Oh deer

I know I promised this story a little while back, but I was still too emotionally connected to be able to write it. Thus, I will share it with you now, as I’ve stopped thinking about this poor little deer on a day-to-day basis, wondering where it is or if it’s eating little deer cookies in deer heaven.

The day after the wedding, Sept. 18

On Sept. 18 at 6:00, I was ready to divorce John. It had been a long 24 hours, what can I say? Okay, Sweetie, since I know you’re reading this, really I wasn’t. I was just a little harried, that’s all.

On Saturday night, the plan was to spend time with family and friends at a relaxing dinner, which we did, but getting ready for it was one of the most unorganized two hours of my life. John had gone to the hotel early, justifiably, to spend time with his family because he doesn’t have the option I do of seeing his family every day. Or every few months for that matter.

While I tried to get dressed up and keep the boys looking half clean, they managed to:

1. Get a hold of John’s aftershave and spread it on the carpet and sofa to say nothing of their outfits
2. Poop. (By the way, is there some prophecy out don’t know about that when you’re getting ready to go, your kids will poop?)
3. And spray hairspray all over the living room (I was just thankful that this didn’t get in their eyes).

My mom saved the day by coming over to drop off something from the wedding site and deciding to stick with me to help me get the boys in coats, etc. and out the door.

On our way to dinner, just where Hwy 5 meets 35, I heard my mom say, “Sweetie, there’s a deer behind that column.”

At this point, both boys were singing “Wheels on the Bus” in the backseat, I was wearing a dress and heels, and the last thing I was thinking about was a deer.

The deer apparently wasn’t thinking about me either.

She dashed in front of the car and slammed on the brakes (thank God no one was behind me) and we caught the poor things’ rumpus right on our hood.

“Keep driving, you did a good job,” my mom said as my hands shook and I tried to drive 70 to move in with traffic and the boys continued to sing, “The wheels  on the bus.” Thank God for Britax car seats by the way.

“Ummmm …,” I said intelligently. All I could see was that poor deer flying into the underbrush of the bypass, lying in pain or saying, “Thank God for that ghetto booty.” I really hoped it was the latter.

And then my mom said something that made me think – no wonder I turned out so crazy.

“I always wondered what it would be like to hit a deer.”

I looked at her, incredulous. “Really? That’s what you're thinking right now?”

She patted my hand and looked hopeful. “Don't worry, Sweetie. I think that deer may have made it.”

Well, I hope so, but if you did Bambi, you owe me a deductible.

Sink or Swim

Sully has turned into Lassie in the past few days. It would be incredibly cute if it weren't followed by something incredibly (insert dangerous, expensive, or grotesque here).

On Sunday, for instance, while I was drawing a bath for the boys, trying to encourage William not to splash all of the water onto the floor and grabbing two pairs of pajamas, Sully tugged on my sleeve, looked at me with big brown eyes and said, "Mama."

I know the drill now, so I followed his little footsteps into the bathroom and crossed my fingers he was about to show me something he'd put in the bathtub (for instance, last week's "Mama" led me to a bathtub full of our pots and pans). But that's okay. In instances like this, I've lucked out, because all it takes is a little cleaning time and we're back to normal.

This wasn't one of those times.

I sighed, looked down at Sully's little finger pointing straight at the toilet and groaned. He opened the lid slowly, as if to say, "You won't believe this, Mama. This is something amazing."

"Ooooh," he said as he opened the lid, eyes on me. Look Mom. Magic.

And he revealed his Sleep Sheep sound machine. Sitting at the bottom of the toilet. The only toy that has helped me gain sanity in moments of craziness was sitting like a stone in toilet water. The only sign of life, little bubbles that floated to the top until -

My son reached in and grabbed it and held it out for me like a prize. "Mama," he said again and I groaned ... again. I put the machine on a towel because I couldn't bear with the thought of throwing it in the trash just yet -- the only toy that made a sound that didn't make me crazy.

In case you're wondering about what items sink and what items swim, thus far we have discovered that bottles swim, sound machines sink, Neosporin swims, and toilet paper, well, toilet paper clogs.

Stay tuned for future episodes of Lassie. Until tomorrow ...

Beauty, the Beast, and the Terrible Twos

Our children have turned into Beauty and the Beast. We have one child who is well behaved, and one child who ... well, you see, ahem. People warned me about the Terrible Twos. The thing is, that being completely inexperienced in the realm of Motherhood, I thought it would happen when the boys, well, turned two.

This is not true.

As of late, my little Sully has turned into what John and I lovingly call, "Our little demon." (Sully, if you by chance run across this blog one day, just let me know and I will buy you a present).

Sully spends nearly 80% of his days completely red in the face, furious with me for trying to put his shirt on, or take his shoes off, or put him in the bathtub, or take him out of the bathtub. He's angry at us when we try to feed him dinner, but more angry when we take his tray away.

The one thing I'm thankful for right now is that thus far, he seems not to have heard too many of Mommy's curse words, because I'm fairly certain I would have heard a whole slew of them last night when I was trying to put him to bed.

His brother Will, however, seems to be just fine right now (this will inevitably change as twins seem to have this superhero power way of saying, "I'm done. Your turn." when it comes to things like this).


Sully, we love you still, our little tomato, but if these bouts of demon last until you're 3, Mommy might take a little vacation to Mexico for just a teensy bit of time.

Until tomorrow ... (really this time. I started working on a book so I've been throwing some time to that, but I'll be back this time, barring any unexpected mental health breaks needed from Terrible Two parenting).

I'd rather ride a unicycle.

One night, when I was six years old, my mom served fish sticks for dinner. I took them into the living room, plopped down on my belly and started to eat dinner in front of the television.

The thing was, I wasn't hungry. The other thing was, it was the night my mom promised we would go pick up my brand new bicycle. No more training wheels, but two wheels - with sparkles and spokes.


"Mom," I said after a few bites, "I'm finished." 

And she said what many of us have said once or twice or five thousand times, "Just three more bites, Sweetie."

I remember it took me a whole lot of willpower to get those bites down, but get them down I did, and then I yelled at my sister to hurry up and we jumped in the car to go to the bike shop.

A half-an-hour later, we pulled into the parking lot at the bike shop and I walked inside, my mind scrambling with all of the shiny possibilities. I was just minutes away from my brand new bike.

"This one," I said, pointing at a pink Schwinn. It was beautiful. My eyes went wide when the owner said, "Would you like to give it a try?" and I swung one leg over the seat and imagined how cool I was going to be riding around town.

And then I puked.

All over the bike.

And (weak stomachs stop here), it dripped off the handlebars and crossbar down to the carpet.

I remember the owner's face, and I remember my mom's, and I remember the feel of my sister's arm as she led me away from that super cool bike, out of the store, across the parking lot and into the car, where we watched my mom help the owner clean up my fish sticks.

"That smelled awful," my sister said, watching with gruesome interest, sitting backward in the passenger seat to get a better view of the action.

I curled up in the fetal position in the backseat and groaned.

When my sister was younger, she spent nearly all of her time on her bike, riding all around town with her neighborhood friends.

I walked. A lot. 

I think it's because my bike and I got off on the wrong foot. When I looked at that shiny pink bike, I knew it was a lie. It wasn't going to make me cool. It was going to make me puke in public. Looking back, I guess it was a really good lesson in vanity. Speaking of which, have I told you about the time I chopped my hair off and decided to get a perm?

Until tomorrow ...

Officially a Mrs. Well, except for Facebook.

So it’s official. I’m married. 

And though I promised myself not to cry while we stood under the arbor and my brother-in-law recited the vows we would exchange, I did cry. So much so in fact, I had to ask if I could “skip” a line in the vows.

Just in case anyone else plans on asking if you could skip a line in vows while getting married, it apparently isn’t allowed. 

It was exactly as I thought it would be. 

My walk down the aisle with my parents ended up including William, who upon making eye contact with me was hell bent on ensuring he had 100 percent of my attention, so I tripped my way down the aisle. John ended up holding Sully throughout the ceremony as he became super jealous about Will’s special treatment, and all was as it should have been – John and I holding the loves our lives while we married the love of our life. 

It sounds nice, but I was sweating like a pig because Will weighs close to 30 pounds now, my heels were digging into the mud and to avoid tripping I was constantly shifting – shifting weight in heels in mud by the way, is also not something I recommend for a wedding day. Outdoor wedding = flats. 

John hasn’t accepted my married status on Facebook yet, so I don’t know if we’re legal in all 52 states, but he says he doesn’t want to ruin his image.  Love you too, Sweetie. 

All right, so the blogs on wedding planning will end, and tomorrow, I will begin telling you about my married life. It will start with me hitting a deer while wearing a dress on my way to our celebration dinner. What, you’re surprised?

Changing my name to Mayonnaise

One week from tomorrow, John and I are getting married. It's a bit strange, since we feel like the rings are a bit of an accessory to this life it feels like we've been leading a while, but maybe now when I say, "I'd really like ice cream," at 10:30 at night, he'll feel a little more obligated to deliver, and maybe when he says, "I really want to watch the game," I won't roll my eyes.

Okay, maybe not, but that three second thought was nice.

I'm a bit excited to have my name changed, and a bit sad. It's been with me a while. Sivadge. It has changed over the years, too.

In sports, I started out Sivadge.
In sports, because you're constantly yelling and have two seconds to react, I became, "SIV!"
In awkward telemarketer calls, I'm Ms. Savage. (Sometimes I pretend Fred Savage and I go way back, but other than that, it's not so cool), and Ms. Si-vadge-ee.


In college, when I first started having to make more adult phone calls and pay some bills, I also learned that my name is long.

"S as is Sam. I, V as in Victor. A. D as in Dog. G as in George. E."

It will be weird that I won't have to say that any more. A few months ago, when I got off the phone with someone who said, "B as in Boy? C as in Cat?" and I finally gave up and am pretty sure I agreed to the name, Sibacge, I told John:

"I can't wait to have your name."

"Don't get too excited," he said. "People mess my name up all the time."

"What? How? Maynes?"

"Yup. They say, "Mr. Mayonnaise" a lot.

Sigh. Well, at least I like mayonnaise.

One time in a kybo in nowhere

Here's the thing about a toilet that's outdoors.

Okay, let me start over.

No. Maybe I shouldn't.

Okay, but who else would I tell but my good friends who may have done something similar? Okay, not similar, but something embarrassing at least? Okay, here goes.

Last Monday, at a work event that was taking place outdoors, my only choice for a restroom was a kybo. I know no one is super excited about kybos, but I must say these were really clean, and lack-of-smelly, and the best thing a kybo could have been. The thing is, I have memories left of Iowa football tailgating and girls who turned into demons when they really had to go pounding on the door, and the truly smelly kybo in the 80- degree heat festering like a cesspool of not-so-goodness.

So, when I see a kybo, I sweat a little bit.

The event, I should explain, was a motorcycle ride, and it was so cool. I rode in a passenger van feeling very important and wishing I knew how to ride a motorcycle and when we came to one particular spot in the country, I eyed the kybo knowing my time had come. Twenty minutes later as people started to get ready to head to the next stop, I decided this was it, I had to go before we left. I cursed my last soda and popped into the kybo.

Two seconds later I thought, this doesn't sound right.

Or feel right.

I'd been in such a rush, I hadn't noticed the lid was down. The lid was down! I frantically looked at my pants. Thank goodness. All clear. And then I cleaned up the floor of the kybo going, "Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew." And then I started sweating like a pig because working out in the slightest, like even brushing a hair back from your head, in a kybo that's been sitting in the sun all day that's all closed up is hot work.

And then I removed my pants, just to be sure I didn't have potty all down my pants.

And I did. I did have potty all down my pants. My eyes went wide and I stopped breathing for a second.

Oh. My. God.

I heard a motorcycle rev its engine and really started to panic. They were leaving! And I was standing in my underwear holding peed-on-pants and sweating and going, "What do I do?!!!"

Note: As it turns out, you should not call a client and tell them you have wet your pants at about age 30, so I was looking for a second option.

With lack of anything helpful, I grabbed wads of the 1 ply toilet paper and started patting my pants and patting my pants and patting my pants and sweating and sweating and sweating until finally, finally, my pants looked somewhat acceptable. I had long since heard the motorcycles take off and given up any hope that the van was there, but to my surprise, the van driver was standing outside, probably thinking I'd done the longest #2 of all time, and I smiled shyly and thought, wow. I hope this never. Ever. Happens again.

Until tomorrow ...

This is what happens when ...

Saturday I was driving to Perry to try on my wedding dress for the first time. I was happy for a few reasons:

1) My dress was lost in the mail for three weeks and was now found. Truly, they were pretty worried about it. I was a little bit. My mom was FREAKING out (not that I can blame her, I just hadn't heard her freak out in a while, so it was slightly entertaining). Love you, Mom.

2) I was listening to NPR. I love NPR because a) I am a dork. b) They have awesome Sat. music from Java House in Iowa City where in college, I stimulated my caffeine addiction as an excuse for better studying habits 3) They still tell news stories instead of having reality TV stars for interviewees. P.S. I make up for this by watching E News a lot.

3) John had bought me 4 truffles from Godiva just before I left and I ate 3 of them on my ride up. It's impossible not to be happy when you're eating 3 truffles. I then sadly let the other one melt while I tried my dress on, but was not above licking the melted chocolate off the bag until my sister looked at me slightly disgusted and said, "You know we have cookies at my house, right?"

So, upon my sister and my arrival in the store we were ushered into a dressing room where my dress awaited. I slid into it up to my thighs and then all sense of sliding stopped. I propped it up around my chest (what's left of it) and said, "Okay. Zip."

And my sister said, "Ummmmm...."

I looked at her face in the mirror and it's one I'd seen plenty of times as a child. One day, I "stayed home sick" with my sister and my mom caught us in our unfinished basement playing soccer and made us go to Wednesday night church. When my sister saw my mom that day at the bottom of the stairs I saw that face.

"No umms!" I said eyebrows sky high. "Zip!"

"Ummmm.....," she said.

And then we shuffled the dress into 20 different positions and suddenly it zipped.

Suddenly, I was also incredibly aware of my diaphragm.

"Ummm," I wheezed.

And my sister started laughing. "My dress was this tight. Soon, you're going to feel like you're sternum's collapsing."

Awesome. Sounds pleasant.

The seamstress came over and said, "How does everything feel? It fits fabulously!"

And I said, "Yeah. Um. I can't really breathe."

"That's perfect!," she said, and I was a bit miffed at how excited she was about my lack of air.

And then I started sweating. In air conditioning. Without lifting 19-month-old boys on my hips or smiling for photos or dancing or sitting in the Iowa September sun and I thought, oh heck. I'm going to be a puddle of a bride about halfway down my walk down the aisle.

And then I thought, well, that's okay. John has seen me with the flu. And pregnant as a whale with twins. And delivering twins. And So who knows, right? Maybe sweaty and stuffed will be an improvement?!

Until tomorrow ...

Tutus and Charleston Chews

In lieu of talking about everything that's making me want a beer right now, I've decided to flash back to dance class 1990.

First, I feel like I should tell you a few very important things.

1) I have huge thighs, and they were with me then, too. So at age 9, my huge thighs were plopped into pale pink tights. No, I can't imagine anything worse.
2) I sucked at dancing. Super sucked. I know with kids now I'm supposed to say things like, "Oh, honey, sucked is a bad word - and so strong - can't you say you weren't very good?" But the strong word is necessary here. I sucked.
3) There was only one thing I loved about dance class. There was only one thing I even liked about dance class. Afterward, my mom would take me to the grocery store right next door and I would get a candy bar. (See #1 huge thighs).

On this particular day, we were all preparing for a recital. I had my token place in the back row where I was no doubt preemptively weighing my options between a 3 Musketeers and a Charleston Chew when things got serious. The owner of the dance studio came in.

She was elusive. Sure, her name was on the outside of the building, but until then, the woman with big black hair and skinny legs was our teacher. Not this woman.

She had gray hair and stick thin legs and a voice like she'd been smoking for 137 years.

She also had a pointer.

She stood up front and said, "Dance monkeys, dance!"

Okay. Not really, but it felt that way. She asked us to run through our routine and every three seconds she would yell, "Stop the music!" and she would critique someone's stance or someone's wrist or someone's eyelashes.

I'd never been happier to be in the back row.

"STOP THE MUSIC!" she screamed a last time. And then her beady eyes settled on a poor slim girl to my front left. I remember her. I remember her hair. I remember her thin legs. I remember the way that the whole situation looked a lot like a hawk circling a mouse.

"Everyone, look over here!" she said, sticking her pointer right at the poor girl. "LOOK!"

"Thissssss....," she said narrowing her eyes and pointing at the girl's behind, "is why we don't wear underwear. Look at this ugly line!"  

I watched tears roll down the little girls cheeks and I thought about a lot of mean things I could say to this woman. And above all of them, I heard a voice screaming in my head, "You were not meant for dance. You always wear underwear!"

And that was it. That was my last dance class. There are moments in life when you realize you just weren't meant for something, and with my underwear and huge thighs and love of chocolate, I knew I wasn't meant for dance. I enjoyed every single bite of my Charleston Chew on the way home that night, and I started contemplating all of the chocolate bars I would get to eat now that I didn't have dance weighing down my snack time.

I'm ambitious like that.

Robbing Banks and Locking Bathrooms

When I was little, and people used to ask me, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" I would answer: 

"I want to be a bank robber."

What can I say? It was the first wave of computer-hacking bank-robbing movies and it looked like fun. Anyway, apparently I said it too many times because finally my mom said:

"You have to stop saying that, Sweetie."

Probably, it was a little embarrassing to have a little girl with blunt-cut bangs and chubby cheeks running around telling everyone she wanted to rob banks.

This has a lot to do with today's post, because this weekend, I realized that I never could have dealt with the pressure of robbing banks. In fact, I would have been so bad for that line of work, I think I would have wet myself before any of the people I was robbing had a chance to.

On Saturday, in the middle of a weekend full of crazy (John was golfing with my uncle who was in from out of town, while two boys who refused to nap were running around my house like chickens with their heads cut off), the boys decided to lock themselves in the bathroom.

You know how sometimes, you have this moment of pure inspiration and think, "I can do this in 30 seconds and be back and be organized?" I've decided I will ignore these moments forever. I will call this voice, Nancy, and Nancy needs to be quiet, because here's what Nancy told me to do on Saturday when I was trying to get all of us ready to go swimming.


While the boys play, you run outside with the swimming bag full of clothes and diaper bag because otherwise, you'll have two boys in the car by themselves while you try to make the trip. Ah ha! You smart woman, Nancy. What a great idea! So I grabbed the diaper bag and swimming clothes while the boys were entertained and ran outside. It really was 30 seconds.

30 seconds too long.

When I came back in the house I heard lots of crying and thought, oh hell, one of the boys hit the other one for the 30th time today and I'll have to give a time out while trying to get everyone ready for the pool and spread sunscreen on wriggling bodies.

The boys are in a phase where they like to close doors, so I went to open the bathroom door where they apparently decided to play, and I couldn't open it more than an inch.

They hadn't locked it truly.

Worse.

They'd shut the door, then opened a vanity door and pulled a shelf out that sits just an inch inside the bathroom door. The bathroom door opens to the bathroom, not the hallway, so when I pushed on the door, it hit the door to the vanity, knocked into the pulled out shelf, and I had only enough room to squeeze my hand in (which is now all sorts of bruised because my chubby hand barely fit through that space). On top of that, the lights were out, so my little guys were stuck in a dark bathroom.

In a moment of panic (when I realized bank-robbing would have led to me needing to change my pants a lot, not me making lots of money), I thought, oh my God, they're eating VapoRub. VapoRub is awesome when your kids have a cold. But probably not awesome when consumed.

I started throwing myself at the door. (The doors were built nearly 30 years ago, so when I failed to open it this way, I felt a wave of disappointment at my strength, but got over it pretty quickly since the scenario called for quick action). 

So I did what I always do in a moment of pure panic at age 28.

I called my mother.

"Mom!! The boys locked themselves in the bathroom!" I said while I tried to jimmy rig a hanger to reach through the door and turn on the lights for my now glass-breaking decibel-screaming children.

And she did what she always does because she's my mom. She hung up and drove to my house.

Seconds later, I finally got the boys to calm down by saying in a shaky voice:

"Boys - mommy's right here. I'm right here."

Probably it looked really creepy what with my voice right on the other side of the door and just my hand reaching in grasping at air, but I tried.

And they responded a bit. Their crazy cries went to ghasps for air.

"And Mommy's going to get you out," I said, thinking, "How in the heck am I going to get you out?" I went back to my work with the hanger, cursing the fact that I wasn't MacGayver. Or my friend Kim. My friend Kim once fixed a dent in a car with a towel and a spoon.

Really, had I been calm from the beginning, this may have worked out a lot faster, because when I started to calm down and talk to the boys while I slid the hanger through the door, Will started to walk closer, trying to reach my hand, and his little belly inched the drawer forward.

Ah ha!

"That's it Will," I said, "come here, Sweetie."

Another inch, and I could push the door open enough to get my elbow in. He walked a bit closer, and at last! Two children! Two crying, puffy-faced, scared-of-the-dark children who hadn't eaten any VapoRub! They ran at me and hugged my legs and tried to crawl up me to wrap their arms around my neck.

I hugged them tight, and they were over me in about 30 seconds and decided they wanted to play outside. Sully just had a bruise on his forehead and a scratch on his nose earned during all of the excitement.

All in all, the whole situation lasted about 3 minutes, but they were the longest minutes of my life. Probably near the amount of time you'd have to get in and out of a bank robbery. But I'll never know. Two boys are enough excitement for me.

Macaroni and Cheese Please

My children would eat Panera's Macaroni and Cheese if it fell onto the back of a rabid racoon who was getting ready to jump in the sewer. This is why I have to keep an eye out for raccoons. Well, that and I'm totally freaked out by those creepy little animals and their beady eyes and the thought that when they look at me they know that I'm 3" shorter than I told the people at the Department of Transportation.

Anyway, the boys love Panera's Macaroni and Cheese so much, on more than one occassion on one of my "I'm going to go nuts soon!" days we've scooped them up, driven to the mall, and strolled them straight in line where I say:

"Giant Mac and Cheese please."

Normally, this works out well, but the other day, when I said, "I'm going to go nuts soon!" and we scooped the kids up and I tried to make them look halfway presentable and said:

"Giant Mac and Cheese please."

The woman behind the counter had the audacity to say:

"We're out."

I stood there, completely befuddled for a minute. What? Out!? Out of Mac and Cheese! I looked frantically at my children and back at her and she looked at me like a prison guard and that's when I knew that woman didn't have children because she would have recognized "frantic mother about to jump ship" face and instead, she just raised her eyebrows and said:

"There's 500 calories in a small dish, you know."

Um. Double what? Stop talking prison guard lady! I already feed my kids Eggos you don't need to tell me how bad Mac and Cheese is - and hello! Take it off your menu if it's so evil. (Editor's note: Please do not remove Mac and Cheese from your menu or I'm likely to die. I love it nearly as much as my children).

I glared a glare at that woman I normally reserve for my children when they start food fights at dinner (who knew 18-month-olds knew about food fights by the way - this is another post for sure).

"We don't want anything then," I said. Though I looked incredibly forlornly at a chocolate chip cookie. And she shrugged at me and I said:

"Except that Cobblestone," in sheer  panic I thought I would walk away without the two pound muffin I was fairly certain God plopped down from heaven into the hands of a Panera baker just for me that morning.

Trust me, I tried to look grumpy when she handed me that muffin, but I think I looked like a kid in a candy store because it was all sorts of deliciousness wrapped into one. Then I gave the muffin to John and the boys while I went into a store. Mistake. I came back and there wasn't much muffin left and Will and Sully looked like they'd been dipped in a vat of frosting and cinnamon. I almost licked their cheeks to get what was left.

Sigh.

Until tomorrow ...

I don't know what got into me, but at least the car's clean.

So I offered to clean out John's car today, and while normally, I would take a lot of credit for being so thoughtful, I couldn't really do that in this instance because the juice box stains and foreign substances sliding around in the back at sharp turns that used to be Graduates Puffs were about 98% my fault.

"We could borrow my parent's shop vac," I said on our way back from a trip in town today. We both looked over our shoulder into the backseat and I think even the boys were shaking their heads at me.

"Honey," John said. "This thing needs an industrial-strength vacuum.

Taking a second look, I had to agree. After getting the boys down today, I started with the easy stuff, a little Armor All and Windex. And resigned myself to the hard stuff. The industrial-strength vacuum.

"Don't sweat!" John yelled at me as I pulled out of the drive, heading for the car wash.

Don't sweat? Was that a joke? He should know not to joke with me about sweat by now (one time, in fifth grade during a tennis lesson, my instructor told me I sweat like a man. While this is true, I highly recommend if male, you don't say something similar to a female - it will stick with them for life).

Ten minutes later, I was sweating like a pig, and I didn't care that while I was hauling that vacuum into the depths of hell in the backseat of our car, my grandma panties were likely hanging out for the world to see (cleaning out cars calls for grandma panties - nobody wants to tackle that work in a thong. Actually, I don't want to tackle anything in a thong - that situation has uncomfortable written all over it).

Here's the thing. While wrestling that behemoth vacuum around the car and whiling away quarters like I was playing slot machines, I realized whoever invented those vacuums must have had children. Those things could suck up a small adult who wasn't paying attention, let alone the remnants of a PB&J sandwich or a sad little bug (I accidentally squashed a bug in the car on the way to the car wash - I"m still too sad to talk about it for long periods of time because I broke his little wing and he couldn't get anywhere and when it finally looked like he had hope and had turned over I accidentally scooped him up in the vacuum while I cleaned the doors. This bug had bad luck written all over him with a clutz like me in charge today).

When I was done and had sweat through my tank top and my hair was falling out all over and I'd spoken enough cuss words to sail legitimately, I thought, these are the moments when you run into an ex-boyfriend or a girl who hated your guts in high school.

So I hopped in the car and drove home immediately.

Before I go, let me say, here's to you, all parents who have tackled the interior of your car with only your bare hands and a hint of insanity. Next time, I'm saving up and having that puppy detailed.

Until tomorrow ...

On the wedding and other things that are giving me gray hair

I have gray hair. I found my first gray hair three years ago now. Pre-pregnancy and thus pre-children. Pre-insanity. Pre- sleep deprivation.

 You can imagine what it looks like now.

The thing is, I won’t go gray gracefully – I’d like to think I’d have that thick silver hair that people can really rock when they go all gray, but I’ll go gray like a skunk – a strip straight down the middle. I know this because in third grade there was a lunch lady I nicknamed “skunk” because her hair looked just like this – all black with one white strip down the middle - and that’s how karma works. Karma’s laughing at me right now. (In my defense, she was really mean to all of us and would make us take a second trip back to our seat if we didn’t eat our vegetables and such).

I never ate my vegetables and such.

I ate my pizza and such.

Okay, but on to the wedding. Here are things that gave me gray hair this week.

1)      Why in God’s name doesn’t someone rent shepherds hooks? What on earth do I need 24 shepherds hooks for AFTER the wedding?

That would be some very odd living room décor no doubt.

2)      I need someone to marry us. Yep – thinking that’s getting pretty important.

3)      I need someone to take everyone back to their hotels safely because knowing my friends, they won’t be sipping on apple juice all night. Cost for 1 hour of rental: $350. Cost for me showing maturity for the first time in 10 years and not screaming, “Must be nice to make a business off of absurd pricing and monopoly!”? Priceless.

4)      I don’t know if I told you about the lady who sold me my dress and looked at me over her glasses and pointed at my waist and said, “Now, this can’t change very much you know,” with an eyebrow raised, but I ignored her. I went home and ate two Bavarian crème donuts, and I think the excessive number of cookies I’ve since eaten might be trouble for me come my first fitting. I’m not getting gray hair about my weight gain, though. It’s more the fact that I’m going to have to wear a girdle and it’s going to be about 127 degrees out.

Okay, in case I’m giving you gray hair at this point, I’ll stop here for now, but trust me, there’s plenty where this came from.

I’m off to dye my hair.

Until tomorrow …

This one thing that happened this one time in this one place called Denver.

"You get yelled at a lot," my sister said to me the other day on the phone. "By totally random people. It's so weird. To me - you look like the last person someone would yell at."

These are the things sisters tell each other to make each other feel better. "Your hair looks nice today," because in reality you have a zit the size of a quarter on your chin and your hair couldn't help but look nice next to that thing, or, "Oh no, you're exactly the same size you were last year at this time," when you know the pants from last year are now in your 'I have a dream' pile and you're in desperate need of shopping because you've been living in elastic for two months.

Okay, but on to why my sister was trying to make me feel better about getting yelled at by random people. I'll just share one random-yelling incident today.

When I was on vacation with my girlfriends in Denver about a month ago now, we went out for the night, came back, and all fell asleep at 2:00. At 5:30, I was awake, because that meant at home, it was 6:30, the time I would normally be feeding the boys eggos (in case this makes some mothers out there horrified - they're organic eggos, in case it doesn't make some of you horrified, let me tell you the truth, they're not organic - what can I say? They love them and I tell myself the blueberries are full of antioxidants). Most likely, you'll see future poop stories.

Okay, so I'm up at 5:30 with the knowledge I have at least 4 hours before someone wakes up. So, I go to the hotel gym and half-heartedly bike. Then I read a Janet Evanovich book - part of it anyway. If you haven't read her yet - read her. Stop what you're doing - pick up one of her books - you'll laugh until you have to run to the bathroom.

Finally, my girlfriend Dana woke up and we ran out to go get a bite for breakfast. And here's when Random Yelling Incident #34 happened.

I was laughing at something Dana had said as we passed by a gentleman on the sidewalk.

And he said, "Hey, what're you laughing at?"

Ignoring him (Stranger Danger!) I walked on and continued to laugh at whatever it was we were talking about at the moment.

And then all of a sudden I hear at horribly loud decibals -

"HEY! EDUCATE YOURSELF DUMBASS!! HE'S EPILEPTIC!"

Um. Um....

What's happening?

I looked at Dana and she shrugged her shoulders. I turned back and saw that standing next to the screaming man was another man. I hadn't even seen this man, let alone been laughing at him. And then I felt awful that this man was screaming next to this poor man drawing attention to an incident that didn't even happen and I wanted to yell back at him but I didn't want to make the one man feel any worse about the whole thing and then suddenly Dana said -

"That was odd."

And I turned and said, "I need a bagel."

Until tomorrow ...

Poop. Poop. Poop.

I have a friend who has hated the word poop ever since we were in fifth grade and she moved here from Michigan. Melissa, if you're reading this - yes, I still remember your hatred for the word poop. She has since had two children and had to deal with more than her fair share of poo I'm sure (see Melissa - I called it poo just for you!) - and I got more than my fair share of poop (trust me, this happening deserves the extra "p") last night.

Oh.

My.

So last night the boys were crawling on my legs as I tried to get one minute to eat a snack before taking them on their walk. I thought, heck, we'll give you some juice and head on our walk. But they drank them down right away. Why you little guys are dead thirsty, I thought, and refilled their cups. I knew this was more juice than they normally have in a day, much more, but thought, well, you're thirsty and we need to go. Here we go.

About halfway through our walk they started getting very cranky, and by the time we got home, they were really cranky. Cranky, cranky, cranky. I was losing my mind. John was being patient dad thank God because all I seemed able to say was, "Eek is it just me or are they going nuts? I'm going nuts!"

Some days, I go nuts.

I gave up on getting them to eat and John and I decided we would just feed them a quick tub of fruit.

That's when it all started.

Probably I should have heard many bells going off - fire alarms actually - at this stage, but I didn't. I didn't notice anything was wrong at all, until I looked down.

And saw a puddle.

Of poop.

On the floor.

Under Sully's highchair.

Horrified, I followed the poop puddle trail up the highchair leg, up my son's leg, and into his shorts.

"Ummmm," I said.

By now, you guys know I hate poop. I'm flu queen. I handle puke. I hate, hate, hate, poop. It's beyond gross.

"Well!" John said, "get him in the bath."

I was frozen for a minute. Eeeeeew. Poop!

"Okay," I said and went into action.

I held Sully with as few fingers as possible and ran him back to the bathroom and he kept whining holding his fingers out to me that still had food chunks from the dinner he only played with covering his fingers.

Really kid, I thought, you're choosing THAT to whine about right now? You have a mile of poop running down your leg.

I filled the bath, plopped him in and meanwhile cleaned up his now poopy brother and plopped him in the bath, too.

And then the bath water filled with diarrhea.

And then I watched my children grab the plastic cup and fill it up and pour it out with diarrhea water while I started emptying the tub, telling them, "Eeew! No! Guys - stop it!"

And they giggled.

Sigh.

Then Will decided he might drink some diarrhea water and I moved with what I thought was Olympic speed and grabbed the cup and thought, "2 tickets to the Bahamas are sounding really nice right now." Note to self:
Get rich, call travel agent.

Somehow, an hour later, two more poops later, and a lot of diapers and a LOT of wipes, we had two clean boys ready for bed.

Thank goodness.

This morning on my way to work I called my sister and told her the story.

"You do know you're supposed to dilute the juice, right?" she asked. "Half water, half juice."

"What?! Why don't people tell me these things?" I said.


My poor children. I honestly feel bad. I need a Motherhood book for Dummies. Poop. I tell you.

The end.

Until tomorrow ...

My new phone

Okay, so today I was standing in the middle of Michael's searching high and low for hurricane vases that didn't cost $20 each because I would like 20 of them for the wedding but know the likelihood of me using 20 hurricane vases throughout our house following the wedding is slim to none so I would rather they be very cheap. Just when I decided to give up, my sister called. Thank God. Sisters are needed in times like these.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" she screamed into the phone.

I jumped back. Eek!

"Why are you screaming?"

Oh no.

I looked at my phone. It's been doing this odd little thing where it puts people on speaker out of nowhere, but as of yet, it hadn't done it in the middle of a store with 10 people looking at me yet.

"I SAID WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" my sister said again.

"Hey stop talking!" I said looking at my phone as it beeped "Speakerphone On" - "Speaker phone off" and back and forth like 8 times as my sister came in and out, soft, than screaming, than soft.

"I'll call you back in 30 minutes. I think this is a sign I have to get my new phone today." And I hung up.
30 minutes later.

"And you can connect to this program called Latitude where you can find anyone, anywhere, anytime!" the salesperson said.

Hmmm. I'm thinking every stalkers job just got a whole lot easier.

"Well you've got to have a permission from the person, of course," he said, probably answering my horrified expression.

I'm not the type of person who hems and haws over what type of phone they're going to get. I don't love my phones. I need my phone, but I don't love my phones. I was very close to this particular phone only because it had survived a swim in a full pitcher of beer, among other things, and I was very impressed with its tenacity, but I didn't freak out if I lost it. I lost it almost every day.

So today, I went into the store at 1:00 and walked out at 1:27 with a new contract and a new phone.

I swear, it's been staring at me since then. Sitting on my desk all like, "YouTube something! Facebook something! Share a Tweet! Stalk someone!" and it's making me a bit nervous, but perhaps I will test it in a pitcher of beer later on the summer, see what it's made of and we'll develop a close relationship after all.

We'll see.

Until tomorrow ...

In honor of my sister's last day of school. My first day of school.

In honor of my sister and her last day of school.

Congratulations, Sis! You made it through an entire year, pumping on a tile floor in a small bathroom and loving your students no matter what challenges came your way.

Okay, so it was first grade again. Mrs. Wells returns.

Part I

September 1 is my birthday. I say this not so you’ll send me presents (but you can, really, I won’t mind), but so you know that my birthday always meant the beginning of the school year. Truly, is there a worse “gift” than the return of school after a summer of fun? Probably not.

Oh wait, yes there is.

There’s having your birthday on the very FIRST day of school.
Year: 1988.
Class: 1st grade.
Teacher: Mrs. Wells.
Age: 7 full years old.
Situation: About to get embarrassing.

Again, I found myself in a semi-circle of children at the front of our classroom, but this time, we were preparing to go through the day’s agenda. Something like: reading, recess, lunch, recess, math, God how I wish it were first grade again. Mrs. Wells concluded by saying:

“And, we have a birthday! Leslie, please come to the front of the class!”

I was thrilled. Ta da! That’s right folks. I’m seven. Yes, please do clap for me. I took my time walking up to the front amid claps, and then, Mrs. Wells said, “How old are you?”

“Seven,” I said with a grin.

“All right! You get seven spanks,” she said.

Um. Wait a minute.

This wasn’t part of the deal!

I watched her pat her leg for me to sit across and my eyebrows shot up. No way! Eek! How embarrassing!

And then she spanked me.

And called out every spank, "1! 2! 3! 4! 5! 6! 7!"

In front of the whole class!

Granted they weren’t real spanks. They were birthday spanks. But I was horribly embarrassed.

It’s a good thing I loved Mrs. Wells despite my first day of school memory. Oh, and this one.

Part II

Mrs. Wells was walking around our classroom with a bowl full of candy.

“All right class! Anyone who’s gotten their name on the board 2 times or less this year can reach in and grab a piece of candy!”

Oh buddy. I love candy. I don’t kind of love candy. I love candy like Fran Drescher loves big hair.

I watched her walk around the classroom and from afar, began deciding what candy bar I would pick from the bowl. Milky Ways were pretty good but so were 3 Musketeers. And Twix. Dang this was hard.

And then there she was, standing right in front of my desk with that glorious bowl of chocolate. I watched my friend reach in and saw Mrs. Wells smiled at her. And then I reached in and –

Mrs. Wells pulled the bowl away!

I must have looked shocked because she said, “Leslie, you can’t have any candy today. This is only for people who’ve had their names on the board two times or less.”

“Well, I’ve only had my name on the board a couple of times.”

“You’ve actually had your name on the board 17 times.”

17 times!

What?! I searched around the room for documentation. How could this be? 17?!?!?

Darn my chatterbox mouth and all of its repercussions!

I watched Mrs. Wells continuing to walk around the room with that bowl full of candy and cursed my mouth.

But then, I thought, probably my mom would get me a candy bar after dance class that night (see future posts on chubby girl in leotard) and everything would be right in the world.

Kris, I love you. You’re amazing. Thank you for teaching even the tough little kids like me with love!

A princess named Money

All right ladies – in 21 hours I will be enjoying time with my college girlfriends. And I have just one girlfriend left to write about – Dana.

Dana was actually supposed to be born a princess. I can’t prove it, but I’m pretty positive.

She loves all things pink and sparkly and girly. She loves princess movies, too.

I’m not kidding.

The three of us who will also join her on this trip have sat through Ella Enchanted and The Prince and Me. But the thing is, with Dana watching, all excited and believing in true love to the end a.k.a. Charlotte, they’re actually fun to watch.

Dana’s also beautifully unpredictable. She is one of the classiest people I know, and she is my social behavior barometer for what is right and what is wrong. But one night, one glorious night, when I came back to visit my girls after moving to Colorado, Dana’s barometer slipped a little bit, and I’m so happy for her that she let it.

We were sitting in a bar in Iowa City and the clock was moving toward midnight when a waitress asked Dana if she would like to participate in a wet T-shirt contest. And the beautiful tipsy-barometered Dana said yes. I will leave the details out of this story, but just know that Dana not only embraced the wet T-shirt contest, she rocked that party. And that’s why I love her. One day, she is sitting with you talking about why you will get married and have 2.5 children and a drive a Volkswagen and why that’s the right thing to do and the next day she’s dancing like Beyoncé in a wet T-shirt contest. How could you not love this girl?

Beyond that, Dana is … just Dana. I can’t describe it. She makes you feel comfortable and secure and like no matter how tumultuous life might be at the moment it will all end up all right. She’s like a baby blanket for adults.

I love you, Money. See you, well, 21 hours!

P.S. Thanks in advance for the ride. And the weekend. And the friendship. XOXOX

If I could clone Karen

Okay, so in continuation of my tribute to my girlfriends in honor of our trip this weekend, I wanted to highlight Karen.

If I could clone Karen and give her to everyone in need of a girlfriend I would because you couldn’t find a better one. She is the most loyal person I’ve ever met – she will take your side even if she thinks you’re wrong (she’ll also be sure to tell you that you were wrong later, but she has the decency to do it when you’re no longer in public). She has a sarcastic wit that will make your lips curve even on the worst of days, and she is dedicated to fun more than anyone I know. If there was a bar crawl that had 100+ people involved in college, you could guarantee she was a part of the planning process.

And as if that wasn’t enough, she has an enormous heart. She wants everyone to have an equal chance. She wants everyone to be able to live a good life, from here to the far corners of the world. Sometimes my heart breaks for her because it’s not an easy world when you want that for so many. But she doesn’t just talk about it either, which I find myself guilty of sometimes – she does something about it. She’s planning her career around it. I’m so proud of her.

And she’s got this way of knowing just what her friends need when they need it.

When I was moving to Colorado and leaving all of my friends behind (they were such good friends I had to return shortly after) she gave me her favorite pair of sweatpants that she would come downstairs wearing on our “I’m hungover and need nothing more than to watch a movie and eat fried food” days. Karen and I studied abroad at separate times, and I know she knew to give me these because of that experience. A couple of years before this, I found myself in Ireland, 10 days in to a 5-month stint, away from friends and family and loved ones and though it was an amazing experience, I had a horrible bout of homesickness all of a sudden. I called my mom crying and said, “Mom, can you please send me my Iowa sweatshirt? I need it.” It was silly. It was a sweatshirt, but that sweatshirt was home. Karen knew those sweatpants were home to me. They were a symbol of the best days I had with my girlfriends. I packed them up and smiled.

And I wore them often.

I wear them still. I’m packing them for this trip as a matter of fact.

K-HO, I love you so. Thank you for entering my life.

Can’t wait to see you.