I texted a client the other day. Auto-correct in action – it changed the word “that” to the word “twat”. I wanted to kill myself the minute I saw the send confirmation. "Do you want twat for Monday?" was in the little blue bubble. I sent another text immediately, blaming auto-correct and apologized several times. “Damn you Auto Correct” didn’t seem to cover my feeling – more like “Fuck you! OMG! I hate you Auto Correct”. It felt like a lifetime waiting for her text back. Luckily, she had a good sense of humor and laughed it off. Holy crap - my nerves are shot.
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Ella wanted to go on a school trip with her class that was offered as a special, Saturday event. Parents had to give permission and pay an extra price since it was above and beyond other planned field trips. She asked for some of her “college fund”. Since she doesn't have chores to earn any money (that is just so us), I asked her what she meant by "college fund". She said the money she got as gifts since she was born for holidays, birthdays and special party things. I looked at her, put a hand on her shoulder and said “oh Honey, Dad and I spent that money already.” Naturally, she started freaking out. “On what!?” she rightfully asked. “On our awesome camera! Remembering all the fun we have as a family could be seen as just as valuable as an education! Besides, you can get a loan for school and school related things. And, we really needed the camera before our upcoming Bermuda trip.” She looked at me like she hated me. I tried to lessen the blow and softly said “You can't put a price on memories.” She walked out of the room.
I shrugged and started taking selfies with our camera that one could say, Ella bought us. Whatever! She’ll come around eventually. Our kids want for nothing and this camera was kick ass. Vanessa is a perpetually stuffy kid. She is always coughing or sniffling – she’s totally snarfley. Last Friday night, I was looking through the medicine cabinet for her cough syrup while she watched me closely. Adam reminded me of the potential opportunity to watch a grown-up movie that evening when he yelled from the kitchen to “give her the berry one.” Which meant the drowsy kind. Agreeing with him, I pulled the bottle with the pink solution from the cabinet. Right away, Vanessa put her hands on her hips, stomped her foot and curtly said in her little voice “that’s the one that makes me go to sleep.” I was a little shocked and also amused. I don’t know why I didn’t give her a little credit to think she’d know which was which. She stormed off into her bedroom saying she’d only take the purple one. Such drama. It’s not like I tried to poison her – we just wanted to tire her out. Bourbon on the gums for teething was so much easier.
During my delivery with Ella, I knew I was having a C-section. And while I wanted the drama like in the movies of the wife screaming about her water breaking and the husband panicking – forgetting her overnight bag as he flees the house for the hospital and drives erratically – I was glad that I was able to prepare for the big day. Since I knew exactly when I would be going in, I was able to get groomed up. I got my hair dyed, my nails done, my bush whacked. Even with all of that primping, I wasn’t loving the idea that while I was on the operating table in between the epidural and being sliced in half to have a person pulled out of me, my bottom was totally exposed to students that were observing the delivery as part of their student teaching program. As I swung my legs around to get on the table, my entire bottom was in full view. One student began scribbling on his clipboard. I startled him when I yelled – “Hey! Hey! You better not be drawing me.” The poor thing looked at me, looked at his clipboard and looked at me again, while a fellow student slowly peeked over his shoulder to see what in fact he had just done with his pen. He stammered as he replied, “I am not. I am writing some notes.” I harshly replied “Let me see.” He turned his board towards me and there was no drawing, just writing. “Well OK then.” I said and then I made a stern face “No one is allowed to draw me right now. I know you may want to but that isn’t ethical.” Looking back on this, I am certain those poor students are still talking about me as a crazy person. Because who in their right mind would want to draw a pregnant person's crotch? I can't image it would sketch well.
When Ella was younger, she always asked me to read books to her before bedtime. But sometimes she would fall asleep halfway through the reading. But it never mattered where I had left off when she nodded off - when I picked up the book again before bed, she always wanted me to read it “from the beginning". Sure this worked with Dr. Seuss and Biscuit books...they were short and easy to breeze through (I would even skip words, paragraphs or pages to crunch the bedtime ritual because she couldn't read yet and had no idea what was I doing and I wanted to go watch my shows. Hehe...nice move, Mom!). But when she would request starting over after several times with a children’s Bible, I knew we’d never get past the baby in the basket. It was literally “in the beginning…” over and over and again....
PS. More than 9-years later and we still never finished the Bible. Obviously. A few months ago I got let go from my job. And before finding something new, my girls were begging me to be a teacher. Ella was so excited about the idea. Her enthusiasm was cut short when I interrupted her and said, “Ella, I don’t want to teach children, let alone spend all day with them. You know I don’t really like kids.” She paused for a moment and said, “Well... then you can be a stay at home mom!!!” I looked at her with a "get real" expression on my face and said “OK what part of – I don’t like children didn’t you understand? - Please don’t think that doesn’t mean you as well.” Good God, I wasn't let go for being insane. The mere thought of being home with my kids as a SAHM had me running to update my LinkedIn profile! Yea, I am just not Stay-at-home-Mom material. Hell, I am not even Mom material. Nope, not at all.
Last year, Adam wanted me to go with him at twelve o’clock on Thanksgiving night to partake in the Black Friday Midnight madness. I honestly couldn’t imagine doing this after sitting by the fire, drinking wine and pigging out on food all day but he was determined to get me to come with him. We left my cousin’s home after family dinner and dropped our kids off at my parent’s house. Being still buzzed, I chatted his ear off the entire ride about everything and nothing. I then stumbled up the stairs, twirled around in my holiday dress and fell onto the bed only to be woken up about two hours later by Adam gently shaking my shoulder. After being pulled from the small food/wine coma I was in, I lifted my head - totally sloth like and disheveled. Adam asked me if I was ready to go. I smiled at him and he jumped back – not only were my teeth practically stained gray from the red wine, my lips were also sucked dry from alcohol dehydration and now bleeding. Yeesh. I would make a fine shopping accomplice. Maybe I’d get good deals out of pity. Wellllll, we would never know….I woke up the next morning still in my party dress, with blood caked to my pillow and red wine soaked lips. OK, so full price holiday shopping from Amazon it is! At least I can drink my wine and shop online – a purple and snarly smile would make no difference at all.
Adam takes the kids to the pet store and my youngest looks over at the wall of fish tanks and spots one with a heart. She yells "a fish with a heart on it for Mom!". Later, they go to the liquor store and Ella sees alcohol with a fish on it and says “Hey! that is for Mom!". I love my kids for knowing me so well. I love love and I love wine. I whisper to each of them - unbeknownst to either - that they are my favorite kid. They smile with pride and I walk away to go drink my gummy fish drink while watching my heart fish swim by.
Like toilet paper on a shoe, someone should really tell you when you have a size sticker on your new pants. Obviously I forgot to remove it. If it said size two or four, I’d walk around proud as hell. I might even rip it off my bottom and put it on my forehead. But really – a size 12 sticker still hanging around? Not sure anyone would be showing that off with pride. Is there really a need for those stickers anyway? I know it makes it easier to find your size when clothes are folded on display but it is too risky expose such potentially sensitive information. We, women should just be able to cut the size tag out of the inside of our pants so that we can claim to be whatever size we want. Just like when we lie about our age, weight, hair color and bra size. We even alter the length of our hair and eyelashes with extensions. Wow - when I write it like that, it is so clear that we are manipulative little creatures. But hey - if we get away with it - why not?! Oh BTW - I am 33, a real blonde and a 38C. Yup. That's me.
Before my kids were born I had two instances that have stuck with me, partly making me the self-conscience person I can be today. The first, I went into a European dress store for a skirt suit for a job interview. I had heard that store was great with lots of professional clothes to choose from but I was warned that all of the staff was from France and very snobby. I figured I’d browse on my own and ignore them. Little did I know that the store was super small and the minute I walked in, I was the center of everyone's attention. A salesperson walked over to me with her thin self and in a thick French accent she said “Oh, you.” -- pause to look me up and down while pointing to my bottom half (big) and to my top half (small) – “You will need separate sizing.” What? Ew. Who the hell says that? Shortly after this gem of a moment, or maybe because of it, I went to a plastic surgeon to see about getting boob implants. For this second experience, I was called into the doctor’s office for the consultation and immediately upon sitting down, he looked at me and said “Yes. With your body size, you should definitely have larger breasts.” Look I am not saying I disagree – if I put on a few pounds my gut can protrude more than my tits. But again, what the hell? How can people be so blunt and fresh and simply evil? On principle, I didn’t get the suit at that store and I never got the implants. Well, that’s what I will tell myself – I actually couldn't fit in the European sizing (my ass was too big) and the implants were too expensive. Guess I will just have to shop at regular department stores for my pear shape body and be happy with my little pits.
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