Need help finding it?

Thursday, May 26, 2011

In a stroke of brilliance!

I’m not a picky eater…I don’t think. There are a few items I refuse to eat. I won’t eat these things, not b/c I don’t like how they taste but more b/c I don’t like their texture (yes…we can discuss my weird texture issues later). For years, I have been flinging unwanted raw onions or celery onto my husband’s plate. After 13 years, he has become quite adept at thwarting my attempts.

He’s fast to move his plate, and I chuck the offending vegetable on the table. He’s also taken to blocking the toss with his fork – deflecting my attempt, and usually winding the item onto some unsuspecting person’s plate. [This makes for extreme awkwardness when I don’t know the person in question]…”Yeah, I don’t like celery, I was giving it to him (pointing) and he thought you really wanted it instead.”

It really never dawned on me to make my kids eat them. Since I don’t cook with either, my older two are a lost cause, already having rooted their heels into stubborn eating habits – AKA: if it isn’t a nugget of some sort shaped like a dinosaur, they’re not trying it. That is…until the other evening.

A fund raiser for a local school saw the outdoor production of BBQ Chicken from a well known establishment, with two sides. My husband picked up this dinner…aww, how nice. He got all four of the sides, two for me, two for him. I made my selection. DAMNIALL! My macaroni salad has BOTH onions and celery in it (I should also insert here that husband doesn’t care for them either…). I begin the arduous task of picking them out.

“I’m not sure why everyone has to put this crap in their salads. It’s a complete texture confliction issue. The soft noodles, mayonnaise and eggs should not be mixed with the crunchy raw vegetable. It’s just wrong.” The two-year-old wanders up (having already eaten her dinner while I was at class). “Try some, Mommy?” OK. I scoop some noodles. She eats them. “Try some more?” The light bulb, due to being the tree hugger kind is sloooow to illuminate over my head…wonder if she’ll eat the onion. Hey - she will eat anything as long as it’s on someone else’s plate, so why not?

The fork scoops, the fork goes in mouth, she chews. I look at her screwed up face, “Whoa! Crunchy! YUMMMM!” She mimics, “YUM!” I offer an additional sample. More brazenly this time…I scoop only one pasta and one celery AND one onion. “YUM, CRUNCHY!” “YUM!” Her face might be stating otherwise. She chews. She comes back. Shamelessly, I scoop nothing but onions & celery. [HEY! Don’t judge, the kid already ate…I haven’t.] “Ooooh, crunchy!” “YUM?” Her beautiful cherubic face scrunches up in pure scrutiny.

At this point, my husband, whom has been the recipient of all of my “yucks” for the last 13 years jumps out of his chair and whoops out of sheer joy. “SHE ATE IT! SHE ATE IT!” Pointing at me, “Now, throw this crap on her plate and not mine!”

Never before have I seen another adult so quick to sell their kid out. Sensing something momentous has just occurred, my baby – the light of my life – claps, asks for more and is rewarded with a fork full of Mommy’s yucks, and I take a moment to revel in my stroke of brilliance six years in the making.

Monday, May 23, 2011

Man pants

For the record, I hate shopping…for myself. I do however, love to dress my family. I’m not sure my husband has bought a single piece of clothing in the last 10 years. I’m not sure I’d trust him if he attempted to. The last thing he bought for himself were some acid washed, tapered legged, black jeans. And, no…it wasn’t in the ‘80s…it was in this millennium. And yes, I do have photos! I digress.

Shopping for my family is easy. The husband’s size is determined by a measurement. I can walk into any store, pick up any pair of 34x36 (if I can ever find those) pants, pay and know they will fit. The waist may fluctuate an inch dependent on how many cookies I’ve baked recently, but his legs are as long as his legs always are. And kids are fantastic…give or take, their size is their age. Fabulous!

Me, on the other hand…I go into a panic attack just thinking about the purchase of a new pair of jeans. It usually plays out like this:

Tiny girl of age 18 and size 00 (incidentally, WTF is a size 00 – is that just a cruel way to make the size 0 girls feel fat?) accosts/greets me not even within 2 feet of the entrance. “Can I help you find anything?” I immediately punch her, snatch her bald-headed and run for the closest exit. Wait, no…that’s what I want to do. Instead, I sigh and bite the bullet. “Sure, sweet cheeks…you can help me find a pair of casual jeans that disguise the size of my ass, hide my ‘Mommy-junk’ commonly referred to as Muffin Top, will not scare my children with plumber’s crack, have not been bedazzled and are actually made of Denim and not 100% Lycra – it’s not a good look for me.”

She studies her manicure. “Hmmm. What size are you?” “In store A, I wear a 14, in store B I take a 16 in store C – whom are my favorite, but too far to drive, I’m a 12. In store D, I’m a 33 and lastly in store E, I’m a L. I have no idea what any of that means, or why I just had to be humiliated enough to state out loud.” Rolling her eyes, she puts me in a fitting room.

Over the course of the next 30 minutes, I try on about 15 pair of pants…and none fit. Too tight here, too big there. Most are not long enough, although strangely, I’m not considered tall. One pair, I’m certain were beamed here from another planet. One pair would be appropriate if I were to pick up a night gig as a street walker...even then I doubt I’d be paid much – except to go away. And I’m certain that one pair was thrown in b/c that tiny girl was filled with malice & spite.

Heartbroken and self-esteem in shreds, I leave the store, sans jeans. I do what any respectable woman does at this point. I go shopping for shoes. I come home with an expensive pair of stilettos, b/c HEY! They look great with these sweat pants…who needs jeans anyways?

Friday, May 20, 2011

AHA! I caught you!

Ok, you've all seen her: the elusive but drunk soccer mom. Easily distinguished by her harried appearance, dirty "kid hauler" vehicle, shouts of curse words, rampant blinkering (that's when you drive down the road, going straight with your blinker on for no reason), herky-jerky lurching forward every time she accelerates and detrimental careening in and out of her lane. You find yourself marveling and praying for her soul, "Please don't let that drunk woman have actually have children in the car with her..."

Don't worry. She doesn't. How do I know this? It's me. I'm her. Wait. I was driving that minivan! No, no...I wasn't drunk. I hadn't even been drinking, although in hindsight, this may have all played out better if I had been. You see, the problem with the "Drunk Soccer Mom", I've discovered - IT'S NOT HER CAR! Oh, you heard me.

Normally, I drive the vehicular love of my life: Fenway - The Green Monster. A four door Jeep Wrangler Unlimited. Manual. 4x4. I was meant to plow over everything in my pathway, both figuratively and literally in my life...so I got the car to accommodate this. The problem lies in the fact that the dork I married recently bought a minivan. I've driven it precisely 4 times. Each time, I somehow; arrive at my destination only to get out of his car, whoop and holler as if I just won the lottery, proceed to call his car a bitch...then I usually kick it.

Tonight was no exception. I went grocery shopping. The store is about three miles away. Three miles in which: I veered in and out of my lane, I forgot I wasn't driving a stick shift and mashed on the gas, stopped so short I now have a seatbelt bruise on my collarbone, and ended up pulling into 3 different spots in the parking lot - each further and further away from the store...only to leave the ass end of "The Silver Bullet of Death" [don't tell my husband I named his car that] precariously sticking into the lane about 2 feet.

I got out. I stood there. I stared at that horror of transportation. It was staring back at me. Noooo...I left the headlights on. How did I do that? I don't even know how to turn them on to begin with! I get back in. I attempt to turn them off. The wipers come on. I end up beeping the particularly gay sounding horn. I sigh. I get out again. I stand there. I stare some more. I yell, "Oh, fuhk it!" and figure that one hour in a grocery store isn't going to kill his battery, and if it does...Oh well, I have AAA.

As I am angrily stomping through the parking lot, I hear the couple behind me: "That woman must be inebriated. Thank god she doesn't have any kids with her..."

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Like Father, Like Son?

Now, don't get me wrong...I am unbelievably in love with my husband. But he's a dork. I find this dorkiness horribly endearing and undeniably cute. That's how he suckered me in. He is a far cry from a ladies man, and possibly swung for the fences when he batted out of his league for me (not that I'm egotistical). In any case, I would not say that my son takes after his father...but, then, I'm left wondering: Where the hell does he get it from?

My FOUR-YEAR-OLD son [whom we lovingly call the "Cougar Chaser"] IS a ladies man. The joke up in this joint isn't about locking up your daughters though...it's about protecting your wife and/or mother! No lie. If you're an attractive woman over 30, chances are, this little boy has hit on you.

We go to the park. Little girls his own age are shunned. He heads straight for mom, "Hi. I love you. Will you take me out for mac-n-cheese at Red Robin?" We go to a store. He eyes the clerk, "What's your name? Can you come over for dinner with me? I loooooove you!" Each time, I sink to a new level of mortification.

"I swear, I don't know where he gets this from!" And every woman, EVERY time - responds back to him, "Aren't you cute? I love you too!" Well, he is cute, but you should beware!

Most recently, a coworker/friend and his wife came over for dinner. The first few minutes after introduction were a coy bump in this clever journey down the trail of the cougar hunt. Slowly he warmed up. Batted his mile long eyelashes. Professed his love to the wife. Wouldn't leave her side, you know...all the norm for a smitten little boy. Jokingly, I set them next to each other at dinner - "Watch out, he's after your wife" was my whisper. Little did I know.

After dinner the bomb dropped. Not only did my son invite her to an exclusive "slumber party"...HE HAD BEEN RUBBING HIS FOOT ON HER THIGH ALL THROUGH DINNER! When he's called for bedtime, he once more professes his love to said newly acquired hottie in his harem, has a minor meltdown...and goes to bed having won the heart of yet another conquest.

My question is this: where does he learn it from? I highly doubt Daddy is capable of inspiring this behavior. Primarily, Disney movies are watched in my house (he's too sensitive for Harry Potter even...again, adding to that sickly sweet disposition). I am seriously starting to wonder what happens my one night out to Pilates class - which interestingly enough he asked to attend with me last night...

Thursday, May 12, 2011

Who dropped the bomb?

I find bathrooms endlessly fascinating. Public restrooms, personal powder rooms, lavatories, washrooms, latrines, privies and even the loo. All of it just plainly astounding, from the sights to the sounds and good God - the smells. For those of you who've never stepped foot into a "Ladies Room", I hope to educate you; and for those who have - I actually don't hope that you share my pain.

It never fails to floor me how the ideal woman is a soft wisp of a thing that smells pretty and talks sweetly...and how "her" public restroom is one of the most terrifying places on earth. I've heard everything from friends who REFUSE to defecate in a public stall (gee, I wonder what happens when she has the Tahitian Trots...) to actually having prayed, myself, to get explosive diarrhea when I hear a stall inhabitant loudly announce on their cell phone, "Nah, I'm just in my car on the way to the store." You aren't fooling anyone, and I want to be the one to expose you.

Large mirrors run the gamut of the walls. Women set their purses on the sink, the floor, on hooks and any other available surface. They primp. They check to see if there is lettuce in between their teeth. Oddly none of them ever wash their hands and run the hell out as fast as they can.

"Why would someone run out of the bathroom?" you ask. Well - have you ever stopped to notice that there are no toilet lids in that joint? When the water flushes down, are you naive enough to believe that NONE of it becomes particles in the surrounding air...landing on the every available surface you just laid your Coach bag on? Ugh.

Next up: I've yet to find a "ladies" room that doesn't smell like a dead tranny hooker is stuffed into the drop ceiling compartment. [Yes, Tranny hookers smell worse than the regular hookers...don't ask how I know. Just blindly accept.] I've now discovered why most males have NEVER EVER seen or heard a woman "fluff". They all save it up. Possibly for months on end only to unleash it in the public restroom in closest proximity. I cannot begin to think about the horrendous things I've witnessed. - how close females have come to exploding from pent up methane, clogged toilets where apparently folks make oven mitts out of TP to clean house and a random and total disregard for shared space. Those "fluffs" I spoke of earlier should be more aptly called "Sonic-booming Ass Blasts".

I've tried to think of clever ways to unleash this unholiness. I've come up with next to nothing. One thing is for certain: I'm going to start using the Men's Room. At least I know in there, I'm getting a bunch of burping, scratching and leg shaking. And hopefully, most of those in attendance would be too busy holding other things to hold their phone, and at the very least - I'll finally be able to stop my silently uttered prayers to loudly embarrass someone else.

Monday, May 9, 2011

The Day My Soul Died

...and so it began. The day started out simple enough. I shoved the kids into my Jeep. And by shoved, I truly mean CRAMMED. Their two bottom feeding boosters and one high backed five harnessed booster are strapped into the automotive love of my life...a 4WD, manual transmissioned hybrid of kick ass and rugged. We put our buckles on...and we giddy'd up.

My road is currently under construction. For anyone who knows the 4th season of the year in NYS - you are familiar with Orange Cone Season; commonly referred to as: Construction - you know that means that my residential street is tore the hell up. I quickly shifted into second gear and sent a cascade of small pebbles all over creation as I peeled out of the driveway. Delighted squeals exploded from the backseat. I'd even taken off my top for the voyage...no, you pervert! Not that top - my Jeep Top.

Ahhh, the wind in our hair, the sun on our face and the smell of construction dust flying around us. We down-shifted and gassed it through potholes the size of craters. I, at the children's beck & command, blasted through every mud puddle in our path. Hard core, head banging rock music trumpeted from my superior sound system. The four of us were in Utopia. Giggles erupted from the heavens. This was MY day.

We charged on over to Home Depot, where we ruthlessly filled the back end up with dirty things such as mulch and bags of various lawn care sundries. We pulled into the driveway. Wait, no - scratch that. Driveways are for sissies. We parked on the damned front yard! All the kids undid their restraints and gladly jumped out of my Jeep hooting and hollering.

My son. My boy. My pride and joy. My sweet, cherished middle child looked up at me with his soft cow eyes. He batted his mile long eyelashes at me - all smiles. He beamed at me in consuming devotion. I leaned in close, prepared to hear, "Mommy - that was the best ride ever!"

Instead, he joyously pronounced, "That was fun, but Daddy's car is way better than yours..." I was shocked so speechless, I near choked on my own saliva.

In case you were not aware - my husband drives a minivan.