water. Jack fell down and broke his crown and Jill came up with a plan!” A plan, really? Really? Where did she come up with this? Bread and I both started laughing. I think we figured it was a fluke. Throughout the day we kept testing her by asking her to recite it again. It was always the same. Jill was making a plan!
Any notions about Bird being boy crazy and seeking some prince charming to make her happy have been completely put to rest. The girl is smart! She knows that Jill shouldn’t just fall down after him! She needs to make a plan! The plan. The girl is going to figure it out on her own NOT going rolling down the hill after Jack! I love this! I love her. She is a genius! And now, this girl needs to go make a plan and get her Monday started! Happy Monday, y’all!
I’ve said before she’s boy crazy. I’m not sure how this happened; I know Bread is scared silly for her teen years. I have been a bit frightened, being the semi-modern woman that I am, that she has all these crazy notions about life based on her obsessions with being a princess and living happily ever after. In her two year-old mind a prince can save her, protect her and define her happiness. While I realize she is only two, it is certainly a bit frightening to think of how this notion might grow. I hope it will disappear because I definitely don’t want my little girl growing up thinking she has to find a man to make her happy and her only goal in life is to be married. I am happily married and all but I also went to college and had other goals as well. Those are the things we want to teach her. We want her to be self-sufficient and fulfilled. We don’t want to teach her that finding a man will make her happy and be the only way she’ll be valued in society. Obviously we might be a bit ahead of ourselves but best to keep an eye on the situation before it gets too out of control. AND, the child is really, really obsessed!
Yesterday, Bread and Bird were reading a book of nursery rhymes on the couch. I was casually flipping through a magazine, half listening to them. Bird was reciting the nursery rhymes to Bread as she remembered them. She was getting most of them right; it was impressive! She knows all of Mary, Mary Quite Contrary! They got to Jack and Jill. She said, “Jack and Jill went up a hill to fetch a pail of water. Jack fell down and broke his crown and Jill came up with a plan!” A plan, really? Really? Where did she come up with this? Bread and I both started laughing. I think we figured it was a fluke. Throughout the day we kept testing her by asking her to recite it again. It was always the same. Jill was making a plan!
Any notions about Bird being boy crazy and seeking some prince charming to make her happy have been completely put to rest. The girl is smart! She knows that Jill shouldn’t just fall down after him! She needs to make a plan! The plan. The girl is going to figure it out on her own NOT going rolling down the hill after Jack! I love this! I love her. She is a genius! And now, this girl needs to go make a plan and get her Monday started! Happy Monday, y’all!
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Don't Ya Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me?
We are driving in the car when, Bread turns to me and says, “By the way…” Of course my brain starts going a mile a minute. Is he going to tell me we’ve won the lottery? He got a raise at work? He has scheduled a date night for us? Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. His question was actually this-“By the way, did you have gas last night while we were sleeping?”
Many things go through my head. I’m disappointed because he’s not telling me some grand news. I’m confused as to why he would ask this question. Where is this coming from? I’m wondering if I should be embarrassed because I was passing gas loudly in my sleep. That’s sexy! Way to go me! So I tell him no, not that I’m aware of and inquire as to why he was asking.
He proceeds to inform me he had a dream that he was at work, with one of his coworkers who was, well, pooping. He said it smelled repulsive. He then asked me if I ever recall smelling anything in a dream. Nope. Never.
That was pretty much the end of the conversation. But, thinking back, I don’t know if I should be proud or extremely embarrassed that my husband thinks it would be possible for me to create an odor (in my sleep nonetheless!) that would not only wake him, but cause him to dream about being in the same room with someone who was taking a shit. Impressive. In fact, I'm pretty sure there's someone beating down the door right now trying to steal my heart.
Many things go through my head. I’m disappointed because he’s not telling me some grand news. I’m confused as to why he would ask this question. Where is this coming from? I’m wondering if I should be embarrassed because I was passing gas loudly in my sleep. That’s sexy! Way to go me! So I tell him no, not that I’m aware of and inquire as to why he was asking.
He proceeds to inform me he had a dream that he was at work, with one of his coworkers who was, well, pooping. He said it smelled repulsive. He then asked me if I ever recall smelling anything in a dream. Nope. Never.
That was pretty much the end of the conversation. But, thinking back, I don’t know if I should be proud or extremely embarrassed that my husband thinks it would be possible for me to create an odor (in my sleep nonetheless!) that would not only wake him, but cause him to dream about being in the same room with someone who was taking a shit. Impressive. In fact, I'm pretty sure there's someone beating down the door right now trying to steal my heart.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Happy Monday
My eldest “child,” Cole, is of the four-legged variety. I adopted him, as a single mother I might add, nearly ten years ago. He is the smartest dog, ever. And, I’m not just saying that because, as a dog owner, that’s what I’m supposed to say. If you read this blog, or know me in real life, you know I’m not a huge fan of saying what is expected versus what actually comes to mind…
So, Cole is a genius. He knows how to work the system. He knows the proper, polite way to beg garnering himself some tasty scraps. He is certain that the plaid bone matches his bed and when asked to retrieve that specific bone, he will do so. He knows, when I open the door and he’s been rolling in driveway debris, that my frown means he best hightail it back outside and shake that shit off. He knows if I get a blanket out to sit on the couch, I might be allowing him to come up. He can tell when I’m sad; he’ll sit by me and follow me around. If I put my gym shoes on he runs and hides because he doesn’t want to go for a walk. Or, if he’s feeling particularly energetic that day, he’ll run to the door. If I pack a bag, he becomes frantic because he thinks we’re going to grandma’s house. This dog speaks English and some Spanish because I used to have spare time and using that spare time to teach my dog to be bilingual seemed like a stellar idea. Oh, what I wouldn’t do to have that much leisure time again. Sigh.
The genius dog also has allergies. This means, he will spend hours upon hours upon hours licking. We’ve tried vitamins and Benadryl and baths with oatmeal soap but nothing really helps. It’s best to just let him have his way. So, the crazy animal lies around licking his paws and, well, his rectum, if nobody stops him. I draw the line at the rectum. That’s just disgusting. And, we aren’t talking about a simple lick. We are talking about an all out love affair complete with slurping. I realize there are many people on this planet who would be extremely happy if they had the ability to actually lick their own butthole. For clarification, I happen to NOT BE ONE OF THEM. In all caps, people, do not miss that.
So, this happy Monday (insert sarcasm here), at six in the morning, I am awoken to slurp, slurp, slurp. Now, this is not how I want to begin my week. While I am a stay-at-home mother of only one child, I still have needs. Sleep is very high on my list of needs. I do not wish to wake at that hour, to that noise. The events unfolded something like this:
Dog: Slurp, slurp, slurp.
Me: “Cole! That’s disgusting! Stop!”
Dog: Slightly raises and eyebrow. Continues licking.
Me:”Stop!”
Dog: Lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick…
Me: Throw slipper at dog’s head.
Dog: Looks startled. Stops the licking.
Me: Sigh. Roll over. Try to go back to sleep.
Elapsed time: Three minutes.
Dog: Lick, lick, lick, lick, slurp, slurp, slurp.
Me: Screaming, “I’m going to kill you!”
Dog: Calls bluff and continues voracious tongue jacking.
Have I no authority in my home? Why isn’t he taking me seriously? The glue factory is not that far away! I would so do that! WTF? That was not how I wanted this week to begin. That’s a blatant lack of respect for me! I gave him life! Well, not technically but what if I had not saved him from the pound! Doesn’t he think of these things! Bastard.
Free to onegood home: an extremely flexible dog.
So, Cole is a genius. He knows how to work the system. He knows the proper, polite way to beg garnering himself some tasty scraps. He is certain that the plaid bone matches his bed and when asked to retrieve that specific bone, he will do so. He knows, when I open the door and he’s been rolling in driveway debris, that my frown means he best hightail it back outside and shake that shit off. He knows if I get a blanket out to sit on the couch, I might be allowing him to come up. He can tell when I’m sad; he’ll sit by me and follow me around. If I put my gym shoes on he runs and hides because he doesn’t want to go for a walk. Or, if he’s feeling particularly energetic that day, he’ll run to the door. If I pack a bag, he becomes frantic because he thinks we’re going to grandma’s house. This dog speaks English and some Spanish because I used to have spare time and using that spare time to teach my dog to be bilingual seemed like a stellar idea. Oh, what I wouldn’t do to have that much leisure time again. Sigh.
The genius dog also has allergies. This means, he will spend hours upon hours upon hours licking. We’ve tried vitamins and Benadryl and baths with oatmeal soap but nothing really helps. It’s best to just let him have his way. So, the crazy animal lies around licking his paws and, well, his rectum, if nobody stops him. I draw the line at the rectum. That’s just disgusting. And, we aren’t talking about a simple lick. We are talking about an all out love affair complete with slurping. I realize there are many people on this planet who would be extremely happy if they had the ability to actually lick their own butthole. For clarification, I happen to NOT BE ONE OF THEM. In all caps, people, do not miss that.
So, this happy Monday (insert sarcasm here), at six in the morning, I am awoken to slurp, slurp, slurp. Now, this is not how I want to begin my week. While I am a stay-at-home mother of only one child, I still have needs. Sleep is very high on my list of needs. I do not wish to wake at that hour, to that noise. The events unfolded something like this:
Dog: Slurp, slurp, slurp.
Me: “Cole! That’s disgusting! Stop!”
Dog: Slightly raises and eyebrow. Continues licking.
Me:”Stop!”
Dog: Lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick, lick…
Me: Throw slipper at dog’s head.
Dog: Looks startled. Stops the licking.
Me: Sigh. Roll over. Try to go back to sleep.
Elapsed time: Three minutes.
Dog: Lick, lick, lick, lick, slurp, slurp, slurp.
Me: Screaming, “I’m going to kill you!”
Dog: Calls bluff and continues voracious tongue jacking.
Have I no authority in my home? Why isn’t he taking me seriously? The glue factory is not that far away! I would so do that! WTF? That was not how I wanted this week to begin. That’s a blatant lack of respect for me! I gave him life! Well, not technically but what if I had not saved him from the pound! Doesn’t he think of these things! Bastard.
Free to one
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
I Vant to Suck Your Blood
Actually, I don’t really want anything to do with your blood. Unless, I'm dying and I need a transfusion or something, then we’ll talk. Alas, the inevitable has occurred. I have joined the vampire-loving band wagon. I heart True Blood! I’m just sorry that’s it’s taken me two years to get involved in this shit. It is some good shit, yo.
Bread and I have religiously been watching episode after episode. He likes it too. Personally, I think he likes the plethora of boobs. I mean, there are lots of boobs! I’ve yet to see any penis and we’re at end of season one. WTF? How is this fair? Boobs are all over the place! I understand it’s the privilege of HBO to show all the nudity and use all the profanity their little hearts can handle, but, seriously, how about some male frontal nudity for the ladies? It’s like every semi-decent looking female character is ripping her top off for every occasion? I can cook topless! Look! No hands while riding a rollercoaster- with no shirt!
I joke. I joke. I’m not there for the boobs (obviously) or for the hope of seeing some random dude’s package. But, I will say, thanks to our giant television screen which is easily visible from our street, our nosy neighbors probably think we’ve been watching a lot of porn these days. I know nothing about being a nosy neighbor and making false assumptions…
Honestly, I have no idea why we watch this program. The acting is terrible. I suppose it’s just nice to have a non-reality program to watch together. Bread despises reality programming because it’s so unrealistic (just realizing the irony in that he hates reality programs yet will watch a vampire show). Yes, reality TV is fake, but that is the glory of it. That shit makes me feel normal. It makes me think I am sane! I’m not, but it’s all about in comparison to others, you know? Let’s talk about the crazy that is The Bachelor. I met a nice boy in a normal way and married him. These men have twenty five scantily clad (I am so elderly) women fighting over them. All these women are pulling out the claws to win the affections of some cheesy guy who probably isn’t as rich or well-mannered as the show’s producers are asking him to be. The thing that boggles my mind about this show is that the women are mostly seemingly intelligent and good looking. Why is it that they’ve lowered themselves to this? WTF? The guy is not taken in a world of full of single women begging for the affections of some great guy. News flash: He’s either not as cute/great/smart as you think, or he, and we’re back to this again, has a tiny peter. Move on.
What about The Real World? How unreal is that? A network television station hand selects some beautiful people to live and work together in the “real world.” WTF? No! You don’t get to have some cool job and live in a fabulous apartment while somebody else pays the bills. It’s not effing real! No! Nothing about this situation is real! In the real, real world, people don’t get to leave their jobs for months at a time to go on TV and binge drink and bang the hell out of their roommates. Have some class! I always think how do these people do this? Don’t they know their grandmas are watching, having no idea what the show is and telling all their friends to watch too because their grandson or granddaughter is on TV. Hey, granny, look at me! I can facilitate a gang bang! Oh, how proud she must be!
What about all these Real Housewives’ shows? Let’s discuss! I know quite a few actual housewives, I mean, I am one myself. I am not shopping every day. If I do go shopping, it’s for food and toiletries, not Luis Vuitton. I do not have a nanny. There is no hunky personal trainer coming to my door. I’m not rolling up in a Range Rover or a Mercedes. I’ve never been in a screaming match with someone in a public place. If I get to “do lunch” it’s at McDonalds or some hole-in-the-wall. I do not apply an entire face of makeup each morning. I make Crock Pot meals! I help my child use the restroom! I do not get weekly massages/facials/Botox/Liposuction. Although, I believe this is an injustice, who do I talk to about that? Point being, I am a real housewife. WTF? Nobody wants to follow me around? Nobody wants to watch a show about my life? I do very exciting things! I walk my dogs and scowl at people who fail to stop BEFORE the stop sign! We play Barbies! I pretend to listen to my husband talk about politics! I reassure my husband that I am listening when he talks about politics! I do laundry! I Swiffer like a mad woman! I talk to myself! I get the mail! I can rock a pair of Yoga pants-ALL day long! Admittedly, I’m sad that nobody wants to follow me around with a camera and film my REAL life! I mean this is the stuff people need to see! I am exciting! Somebody needs to represent the real, real housewives. I’ll take my crazy there! If you’re in the biz, call me! Have your people call my people!
Bread and I have religiously been watching episode after episode. He likes it too. Personally, I think he likes the plethora of boobs. I mean, there are lots of boobs! I’ve yet to see any penis and we’re at end of season one. WTF? How is this fair? Boobs are all over the place! I understand it’s the privilege of HBO to show all the nudity and use all the profanity their little hearts can handle, but, seriously, how about some male frontal nudity for the ladies? It’s like every semi-decent looking female character is ripping her top off for every occasion? I can cook topless! Look! No hands while riding a rollercoaster- with no shirt!
I joke. I joke. I’m not there for the boobs (obviously) or for the hope of seeing some random dude’s package. But, I will say, thanks to our giant television screen which is easily visible from our street, our nosy neighbors probably think we’ve been watching a lot of porn these days. I know nothing about being a nosy neighbor and making false assumptions…
Honestly, I have no idea why we watch this program. The acting is terrible. I suppose it’s just nice to have a non-reality program to watch together. Bread despises reality programming because it’s so unrealistic (just realizing the irony in that he hates reality programs yet will watch a vampire show). Yes, reality TV is fake, but that is the glory of it. That shit makes me feel normal. It makes me think I am sane! I’m not, but it’s all about in comparison to others, you know? Let’s talk about the crazy that is The Bachelor. I met a nice boy in a normal way and married him. These men have twenty five scantily clad (I am so elderly) women fighting over them. All these women are pulling out the claws to win the affections of some cheesy guy who probably isn’t as rich or well-mannered as the show’s producers are asking him to be. The thing that boggles my mind about this show is that the women are mostly seemingly intelligent and good looking. Why is it that they’ve lowered themselves to this? WTF? The guy is not taken in a world of full of single women begging for the affections of some great guy. News flash: He’s either not as cute/great/smart as you think, or he, and we’re back to this again, has a tiny peter. Move on.
What about The Real World? How unreal is that? A network television station hand selects some beautiful people to live and work together in the “real world.” WTF? No! You don’t get to have some cool job and live in a fabulous apartment while somebody else pays the bills. It’s not effing real! No! Nothing about this situation is real! In the real, real world, people don’t get to leave their jobs for months at a time to go on TV and binge drink and bang the hell out of their roommates. Have some class! I always think how do these people do this? Don’t they know their grandmas are watching, having no idea what the show is and telling all their friends to watch too because their grandson or granddaughter is on TV. Hey, granny, look at me! I can facilitate a gang bang! Oh, how proud she must be!
What about all these Real Housewives’ shows? Let’s discuss! I know quite a few actual housewives, I mean, I am one myself. I am not shopping every day. If I do go shopping, it’s for food and toiletries, not Luis Vuitton. I do not have a nanny. There is no hunky personal trainer coming to my door. I’m not rolling up in a Range Rover or a Mercedes. I’ve never been in a screaming match with someone in a public place. If I get to “do lunch” it’s at McDonalds or some hole-in-the-wall. I do not apply an entire face of makeup each morning. I make Crock Pot meals! I help my child use the restroom! I do not get weekly massages/facials/Botox/Liposuction. Although, I believe this is an injustice, who do I talk to about that? Point being, I am a real housewife. WTF? Nobody wants to follow me around? Nobody wants to watch a show about my life? I do very exciting things! I walk my dogs and scowl at people who fail to stop BEFORE the stop sign! We play Barbies! I pretend to listen to my husband talk about politics! I reassure my husband that I am listening when he talks about politics! I do laundry! I Swiffer like a mad woman! I talk to myself! I get the mail! I can rock a pair of Yoga pants-ALL day long! Admittedly, I’m sad that nobody wants to follow me around with a camera and film my REAL life! I mean this is the stuff people need to see! I am exciting! Somebody needs to represent the real, real housewives. I’ll take my crazy there! If you’re in the biz, call me! Have your people call my people!
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Childhood Dreams Come True: One Inflatable Pool at a Time
The past couple days have been rather hectic around here. Sunday, I may have been recovering from a night of binge drinking (I have reasons for this, and, yes, I understand that consuming mass amounts of alcohol does not solve problems, thankyouverymuch). So needless to say, I didn’t get a lot done. Normally I could have because Bread was home. But, I did consume ice cream for lunch and Pei Wei for dinner, so life that day was extremely spectacular. Did I mention that we fed our tot ice cream for lunch on Sunday? Yep. Totally did that. Do you have a problem with it? Judge me. I’ll judge you right back. So there.
That brings me to yesterday, trying to catch up from having spent most of the day Sunday lounging and shoveling carbohydrates into my mouth. Contrary to popular belief, we SAHMs do have things to do. The top item on my list, you ask? Laundry. I find it rather trying to do laundry without actual laundry soap so off to Target we went. I had a rather large list, so I packed a lunch for Bird and we left the house around 11:30 in the morning. Little did I know that this was going to be an even longer trip then I anticipated.
We arrive at Target. First stop was the rest room. I had coffee so, there’s that. Next stop, of course was the Dollar Spot! Woot! Woot! I love the little notebooks and notepads! Next we hit the women’s clearance section followed by workout clothes and pajamas. We always have to peruse the shoe section and toddler clearance. I scored Bird some shorts for next year at the low, low price of $1.50. Now it was on to things we actually needed such as: toothpaste, pantry items, deodorant, Febreeze and oh, yes, laundry soap. Somewhere between the pantry and the Febreeze, Bird announced, first with a very loud passing of wind, and then vocally, that she needed to poop. Balls. Of course the bathroom is all the way across the store. After this was taken care of, and my child was about five pounds lighter, we finalized our purchases and made our way to the checkout.
Somehow, because this always happens despite the fact that I swear this is not going to happen, things that were not on the list made their way into our cart. Yesterday, it was a Disney Nemo Pool. I should say there is a back story to this. My crazy Uncle Ed took a picture of his neighbor’s Disney Princess Pool. I’ve seen them in the store and, believe me, so has Bird. But, you can’t always have everything you want, now can you? Unless Grandma is buying! Grandma wanted to get Bird the pool. I said okay but Target was out and she was enamored with the Nemo one. Also, it was on sale! Done! I suppose most people don’t wait until the middle of August to fulfill their summertime swimming needs, so a sale was not really unexpected. I feel the need to explain that my child is not deprived; she has a nice plastic pool from last year that has been meeting her needs just fine thus far. I don’t feed her ice cream for lunch and deprive her of the childhood glory that is a teeny tiny swimming pool! God!
We take all our shit home. The child is in need of a rest. She is on the brink. I’m not against her skipping a nap, but I could tell she really needed one yesterday. We arrive home and, amid promises of her getting to use the pool when Daddy gets home (after dinner, which was NOT ice cream), Bird agrees to a “rest.” She actually asked twice if she could sleep with her pool (suffocation hazard or else why the hell not). When, she yelled down the stairs about using it later, I told her, “SLEEP. PLEASE.” Why did we have to wait for Bread, you ask? I don’t know how to use the air compressor. Rather, I don’t know how to find the proper attachment among the mess that is our garage. Ahem. And, while I certainly am windy, I'm not that windy. Where is this post going you ask? It’s going. It’s going! I swear there’s a point.
Two hours later, I wake the child! “It's time to wake up! Let’s make dinner,” I shout up the stairs like a proper mom would. “I want my pool,” proclaims the child. I remind her that Daddy will have to blow it up when he gets home and we have to eat dinner first. I’m proud of her for her patience and understanding. Personally, I think she understands my plight that is our horribly over-filled, dirty, yuck garage.
The first words out of her mouth to Bread once he arrives home were about the damn pool. I’d warned him; he was prepared. So, immediately after we finish our fine meal, I send them out to fill up the pool! My child is yelling and screaming, “I’m so excited! My pool!” Minutes later, Bread returns, looking dejected, to tell me that the pool is indeed missing the slide! The slide? No way? You're kidding me? That’s the best part! So, we explain to our child what has happened and decide to go back to another Target in search of a replacement. Again, she handles this very well.
We load up the family sedan and head to our least favorite Target. Nobody there is friendly, apologetic or helpful. I don’t want to waste time with the morons asking for help so I go check the shelves to see if they have another one, or ideally, since she’s now begun asking for it, a princess pool. No, they do not! We decide to drive to yet another Target (yes, I tried to look online but they didn’t have any of the Disney pools on their site because it’s August).
So, Target number three for the day. They have it! God bless, Jesus! They have the Nemo Pool! Oh! Wait! What’s that I spy? It’s the Disney Princess Pool! Which one does she want? I’ll give you one guess. Yes! It’s a giant blow up castle with Belle, Sleeping Beauty and Snow White on it, and it’s going in my backyard!
By the time we pay for it, drive home and get her suit on, it’s now nine o’clock at night. Yet another reason I’m a terrible parent-of course I let her swim. Who wouldn’t? The child’s hopes and dreams were dashed by some asshole who decided to purchase a pool, take out part of it, or fail to mention when he returned it, that the best part was missing. I’m going to let her swim!
I come outside, after Bread has blown it up and am, despite the measurements on the box, completely shocked at how small the thing is. I mean, the picture on the box had three girls in it! There was a mom, in the pool, with a cocktail! I saw it! Oh, wait, that was me after this day finally ended! That thing looked spacious! Relaxing! Refreshing! The towers on the castle look like giant, pink phalluses! I love you, Disney! Thank you for making ugly paraphernalia for my backyard!
That brings me to yesterday, trying to catch up from having spent most of the day Sunday lounging and shoveling carbohydrates into my mouth. Contrary to popular belief, we SAHMs do have things to do. The top item on my list, you ask? Laundry. I find it rather trying to do laundry without actual laundry soap so off to Target we went. I had a rather large list, so I packed a lunch for Bird and we left the house around 11:30 in the morning. Little did I know that this was going to be an even longer trip then I anticipated.
We arrive at Target. First stop was the rest room. I had coffee so, there’s that. Next stop, of course was the Dollar Spot! Woot! Woot! I love the little notebooks and notepads! Next we hit the women’s clearance section followed by workout clothes and pajamas. We always have to peruse the shoe section and toddler clearance. I scored Bird some shorts for next year at the low, low price of $1.50. Now it was on to things we actually needed such as: toothpaste, pantry items, deodorant, Febreeze and oh, yes, laundry soap. Somewhere between the pantry and the Febreeze, Bird announced, first with a very loud passing of wind, and then vocally, that she needed to poop. Balls. Of course the bathroom is all the way across the store. After this was taken care of, and my child was about five pounds lighter, we finalized our purchases and made our way to the checkout.
Somehow, because this always happens despite the fact that I swear this is not going to happen, things that were not on the list made their way into our cart. Yesterday, it was a Disney Nemo Pool. I should say there is a back story to this. My crazy Uncle Ed took a picture of his neighbor’s Disney Princess Pool. I’ve seen them in the store and, believe me, so has Bird. But, you can’t always have everything you want, now can you? Unless Grandma is buying! Grandma wanted to get Bird the pool. I said okay but Target was out and she was enamored with the Nemo one. Also, it was on sale! Done! I suppose most people don’t wait until the middle of August to fulfill their summertime swimming needs, so a sale was not really unexpected. I feel the need to explain that my child is not deprived; she has a nice plastic pool from last year that has been meeting her needs just fine thus far. I don’t feed her ice cream for lunch and deprive her of the childhood glory that is a teeny tiny swimming pool! God!
We take all our shit home. The child is in need of a rest. She is on the brink. I’m not against her skipping a nap, but I could tell she really needed one yesterday. We arrive home and, amid promises of her getting to use the pool when Daddy gets home (after dinner, which was NOT ice cream), Bird agrees to a “rest.” She actually asked twice if she could sleep with her pool (suffocation hazard or else why the hell not). When, she yelled down the stairs about using it later, I told her, “SLEEP. PLEASE.” Why did we have to wait for Bread, you ask? I don’t know how to use the air compressor. Rather, I don’t know how to find the proper attachment among the mess that is our garage. Ahem. And, while I certainly am windy, I'm not that windy. Where is this post going you ask? It’s going. It’s going! I swear there’s a point.
Two hours later, I wake the child! “It's time to wake up! Let’s make dinner,” I shout up the stairs like a proper mom would. “I want my pool,” proclaims the child. I remind her that Daddy will have to blow it up when he gets home and we have to eat dinner first. I’m proud of her for her patience and understanding. Personally, I think she understands my plight that is our horribly over-filled, dirty, yuck garage.
The first words out of her mouth to Bread once he arrives home were about the damn pool. I’d warned him; he was prepared. So, immediately after we finish our fine meal, I send them out to fill up the pool! My child is yelling and screaming, “I’m so excited! My pool!” Minutes later, Bread returns, looking dejected, to tell me that the pool is indeed missing the slide! The slide? No way? You're kidding me? That’s the best part! So, we explain to our child what has happened and decide to go back to another Target in search of a replacement. Again, she handles this very well.
We load up the family sedan and head to our least favorite Target. Nobody there is friendly, apologetic or helpful. I don’t want to waste time with the morons asking for help so I go check the shelves to see if they have another one, or ideally, since she’s now begun asking for it, a princess pool. No, they do not! We decide to drive to yet another Target (yes, I tried to look online but they didn’t have any of the Disney pools on their site because it’s August).
So, Target number three for the day. They have it! God bless, Jesus! They have the Nemo Pool! Oh! Wait! What’s that I spy? It’s the Disney Princess Pool! Which one does she want? I’ll give you one guess. Yes! It’s a giant blow up castle with Belle, Sleeping Beauty and Snow White on it, and it’s going in my backyard!
By the time we pay for it, drive home and get her suit on, it’s now nine o’clock at night. Yet another reason I’m a terrible parent-of course I let her swim. Who wouldn’t? The child’s hopes and dreams were dashed by some asshole who decided to purchase a pool, take out part of it, or fail to mention when he returned it, that the best part was missing. I’m going to let her swim!
I come outside, after Bread has blown it up and am, despite the measurements on the box, completely shocked at how small the thing is. I mean, the picture on the box had three girls in it! There was a mom, in the pool, with a cocktail! I saw it! Oh, wait, that was me after this day finally ended! That thing looked spacious! Relaxing! Refreshing! The towers on the castle look like giant, pink phalluses! I love you, Disney! Thank you for making ugly paraphernalia for my backyard!
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