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.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Thursday, July 8, 2010
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 ...
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 ...
Monday, July 5, 2010
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 ...
"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 ...
Monday, June 28, 2010
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 …
Thursday, June 17, 2010
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 ...
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 ...
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
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 ...
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 ...
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
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 ...
"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 ...
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