OK, OK, after looking at today's stats (yes, I check up on how much you people are reading so git to clickin') and I'm guilted enough envisioning the thirty five sad, disappointed readers who were rewarded with that same Michelle Obama post, to stop eating peanut butter straight from the jar while trolling Facebook and put up a lame post (I lurk, I don't actually update my status, since I'm pretty sure no one is interested in reading "Mary is...changing a giant shit right now and swearing she will never feed Little Man watermelon again"). Don't say I didn't warn you.
So speaking of LM, his second birthday was last Monday, which was was greeted with the usual Mean Mommy fanfare, mostly due to the insistence of his sisters, since I would have fully taken advantage of his relative unawareness, forgone the balloons and streamers and just gotten him some lame A&P cake. Oh, the plight of the last child. Instead, the house was decked out in Thomas the Train paraphenalia and said lame A&P cake, was still from the A&P, but it was the $40 specialty cake shaped like a 3D Thomas that his siblings told me I "had" to get. PS, we're still eating it and I think my intestines have turned cobalt blue.
Again, as the third child, rather than regale you with stories of his birth and how life altering it was, let me share with you how his birth was the catalyst for the single most humiliating experience of my life.
So I get to the hospital at four in the morning, after being in labor all night, and slapping H at the admissions desk (note to husbands everywhere: when the admissions nurse asks your wife for basic info, like her name, and it appears she is experiencing her four hundredth contraction of the night and can not speak, open your fucking mouth and answer for her rather than make her slap you during said contraction to jolt you out of your stupor, making the nurse burst with laughter and squeal, "Oh, no she di-in't!!!"), I finally make it to the delivery room, am told I am eight centimeters and yes, thank God, I get my epidural. After watching The Barefoot Contessa on the lovely, adjustable flat screen TV, with my equally lovely OB nurse sitting next to me chatting while H snored in the recliner (again, the third child - another day, another kid), I began to feel some pressure down below. And not the baby kind. I had to go #2.
I convey this need to the nurse and she tells me, maybe it's the baby. "This is my third, I can tell the difference between a baby's head and a poo", I tell her. No dice. She can not let me sit on a toilet and push lest my child have an accidental water birth. "I'll put a chuck (disposable pad) under you and you can go in the bed", she tells me. WHAT THE WHAT??? She can not be serious. I had heard of women crapping on the table during delivery, but that was in the heat of the moment, mid-push, with their child's arrival seconds away. Who cares if you lay a Baby Ruth on the table under those circumstances? No one's looking at that hole anyway. Now I'm being told I will be fully cognizant, with witnesses to my intentional pooping? I'll take death, thank you.
All the begging in the world and assurances I would not expel any offspring into the loo would not change her mind. At this point, lucky for me, H had woken up to witness the end of this debate and the loss of my dignity. He sides with the nurse not wanting to show pictures 'round the office of a baby blue from Mr. Clean disinfectant. Traitor. "Fine!" I sputter at him, pointing an accusatory finger, "but don't you dare look!!!" And twenty seconds, and two pairs of averted eyes, later I was done, the evidence was whisked away, and we all pretended it never happened. Except I replayed it in my mind and cringed with shame every five minutes for the next few days and apparently developed some kind of tick because as soon as some visitor would ask me how the delivery went I'd say, "Great! But I took a dump on the table!"
Which, lucky for you, dear readers, I don't seem to have gotten over.
School begins Wednesday. Be back soon.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
She DOESN'T wear short-shorts...idiots.
This morning I was indulging in the increasingly rare treat of listening to the Today show while I was washing the dishes I was to lazy to wash last night, since, miraculously, all three offspring were playing nicely in the basement and I had a moments peace. The "after nine" hours of Today are usually reserved for such hard hitting stories at Nora The Piano Playing Cat (think I'm kidding? Google it), and I listened with thinly veiled contempt wondering why it is assumed anyone not in an office at 9:15 can't handle regular, you know, news, but today, as I scraped the remains of last night's Carvel cake binge off the sides of the sink I heard Matt Lauer asking, "Were the shorts Michelle Obama wearing cause for an international fashion crisis?" Wha-WHAT??? My Michelle? My Michelle? Oh God, had she fallen into the trap of the in-shape older woman and gone to far in the skin department?
I ran into the family room, bracing myself for an image of my fallen idol replete with denim Daisy Dukes, lining of the front pockets hanging down her thighs, since that's what the tone of Matt's voice intimated. And what image was I greeted with instead? Michelle in mid-thigh twill shorts. This is what all the hub-bub is about? Isn't there still a war going on? Isn't the economy in the crapper? Do you people have nothing else to write about?
The argument I heard most often in the ensuing twenty minute segment against the First Lady's fashion choice was that her outfit was too informal to be photographed in descending from Air Force One. Was it informal? Sure. Where had Air Force One touched down? The Grand Canyon. In August. Taking her to a family vacation with her school aged children. In 106 degree heat. Black tie optional, I'd say.
The spotlight on Michelle highlights the struggle I, myself, am going through currently. As a mother, never mind as The Mother in Chief, I find it a constant struggle to find clothing that is both flattering and age appropriate. While my current job description requires a fair amount of jungle gym scaling and tempera paint splatter, and I could therefore, clad myself entirely in athletic gear, (which I do indulge in on my lazier days) or shapeless easy-wash garments, I am also a woman and want to feel attractive without dressing too young for my age. It's like a fashion tightrope walk trying to balance the needs of your life, with tryin' to show watcha still got - and not look like a cougarish whore all at the same time. Ain't nothing sadder than Mommy trying to hold onto the dream by the muffin top.
The penultimate example is bathing suits. There are several models in the "Mom" category at my local pool - all lovely, in their own way. Of course, There's Mom Who Really Hasn't Lost the Baby Weight, and lets' be honest, we have all been there. She rocks a bathing suit in a dark color, usually with a skirt. Then there's Mom Who Has Definitely Lost All the Baby Weight and Wants Everyone to Know It who wears a string bikini. In our old, ghetto, town, it was usually leopard print and accompanied by a belly button ring and aviator sunglasses. In the new town, it's a Lily Pulitzer, but still, it's string bikini in the baby pool. It's like wearing a cocktail dress to Back To School Night. Too much. Then there is a new species, I had not yet seen until we moved to the new town. It's I Have Lost All the Baby Weight But Am Curiously Still Wearing a Tankini with a Skirt Bottom Mom. These gals have great figures, but are still covering up. I am perplexed. Not that I suggest they rock the butt floss, but if ya got it, flaunt it - tastefully. Then there's me. I wear a aqua two piece with a very wide strapped halter top to hold up the pitiful post-nursing rack and full-coverage (meaning no ass crackage is peeking out) bottom and my ubiquitous Yankee hat. I'm hoping to be interpretted as I Don't Think I Look Too Bad and am Not Willing to Wear a Bathing Dress As of Yet, Thank You.
I'm sure my Michelle had the same dilemma and I, for one, am proud of her for not succumbing to the pressure and descending those plane stairs wearing some matronly pantsuit and trit-trotting around the Grand Canyon like some fruit in sensible Easy Spirit pumps. Instead of wearing an outfit that said,"Oooh! Look, nature, how quaint!", she wore an outfit that said, "I'm going to hike the shit out of this motherfucker!" The way she was dressed was appropriate for the situation and for her body type - exactly what I strive for in my "work" wardrobe.
And my heart skipped a little beat when I saw some dimpling on the back of those thighs. Oh, Michelle, champion of the pear shape, you are my hero. And the fact you also wore a baseball hat proves we are soulmates.
And Barack, suit pants and polo shirt? Really? Please check with Michelle from now on before leaving the house. You look like a big pussy.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
My boyfriend's back. Well, he never left...
I'm sitting here on the couch, enjoying my two-glass-of-wine buzz, digesting my dinner of tortilla chips and the majority of a chocolate cake, watching the cinematic gem that is 17 Again. H is out with some friends, obviously, because his head might explode if he were forced to watch another Zac Efron vehicle after experiencing the High School Music trilogy with #1. And this is man who detests musicals that don't include such show-stoppers as "Get Your Head in the Game".
The whole point of this movie is the main character, a thirty-five year old, disappointed with his life, gets a chance to live his teenage glory days over again and is magically transformed into his seventeen year old self. And one really shallow thought came to mind. Oh MY GOD, do I miss H as a teenager! As I have mentioned eighty-five thousand times before, H and I have been together since he was eighteen and I seventeen. So while he and I function like any other happily married couple, working, bickering, raising our kids, in my mind it is always this skinny kid in a Indians hat who I wake up to each morning. Don't get me wrong, I love H now, more than ever, but, Christ on a bike!, there is nothing like a teenaged boy in love.
To begin, the phone calls. Hours and hours and hours on the phone. And this is man who hates talking on the phone, so much so, he convinced me to get a Blackberry so we could stop arguing daily about why he was such a tight-lipped jerk on the horn during the day. Granted, he does sit awfully close to his fellow coworkers (one of whom is a dedicated reader), so professing his love for me in the middle of the work day is probably not going to happen. But back in the day, he would call me all the time, and this was before the time of cell phones. And the drunk dials! Those were the days when a liberal dose of Jagermeister guaranteed me a profession of love from The World's Quietest Man. Good lord. I still miss the sound of H's voice with a slight slur coupled with the crackle of a bad pay phone connection.
And back in the day, H would drive anywhere, at any time, to see me. He lived in Jersey and I lived in Westchester (NY, but I think only the people who actually have lived in Westchester, PA ever need that clarification, it's like people who live in Paris ,Texas), and the forty-five minute drive seemed like nothing when fueled by young love and, to be honest, lust. Got off work early at nine o'clock? "Sure, I can be there by ten,we'll hang out until midnight and I'll drive home." Not matter how short the time we would spend together, it was worth it. One particularly memorable July 4th weekend, he drove all the way down the shore, just for the night, to rescue me after I got myself into an awkward roommate situation with a group of girls, one of whom, thought it was perfectly fine to disrobe for some random skells she had met on the boardwalk and tape it using my mother's video camera (I don't even know why I brought the damn thing, it was as big as suitcase). "Rescuing me" devolved into physically restraining me from a fist fight as I threw the girl's shit out on the sidewalk outside our hotel. And then we made out.
We were always making out! Do you remember that feeling, waiting for your parents to leave the room so you could pounce on each other? And I'm really just talking about kissing, not even sex. Nothing beats that, and it's so sad that it's so short lived. I guess having kids does give you another shot at this experience, with their always being around and all. I couldn't distract my parents with an episode of Blues Clues and lock my bedroom door so I guess adulthood does have it's advantages.
And what is with that smell? Walk into the bedroom of a teenaged boy and it hits you in the face like a baseball bat. Teenaged boys have this smell. It's not body odor, per say, but it is body-based with a slight undertone of Doritos and beef jerky. It's this musky kind of funk, that is not entirely unpleasant and is usually paired with a whiff of some sporty deodorant or shaving cream. It drove me mad! H still smells great, and when I get up close to him I can find it hidden under there, but maybe it's the fact that he showers regularly now and he never wears a garment twice since he's stopped doing his own laundry, but it's just a little different. Good, just different. I sort of like it when we come home from the beach and he smells a little funky. Reminds me of the old days.
So I guess I'm lucky. A lot of women, when frustrated with their husbands, fantasize about old flames and wonder about what might have been - sometimes to the detriment of their marriages. I know what might have been. Guess what? That kid, no matter how hard with the washboard abs, or great the hair, is leaving his dirty socks on some other woman's floor and leaving the empty milk carton in her fridge so don't bother. And I myself will try to remember those dirty socks might just bring back that smell I was waxing nostalgic about if I leave them around long enough.
The whole point of this movie is the main character, a thirty-five year old, disappointed with his life, gets a chance to live his teenage glory days over again and is magically transformed into his seventeen year old self. And one really shallow thought came to mind. Oh MY GOD, do I miss H as a teenager! As I have mentioned eighty-five thousand times before, H and I have been together since he was eighteen and I seventeen. So while he and I function like any other happily married couple, working, bickering, raising our kids, in my mind it is always this skinny kid in a Indians hat who I wake up to each morning. Don't get me wrong, I love H now, more than ever, but, Christ on a bike!, there is nothing like a teenaged boy in love.
To begin, the phone calls. Hours and hours and hours on the phone. And this is man who hates talking on the phone, so much so, he convinced me to get a Blackberry so we could stop arguing daily about why he was such a tight-lipped jerk on the horn during the day. Granted, he does sit awfully close to his fellow coworkers (one of whom is a dedicated reader), so professing his love for me in the middle of the work day is probably not going to happen. But back in the day, he would call me all the time, and this was before the time of cell phones. And the drunk dials! Those were the days when a liberal dose of Jagermeister guaranteed me a profession of love from The World's Quietest Man. Good lord. I still miss the sound of H's voice with a slight slur coupled with the crackle of a bad pay phone connection.
And back in the day, H would drive anywhere, at any time, to see me. He lived in Jersey and I lived in Westchester (NY, but I think only the people who actually have lived in Westchester, PA ever need that clarification, it's like people who live in Paris ,Texas), and the forty-five minute drive seemed like nothing when fueled by young love and, to be honest, lust. Got off work early at nine o'clock? "Sure, I can be there by ten,we'll hang out until midnight and I'll drive home." Not matter how short the time we would spend together, it was worth it. One particularly memorable July 4th weekend, he drove all the way down the shore, just for the night, to rescue me after I got myself into an awkward roommate situation with a group of girls, one of whom, thought it was perfectly fine to disrobe for some random skells she had met on the boardwalk and tape it using my mother's video camera (I don't even know why I brought the damn thing, it was as big as suitcase). "Rescuing me" devolved into physically restraining me from a fist fight as I threw the girl's shit out on the sidewalk outside our hotel. And then we made out.
We were always making out! Do you remember that feeling, waiting for your parents to leave the room so you could pounce on each other? And I'm really just talking about kissing, not even sex. Nothing beats that, and it's so sad that it's so short lived. I guess having kids does give you another shot at this experience, with their always being around and all. I couldn't distract my parents with an episode of Blues Clues and lock my bedroom door so I guess adulthood does have it's advantages.
And what is with that smell? Walk into the bedroom of a teenaged boy and it hits you in the face like a baseball bat. Teenaged boys have this smell. It's not body odor, per say, but it is body-based with a slight undertone of Doritos and beef jerky. It's this musky kind of funk, that is not entirely unpleasant and is usually paired with a whiff of some sporty deodorant or shaving cream. It drove me mad! H still smells great, and when I get up close to him I can find it hidden under there, but maybe it's the fact that he showers regularly now and he never wears a garment twice since he's stopped doing his own laundry, but it's just a little different. Good, just different. I sort of like it when we come home from the beach and he smells a little funky. Reminds me of the old days.
So I guess I'm lucky. A lot of women, when frustrated with their husbands, fantasize about old flames and wonder about what might have been - sometimes to the detriment of their marriages. I know what might have been. Guess what? That kid, no matter how hard with the washboard abs, or great the hair, is leaving his dirty socks on some other woman's floor and leaving the empty milk carton in her fridge so don't bother. And I myself will try to remember those dirty socks might just bring back that smell I was waxing nostalgic about if I leave them around long enough.
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