It's a good tub. I slept there for my 30th birthday.

     It's 7 a.m. on my birthday and I'm awake and everyone else is sleeping?  After sampling 20 beers last night at the tasting, I should be in some kind of hangover coma.  You know?  I don't even enjoy beer.  But I tried every last one at the Wine Market, took notes, and promptly collapsed to the floor in the back room.

     It was Dom's idea to go, but that was before we realized that our babysitter, backup babysitter, and the family that have coming into town this weekend would all be unavailable on Friday night.  So the plans we had made for my birthday extravaganza were modified to have me go drink, basically, over a dozen shots of beers from around the world.  By the last table, I was a bit tipsy and certainly cleansing the palette with huge chunks of bread because all of table 3 tasted like nut flavored vinegar.   

     Meanwhile, my husband is babysitting our adorably sick daughter.  And by "adorably," I mean she kept me up all night screaming her face off until I numbed her throat with Baby Orajel.  She has the hand, foot, mouth virus--which leaves ulcers in the back of your throat and can eventually spread to your feet, hands, and torso.  I had it about a year ago.  I was pathetic!  Couldn't even open the front door because my hands were so sore.  I also looked like a leper. 

     My point is that exhaustion and alcohol don't mix.  I had finished sampling and was chatting with my friends around the snack table and suddenly I was on the floor.  Blame it on the drinks or the hooker heels I was wearing, but for all I know and remember...I could have been abducted by aliens in the time it took me to hit the ground.  Now my right hand and hip and opposite thigh are all bruised up from hitting the table and then trying to break my fall (though not succeeding, apparently). 

   The rest of the night went more smoothly.  We had a great time at dinner, even if they locked us back in the meeting room and we ate our burgers on desk chairs.  And there was a great variance of conversational topics from the left side of the table to the right.  The left end was discussing finances over their wine glasses while the right side was making jokes about bestiality and discussing how masturbation on airplanes is frowned upon.  Since I was in the middle, I like to think that I had one foot in both worlds.

     Now that I've made myself out to sound like a drunken whore, Happy Birthday to me.  I want to be a lady when I grow up!  Maybe for my 28th birthday someone will get me some dignity. 


Today's subject line quote is from Bridesmaids (2011).

    

We have two giant hamsters running in a massive wheel in our secret underground lair.

     Are you kidding me, Universe?  Two days after getting our car "fixed" at Sears, Dom had to get a jump while out running some errands!  And today he tried to take it back in, but because he left the invoice here at the house they absolutely, could NOT help him.  Apparently the woman that worked with my husband also received the "how to be a tool in the service industry."  It must be standard orientation for Sears Automotive.

     And on his way home from the mall, work called.  Apparently they screwed up his duty timing.  He had agreed to work overnight tonight, but he was written in as 8 a.m. instead.  So all of our daytime plans were kablooey, and I'm now scouring the house looking for a missing hamster that happens to be the same color as all the giant, dust-covered furballs that are blowing around in the corners and under the couches. 

     Did I mention that I spilled paint on our carpet?  Twice.  Two separate colors.  I'm such a walking catastrophe.  I have no idea how I function every day.

Today's subject line quote is from Lost (2004)  The Man from Tallahassee.

I promised sears I would tell this story on stage every night until the lawsuit settled...

     The chaos has returned and it brought it's friends, turmoil and misfortune.  Today was supposed to be a fun day at the mall.  My playgroup was meeting for lunch and a short walk around the shops and I was very much looking forward to a good romp with the mommies.  Shut up, that did not come off as sexual. Nearly 5 hours, 2 tires, an alignment, an obscure battery-related part, and 2 overly tired children later,  I wasn't singing the "Fun Times with Cassidy" theme song or doing the matching, jaunty jig.

     My first disappointment today was when my favorite mommy friend made the decision that hermitage better fits her lifestyle and has recently become rather reclusive.  It's not her fault, she has a lot on her plate.  However, much of my excitement for the morning meetup was to catch up with her. 
     So my first thought was Oh!  I can skip it, put the kids in extended care at the gym and go get my hair cut.  But then I started to feel a twinge of guilt because Michael loves going to the mall and seeing his buddies.  Plus, I do have other friends that I enjoy spending time with that would be going.  What I should have done, was stay home and eat chips in my pajamas.

     When I stopped to get gas across the street from the mall, I not only got the slowest pump on the planet but ended up calling my friend Kristine to come give me a jump start.  And since I hadn't had to jump a car since Driver's Ed. in 11th grade, we pulled her boss over from the Vitamin Shoppe to come connect the cables. It's embarrassingly simple, and if it hadn't been 10 1/2 years, 2 kids, and a massive hemorrhage of brain cells since I've had to use that knowledge...then I could have done it myself.  But since Bossman declared "Just so you all know, these ladies needed a man over here!" as soon as he hit the parking lot, I clearly didn't have the assets to complete the task.  How could I have left my frank and beans behind on a day like this?

   My next mistake was dropping the car off at my friendly Sears Automotive Center, where the assnugget named George clearly didn't want to be working today...or possibly ever.  I was waiting in the car with Complainypants McWhinerson Michael and a screaming baby while he did some kind of 9283748237498 point inspection on the car in front of me.  Then when I told him my problem, he directed me to move into the spot next to me AFTER the delivery truck vacated it at an indeterminable time.  After about 15 minutes, I actually got out of the car and asked the delivery guy if he was leaving in the next century. 
     Assnugget George then helped 4 teenagers deliberate over cheap tire for another 10 minutes before acknowledging my presence.  Why?  Well, it's a scientific fact that assnuggets lack the glands necessary to multitask, but often have an excess of sweat glands.  He then lectured me on the baldness of my tires and bullied me into buying 2 new ones, rotating the existing ones, and probably giving him some kind of commission for hassling me and smelling like cologne and B.O.  Then he wrapped it up with the infamous words, "It will be ready in about 2 hours."

     He did call me about 2 hours later and inform me that my back, passenger side tire had a nail in it.  We had already had a stellar dialogue going back and forth on how I really didn't want to do much of this before talking to my husband.  "Don't do any more to the tires, I want to talk it over with my husband first before--"  Then I was cut off with, "Well you still want us to do the front tires, right?  You agreed to that already!"  He was almost panicked at this point, and I reassured him that was the deal.  "But you want me to keep the nail in it and send you home on a leaking tire?"
      Well, no.  But I did want to consider getting two more tires and the thought of spending more dough to get that one fixed didn't make much sense to me--especially since it had been a slow leak for a good year now and no Michael Bay caliber explosions on the highway had occured.  But the thought of having to come back there, or even somewhere else where I would have to deal with such douchebaggery just made me agree to the damn patch job. When I asked him how much the repair would cost, he said this...and I'm not paraphrasing..."You mean the amount I told you this morning and printed on your invoice?  $19.95." 

     I headed back over to Sears since Assnugget George informed me that my car would "be ready very soon."  And perhaps truthful to some degree, since the Sears Automotive Center is some kind of vacuous time suck where laws of physics don't apply.  I left the mall at 3:30, after arriving at 10:45.  And the whole way home all I could think of was Ron White's comedy bit about the Sears mechanic and hoping it wasn't going to be true in my case.  "Apparently he was sick on lugnut day, but they still let him work on my van!"  




Today's subject line quote is from Ron White,  They Call me "Tater Salad".




     

I was thinkin' "Hey, Saturday. Maybe a slow day for once". No rest for the wicked.

     I'd like to start today's post by informing everyone that it is sponsored by Barnes and Noble's free WiFi and not the internet at the gym.  Not that I haven't been whipping my buns into a firm and extraordinary shape.  Because I have been going, just using the facilities for working out instead of exploiting the daycare center for typing time. But Barnes and Noble?  That requires driving north on a long strip of nothing for about 30 minutes until reaching the giant chunk of land where all civilization is located.  So long Slidouche, it's my morning off!

     Do you know how long it's been since I've had a Saturday free, much less to myself?  We're in the middle of birthday season.   Almost every child I know was born between between the months of April and June; therefore, all of my weekends are full of various venues full of kids running laps, hyped up on cake that I can't eat.  Okay, shouldn't eat. 
     But since I know what anxiety is spawned by spending hours planning a party that will astound your child, entertain the guests, and not have to apply for a loan in order to pay for it, only to have 2 of the 30 some odd RSVPs actually show--I genuinely want to go to these things.  What's a few hours for some kids' happiness right?  Even if 3 hours magically turns into all...freaking...day...when you include packing a diaper bag, travel time, and having to physically lift the 35 lb. preschooler up over your shoulder and run him out to the car even though he'll LOVE it when he gets there, but refuses to do anything but sit in his pajamas eating cereal for 4 hours every morning.
     So I guess my point is actually simple: 


Parents and Parent Wannabes, STOP HAVING SEX IN LATE SUMMER. 

     I'm not factoring in the "surprises," so maybe that will even out the amount of Springtime babies.  It won't do anything for the kids Michael's age that eff up my weekends, but perhaps Ivy's friends will have the decency to spread themselves along the calender.  Seriously, I have chores to do and I don't want to pay a teenager 10 bucks an hour on a Tuesday morning so that I can do them.


Today's subject line quote is from Fringe (2008):  Over There: Part I.

You're messing with my Zen thing, man!

     I just spent the last half hour literally laughing my ass off.  I took my first Pilates class at the MegaGym and it was challenging.  Maybe not so much from the workout, but from trying not to fart while silently giggling in the corner.  That and not stretching.  I assumed that we would do a little pre-stetching ritual, maybe work into the difficult moves.  But it was apparently my job to do that before we started ripping the muscles from their rightful places and throwing them across the room for 30 reps.

     That wasn't the funny part.  The hilarity of the situation was that I was in a room full of old ladies, one of whom was Hispanic and decided to let out an "Aye!" or Spanish inflected "Oh!" every time she flexed.  Have you ever tried breathing correctly with one leg behind you and the other in front of your face, above your head AND silently convulsing so nobody realizes just how humorous you think an old woman's pain is?  It's not easy.  But the good news, is that I definitely engaged my core!  It's involuntary to tense up the entire abdomen when suppressing laughter.

      Now I'm having some quiet time in the lobby with my netbook.  I still have 45 minutes before they make me haul the munchkins home or make me pay them extra to keep them alive.  I probably look ridiculous sitting here, but I love it.  I can sit here and type til my heart's content and nobody will yell, "Mommy!  Be the bad guy!  Now run from the dragon before it eats you!"  At least I hope not...but that would be an altogether different experience, wouldn't it? 

     And after cleaning up the spilled contents of a hamster cage, getting baby diarrhea sprayed onto me, and listening to 2 exceptionally needy children for all those hours yesterday--I might take my chances with any weirdos I might encounter here in the lobby.  I might leave with them.

Today's subject line quote is from TRON:  Legacy  (2010).

He's not going to quit bouncing, I'll tell you that.

     Excuse my absence.  Again.  I feel like 80% of my blogs start with some kind of apology these days. Sorry for that, too.  My family has been mega busy the last few weeks.  We've joined the gym, ended the school year, had a trip to the E.R. after dropping the baby on her head.  You know, the usual.  Don't worry, I'll elaborate that last one for you.

     Our theater has a summer program where they run old children's movies on the big screen for $3.  Michael loves it because he can go to the movies every week.  I love it because it basically costs pocket change and it includes popcorn and a drink.  This kid is a movie junkie.  We've seen almost every children's flick in the theater since the second Chipmunks came out in 2009.  Movies aren't cheap any more, never really were.  But now, even matinee showings are $7 a ticket.  For 3 tickets, it's 21 smackers!  If you factor in enough snacks and drinks for all of us, we're looking at having to sell organs on the black market.  Once Ivy is old enough that we have to pay for hers too, we might as well just give them Dom's nuts because we won't be affording any more children.
    
     That is, if Ivy lives past a year.  With my divine parenting skills and all, I mean.  I've got some mean baby dropping moves, let me tell you!  Moral of the story: "Don't try to pee with your infant in a baby sling."  I leaned too far forward and she popped right out of the front of it, smacking her head on the bathroom floor.  So not only did I have to worry about a concussion, her brain hemorrhaging, and cognitive delay, I also exposed her whatever the hell was growing on the floor of the public toilet.
     We made it in and out of the emergency room pretty quickly.  She wasn't showing any signs of trauma and after answering all the questions about the fall, the doctor gave me a why are you even here? look. But Michael reminds me any time that I use the carrier that "If Ivy falls out, we'll have to take her back to the hospital.  So be careful!"

     But when I'm not throwing my children on the ground, I've been spending my free time preparing for my sister-in-law's upcoming destination wedding.  We're headed to Denver on Friday and I'm extremely excited to be going out there.  DiMaggio weddings are inexplicably fun.  It's a banquet hall full of loud Italians with Dom's quirky sense of humor.  What's not fun about that?
     Finding an outfit for the wedding, was not so enjoyable.  I went to seven stores over three days before I found something that fit well enough.  I could have given up earlier, but most of the ensembles looked like a strapless trashbag was draped around me. That's because my body is an asymmetric blob consisting of about 3 different dress sizes throughout. 
     My top was somewhere between a 12 and 14, my ass was a 10, and my gut a 12.  Seriously, did you know that when you have large breasts and then have two kids, they get even BIGGER?  I got fitted by a specialist and these ladies are a 34 FF.   The Victoria's Secret "bra wench" tried to stuff me in a 36 DD the day before that.  Ha!
     I was able to find a decent pick.  It's a simple, yet elegant, blue dress that I'm spicing up with a belt and strappy shoes.  Know what the final size was?  An 8. 

     I  should just change my name so that my initials are WTF.  Those would make a nice monogram for a set of towels, don't you think?

Today's subject line quote is from Kung Fu Panda  (2008).





   

Here. It's all right here in my noodle. The rest is just scribbling. Scribbling and bibbling, bibbling and scribbling.

     It's been almost a week since my day at the spa and I still really, really want to write a post about my experience.  Unfortunately, I've had a unusual week packed with tons of other bloggable material and have no idea when I'll get to share any of it at length.
   Such as today.  I waited 15 minute for the handicap fitting room at Ross to open up so I could fit my big-ass stroller inside the stall and not have to get dressed half in the hallway so nobody would steal my baby.  After the eternity passed, I expected to see an old lady open the door or even another mom whom I could exchange the "yeah, I know" head nod and cram my travel system through the door.  Not even close!  It was a perfectly bipedal adult, the size of my middle finger...of which I wanted to show off to her so badly.
     There were 7 empty dressing rooms of an appropriate size, but Miss Petite Thing had brought in probably 20 items and, I guess, wanted it to feel like a walk-in closet.  Who knows?  She could have taken a nap in there for the amount of time I was stuck waiting, shoved into the mirror corner.   And then I got stuck in 1 of my 2 dresses I wanted to try on!  Because, apparently, I have a size 10 ass and size 18 boobs.

     There's also been late nights with both kids, followed by a vomiting preschooler who, later in the same day, could have finished a marathon before the end of a Robot Chicken sketch.  Obviously I have a lot of lovely stories that I am excited to share, but such stories keep me from posting.  Vicious cycle, folks.
     In the midst of such, I've actually gotten some sincere suggestions that I write a book based on all my chaotic happenings.  I have to confess that the idea has landed on my brain a few times, but this pattern of disarray makes it pretty unlikely unless I find some serious time to myself--which is partly why I have decided to rejoin the ranks of the Naked Grannies and rejoin Megagym.
     Though the most appealing aspect of rejoining is probably just being able to shower and throw some makeup on in a quiet environment, even if the old ladies like to walk around in le buff.  I know that's totally not real French.  But "le nu" probably wouldn't make sense if you didn't already know real French, so...le suck it.  Also not real French.  Regardless, I'm hoping to spend some time post workout working on more entries and maybe even compiling a stack of crap to photocopy and send to you guys as a "book."  Or send to a publisher, whatever.  Oh, and I created a facebook page.  "Like" me, would ya?
 
     But my dinner is burning and this has already taken me about 4 hours long to write this than I had hoped.  So I'm going to go salvage my pasta. 

Today's subject line quote is from Amadeus (1984).