I went to the movies by myself yesterday, which is something I like to do because I don't care if people think I'm pathetic. I'd been wanting to see The Martian for about 5,000 weeks now, but it isn't the easiest thing to find a way to abandon my children for three straight hours. I mainly go to the movies for the popcorn- our movie theater has an "annual bucket" thingy. If you're unfamiliar with the annual bucket, it's basically a plastic trough that you purchase in January and they refill for like $4 instead of the usual price of a large popcorn- which is calibrated to the price of one 3D ticket x 27. They also sell a lid so you can take home what you don't finish. Note: If you can't finish a bucket of popcorn during a two hour movie, you're an insult to everything that America stands for.
When I bought the ticket, I was told to take two rights and head to the end of the hall, which is code for "this movie came out 42 damn weeks ago and you should have come sooner if you wanted to see it on a screen larger than your TV." As soon as I walked in to the theater, I knew it was going to be a long movie, because Florida. The average age in the room was hovering somewhere between Carter and HW Bush. (I just looked this up, actually. HW is older than Carter by 90 days. Both are 91. Still 5 years younger than most people at this movie.) Hearing aids were adjusted. Prostate pills were swallowed. Somewhere in the theater, a cellphone was blaring and absolutely no one could hear it- except me, because I'm a whippersnapper or youngin or some other old timey word like that. Below is a synopsis of the entire movie, as screamed by the charming couple seated behind me:
Man: "EDNA. EDNA! IS THE YOUNG MAN ALIVE? IS THAT WHAT HAPPENED?"
Edna: "I DON'T KNOW, DEAR. IT'S A MOVIE. YOU HAVE TO WATCH IT TO FIND OUT."
Man: "IF HE'S ALIVE, HE'S GOING TO HAVE TO LIVE ON MARS.THEY LEFT HIM."
Edna: "I KNOW THAT, DEAR. I THINK THAT'S WHAT THIS MOVIE IS ABOUT. THE YOUNG MAN HAS TO LIVE ON MARS BY HIMSELF."
Man: "WELL, HE'LL BE LUCKY IF HE SURVIVES."
While I will not spoil the end of the movie because I don't want to have to tell you that Matt Damon dies in a fiery explosion, I will tell you that everyone in the theater survived. At least long enough to make it onto the retirement home bus that was parked out front. Because Florida.
Sunday, November 1, 2015
Wednesday, July 1, 2015
Where the Vacuum Cord Ends
For the last several days, my kids have asked for bowls of Lucky Charms with no milk. I pour the cereal into a plastic bowl, hand it to them, and they scamper away. They keep asking for more, and I keep handing it over. I was pretty surprised that they were eating so much, because I'm pretty surprised when they eat anything that isn't a Freeze Pop. I shouldn't have let my guard down. I should have known they were plotting something. But more on that later.
Some famous person (Jerry Seinfeld or his wife?) once said that having a two year old is like running a blender without a lid. Which is true, except that if you're Jerry Seinfeld, your blender is full of fifty dollar bills, cage-free acai, and prosecco*. If you're me, the blender is full of dog hair, a piece of something that could be poop or possibly chocolate, and those really long Target coupons. That blender keeps right on running, all damn day. Juice box straws are shoved in sock drawers, a missing shoe is wedged behind the toilet tank, and there's some kind of fuzzy ball of something near the door- possibly human hair, possibly dog hair, possibly plant material, possibly from the insect kingdom, or possibly a conglomeration of all of the above. (Protip: Spray it with Raid for good measure and kick it under the couch.) None of this can ever be cleaned up unless the kids leave the house, and let's face it, if your kids actually left your house, would you spend your free time cleaning? Hells no.
Some annoying person is reading this right now and saying one of two things: 1. My little angel never makes a mess! What is wrong with this lady's kids? or 2. Teach your kids how to clean up! Here is my rebuttal. First of all, one kid can make a mess. For each subsequent kid, that mess increases exponentially. I know about exponential growth models, because I used to be a math teacher and stuff. Second of all, I agree that kids can "pick up" their messes. If by "pick up" you mean shove stuff in places it doesn't belong and create five times the amount of work that it would have taken if you had just put it away your own damn self.
So where does all of this leave me? I mean, besides bitter. It leaves me in a perpetual Hoarders episode, punctuated by moments of sheer terror when the doorbell rings- because WHAT IF THAT PERSON WANTS TO COME IN HERE??? WHAT IF SOMEONE COMES IN THIS HOUSE AND SEES THIS??? WHAT IF SOMEONE LOOKS BEHIND THE TV AND FINDS THE PILE OF LUCKY CHARMS WITH THE MARSHMALLOWS PICKED OUT??? Seriously though, they've been picking out the marshmallows and making a pile of the leftover cereal behind the living room TV.
I can't take much more of this.
*Acai and prosecco. I don't know what either of those things are, in all honesty. I feel the need to declare that publicly. I did hear that Crystal Pepsi is coming back though. So there's that.
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Tomorrow is the last day of school and the first day of the end of my life.
The number of summer camps offered for un potty trained four year olds is, you guessed it... ZILCH. There is no way, and I mean NO WAY I am going to make it through this summer without some ingenuity and a buttload of hand sanitizer. As a coping strategy, I've decided to create my own summer camp series, just for the three of us. Below please find a brief summary of the weeks and their themes:
Week One: Craft Camp: Using Magic Erasers to scrub unidentified food matter out of grout
Week Two: Drama Camp: Let's face it, EVERY week is drama camp
Week Three: Dance Camp: Here's Just Dance 3, see you in four hours
Week Four: Science Camp: Using tweezers to reconstruct what the baby just puked up so we can call Poison Control
Week Five: Sweatpants and Chinese Food Camp: Speaks for itself, really
Week Six: Spanish Camp: 42 episodes of Dora a day for five days straight
Week Seven: Laundry Camp: Learning how to remove human fecal matter from clothing/upholstery/carpets
Week Eight: Soccer Camp: Whenever the World Cup is, we're just going to watch it all day/night
Week Nine: Field Trip Week: First we're going to Target, and then Bridget's diaper will explode in the Home Depot parking lot
Week Ten: School has probably already started, but I won't know for sure until I wait until August 29th to check the school district calendar
Fridays will be a special day with a cookout. We'll have hot dogs without buns because the bun on the end was moldy and I forgot to get more. Also, I don't really know how to grill, so we're having chicken nuggets.
Summer camp/nature/exercise/human contact/enrichment learning is overrated anyway.
Week One: Craft Camp: Using Magic Erasers to scrub unidentified food matter out of grout
Week Two: Drama Camp: Let's face it, EVERY week is drama camp
Week Three: Dance Camp: Here's Just Dance 3, see you in four hours
Week Four: Science Camp: Using tweezers to reconstruct what the baby just puked up so we can call Poison Control
Week Five: Sweatpants and Chinese Food Camp: Speaks for itself, really
Week Six: Spanish Camp: 42 episodes of Dora a day for five days straight
Week Seven: Laundry Camp: Learning how to remove human fecal matter from clothing/upholstery/carpets
Week Eight: Soccer Camp: Whenever the World Cup is, we're just going to watch it all day/night
Week Nine: Field Trip Week: First we're going to Target, and then Bridget's diaper will explode in the Home Depot parking lot
Week Ten: School has probably already started, but I won't know for sure until I wait until August 29th to check the school district calendar
Fridays will be a special day with a cookout. We'll have hot dogs without buns because the bun on the end was moldy and I forgot to get more. Also, I don't really know how to grill, so we're having chicken nuggets.
Summer camp/nature/exercise/human contact/enrichment learning is overrated anyway.
Monday, April 7, 2014
Be afraid, be very afraid. In fact, be irrationally freaking terrified.
Remember when you were a kid and you were terrified of every single thing in your bedroom at night? You woke up with jolt, heard nine thousand suspicious noises, and hid under your covers whispering "there's someone in my room, there's someone in my ROOM!!!!" and basically imagining that Chucky was standing over your bed with a bloody ax?
I think I've always had a particularly tough time with this because I'm such a light sleeper. Back during the Cretaceous Period, I had a Blackberry that would blink if you had any kind of new message. That light would routinely wake me up in the middle of the night, and it didn't even make a noise. My husband, on the other hand, needs to be hit in the forehead with a nail-studded two-by-four to wake up. Because of this, I am the jerk always waking both of us up saying "I HEAR SOMETHING. WHAT WAS THAT NOISE??? GO FIND OUT!!!!" This is the sixth place we have lived in the nine years we've been married, and this problem is exponentially worse now that we have an ice maker. Number of times in a given week that I hear a scalpel-wielding intruder, intent on stealing my kidney for a black market organ smuggling ring, who is also somehow capable of disabling our somewhat intense security system= 267 Number of times it was just the ice maker= 267
I never anticipated that a force could exist that could terrify me even more than an organ-harvesting rabid Chucky doll- but I also never anticipated how absolutely bizarre a three year old can be in the middle of the night, either. Why can't they cry or yell? Why do they have to just walk in and stand there in the pitch darkness? Some nights, I can sense some kind of disturbance in the force and I wake up while she's still walking into the room. Other nights, I just hear breathing. Because I am basically Stevie Wonder without my glasses on, I have to rely on the very ears that have never recovered from 12,764 listenings of Gin and Juice on my Sony Sports Discman in 1994. If the figure stands there long enough, I start to panic. What if it's the head alien of an alien reconnaissance team scouting my bedroom for the easiest possible abduction points? (I don't know, seems pretty likely to me.) The worse case scenario is that your eyes fly open and her face is an inch from yours, just staring at you while you sleep. I would try to say something funny about that, except there is NOTHING FUNNY ABOUT THAT. EVER.
Thankfully, I have yet to find John Wayne Gacy or a Kraken in my room in the middle of the night. It's always just my wonderfully weird little kid- who eventually reveals herself. "Daddy, I couldn't sweep, it's dawk in my woom and there's noises!" I hear ya, kid- literally.
I think I've always had a particularly tough time with this because I'm such a light sleeper. Back during the Cretaceous Period, I had a Blackberry that would blink if you had any kind of new message. That light would routinely wake me up in the middle of the night, and it didn't even make a noise. My husband, on the other hand, needs to be hit in the forehead with a nail-studded two-by-four to wake up. Because of this, I am the jerk always waking both of us up saying "I HEAR SOMETHING. WHAT WAS THAT NOISE??? GO FIND OUT!!!!" This is the sixth place we have lived in the nine years we've been married, and this problem is exponentially worse now that we have an ice maker. Number of times in a given week that I hear a scalpel-wielding intruder, intent on stealing my kidney for a black market organ smuggling ring, who is also somehow capable of disabling our somewhat intense security system= 267 Number of times it was just the ice maker= 267
I never anticipated that a force could exist that could terrify me even more than an organ-harvesting rabid Chucky doll- but I also never anticipated how absolutely bizarre a three year old can be in the middle of the night, either. Why can't they cry or yell? Why do they have to just walk in and stand there in the pitch darkness? Some nights, I can sense some kind of disturbance in the force and I wake up while she's still walking into the room. Other nights, I just hear breathing. Because I am basically Stevie Wonder without my glasses on, I have to rely on the very ears that have never recovered from 12,764 listenings of Gin and Juice on my Sony Sports Discman in 1994. If the figure stands there long enough, I start to panic. What if it's the head alien of an alien reconnaissance team scouting my bedroom for the easiest possible abduction points? (I don't know, seems pretty likely to me.) The worse case scenario is that your eyes fly open and her face is an inch from yours, just staring at you while you sleep. I would try to say something funny about that, except there is NOTHING FUNNY ABOUT THAT. EVER.
Thankfully, I have yet to find John Wayne Gacy or a Kraken in my room in the middle of the night. It's always just my wonderfully weird little kid- who eventually reveals herself. "Daddy, I couldn't sweep, it's dawk in my woom and there's noises!" I hear ya, kid- literally.
Monday, February 10, 2014
Bill W. is My Spirit Animal
Well, here it is, come and gone: February 10th. Six years gone by.
The first six minutes were as long as the first six days, the first six days were as long as the first six months, and the first six months were as long as the past six years. I don't know if I will ever be fixed- or if that is even possible. I don't know if I will be able to sit here in six more years and say that that I'm still sober. But I do know that I am sober right now- and that I have been sober for the past 52,595 hours. I'll be damned if I'm not going to make it to 52,596. One second at a time, one minute, one hour- clawing through each day and deciding that everything in my life is worth more than a liquid in a bottle. Deciding to live because I was meant to live. Deciding not to spend my days curled up on the bathroom floor, but standing in my backyard like an idiot with my arms up in the air, letting the sun shine on my face. I don't care how hard it is or how much it hurts, I will keep fighting for my life every damn day.
Six years down, infinity to go- here's hoping for sunny days.
The first six minutes were as long as the first six days, the first six days were as long as the first six months, and the first six months were as long as the past six years. I don't know if I will ever be fixed- or if that is even possible. I don't know if I will be able to sit here in six more years and say that that I'm still sober. But I do know that I am sober right now- and that I have been sober for the past 52,595 hours. I'll be damned if I'm not going to make it to 52,596. One second at a time, one minute, one hour- clawing through each day and deciding that everything in my life is worth more than a liquid in a bottle. Deciding to live because I was meant to live. Deciding not to spend my days curled up on the bathroom floor, but standing in my backyard like an idiot with my arms up in the air, letting the sun shine on my face. I don't care how hard it is or how much it hurts, I will keep fighting for my life every damn day.
Six years down, infinity to go- here's hoping for sunny days.
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
Outwit, Outlast, Outparent
Before you have kids, it's so easy to be snarky about all of the crap that you WOULD NEVER DO. I would never give my baby formula! I would never put my kid on a leash! I would never rub raw meat on my toddler and push her into a lion cage! Well guess what? I've done all of those things just in the last six months! Except for the leash thing. That's just messed up.
When you watch other people with their kids, you think that every move they make must be part of some brilliant philosophy of parenting. There must be a rationale behind all of these rules they've set for their kids. As it turns out, there's no philosophy at all behind parenting- except kill or be killed. If you aren't one step ahead of them, they will be jumping on your back and sinking their deceptively sharp baby teeth into your unshowered flesh. They can smell fear, and they won't hesitate to rip out your jugular in the middle of the supermarket and leave you to bleed to death in the baking aisle. (A good rule of thumb: Just stay out of the damn baking aisle. You don't have time to bake, only to make the dough and then eat it raw by the fistful while you hide in the laundry room. On second thought, maybe the baking aisle is ok.)
I had many ideas about parenting before I had kids, and even when I had just one baby. Those were the good old easy days. Once you have a toddlerbomb on your hands, you can hear that little ticking noise 24/7- letting you know that you are mere moments from the type of explosion that would have made Oppenheimer shed a radioactive tear of joy. Avoiding that explosion, especially in public, is now your only mission in life. (Don't get me started on the idea that if your kid melts down in the store you should just leave. Really? OK. We'll just go home and gnaw on styrofoam for dinner. Thanks for the suggestion.) The reality is, you have shit to do, and it needs to get done. And those Hurt Locker suits are really heavy and way too hot for Florida.
So you do whatever you have to do just to get through it. Just to SURVIVE. Just to get home to the next Mary Poppins-esque dance party/craft fair that you have planned using organic hemp-based paints that you sourced from a women's collective in Tamil Nadu. Or to make it home in time for the Doc McStuffins marathon. Yeah, that too. Who cares if you have to put your kid on a leash (I did this too, by the way) or if you have to buy some cheap plastic wand that your kid points at elderly people in the paper towel aisle and screams "I WILL FREEZE YOUR HEART!" At least you are still alive. Which is more that can be said for that elderly lady in the paper towel aisle with the frozen heart. She's just screwed.
Also, go see Frozen. It's good.
When you watch other people with their kids, you think that every move they make must be part of some brilliant philosophy of parenting. There must be a rationale behind all of these rules they've set for their kids. As it turns out, there's no philosophy at all behind parenting- except kill or be killed. If you aren't one step ahead of them, they will be jumping on your back and sinking their deceptively sharp baby teeth into your unshowered flesh. They can smell fear, and they won't hesitate to rip out your jugular in the middle of the supermarket and leave you to bleed to death in the baking aisle. (A good rule of thumb: Just stay out of the damn baking aisle. You don't have time to bake, only to make the dough and then eat it raw by the fistful while you hide in the laundry room. On second thought, maybe the baking aisle is ok.)
I had many ideas about parenting before I had kids, and even when I had just one baby. Those were the good old easy days. Once you have a toddlerbomb on your hands, you can hear that little ticking noise 24/7- letting you know that you are mere moments from the type of explosion that would have made Oppenheimer shed a radioactive tear of joy. Avoiding that explosion, especially in public, is now your only mission in life. (Don't get me started on the idea that if your kid melts down in the store you should just leave. Really? OK. We'll just go home and gnaw on styrofoam for dinner. Thanks for the suggestion.) The reality is, you have shit to do, and it needs to get done. And those Hurt Locker suits are really heavy and way too hot for Florida.
So you do whatever you have to do just to get through it. Just to SURVIVE. Just to get home to the next Mary Poppins-esque dance party/craft fair that you have planned using organic hemp-based paints that you sourced from a women's collective in Tamil Nadu. Or to make it home in time for the Doc McStuffins marathon. Yeah, that too. Who cares if you have to put your kid on a leash (I did this too, by the way) or if you have to buy some cheap plastic wand that your kid points at elderly people in the paper towel aisle and screams "I WILL FREEZE YOUR HEART!" At least you are still alive. Which is more that can be said for that elderly lady in the paper towel aisle with the frozen heart. She's just screwed.
Also, go see Frozen. It's good.
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
A Day Without Sunshine is Like Night
There are tumbleweeds blowing through this blog. I feel terrible about it, because it's basically the only thing that I do and it's not getting done. Dreams of publishing the next best seller = crushed under a sh!t ton of poopy diapers. The reality is that I don't find life all that funny right now. There are funny moments still, just surrounded by endless drooling. I'm drooling. Not my kids. I guess they probably are too though.
I've been to St. Petersburg twice in my life during White Nights, which is the time during the summer when it doesn't get dark there. (Doesn't White Nights sound like a Moody Blues song or a KKK concert series? Yeah, I thought so too.) The first time I was there, I was 15 and I thought it was amazing. Who needs sleep? Let's just stay up all night!!! There's no difference between night and day! YAY!!! The second time I was there I was 28, and I almost died. Why in the hell is there no difference between day and night? I need to sleep!!! You see my point. Five years on from that and I am living in permanent White Nights. (NOT the KKK concert series.) There is no difference between night and day. I am always awake, wiping butts and taking names. And it's killing me.
The funny thing about sleep deprivation is nothing. There's nothing funny or redeeming about it. It makes me feel drunk, but without any fun keg stands or tight black pants. It just sucks. Maybe someday soon my baby will decide to sleep again and I will start writing. I'm guessing maybe 14 or 15 years from now? I think that's a solid estimate.
I've been to St. Petersburg twice in my life during White Nights, which is the time during the summer when it doesn't get dark there. (Doesn't White Nights sound like a Moody Blues song or a KKK concert series? Yeah, I thought so too.) The first time I was there, I was 15 and I thought it was amazing. Who needs sleep? Let's just stay up all night!!! There's no difference between night and day! YAY!!! The second time I was there I was 28, and I almost died. Why in the hell is there no difference between day and night? I need to sleep!!! You see my point. Five years on from that and I am living in permanent White Nights. (NOT the KKK concert series.) There is no difference between night and day. I am always awake, wiping butts and taking names. And it's killing me.
The funny thing about sleep deprivation is nothing. There's nothing funny or redeeming about it. It makes me feel drunk, but without any fun keg stands or tight black pants. It just sucks. Maybe someday soon my baby will decide to sleep again and I will start writing. I'm guessing maybe 14 or 15 years from now? I think that's a solid estimate.
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
You bet your ass I'll bet on my ass!
I can't even read that title, so I'm sure no one else can, either. Whatever- deal with it. What I am trying to say is that I recently ventured into the next frontier of weight loss- wait for it- the "social" diet.
When I moved to Florida, I thought I was a reasonable looking person. Not super thin, but decently put together. And then I looked around. Women here are THIN. I don't know if the excessive heat melts the fat off, or if having to spend 364 days a year in a bikini is enough to ruin appetites, but something about this place makes it just full of skinny women. Is this where ex-yoga teachers come to retire since the environment so closely resembles one of those crazy hot rooms that they torture people in? Is my town full of women who aged out of playing Jasmine in Disney on Ice? Wherever they're coming from, they're all hot. Damn it.
Because I am decidedly NOT hot, I decided that maybe I should do something about my outlook and my Dunlop (if you're unfamiliar with that term, it means that your stomach dunlopped over your belt) and find something inspiring online. That's when I stumbled onto DietBet (www.dietbetter.com) - the hottest sensation sweeping, well, me. When you join a DietBet, you essentially wager money that you can lose 4% of your body weight in a month. For the DietBet that I joined, that worked out to 7.5 pounds, and I bet $25. If I lose the weight, I am guaranteed to at least make the money I bet back. If I lose and other people don't, I get their money, too. So now not only can you fail at losing weight, but you can lose money too! Sounds like the most depressing idea in human history- right up there with Leprosy and the cancellation of My So-Called Life.
Luckily for me, I only function under this kind of pressure. Left to my own devices, I will procrastinate WAY beyond the point of reason and never start anything. With money on the line, you bet your ass I will try to lose some of my ass. And lose some of my ass I did. Eight pounds of it, to be exact. I'm pretty sure all eight pounds of it was not lost from my actual ass though, just to be clear. The only ass that can handle that amount of fluctuation in a month belongs to the owner of the Northwest Passage. (That's a veiled reference to Kim Kardashian's lady parts, for anyone wondering.) I think that a little of my Dunlop is gone, and the second to last toe on my right foot seems just a tiny bit thinner. All in all, I'd call that a success.
How much money did I win? I bet that's the entire reason you're still reading this, huh? Jerk. Joke's on you, I don't even know yet. The DietBet gods need 24 to 36 hours to deliver one of those giant checks to my house. I'll report back, probably from Dubai where I plan on investing my new fortune in a series of ill-conceived Nathan's Famous Hot Dog locations.
TO BE CONTINUED when I find out how much I won!!!!!!! Try not to stroke out from the excitement!!!!!
When I moved to Florida, I thought I was a reasonable looking person. Not super thin, but decently put together. And then I looked around. Women here are THIN. I don't know if the excessive heat melts the fat off, or if having to spend 364 days a year in a bikini is enough to ruin appetites, but something about this place makes it just full of skinny women. Is this where ex-yoga teachers come to retire since the environment so closely resembles one of those crazy hot rooms that they torture people in? Is my town full of women who aged out of playing Jasmine in Disney on Ice? Wherever they're coming from, they're all hot. Damn it.
Because I am decidedly NOT hot, I decided that maybe I should do something about my outlook and my Dunlop (if you're unfamiliar with that term, it means that your stomach dunlopped over your belt) and find something inspiring online. That's when I stumbled onto DietBet (www.dietbetter.com) - the hottest sensation sweeping, well, me. When you join a DietBet, you essentially wager money that you can lose 4% of your body weight in a month. For the DietBet that I joined, that worked out to 7.5 pounds, and I bet $25. If I lose the weight, I am guaranteed to at least make the money I bet back. If I lose and other people don't, I get their money, too. So now not only can you fail at losing weight, but you can lose money too! Sounds like the most depressing idea in human history- right up there with Leprosy and the cancellation of My So-Called Life.
Luckily for me, I only function under this kind of pressure. Left to my own devices, I will procrastinate WAY beyond the point of reason and never start anything. With money on the line, you bet your ass I will try to lose some of my ass. And lose some of my ass I did. Eight pounds of it, to be exact. I'm pretty sure all eight pounds of it was not lost from my actual ass though, just to be clear. The only ass that can handle that amount of fluctuation in a month belongs to the owner of the Northwest Passage. (That's a veiled reference to Kim Kardashian's lady parts, for anyone wondering.) I think that a little of my Dunlop is gone, and the second to last toe on my right foot seems just a tiny bit thinner. All in all, I'd call that a success.
How much money did I win? I bet that's the entire reason you're still reading this, huh? Jerk. Joke's on you, I don't even know yet. The DietBet gods need 24 to 36 hours to deliver one of those giant checks to my house. I'll report back, probably from Dubai where I plan on investing my new fortune in a series of ill-conceived Nathan's Famous Hot Dog locations.
TO BE CONTINUED when I find out how much I won!!!!!!! Try not to stroke out from the excitement!!!!!
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
Eleven Ways That Parenthood is Just Like a 1990 New Kids on the Block Concert
1. Sure, the ticket only cost $22. But the requisite t-shirt is $49 and a button the size of a dinner plate is $16.99. By the time you pay for all of the extra crap, you're a grand in the hole before the thing even starts.
2. If Bobby Brown is hanging around, something has gone terribly awry.
3. Your shoes stick to the floor. With. Every. Step. Likely a mixture of adolescent tears and Sunny D.
4. You find a soggy cheerio in your bra. Wait, that's just parenthood.
5. The shrieking. Oh god, the shrieking.
6. There's a fiery redhead in leather chaps who seems to be hanging around an awful lot- here's hoping it's just Tiffany.
7. The youngest one is the cutest. It's OK to admit it.
8. What is that on the floor of the bathroom? Phlegm? Wet paper towel? GoGurt?
9. There is just so much crying. Is it happy crying? Is it sad crying? It's pointless to try to figure it out- just ignore it.
10. "Step by step, ooh baby, gonna get to you girl." Yep, you're getting to me all right.
11. At the end of the night, you stumble to bed bewildered, ears ringing, reeking of Electric Youth. Best day ever.
2. If Bobby Brown is hanging around, something has gone terribly awry.
3. Your shoes stick to the floor. With. Every. Step. Likely a mixture of adolescent tears and Sunny D.
4. You find a soggy cheerio in your bra. Wait, that's just parenthood.
5. The shrieking. Oh god, the shrieking.
6. There's a fiery redhead in leather chaps who seems to be hanging around an awful lot- here's hoping it's just Tiffany.
7. The youngest one is the cutest. It's OK to admit it.
8. What is that on the floor of the bathroom? Phlegm? Wet paper towel? GoGurt?
9. There is just so much crying. Is it happy crying? Is it sad crying? It's pointless to try to figure it out- just ignore it.
10. "Step by step, ooh baby, gonna get to you girl." Yep, you're getting to me all right.
11. At the end of the night, you stumble to bed bewildered, ears ringing, reeking of Electric Youth. Best day ever.
Thursday, September 12, 2013
When you wish upon a star, wish for the inventor of Fastplay to burn in hell.
At some point while I wasn't paying attention, this blog reached 10,000 page views. Now, I know for a fact that some of those page views are coming from spammers in Russia. But who cares- aren't Russian robots people too? I say they are, and welcome them to the Snark Side family. Also, I have spent three or four entire days just clicking on my own posts to drive the stats up. You can't win the election if you don't vote for yourself- that's what I say. In any event, a whole mess of people have read this blog since it began, and I am very thankful for that. This blog gives me an outlet to both spread my crazy to the world, and also to act as birth control for several of you. I am honored- and I'm now also considered an "in-network provider" by several insurance companies. The more horrifying tales I tell, the fewer of you pop out expensive babies who will also cause you to seek extensive psychotherapy on a fairly regular basis for 18 years straight. I'm humbled, really I am.
Now that I have your ear, can I warn those childless readers about one of the single biggest threats to human sanity???? Once you have kids, you will quickly discover that they can be super annoying- and can keep you from even the simplest of tasks. I once spent an entire day trying to wash ONE dish. Just one. Once you realize you can't accomplish anything with minions underfoot, you will lay rubber all over the road to the nearest store and snap up every un-vaulted Disney movie you can get your drool-encrusted hands on. (DON'T get me started about the damn Disney vault. Gee, let's make it impossible to buy our products! Sounds like a winning business formula to me!) You will throw that movie into the bluray so fast that you'll have to use a blowtorch to melt the security packaging off. And press the movie in. And wait.
What you'll see is one of world's true human rights violations. A kind voice will tell you "This DVD is equipped with Disney's Fastplay." Oh, awesome, you think. A fast way to just get to the movie. I'll click on that. Thanks, Disney. You've clearly recognized that I am a stretched parent with little time on my hands, and you've decided to make at least one thing in my life fast. I really appreciate that.
WRONG. WRONG, WRONG, WRONG. Fastplay takes longer than childbirth. And I'm talking about my 30 and 24 hour labors- not your six hour bullshit. 9,237 previews later, as your child is screaming and waving some type of small axe-like toy, you realize you're an idiot. "Fastplay" actually means 900 previews, four commercials, more previews (likely for movies you can't even buy) and then finally- the actual menu of the movie. Now, you're probably saying, who cares? Shut your trap and watch some previews. (You're saying that to me though, not my kids. Say that to my kids and I'll shank your ass.) Let me tell you why it matters.
It matters because it's wrong to lie. It's wrong to offer battle-weary parents something "fast" and then yank it away. It's wrong to sit in your swanky little office in Orlando and leave us to deal with the "BUT THIS ISN'T MY MOVIE!!! WHERE'S MY MOVIE???!!!??? I WANT AURORA!!!! MAKE IT PLAY AURORA!!!! I WANT GOLDFISH!!!!! MY SHOES HURT!!!" and so on and so forth- headlong into total meltdown.
Thanks for ruining my day, Disney. You really know how to drive me right to the brink of mental ruin and threaten everything I hold dear. Don't worry though, I will soon visit you and spend $4,400 on half-day passes. Per person. Can't wait! Seriously though, I can't wait.
Now that I have your ear, can I warn those childless readers about one of the single biggest threats to human sanity???? Once you have kids, you will quickly discover that they can be super annoying- and can keep you from even the simplest of tasks. I once spent an entire day trying to wash ONE dish. Just one. Once you realize you can't accomplish anything with minions underfoot, you will lay rubber all over the road to the nearest store and snap up every un-vaulted Disney movie you can get your drool-encrusted hands on. (DON'T get me started about the damn Disney vault. Gee, let's make it impossible to buy our products! Sounds like a winning business formula to me!) You will throw that movie into the bluray so fast that you'll have to use a blowtorch to melt the security packaging off. And press the movie in. And wait.
What you'll see is one of world's true human rights violations. A kind voice will tell you "This DVD is equipped with Disney's Fastplay." Oh, awesome, you think. A fast way to just get to the movie. I'll click on that. Thanks, Disney. You've clearly recognized that I am a stretched parent with little time on my hands, and you've decided to make at least one thing in my life fast. I really appreciate that.
WRONG. WRONG, WRONG, WRONG. Fastplay takes longer than childbirth. And I'm talking about my 30 and 24 hour labors- not your six hour bullshit. 9,237 previews later, as your child is screaming and waving some type of small axe-like toy, you realize you're an idiot. "Fastplay" actually means 900 previews, four commercials, more previews (likely for movies you can't even buy) and then finally- the actual menu of the movie. Now, you're probably saying, who cares? Shut your trap and watch some previews. (You're saying that to me though, not my kids. Say that to my kids and I'll shank your ass.) Let me tell you why it matters.
It matters because it's wrong to lie. It's wrong to offer battle-weary parents something "fast" and then yank it away. It's wrong to sit in your swanky little office in Orlando and leave us to deal with the "BUT THIS ISN'T MY MOVIE!!! WHERE'S MY MOVIE???!!!??? I WANT AURORA!!!! MAKE IT PLAY AURORA!!!! I WANT GOLDFISH!!!!! MY SHOES HURT!!!" and so on and so forth- headlong into total meltdown.
Thanks for ruining my day, Disney. You really know how to drive me right to the brink of mental ruin and threaten everything I hold dear. Don't worry though, I will soon visit you and spend $4,400 on half-day passes. Per person. Can't wait! Seriously though, I can't wait.
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
Apples to Apples, Dust to Dust
My house is dusty as holy heck. There was a swear there, but I took it out because I swear too much. It's dusty, and we just moved in. Where does the dust come from? What does it want from me? Sometimes I like to write messages in it and see how long they last- some have reached heiroglyph status. I don't know how to spell heiroglyph, which is pathetic if you consider that I have a degree in archaeology. I have dusty furniture, and a degree in archaeology that I've never used. And an unfinished MA in archaeology, if you want to get really depressing. And I'm not athletic. Or crafty. I'm just a little bit flabby. Sometimes I go months without touching my eyebrows. There's a rather large gecko in my closet. Etc.
What is my point? That I like to whine? That's true, I also whine way too much, and I have nothing to whine about. I have no idea what to do with my life. I have no skills and no talent. And so on, and so forth.
These thoughts have consumed me lately- and basically paralyzed me. I don't hate myself per se. I think I'm reasonably intelligent, and I know that I am a "good" person- whatever the hell that means. I know if I tripped an old man, I'd help him get up. It's been eons since I punched a baby. But I don't LIKE myself, and that's a huge problem.
I took my kids to a very large playgroup at a church yesterday- think 75 kids. As we walked around, I was practically vomiting from self-consciousness. I was standing weird, or staring at something, or thinking that maybe I just stole this chair from someone and now everyone is talking about how much they hate me. UGH. But what about all of the other women there? Were they awkward too? Of course not- they were all amazing.
One lady had just come from the gym, and looked so athletic. One was helping the little kids with crafts and was just so friendly. One had the prettiest red curly hair. Another one was clearly giving very thoughtful advice to her friend. They were all just so amazing. Then there was me- awkward, slightly fat, spit up stained, one unshaven leg ME. A total mess, with all of the aforementioned flaws, plus 9,000 others. Why am I such a disaster and everyone else is so amazing?
The answer, of course, is that they are not amazing. Or maybe they are. Who knows. They could be terrible human beings. But for whatever reason, the first thing I look for in THEM is the good. The first thing and only thing I look for in ME is the bad. I would never look at someone and think they are fat, or messy, or loud. I don't go over to someone's house and decide that they are a bad person because their TV is dusty. So why do I think those things about myself? Why do I compare myself to some mystical version of myself that has never existed? The Mary-Ellen that carries a unicorn while running a marathon through a field of four leaf clovers? The non federally imprisoned Martha Stewart Mary-Ellen? Those people don't exist.
Someday, I will start giving myself the benefit of the doubt and stop comparing myself to people I know nothing about. People who are probably just as self conscious as I am. People who could be serial killers, but MAN, they have some nice shoes on today! Somewhere, in a women's prison camp, there is probably someone saying "Wow, I really wish I was just like Mary-Ellen! She has it all." And that crazy, hooch-drinking former prostitute is right! I do have it all. But that jumpsuit does wonders for her complexion. I wish I had a nice complexion like that. DAMN IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
What is my point? That I like to whine? That's true, I also whine way too much, and I have nothing to whine about. I have no idea what to do with my life. I have no skills and no talent. And so on, and so forth.
These thoughts have consumed me lately- and basically paralyzed me. I don't hate myself per se. I think I'm reasonably intelligent, and I know that I am a "good" person- whatever the hell that means. I know if I tripped an old man, I'd help him get up. It's been eons since I punched a baby. But I don't LIKE myself, and that's a huge problem.
I took my kids to a very large playgroup at a church yesterday- think 75 kids. As we walked around, I was practically vomiting from self-consciousness. I was standing weird, or staring at something, or thinking that maybe I just stole this chair from someone and now everyone is talking about how much they hate me. UGH. But what about all of the other women there? Were they awkward too? Of course not- they were all amazing.
One lady had just come from the gym, and looked so athletic. One was helping the little kids with crafts and was just so friendly. One had the prettiest red curly hair. Another one was clearly giving very thoughtful advice to her friend. They were all just so amazing. Then there was me- awkward, slightly fat, spit up stained, one unshaven leg ME. A total mess, with all of the aforementioned flaws, plus 9,000 others. Why am I such a disaster and everyone else is so amazing?
The answer, of course, is that they are not amazing. Or maybe they are. Who knows. They could be terrible human beings. But for whatever reason, the first thing I look for in THEM is the good. The first thing and only thing I look for in ME is the bad. I would never look at someone and think they are fat, or messy, or loud. I don't go over to someone's house and decide that they are a bad person because their TV is dusty. So why do I think those things about myself? Why do I compare myself to some mystical version of myself that has never existed? The Mary-Ellen that carries a unicorn while running a marathon through a field of four leaf clovers? The non federally imprisoned Martha Stewart Mary-Ellen? Those people don't exist.
Someday, I will start giving myself the benefit of the doubt and stop comparing myself to people I know nothing about. People who are probably just as self conscious as I am. People who could be serial killers, but MAN, they have some nice shoes on today! Somewhere, in a women's prison camp, there is probably someone saying "Wow, I really wish I was just like Mary-Ellen! She has it all." And that crazy, hooch-drinking former prostitute is right! I do have it all. But that jumpsuit does wonders for her complexion. I wish I had a nice complexion like that. DAMN IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
Pin now, read later! You'll be so glad you did!!!!
Pinterest can kiss my ass. I mean, I like it. I swear I do. I'm not on there every day, but it does help me keep track of things I find online and want to remember to daydream about buying. But in all honesty, is it really HELPING me in any way? Have I ever made a cupcake pyramid in the shape of the Magic Kingdom using only gluten free ingredients and locally sourced non-gmo bamboo toothpicks? Hells no. I can't even remember to BUY cupcakes on the unusual days that I actual attempt to leave the house to procure food for my family. I'm lucky if everyone makes it into the car, into the store and back home again. The other day, we actually left the baby in the dining room. Strapped in her car seat. And almost drove away. So forgive me if the thought of making homemade tampons from organic hemp fiber seems like a bit of a stretch.
I see what other people pin on there. Great outfits. Beautiful kitchens. Hilarious musings from the Dalai Lama, set against a picture of a mountain. It all seems very worthwhile, and I know I SHOULD care. I should care that I've been wearing the same outfit for three days, or that there is a dried chunk of spit up in my hair, or that I just got out the giant Dyson and dragged it the entire way across the house to suck up a microscopic ant. But I don't. I just don't. I will never "be so happy that I pinned this" illustrated eleven step guide to how to lance a boil. I will never rip the bumper off an old Volvo to make a head board that doubles as an herb garden.
I'll tell you what I WILL do- I will wake up tomorrow, microwave my kid a frozen pancake, play Candy Crush while I'm brushing my teeth, make the dog pee in the landscaping because the baby is already screaming and we haven't even walked out yet, make some Easy Mac, hand my kid a sharpie and 3/4 of a piece of computer paper, pretend I don't notice the empty juice box under the couch, use the pool skimmer to swat at a mosquito, buy a rotisserie chicken and pretend I cooked, spray lysol all over the diaper pail until I choke from the fumes, throw my dirty clothes onto the recliner next to the bed, and finally- wake up at 1:30 am realizing that my contacts are still in. Is there a pin for that???
On a related note, there is a Pinterest board for this blog! How deliciously ironic. Wouldn't you love to see it???? http://pinterest.com/maryellenhealy/thesnarkside-blogspot-com-humor/
I see what other people pin on there. Great outfits. Beautiful kitchens. Hilarious musings from the Dalai Lama, set against a picture of a mountain. It all seems very worthwhile, and I know I SHOULD care. I should care that I've been wearing the same outfit for three days, or that there is a dried chunk of spit up in my hair, or that I just got out the giant Dyson and dragged it the entire way across the house to suck up a microscopic ant. But I don't. I just don't. I will never "be so happy that I pinned this" illustrated eleven step guide to how to lance a boil. I will never rip the bumper off an old Volvo to make a head board that doubles as an herb garden.
I'll tell you what I WILL do- I will wake up tomorrow, microwave my kid a frozen pancake, play Candy Crush while I'm brushing my teeth, make the dog pee in the landscaping because the baby is already screaming and we haven't even walked out yet, make some Easy Mac, hand my kid a sharpie and 3/4 of a piece of computer paper, pretend I don't notice the empty juice box under the couch, use the pool skimmer to swat at a mosquito, buy a rotisserie chicken and pretend I cooked, spray lysol all over the diaper pail until I choke from the fumes, throw my dirty clothes onto the recliner next to the bed, and finally- wake up at 1:30 am realizing that my contacts are still in. Is there a pin for that???
On a related note, there is a Pinterest board for this blog! How deliciously ironic. Wouldn't you love to see it???? http://pinterest.com/maryellenhealy/thesnarkside-blogspot-com-humor/
Monday, July 1, 2013
Get it While it's HOT
I don't have access to a computer right now, so you'll have to suffer with just mobile crap. Please Like my new page, The Snark Side on Facebook !!!
Monday, June 10, 2013
You Snooze, You Lose All of Your Worldly Possessions
Remember how the first kid to fall asleep at the sleepover was ruthlessly harassed? Shaving cream on the hand, male anatomy drawn on the face with a black sharpie, roofies in the martini- you know, the usual. When you become a parent, you realize that all of these pranks would work great on an unsuspecting toddler- especially one with a very limited long term memory.
Not as illegal as roofies but equally sadistic is what I call the "Nap Purge" whereby I start throwing sh!t away the second my kid falls asleep. Early on, I made the rookie mistake of throwing these cherished items in the kitchen trash, only to have them rediscovered and placed back in the playroom- now covered in trash juice and e coli. It didn't take me long to realize I needed a more secure dump site- and because I am a genius, I found it.
What is the one place in your house that is so vile that neither man nor beast dares approach? The one place that no one would ever look for their prized possessions? That's right, the diaper pail. It didn't take me long to figure out that I could dispose of absolutely anything in the diaper pail and it would be gone forever. Murder weapons, forged tax returns, drug money- it all just disappears in the diaper pail. I may not have a Diaper Genie per se, but this diaper pail is equally magical and requires fewer scented refills.
My kid fell asleep at 11 am today which is unusually dangerous, since I still have energy at 11 am. I immediately started scanning the room to prepare for the Nap Purge, and this day did not disappoint. In the pail today: two busted pairs of ratty princess shoes, one sneaker missing a match, a Happy Meal toy that once resembled a Transformer, a shredded tutu, 46 markers with mismatched caps, and one hot pink lava lamp.
When my child awakes, she will be blissfully unaware that anything is amiss. She'll never remember that stepped-on ping pong ball that she's been carrying around for the last two months and calling Mr. Toodles. She'll soon forget the ripped piece of diaper box that was the princess castle bed. But you know what? A few more naps and I may just be able to see my living room floor again. In the world of parenting, that's what we like to call winning.
Not as illegal as roofies but equally sadistic is what I call the "Nap Purge" whereby I start throwing sh!t away the second my kid falls asleep. Early on, I made the rookie mistake of throwing these cherished items in the kitchen trash, only to have them rediscovered and placed back in the playroom- now covered in trash juice and e coli. It didn't take me long to realize I needed a more secure dump site- and because I am a genius, I found it.
What is the one place in your house that is so vile that neither man nor beast dares approach? The one place that no one would ever look for their prized possessions? That's right, the diaper pail. It didn't take me long to figure out that I could dispose of absolutely anything in the diaper pail and it would be gone forever. Murder weapons, forged tax returns, drug money- it all just disappears in the diaper pail. I may not have a Diaper Genie per se, but this diaper pail is equally magical and requires fewer scented refills.
My kid fell asleep at 11 am today which is unusually dangerous, since I still have energy at 11 am. I immediately started scanning the room to prepare for the Nap Purge, and this day did not disappoint. In the pail today: two busted pairs of ratty princess shoes, one sneaker missing a match, a Happy Meal toy that once resembled a Transformer, a shredded tutu, 46 markers with mismatched caps, and one hot pink lava lamp.
When my child awakes, she will be blissfully unaware that anything is amiss. She'll never remember that stepped-on ping pong ball that she's been carrying around for the last two months and calling Mr. Toodles. She'll soon forget the ripped piece of diaper box that was the princess castle bed. But you know what? A few more naps and I may just be able to see my living room floor again. In the world of parenting, that's what we like to call winning.
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
The Biggest Little State of Child Endangerment
Well, since it looks like nothing funny is going to happen to me any time soon, let's revisit THIS award winner from the Healy Parenting Hall of Fame.
This little beauty took place in the summer of 2011 in Newport, Rhode Island. Tim dropped me, Meredith, and a friend off at our favorite restaurant, which was PACKED- mainly with people who looked like they were walking with a Brooks Brothers blazer shoved up their behind. The navy blue kind with the gold buttons. If you've been to Newport, you get what I mean. We managed to get a table right away, but Tim was still trying to find a parking spot. Approximately 5 seconds after sitting down, my child developed a strong to quite strong demonic possession. I panicked. I started to sweat. Preppies and hipsters and Donna Reed types were everywhere, breathing down my neck.
Apparently, I had made the unfortunate mistake of thinking that I was still entitled to eat food in public after giving birth. I thought "You know what? This screaming child is not going to hold me hostage. I'm going to live my life, damn it!" Stupid, stupid Mary-Ellen. I should have just ordered hot tea and dumped it on my forehead- that would have been much less painful than what happened next.
The waiter, who was definitely a 21 year old college guy who had just had his legs put back down after a keg stand, asked if we would like to order. NO. NO IS THE ANSWER. RUN. RUN NOW WHILE YOU STILL CAN. "Yeah, we'll go ahead and order." Oh, how young and stupid I was then, a whole (less than) two years ago.
I don't remember much of what came next. I know that it took Tim another 30 minutes to find a parking space, which turned out to be 12 nautical miles away, off the coast of Long Island. I know that the screams from the demon child got louder. I know she threw things. I know she was foaming at the mouth, and I know that the preppies were choking on their brioche in horror. I don't know what brioche is, but it sounds pretty preppy. Tim eventually showed up. Our food still wasn't out after another 30 minutes. I asked the waiter to just pack it to go and we would leave. He kept insisting "your food will be out in a minute!" Yeah ok, if a minute is the length of the Cretaceous Period. Whole species evolved and were made extinct by meteor impacts in the time it took for this food to come out.
We finally figured that there was but once way to silence the beast- and you're looking at it. Is it dangerous to put your toddler on the window sill while holding her with two hands? Not really. Is it safe to do it with one hand and eat with the other? Nope. Is it appropriate for an eatery full of women named Muffy who are sipping Grey Goose Bloody Marys? Um, no. Sometimes you do what you have to do, no matter how dangerous or ill conceived. Thankfully, I remembered to take a picture- you know, just in case I ever started a blog about what a disastrous and irresponsible parent I am. But the real person who should be thankful? That waiter. I hear he had a vasectomy less than 24 hours later. You're welcome.
Sunday, May 26, 2013
The first step is admitting you have a problem.
I have a problem.
Nothing funny is happening to me.
Nothing at all.
This blog is dead.
Send help.
Now you're mad you clicked on this, since there was nothing funny to read.
Sucker.
Monday, May 20, 2013
Fricking Fracking GAS.
I was on some website yesterday that had a poll about environmental issues. It was something along the lines of: "What is your single biggest concern about the environment?" and the usual suspects were there- global warming, water pollution, etc. I skimmed the list and saw "f@cking" was one of the choices. My first thought was "Hey, what consenting adults do in the bedroom is really their business..." until I realized it said FRACKING. Well played, poll, well played. Now you have my attention.
I realized when I saw that word that I only kinda sorta know what it is. Something about rock and gas? Wasn't there some movie about people who can light their tap water on fire? In fairness, we can do that here in Worcester and I'm pretty sure there's no fracking going on. I decided to look up what it really is, and this is what I found: "A slang term for hydraulic fracturing. Fracking refers to the procedure of creating fractures in rocks and rock formations by injecting fluid into cracks to force them further open. The larger fissures allow more oil and gas to flow out of the formation and into the wellbore, from where it can be extracted."
As soon as I read that, I had an epiphany. A real epiphany. THIS is what has been keeping me up at night. Injecting fluid (in this case Sam's Club generic infant formula) to tap into a reserve of natural gas (in this case the large intestine of my offspring) that then flows out of the formation (read: a butt) from where it can be extracted from a newborn sized Pampers Swaddler??? Story of my life right now! You see, I have spent the past week awake every morning at 5 am while my infant taps into her own store of natural gas. Who knew a nine pound baby could harbor so much methane? Who knew that it could erupt in such a manner that it could jolt me out of a two-Unisom coma? And most importantly, who knew that the Sierra Club would take such a huge interest in infant flatulence?
How can I make this stop???? Because honestly, losing two hours of sleep every single day of my life is a little bit more concerning that global warming. Glaciers, or a well rested Mary-Ellen? I think it's obvious which is more important. Besides, if there were no glaciers, the Titanic never would have sunk and Leonardo DiCaprio would still be alive. Think about THAT for a minute and tell me you're still against global warming. Yeah, I thought so.
I realized when I saw that word that I only kinda sorta know what it is. Something about rock and gas? Wasn't there some movie about people who can light their tap water on fire? In fairness, we can do that here in Worcester and I'm pretty sure there's no fracking going on. I decided to look up what it really is, and this is what I found: "A slang term for hydraulic fracturing. Fracking refers to the procedure of creating fractures in rocks and rock formations by injecting fluid into cracks to force them further open. The larger fissures allow more oil and gas to flow out of the formation and into the wellbore, from where it can be extracted."
As soon as I read that, I had an epiphany. A real epiphany. THIS is what has been keeping me up at night. Injecting fluid (in this case Sam's Club generic infant formula) to tap into a reserve of natural gas (in this case the large intestine of my offspring) that then flows out of the formation (read: a butt) from where it can be extracted from a newborn sized Pampers Swaddler??? Story of my life right now! You see, I have spent the past week awake every morning at 5 am while my infant taps into her own store of natural gas. Who knew a nine pound baby could harbor so much methane? Who knew that it could erupt in such a manner that it could jolt me out of a two-Unisom coma? And most importantly, who knew that the Sierra Club would take such a huge interest in infant flatulence?
How can I make this stop???? Because honestly, losing two hours of sleep every single day of my life is a little bit more concerning that global warming. Glaciers, or a well rested Mary-Ellen? I think it's obvious which is more important. Besides, if there were no glaciers, the Titanic never would have sunk and Leonardo DiCaprio would still be alive. Think about THAT for a minute and tell me you're still against global warming. Yeah, I thought so.
Monday, May 13, 2013
The Last Time I Beat My Laundry on a Rock was Never.
Disclosure: This is kind of a serious post. I know that is unexciting, but you can suck it up and deal. This post is addressed primarily to the mothers/someday mothers who read this blog, but also applies in most cases to the fathers. Yes, I am making assumptions about the people who come here to read this- but I would venture to guess that I am right in about 90% of cases, since I am kind of a genius. So here it is:
I have read SO MANY articles lately on the same subject. Can we as women have it all? Can we have successful careers and still be able to remember our kid's middle name? Should I wear my baby in a Bjorn to the office cocktail party so I don't miss a single second of networking? Should you I be pumping in an abandoned warehouse behind my office building? Should I be paying $27,000 a month for daycare? Are these lima beans organic and free from GMOs? I am six months pregnant and still haven't made it to a prenatal Gymboree class, will my child end up homeless?
These are the insane questions that seem to plague the women of my generation. Do I lean in? Or stand up? Or if I get drunk enough, could I do a cartwheel? Conflicting advice comes at us from all sides. We should take 12 weeks of maternity leave, or two. The internet is full of equal parts sanctimommies and complete trainwreck moms, and both are getting book deals. So what are we supposed to think? Can we have it all? Or is it way more fun to be a complete mess and laugh about it?
I have thought about this question a LOT lately. Can I have it all? Do I already have it all? What in the hell is "all"??? My original answer to this question was this: No, of course you can't have it all. If you think you can, you are probably high. But then I started thinking about it, and really dissecting what "all" is, and I changed my mind. Here is my answer.
YES, you can have it all. And I would guess that 95% of people reading this blog already do. Allow me to explain.
1. You are likely reading this blog on a computer you own, or that your employer provides and on which you spend four hours a day reading Buzzfeed. What's more, 32% of the page views in the history of this blog have been on an iphone or ipad. Give yourself extra privilege points if you have a Lilly Pulitzer case for your iphone 5- now you're just rubbing it in.
2. If you're reading this blog, you can READ. Score one for you right there.
3. I would guess that 99% of people who read this blog have a high school diploma. Probably at least 75% of you have a college degree. You received this education in spite of the fact that you are a woman. You probably had to stand up and declare "Nobody puts Baby in a corner!" fewer than five times during your entire college interview process.
4. You have a house or an apartment, or some other respectable form of shelter. This house has HOT running water that you can drink from the tap, electricity 24/7, and heat. Most of you have air conditioning (though some of you live in New Hampshire, so all bets are off). I would guess that your kids all have their own beds. Whether they actually sleep in them or not is a question for another day.
5. If you gave birth to your own kids, you likely did so in a sanitary, accredited hospital. You survived, as did your baby. If you're smart, you were drugged to within an inch of your life. If you're really smart, you worked a tummy tuck in there.
6. You CHOSE to marry your spouse. No one forced you to. You may even have a ring worth roughly the Gross Domestic Product of a developing nation on your ring finger. If you chose your spouse unwisely, you have the legal right to divorce that scumbag- and sell the ring on ebay.
I could go on, but I think you see my point. 99% of people reading this blog already DO have it all- or at least more than women in previous generations could have dreamed. No, you can't be at work 200 hours a week and also spend eight hours a day with your kids doing Pinterest craft projects. You can't tuck your kids into bed while you're on a business trip. And you never will be able to. While I agree that there is still a long way to go to make this country fair to women, we already have about a bazillion advantages that women in other parts of the world could never even dream of.
The next time I am trying to figure out if I should lean in (FYI: Every time I try to lean in, I pull a hammy) I will try to remember the insane number of advantages I already have. The hours that I don't have to spend beating my laundry on a rock or walking three miles to a well will likely be spent taking my kids to the park or choosing between 46 different duvet covers at HomeGoods. On the way home, I'll probably end up in the Dunkin Donuts drive through, since that's the law in three New England states. I am driving a car that I own, with my healthy children inside, while sipping a large Vanilla Bean Coolatta. I'm pretty sure I already have it all.
I have read SO MANY articles lately on the same subject. Can we as women have it all? Can we have successful careers and still be able to remember our kid's middle name? Should I wear my baby in a Bjorn to the office cocktail party so I don't miss a single second of networking? Should you I be pumping in an abandoned warehouse behind my office building? Should I be paying $27,000 a month for daycare? Are these lima beans organic and free from GMOs? I am six months pregnant and still haven't made it to a prenatal Gymboree class, will my child end up homeless?
These are the insane questions that seem to plague the women of my generation. Do I lean in? Or stand up? Or if I get drunk enough, could I do a cartwheel? Conflicting advice comes at us from all sides. We should take 12 weeks of maternity leave, or two. The internet is full of equal parts sanctimommies and complete trainwreck moms, and both are getting book deals. So what are we supposed to think? Can we have it all? Or is it way more fun to be a complete mess and laugh about it?
I have thought about this question a LOT lately. Can I have it all? Do I already have it all? What in the hell is "all"??? My original answer to this question was this: No, of course you can't have it all. If you think you can, you are probably high. But then I started thinking about it, and really dissecting what "all" is, and I changed my mind. Here is my answer.
YES, you can have it all. And I would guess that 95% of people reading this blog already do. Allow me to explain.
1. You are likely reading this blog on a computer you own, or that your employer provides and on which you spend four hours a day reading Buzzfeed. What's more, 32% of the page views in the history of this blog have been on an iphone or ipad. Give yourself extra privilege points if you have a Lilly Pulitzer case for your iphone 5- now you're just rubbing it in.
2. If you're reading this blog, you can READ. Score one for you right there.
3. I would guess that 99% of people who read this blog have a high school diploma. Probably at least 75% of you have a college degree. You received this education in spite of the fact that you are a woman. You probably had to stand up and declare "Nobody puts Baby in a corner!" fewer than five times during your entire college interview process.
4. You have a house or an apartment, or some other respectable form of shelter. This house has HOT running water that you can drink from the tap, electricity 24/7, and heat. Most of you have air conditioning (though some of you live in New Hampshire, so all bets are off). I would guess that your kids all have their own beds. Whether they actually sleep in them or not is a question for another day.
5. If you gave birth to your own kids, you likely did so in a sanitary, accredited hospital. You survived, as did your baby. If you're smart, you were drugged to within an inch of your life. If you're really smart, you worked a tummy tuck in there.
6. You CHOSE to marry your spouse. No one forced you to. You may even have a ring worth roughly the Gross Domestic Product of a developing nation on your ring finger. If you chose your spouse unwisely, you have the legal right to divorce that scumbag- and sell the ring on ebay.
I could go on, but I think you see my point. 99% of people reading this blog already DO have it all- or at least more than women in previous generations could have dreamed. No, you can't be at work 200 hours a week and also spend eight hours a day with your kids doing Pinterest craft projects. You can't tuck your kids into bed while you're on a business trip. And you never will be able to. While I agree that there is still a long way to go to make this country fair to women, we already have about a bazillion advantages that women in other parts of the world could never even dream of.
The next time I am trying to figure out if I should lean in (FYI: Every time I try to lean in, I pull a hammy) I will try to remember the insane number of advantages I already have. The hours that I don't have to spend beating my laundry on a rock or walking three miles to a well will likely be spent taking my kids to the park or choosing between 46 different duvet covers at HomeGoods. On the way home, I'll probably end up in the Dunkin Donuts drive through, since that's the law in three New England states. I am driving a car that I own, with my healthy children inside, while sipping a large Vanilla Bean Coolatta. I'm pretty sure I already have it all.
Thursday, May 9, 2013
Gone Squatchin
As any new parent of an infant will tell you, there is nothing more horrifying/glorious than the first time your kid sleeps for way longer than you were expecting. You go to bed, ready to drag yourself back to consciousness in two or three hours. But then something odd happens. You wake up, spend three minutes trying to read the clock before you remember that you wear glasses and can't see the broad side of a barn without them- and then you have a moment. You realize that the clock says 4:30. Is it 4:30 pm? Why is it so dark? Is this the apocalypse? Are their zombies? Is this some kind of worldwide blackout that will cause us to form a new world order and fight each other with bayonets? No, no. Okay, it's 4:30 AM. Wait, WHAT????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!???????????? It's 4:30 AM??????? But I went to sleep at 10:30 PM!!!!!!!!!!!! This can't be. This simply cannot be! OH MY GOD, MY BABY WAS KIDNAPPED/IS DEAD/WAS ACCIDENTALLY LEFT IN THE CAR. Ok, now wait, it looks like the baby is right there in the bassinet. Ok, well she can't be breathing. Well actually, she does appear to be breathing. Maybe someone else fed her? Proceed to wake up everyone else in your house to confirm that no one else fed her. Ok, no one did? SO YOU'RE TELLING ME THIS BABY JUST SLEPT FOR SIX HOURS IN A ROW???????????????!!!!!!!!!!!??????????????? (this needs to be screamed loudly enough to wake the baby, by the way.)
Yes, it's true. An infant just slept for 6 hours in a row. During the actual night time. Without being held. While you yourself were also asleep. This, my friends, is the ninth wonder of the world. I don't know how many actual wonders of the world there are, but let's just call this the ninth. It's like finding a yeti in your garage. Or finding a baby Loch Ness Monster in your kiddie pool. It's maybe even better than hitting a chupacabra with your Miata. This is the brass ring- your One Shining Moment. Life will never get more magical, so drink it in. Celebrate you will, cause life is short but sweet for certain.
Plus, tomorrow you'll find dried poop on your elbow and you'll be right back in the trenches.
Yes, it's true. An infant just slept for 6 hours in a row. During the actual night time. Without being held. While you yourself were also asleep. This, my friends, is the ninth wonder of the world. I don't know how many actual wonders of the world there are, but let's just call this the ninth. It's like finding a yeti in your garage. Or finding a baby Loch Ness Monster in your kiddie pool. It's maybe even better than hitting a chupacabra with your Miata. This is the brass ring- your One Shining Moment. Life will never get more magical, so drink it in. Celebrate you will, cause life is short but sweet for certain.
Plus, tomorrow you'll find dried poop on your elbow and you'll be right back in the trenches.
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
Threat Level: Pink
I bought my plane tickets for our move last night, which was surreal but also exciting. This is a huge move for us- Florida might as well be another country compared to Massachusetts. Add a new job and buying a house we've never set foot in before, and I need a xanax and a gin and tonic- hold the tonic and pour some scotch for good measure. Actually, what I really want is one of those giant margaritas with the beer bottle stuck in it, except instead of a beer bottle, it should be a tequila bottle. I want a drink that looks like something Snooki would finish off right before being arrested. But I digress.
It's just TWO HOURS. I just keep telling myself that I only have to survive for TWO HOURS. Just survive for two hours, and keep us off of the No Fly List. If you see a crazy woman next to you in the security line muttering "Just don't get tasered. Just don't get tasered." that would be me. Here's a little run down of the procedure in 30 steps or less:
1. Take off my shoes and put in the bin. Notice that socks are covered in dog hair. Gag.
2. Take off Meredith's shoes and put in the bin. Immediately notice a foul odor emminating from them- try to pretend you don't smell it even as a woman behind you begins to retch. Ask TSA lady if she's ok to go through with her tutu on or if it needs to come off. Be told it needs to come off, and it needs its own bin.
3. Take out ipad, put in a separate bin. Tantrum.
4. Take baby out of car seat. Smack her head into the carry handle, as usual.
5. (now holding the baby) Remove car seat from stroller. Notice a strange brown liquid pooled in the seat.
6. (still holding the baby) Fold stroller flat.
7. Take off diaper bag and put it on the belt.
8. Push impossibly long chain of shoes and tutus and stroller and car seat through tiny hole (wait, this is like giving birth!!!)
9. Lose at least two things off the side and knock the baby's head on the conveyer while trying to pick them up.
10. Watch as a 20 year old man stands behind me and does absolutely nothing to help. THANKS, A-HOLE!!!!!!
11. Realize the boarding passes are in the diaper bag that's already gone into the tiny hole.
12. Have the guy standing at the metal detector roll his eyes and say "Just come on through, ma'am."
13. Push Meredith through first- watch her run to the nearest Hudson News and abscond with a bag of M&Ms and last month's Maxim.
14. Walk through with the baby and set off the alarm.
15. Submit to a full body molestation, during which they discover absolutely nothing that would have set off the alarm.
16. Walk back to the conveyer, where your chain of shit has totally backed up the entire line and pissed everyone off- except for a 70 year old woman who will come up to you and say "Enjoy them, they grow up so fast!" Like maybe by the end of this flight? Please?
17. Unfold the stroller.
18. Attach the car seat to the stroller.
19. Ignore the pool of brown liquid in the carseat and stick the baby in there. (Tell yourself it's ok because "she'll get a bath tonight.")
20. Go to put the ipad back into the diaper bag, realize the bag is missing.
21. Put both sets of shoes back on. 100% chance that Meredith's are on the wrong feet. 40% chance that mine are on the wrong feet.
22. Discover the TSA man is holding the diaper bag and saying "Ma'am, do you have liquids in here?"
23. "Just a bottle of tequila."
24. Actually yes, you have bottles with formula in them, which now must be scanned by a little wand with paper over them to make sure that they do indeed contain formula, and not liquid nitrogen.
25. Unscrew the tops of all bottles, dropping at least one nipple onto the athlete's foot ridden floor.
26. Put the bottles back together, put them back into the bag and put the ipad into the bag. Toddler will now scream "I want the IPAD!!!!!!" and throw an extra fun tantrum, on account of the sugar from the M&Ms.
27. Put the diaper bag back on, begin choking back sobs.
28. Walk to gate- discover flight is canceled.
29. Realize that you forgot to pick up the bin with the tutu- tell Meredith that Santa had to come and borrow the tutu because the Easter Bunny needs it to make magic eggs, but that he will bring it back during the fireworks on the Fourth of July. That's the standard procedure in these situations.
30. Make mental note to always pack a back up tutu in the future.
It's just TWO HOURS. I just keep telling myself that I only have to survive for TWO HOURS. Just survive for two hours, and keep us off of the No Fly List. If you see a crazy woman next to you in the security line muttering "Just don't get tasered. Just don't get tasered." that would be me. Here's a little run down of the procedure in 30 steps or less:
1. Take off my shoes and put in the bin. Notice that socks are covered in dog hair. Gag.
2. Take off Meredith's shoes and put in the bin. Immediately notice a foul odor emminating from them- try to pretend you don't smell it even as a woman behind you begins to retch. Ask TSA lady if she's ok to go through with her tutu on or if it needs to come off. Be told it needs to come off, and it needs its own bin.
3. Take out ipad, put in a separate bin. Tantrum.
4. Take baby out of car seat. Smack her head into the carry handle, as usual.
5. (now holding the baby) Remove car seat from stroller. Notice a strange brown liquid pooled in the seat.
6. (still holding the baby) Fold stroller flat.
7. Take off diaper bag and put it on the belt.
8. Push impossibly long chain of shoes and tutus and stroller and car seat through tiny hole (wait, this is like giving birth!!!)
9. Lose at least two things off the side and knock the baby's head on the conveyer while trying to pick them up.
10. Watch as a 20 year old man stands behind me and does absolutely nothing to help. THANKS, A-HOLE!!!!!!
11. Realize the boarding passes are in the diaper bag that's already gone into the tiny hole.
12. Have the guy standing at the metal detector roll his eyes and say "Just come on through, ma'am."
13. Push Meredith through first- watch her run to the nearest Hudson News and abscond with a bag of M&Ms and last month's Maxim.
14. Walk through with the baby and set off the alarm.
15. Submit to a full body molestation, during which they discover absolutely nothing that would have set off the alarm.
16. Walk back to the conveyer, where your chain of shit has totally backed up the entire line and pissed everyone off- except for a 70 year old woman who will come up to you and say "Enjoy them, they grow up so fast!" Like maybe by the end of this flight? Please?
17. Unfold the stroller.
18. Attach the car seat to the stroller.
19. Ignore the pool of brown liquid in the carseat and stick the baby in there. (Tell yourself it's ok because "she'll get a bath tonight.")
20. Go to put the ipad back into the diaper bag, realize the bag is missing.
21. Put both sets of shoes back on. 100% chance that Meredith's are on the wrong feet. 40% chance that mine are on the wrong feet.
22. Discover the TSA man is holding the diaper bag and saying "Ma'am, do you have liquids in here?"
23. "Just a bottle of tequila."
24. Actually yes, you have bottles with formula in them, which now must be scanned by a little wand with paper over them to make sure that they do indeed contain formula, and not liquid nitrogen.
25. Unscrew the tops of all bottles, dropping at least one nipple onto the athlete's foot ridden floor.
26. Put the bottles back together, put them back into the bag and put the ipad into the bag. Toddler will now scream "I want the IPAD!!!!!!" and throw an extra fun tantrum, on account of the sugar from the M&Ms.
27. Put the diaper bag back on, begin choking back sobs.
28. Walk to gate- discover flight is canceled.
29. Realize that you forgot to pick up the bin with the tutu- tell Meredith that Santa had to come and borrow the tutu because the Easter Bunny needs it to make magic eggs, but that he will bring it back during the fireworks on the Fourth of July. That's the standard procedure in these situations.
30. Make mental note to always pack a back up tutu in the future.
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