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!