tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86693515528485965132024-03-13T01:52:53.558-07:00here we go againrandinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10155819253156693572noreply@blogger.comBlogger329125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8669351552848596513.post-74965723293825108192012-07-10T23:41:00.001-07:002012-07-10T23:42:33.687-07:00Happy Birthday AlexHappy Birthday Alex.<br />
<br />
Four.<br />
<br />
This number, for me, marks a significant milestone.<br />
<br />
Your big sister turned four the year you were born. She seemed so old, so mature somehow, with her chatter and her pig tails and booster seat and toddler bed. And then came you, and I was right back where I started, with a rear facing car seat and soothers and diapers and sore nipples.<br />
OK, sorry. You probably don't want to know about that.<br />
I thought then that once you turned four, I would be back to the start again. I would regain all my lost ground.
<br />
Because while I had always counted on a third child, I had never counted on a four year span in between the second and third.<br />
But things don't always work out the way we think they will.<br />
<br />
And so there I was, starting all over again. The exhaustion of endless night feeds, the wobbling first steps, the toilet training mishaps, the temper tantrums. The trials and tribulations of the first four years, which I had just survived, unscathed- but barely, all loomed ahead, again, like little land mines waiting for me to come along and step on. Though- I looked forward to every one, truly, oddly, but at the same time that four year mark seemed like- well I don't know. It seemed like freedom.<br />
<br />
And now here we are.<br />
All those milestones come and gone. <br />
You are a big boy now. With Spiderman underwear and a messy bedroom and friends and race car sets and an upcoming dental appointment. I don't feel freedom, precisely. Maybe a little bit, I guess.<br />
I feel a mix of emotions, which is usual for me. But I feel, more than I thought I would, a sense of loss.<br />
My little sideways baby. My last child.<br />
I call you my sideways baby because that's how you were, when I was pregnant. Sideways, though they called it transverse. With fascination I watched on ultrasound as you flipped yourself from transverse to frank breech in the blink of an eye during my appointment which was supposed to involve you being coaxed into a proper position. But you would not be coaxed.<br />
The OB shook her head.<br />
I wondered how you could do that. Full term babies aren't supposed to.<br />
"He hasn't read the textbook" the doctor joked.<br />
And in the blink of an eye you were back to sideways.<br />
I look back on it now and knowing what I know now about you and your personality, this should not have been a surprise to me.<br />
You are a mover and a shaker. You don't like to stay still, and truly, you never have.<br />
<br />
I remember our first night together, the solitude of the hospital surrounding us at night when it was just you and I. You just refused to give yourself to sleep, and still we go through this every night. I remember being so completely exhausted the next day, but forcing my sluggish muscles to run a bath for you. I looked at the water and the tub, thinking 'I could just do this tomorrow'. The baby will not die without this bath at this moment. The task suddenly looked so daunting. But stubbornly I persisted on, unable to concede defeat to what should be an easy task. I wondered whether it was a good trait of mine or not- to be so stubbornly determined. The woman in the bed across from me was a sobbing mess in her husbands arms, crying about having to give the first bath. "I just don't think I can do it," she cried. It occurred to me it probably wasn't a bad trait after all. And after your bath was over, and you were swaddled and smelled like Dove Baby soap, and I held you close and breathed you in, I knew it was worth it. And I knew I would do it a thousand times over, tired or not, just to smell that smell. And I think, by now, I probably have.<br />
We read that first night- a book that I now know by heart. "Oh the places you will go"<br />
"Congratulations, today is your day!" I whispered to you, feeling for some reason foolish and self conscious while the lady cried on across from me. (Was she depressed or what? I wonder about her sometimes, even still.)<br />
<br />
Four years have come and gone. Your presence in our lives has been huge. It is the lavish lipstick coloring on our walls, the permanent marker inside our fridge, the nail polish on our bedding, the absence of a DVD player in our home due to a scrambled egg related spilling incident, which may or may not have been related to a bumble bee attack. It is the exhaustion and the fatigue and the joy of raising you, our spirited and determined and just plain loud child. You have amazed me, shocked me ("But I thought fuck was the bad word?" You managed to make the sentence sound innocent, which, in itself shocks me.), made me laugh ("I'm so disappointed in you," when I told you I wasn't going to make you spaghetti for lunch), and made me cry ("but mom, sometimes I just don't know how to be a good boy.").<br />
Sometimes when I look at you I cannot fathom the potential you possess inside of you.<br />
Other times when I look at you I simply think you need Concerta. <br />
It hurts my heart to think like that.<br />
<br />
<br />
But even through all of the noise and all of the chaos, I choose to see the beauty instead of the frustration. <br />
Of course, sometimes I am also drinking wine, which seems to help.<br />
Other times I force myself forward, just like I did on our first day together one with that bath, to push myself to my limit and then just a little bit beyond it. To <em><strong>do it anyways</strong></em>, even when I'm tired. To go to the park. To push you on the swing <em><strong>one more time</strong></em>. To be more patient. To have the energy to be present. To have the resolve to remember at the end of the day what's really important and what really isn't. Because I know that the next four years will come and go as quickly as the last. And the four years after that, and after that. There will come a day when all of this will be a distant memory, blurred and distorted by time and all of the things that seem so stressful now will seem charming and whimsical then.<br />
It hurts my heart to think like that, too.<br />
Because, ultimately, at the end of the day, who even cares if there's nail polish on our bedding, or lipstick on our walls? <br />
And, ultimately,you <em> <strong>can</strong></em><strong> </strong>get by quite nicely without a DVD player. You can order your movies off Shaw on Demand quite nicely. DVDs are becoming antiquated concepts anyways.<br />
<br />
It's not the end of the world.<br />
<br />
But to see you laugh so hard that you shake; to hear your enthusiastic, often fabricated chatter; to cuddle beside you on the couch; to have you tell me "I am SO having fun growing up"; to have you wrap your little arms around my neck, to walk hand in hand with you. <br />
That <i>is </i>the world to me. Because at the end of the day, I got everything I wanted and hoped for and dreamed of four years ago today- and a whole lot more than that, too. <br />
<br />
So Happy Birthday Alex!!! I love you more than you will ever know. Not only in spite of your energy that is infinitely exasperating, but also- strangely, because of it. Life without you would seem just plain boring! Without you, I would never have occasion to utter the sentence "I hope your birthday cake doesn't taste too much like Caesar Salad. I think I got most of it off." <br />
<br />
"And will you succeed? Yes! You will indeed. 99 and 3/4% guaranteed, kid you will move mountains!!"<br />
Love,<br />
Your mommy.<br />
XOXO<br />
July 11, 2012randinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10155819253156693572noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8669351552848596513.post-81482457101770984022011-05-19T11:17:00.000-07:002011-05-19T11:17:22.530-07:00Weekend Stats (Four days late.)Weekend Stats:<br />
<br />
Number of times I heard the word "Mom": (Data extrapolated from first 60 minutes of being awake, at which point the day became blurry and fuzzy, and the kids colored on the notepad I was using to keep track.)<br />
-Whining voice: 44<br />
-Angry voice: 16<br />
-Crying voice: 29<br />
-Hysterical voice: 51<br />
<br />
Number of times I had nose wiped on me: 11<br />
<br />
Number of times I said the sentence: "Alex! No hitting puppy/mommy/kitty. Puppy/mommy/kitty<br />
ouchy!" or similar: 14.<br />
<br />
Number of times swept kitchen floor: 7<br />
Number of times mopped kitchen floor: 3<br />
State of kitchen floor: Baffling. Still very dirty. Looks like was trampled by farm animals.<br />
Number of times chased dog down street: 4 (very good day! Dog getting old and lazy, possibly sick- YAY!)<br />
Number of times stepped in untoward substance: 4 (two times dog puke, 1 time mashed banana, I time USNOS- unidentified substance not otherwise specified.)<br />
Number of times watched ICarly reruns: 8<br />
Number of times cursed the invention of Moon Sand: seven million<br />
Number of times kid had meltdown in grocery store or other: 4<br />
Number of snotty looks from other store patrons: 11, approx, maybe more, stopped making eye contact with anyone after a while.<br />
Number of nice store patrons: 3<br />
(Young man who extracted a BBQ scrub brush from Alex, which he had been stubbornly holding onto, by saying in excited tones "Hey buddy, I was looking for one of those. I looked everywhere! How did you find it? Could I have that one from you? That would be such a good help to me!" Alex beamed and handed over said tool. He smiled and winked at me, commenting that you could never have too many of these things, anyways. Also nice couple in Superstore who walked with Alex when he ran away from me down an entire aisle discussing Toy Story with him, very animatedly. Apparently they are HUGE fans of Buzz Lightyear)<br />
<br />
Anyways. This is what my weekends are made of. <br />
Let me tell you, I don't dread Mondays anymore. In fact, I'm becoming rather emotional that there's another weekend bearing down on me so quickly, and a long one at that.randinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10155819253156693572noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8669351552848596513.post-10036294901587535442011-05-10T22:02:00.000-07:002011-05-10T22:02:56.267-07:00Confessions from an Ex Soccer MomI felt relaxed, for a moment.<br />
Alex was watching TV with Gage. Payton was at a friend's ball game. It was quiet, however temporarily, and I planned on enjoying it, as I turned the jets on in the tub and put my toe in the steaming, lavender scented water, glass of wine in one hand, Kindle in the other.<br />
<br />
I sat poised to read, but instead felt uneasy. Payton was at a friends ball game, and suddenly I wasn't sure that I liked that at all. I realized that I was feeling majorly stressed over it, for two main reasons:<br />
<br />
1) Guilt that I hadn't signed Payton up for ball herself. Now she's the neighborhood tag along kid while her mother gets drunk in the tub. Although, in fairness, I did ask Payton if she wanted to play ball and she did say no. However, as it turns out, ALL of her friends are in it this year, which hey, how was I to know that? HOW???<br />
Also, I wasn't planning on getting drunk in the tub. Just maybe slightly tipsy. I wonder if it's too late to call the coach and beg him to let Payton play. But then I remember that I still haven't done my taxes, so there's a slim to none chance that I'll actually get around to calling the ball coach before the end of ball season, being the short season that it is.<br />
Now I'm feeling guilt about the taxes. And possibly panic.<br />
And then a hideous realization hits me hard.<br />
<br />
Oh God. I've become<em> <strong>that mom</strong></em>.<br />
<br />
I've gone from being the quintessential minivan equipped with Granola Bars and 30% less sugar fruit snack driving soccer mom to drinking Chardonnay in the tub at 6:30 pm mom while kid goes out with random neighborhood people.<br />
Which brings me to point number 2.<br />
<br />
2) The fact that Payton had become a near resident of the house across the street. It suddenly seemed ironic that if they were going to say babysit her for a few hours a day or even a week, I would have done my due diligence as a mother and done a background check, home interview and contacted references. OK I wouldn't have actually <em>contacted </em>the references, not strictly speaking. I would have asked if they had them, and then basically taken them at their word. But being the parents of other seven year old girl, I have given them carte blanche to take Payton on outings and even have her for sleepovers, after only brief encounters which consisted mainly of nodding and/or waving at each other from across the street. Although I did check out the mother on Facebook, and she does seem to be on the up and up, translation: She hadn't 'liked' any sketchy pictures of scantily clad kids or posted any threatening sounding status updates: in the vein of, for example: "Another home visit with Child Protective Services today, wish me luck!! Must remember to hide contraband this time."<br />
So clearly, she's a good person. Also, she has nice, shiny, hair and if there's one thing I know about pedophiles and/or other members of the criminal element it's that they mostly all have stringy, clumpy hair. <br />
And conversely, I am also worried that Payton might be harassing the nice neighbor people by popping by at random and inserting herself into their family outings. Must make myself more appealing so that Payton spends less time hanging off neighbor people.<br />
I vow to myself as I get out of the tub that I will spend some <em>serious--very serious, </em> mother daughter quality time with her when she gets home, perhaps even doing a craft.<br />
A craft!!<br />
Yes. That will make me feel like alpha mom again, and will also be a good opportunity to chat with Payton AKA interrogate her to make sure that there's nothing hinky going on over at the neighbour house. I picture trying to weave "have they ever asked to look at your panties?" into a casual convo but then decide against it, at least for the time being. Although I will do the craft, at least, for sure.<br />
<br />
Except that when she comes home, I am no longer in the mood for a craft at all, on account of watching Bridget Jone's Diary on TV. <br />
Also: do not really have anything in the house that constitutes "craft supplies"<br />
Except for possibly a tampon and peanut butter. Am thinking bird feeder but not really sure how to execute.<br />
Also: might kill bird, traumatize kids, etc.<br />
Anyways.<br />
Just screw the alpha mom. She just annoys everyone else, anyways.randinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10155819253156693572noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8669351552848596513.post-60805453577771565322011-04-18T12:09:00.000-07:002011-04-18T15:12:09.256-07:00Puking On The Side of The Road: The Downside of Lady's NightThis weekend was Lady's night at Candle Lake.<br />
I was the girl with the sensible shoes. I felt at a distinct shoe disadvantage when we were preparing to leave. The other girls slipped into their stilettos, zipped up their knee length boots. I slipped my feet into my dingy flats. "I have to wear these shoes," I said in my defense. "I have corns on my feet."<br />
Okay. That did not actually make me sound, look or feel any cooler. If anything, it made me feel less cool.<br />
"You're wearing medicated shoes?" <br />
"No. They're not medicated! I just have to wear flat shoes," I said, feeling defensive about it. Why <em>did</em> I have to wear these shoes? I asked myself? Or a pair of gray slacks? <br />
Do I always have to be so practical?<br />
Apparently, yes.<br />
<br />
<br />
And yet, I was the one who ended up squatting in a ditch the next day, retching and heaving. The practical, sensible one. How did that happen? I don't really know. <br />
But, apparently, an eighties cover band and cheap drinks will do that to me.<br />
Now I know for next time.<br />
Still, I couldn't believe it was happening to me.<br />
Driving home, I began to feel queasy. The road seemed bumpier. It seemed curvier. Almost roller coaster like. My stomach lurched. I put my head back, closed my eyes. That did not really help.<br />
Nothing seemed to help.<br />
Finally, I had to admit out loud what I did not want to admit to myself.<br />
I was about to be sick.<br />
"I think I'm going to be sick," I said.<br />
"Should I stop?" My sister in law asked me, a note of panic in her voice.<br />
I hesitated. "I think, maybe," I said.<br />
That hesitation would cost me. I made it out of the car<em> just</em> in time. Even as I opened the door, a stream of pink vomit spewed forth. Then I stood at the side of the highway, which felt awkward. But I wasn't practiced at this roadside vomiting thing.<br />
I need to lower my center of gravity, I thought, adopting a squatting position, which felt better.<br />
Cars zoomed past, and I felt like--<br />
well- like the kind of person who pukes on the side of the road.<br />
Assholes, I told myself, as I wiped my mouth on my sleeve.<br />
They don't know. I could be undergoing cancer treatment for all they knew. Gawk at people who are on cancer treatment much?? I asked them in my mind.<br />
Of course, I wasn't on cancer treatment. But still.<br />
That's not the point.<br />
The point is not to judge people, or whatever.<br />
<br />
Anyways, there was nothing sweeter than getting home and feeling the comfort of my bed. Or the comfort of having a toilet to hang my head on when I puked, for that matter.<br />
I overheard my daughter on the phone. "My mom can't come to the phone right now," she said. "No. She's in bed because she had too much to drink at Lady's night and now she's been really throwing up a lot, and it's pretty bad. She can only eat crackers but then she puked those out."<br />
I groaned and put a pillow over my head, only hoping that it was my mother and not someone ringing me up for a job interview or something.<br />
She was pretty sweet about the whole thing, though. She patted me on the back when I was in bed. "Well," she said. "You're a nurse. You can look after yourself," she said as she left the room.<br />
<br />
Anyways, to the makers of Gravol: you are rock stars with Tiger blood and Adonis DNA. Thanks to some heavy doses of Gravol I began to feel a lot better as the day went on. I even felt skinnier, too, which was nice. Even though, I noted, as I looked at my cracked, bloody lips in the mirror, dehydration isn't <em>that </em>sexy of a look.<br />
So lessons learned from ladies night:<br />
Next year- hotter shoes, less shooters. <br />
Actually no shooters. <br />
Just to be safe.randinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10155819253156693572noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8669351552848596513.post-30840767425410336282011-04-15T14:14:00.000-07:002011-04-15T15:02:40.756-07:00Principles of Operant Conditioning Gone Terribly AwryIt sounds complicated but its a simple thing, really, operant conditioning.<br />
You reward (or reinforce) good behaviour with positive reinforcement.<br />
You use punishment for bad behavior.<br />
Using this simple technique, you could, if you were so inclined, train a mouse to run a maze. <br />
<br />
But could you get a two year old to go to bed at a predetermined bedtime.<br />
No.<br />
Hell no. <br />
Not even close. You could get him to bed, perhaps, within a ninety minute time frame surrounding said predetermined time. But, then again, you could also do that using no intervention at all, which I found out one time when I fell asleep at 9pm and woke up at eleven, half expecting the house to be on fire or the windows to be smashed out. But instead, I found my little buddy asleep in a playpen. He had moved his pillow and blanky in there, climbed in and curled himself to sleep.<br />
<br />
I know exactly what I'm doing wrong. Inadvertently, I reward bad behavior. He comes out, asks for a drink of water, I get it for him and send him back to bed. He comes out a minute later, asks for a hug, I hug him and carry him back to bed, tuck him in, perhaps even massage his back a little, cuz I know he likes that.<br />
But what am I to do?<br />
Deprive him of water?<br />
Deprive him of hugs?<br />
That's harsh. He's a toddler, not a lab rat.<br />
<br />
Anyways, the other day, this had gone on for quite some time. I was feeling exhausted. Geoff was working late. Both Alex and Payton had been coming in and out of bed for over the two hour mark, and my patience was worn very thin. As thin as my husbands hairline, and that's thin indeed.<br />
<br />
And then came Gage, my thirteen year old. "Watch and learn," he told me as he went into the room. He was in there for less than a minute. "They won't be back out," he said as he pulled the door shut behind him.<br />
Sure enough half an hour went by and there was no sign of Alex or Payton.<br />
"What did you do, put a sleeper hold on them?" I asked. Because if so, awesome, I need to learn the sleeper hold.<br />
"No," he said. "I told them that whoever fell asleep first would get a prize in the morning."<br />
"Actually," I said. "That's pretty brilliant."<br />
Principles of operant conditioning, applied correctly.<br />
Thirteen year olds will rule this world one day, I thought to myself. For once that thought actually seemed optimisitic rather than terrifying.<br />
<br />
Nevermind the fact that I now have to give my kids chocolate bars for breakfast. That's another issue entirely. I'm planning on phasing that out by switching the chocolate bars to bubble gum flavored multivitamins. Then they'll be getting thier rest, and a vitamin as well.<br />
Superkids, they'll be!!<br />
<br />
Anyways, I really must apologize for not being around more- on here or on any of your blogs. Life is complicated for me right now, and I must admit that I am seriously contemplating the future of this blog. Too many things, too little time. But we'll wait and see on that. <br />
One day at a time I guess.<br />
Hope you have a good weekend.randinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10155819253156693572noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8669351552848596513.post-24650170232759617232011-03-31T13:31:00.000-07:002011-03-31T13:31:04.609-07:00Technology and TupperwareI wanted to buy a photo album. A simple photo album.<br />
I didn't realize that this was a fools mission until it was too late.<br />
I walked into the photo department. Walked around and around. Didn't see any photo albums. There was memory cards, scanners, all kinds of discs, ink cartridges, USB cables, flash cards. No albums.<br />
Puzzled, I asked the photo lab employee, who was a teenager with pink streaks in her hair. Actually, she wore them quite well and looked charming like that. She was friendly and polite. But when I asked about the photo albums I saw something on her face- total confusion.<br />
"A photo- <em>album</em>?" she asked, saying the word 'album' like it was totally foreign to her.<br />
Maybe it was, I realized.<br />
"Well, just to- put my pictures in," I said, suddenly feeling acutely aware that this was, indeed, an antiquated concept.<br />
She looked puzzled. "There might be some in the Tupperware section?" she said, as though she were asking me the question. "Or you could try a hobby store?"<br />
A hobby store?<br />
Was putting your pictures in an album considered a hobby now??<br />
Apparently.<br />
Over in the Tupperware section there was about one third of one shelf devoted to photo albums. There lay a few albums. They looked dusty.<br />
And perhaps for the first time in my life, I felt clued out.<br />
I mean, really clued out.<br />
Like the time when I was staying at my friends house, and her grandma came over. <br />
"So, you girls chum together?" she asked us.<br />
My friend and I looked at each other. We didn't know what to say. We looked at her, and then back at each other. Shrugged and said "yeah, I guess so," real polite like but then we laughed about it later.<br />
Except in this instance, I was on the other side of the equation, standing forlornly in a Tupperware aisle, looking at the dismal selection of photo albums and feeling outdated, irrelevant, where the only other person in the Tupperware aisle was an overweight, graying lady who remarked to me that the price of Tupperware has sure gone up. I looked at her, feeling annoyed that suddenly, I was in <em>her</em> cohort.<br />
Just because I buy photo albums doesn't mean I care about the price of Tupperware.<br />
But actually, I do.<br />
I like Tupperware, kind of a lot if I'm going to be honest about it.<br />
But in my defense, I do also have flash cards and USB cables and DVD plus R's as well as minus R's.<br />
<br />
And then it happened again.<br />
Our kids spilled milk on our alarm clock.<br />
Apparently, alarm clocks don't drink milk. <br />
So last weekend I found myself in London Drugs, walking up and down the aisles looking for an alarm clock.<br />
"Get this one," my son told me, showing me one that cost $199 and was also an IPod docking station, as well as possibly some other things.<br />
"That's for an IPod," I said. "I don't even have an IPod. I just want a plain alarm clock."<br />
One was voice interactive.<br />
One was rheostatic. Whatever that meant.<br />
I ended up getting one that has a projection feature that projects the time onto the ceiling. Rather than sitting up and looking at the alarm clock, I can now see the time as soon as I open my eyes. <br />
Technology is actually pretty cool.<br />
<br />
And I'm using my Kindle now. The only bad thing that happened was that I was reading a thriller, and right at the climax I got a little box pop out and say "battery power low. Please recharge your Kindle."<br />
And since it has to be plugged into the computer to recharge, and the computer is downstairs, and I didn't feel like sitting in the basement to finish my book, I ended up having to wait to finish it, which was a significant source of frustration.<br />
I really hate it when my electronic devices die right before climax.<br />
But that's a whole other topic right there.randinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10155819253156693572noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8669351552848596513.post-52267425319396467302011-03-30T08:04:00.000-07:002011-03-30T08:04:17.152-07:00Losing My Spamming Virginity to Fr33 PornIn my pre-spam days, I took the lack of spamming kind of personal. <br />
"They hate me," I would say to myself, whilst reading blog posts about how annoying spammers are. I would type my comment "I've never been spammed, I guess that's the good thing about not getting any traffic, LOL." But then I was like, why don't I just write "I'm a totally desperate LOSER who blogs in the basement in my pyjamas drinking wine by the box," which is more or less the truth, but still. There's something unsettling about seeing it typed out like that. So then I'd backspace it and write instead, "I hear ya," but then keep the LOL, so then I wasn't technically, actually, lying. If it ever came down to it in a court of law that I lied about being spammed, I could say, in my defense, that the LOL showed that clearly I was joking about hearing ya, although why it would ever come down in a court of law, I don't really know. But the point is-- I was vaguely jealous of the glorious spammed. <br />
What am I chopped liver??<br />
I mean, maybe I want some sex pills, too. I don't, but, still. It would nice to be offered every once and a while.<br />
<br />
<br />
So, naturally, I was quite excited to get some spam offering me "fr33 porn."<br />
<br />
My excitement quickly gave way to confusion.<br />
What the deuce is fr33 porn?<br />
Is it free porn?<br />
Or do the 3's nullify the word "free" Must be some sort of scam. That's how they get you. You go there and then they charge you some huge dollar amount, and then your like 'But it said free!" and they're like "No, it said fr33."<br />
Or was it actually thirty three dollars? Or 33 minutes?<br />
What, exactly, did the three's stand for?<br />
Is it a sex thing? I didn't know. I pondered that. Probably a sex thing, being a porn site and all. But what??<br />
Is 33 the square root of 69? Could be. <br />
I don't know, I'm bad at math.<br />
<br />
And today I got more spam! Even better than the cryptic and indecipherable fr33 porn, which I eventually decided not to go for. <br />
Today I got this: A product so good that you will not believe that it's true. A product that, apparently, if I ignore it now, I will regret it later.<br />
(Is that a death threat there? Kinda sounds like it to me.)<br />
At this point I was bracing myself for some kind of sex product, I scrolled down, half scared to look.<br />
But no.<br />
No penis enhancer or any other such product.<br />
What was it you ask?<br />
It was, and I quote: "The first and only single leg compensation plan ever created."<br />
What, exactly, does that mean?<br />
I don't know.<br />
I guess it's an insurance plan specific to the loss of a single leg.<br />
Which, I don't know, maybe if you're the type of person who's apt to lost a limb somehow, you might be inclined towards that. Maybe you lead a high risk lifestyle- you get into a lot of knife fights or you sleep with your legs on the train tracks and you don't have a very clear understanding of the train schedule, or a watch, or you're a pirate or what have you. But me, myself, I think I'm quite happy to play the odds. Even though, yes, admittedly, I might regret it later.<br />
If I end up with one leg, that one could really turn around and bite me in the ass.<br />
But I'll take my chances.randinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10155819253156693572noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8669351552848596513.post-91511408518382069852011-03-16T11:12:00.000-07:002011-03-16T11:14:00.767-07:00I'm not buying it.A list of things I'm not buying:<br />
<br />
1)Chase banking with overdraft protection. On the commercial: Someone's rock climbing and her cell phone rings. She answers it with a smile. Apparently, it's her bank telling her that her bank account is about to go into the overdraft, so she quickly transfers some money around to avoid this financial pitfall.<br />
Here's why I'm not buying it: Because the LAST thing I would possibly want in the WORLD is someone calling me to tell me that my account is going into the overdraft. <br />
Do you have any idea how many phone calls I would be getting?<br />
At work: "Randine, your account's getting close to the overdraft."<br />
On the way home: "Randine, your account has gone into the overdraft."<br />
While I'm sleeping and the mortgage payment comes out at midnight: "Randine, your account has just gone deeper into the overdraft."<br />
I mean, what can I do about it? Maybe some people have other, off shore accounts that they can transfer money into. But I don't. And my idea of having overdraft protection? Is having an overdraft period.<br />
<br />
2) Activia yogurt. On the commercial: they make the yogurt sound like a dessert. "Key Lime Pie" "Apple Crumble." "Chocolate Souffle"<br />
Here's why I'm not buying it: Because at the end of the day, it's still frickin yogurt. You can call it 'chocolate souffle' all you want, but it's still just a pile of lumpy, clump, vaguely chocolately tasting yogurt. And I don't care about keeping my digestive system regular, either. Jamie Lee Curtis can stuff her BF Regularis up her arse. Pardon the pun. If I want a laxative, I'll drink the coffee they make at work. <br />
<br />
3) Aflac. Okay, I actually want to buy Aflac. On the commercial: A duck is sitting in the park with his apparent owner, breaks out into a little song and dance, and gives his owner a stack of bills.<br />
Here's why I'm not buying it: Because my husband won't let me. "Ooh, I want to get Aflac." I told my husband after seeing the commercial. "We can't," he said. "We don't have Aflac in Canada."<br />
"But I want it! You get a duck! A dancing duck!"<br />
"You don't actually get the duck. You get insurance."<br />
"No," I said. "The duck<em> is</em> the insurance. He follows you around, and he gives you money when you need it. The commercial was quite clear on that." But my husband- well, you know how he is. He's always negating my ideas, like I'm crazy.<br />
Anyways, I became his friend on Facebook- the duck, that is, but it's not quite the same thing.<br />
<br />
What I did buy: A Kindle! I haven't fully transitioned to it yet, because I still have some paperback books that I'll read first. But so far, I kind of like the Kindle, although I think it will take some getting used to. I usually like to read in the bath, so I guess I probably won't be able to do that. So that'll be different. But other than that, I like it. Buying books is kind of overwhelming. I type in fiction, and Kindle books and get like 23,000 books. I'm not used to having so many options. <br />
But that's not a bad thing.<br />
Anyways, have a good day!randinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10155819253156693572noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8669351552848596513.post-790954357760762152011-03-14T12:09:00.000-07:002011-03-14T12:09:29.058-07:00A Brave New WorldTomorrow will bring big change in our house.<br />
Tomorrow, my lastest baby will shed his final vestiges of infancy- his soother.<br />
At two and a half, this is long overdue. And it shouldn't be producing the amount of anxiety that it is.<br />
The bad thing is that it's not even Alex who is anxious about it. It's me.<br />
And I'm not anxious for the reasons you might think. <br />
"He'll only cry for it for a day or so," people tell me. But crying? At this point in my maternal career, I can handle that. Crying doesn't even phase me any more. In fact, I get more concerned when they're NOT crying. When things are too quiet, I begin to fear that something sinister is going on. They're in the kitchen drinking Draino, I think, irrationally. Because I don't even have any Draino. If my drains get clogged, too damn bad. <br />
<br />
So what am I anxious about?<br />
I'm anxious about letting go of his babyhood. <br />
"But he'll always be our baby," Geoff told me, gently, when I told him of my fears. "Even when he's old, he'll be our baby."<br />
"I know," I agreed. "But it's just the idea of what the sucky symbolizes," I said, which sound like I'm just all overly analytical about the whole thing, which of course, I am. But still- suckies were some of the first things I bought when I found out I was pregnant with him.I packed them in my bags to take them to the hospital. And he always looked so cute to me, so innocent and angelic, as he slept with his sucky in his mouth- pastel colors initially, which later changed to bolder colors with airplanes or dinosaurs on them, pulling at it at random intervals, sometimes lazily, sometimes furiously, his perfect lips curled into a perfect O.<br />
<br />
So naturally, I 've given a great deal of thought to the fanfare with which Sucky should make his last curtain call. The plan for Sucky Quit date is this:<br />
<br />
After supper tomorrow, we're going to go on a Great Sucky Roundup, as Alex has Sucky caches all over the house that we don't even know about. The sucky's will be collected into a gift basket. We will, as a collective, work on a letter to the Sucky Fairy, explaining that Alex has gotten too big to use them, and could she please find a little baby who could use them and give them to him? We will then leave the basket by the front door.<br />
In the night, the Sucky Fairy will come. And we can't be sure, but we think that she MIGHT bring a present for Alex for being such a big boy and helping all the little babies of the world. I think it wold only be right and decent if she did.<br />
Simple quid pro quo, and all that.<br />
<br />
Alex seems excited by this plan. "I love the Sucky Fairy!" he told me.<br />
I hugged him, and did a fake cry. "My baby boy is getting so big!"<br />
He touched my face, and said "let's not be sad," which made me want to cry <em>for reals</em>.<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">It's pretty bad when a two year old has to console me. So I pulled myself together. This isn't about me and my need to have an infant to coddle. This is about him, and his need to grow up. I can't infantilize him just because it makes me feel warm and fuzzy. Even though, yes, it does. It really, really, does.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">But we have to take this step together, and embrace a brave new world. I think he's ready for it.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div> <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bring It</td></tr>
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</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>randinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10155819253156693572noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8669351552848596513.post-49158443129006479142011-03-09T14:50:00.000-08:002011-03-09T14:56:47.796-08:00The Truth About Zumba"I've got exciting news," a coworker announced as she entered my workspace, closing the door behind her. <br />
Not the Zumba thing again, I think to myself, bracing myself, because I know- KNOW- deep in my heart that it's the frigging Zumba thing again. I look up at her, slowly, and the look of wild excitement tells me that- yup it's the God damned Zumba thing again. Only this particular person could look so excited at the prospect of an hour of exercise. The only time you would ever see that look of pure, unadulterated enthusiasm on my face?<br />
Maybe if I saw a chocolate fountain on a buffet line.<br />
<br />
"Tuesday at 5:30, Meghan's coming back- for ZUMBA!!"<br />
<br />
I force a smile at this.<br />
<br />
"Really?" I say. "<em>This </em>Tuesday?" I say, thinking to myself, think of something QUICK.<br />
<br />
She nods vigorously. "I wanted to give you the heads up. Because I know how disappointed you were last time when that thing came up. Right at the last minute."<br />
"Yes," I say, with a nod. "It was really unfortunate timing that Alex got diarrhea so bad that day."<br />
Because if there's one thing that's fucking awesome about having kids, it's this: A built in excuse note that no one will touch that you can wiggle you right out of any responsibility.<br />
This is the formula:<br />
(Insert child's name) has (insert gross medical condition. Explosive diarrhea works well. Ditto for ringworm.) so I won't be able to (insert duty you want to shirk.)<br />
No body will ask any questions. They'll just pull a face, look all uncomfortable like, and say "I completely understand."<br />
End of conversation.<br />
<br />
But now she was standing in my office again, a look of hopeful anticipation on her face. <br />
The thing is that I really do not want to hurt her feelings about Zumba. The first time she brought it up I made the mistake of saying "That sounds pretty cool. Maybe I'll check it out."<br />
Really, I was only saying that to be polite. I wasn't going to check out Zumba any more than I was going to check out anything that might make me sweat. Unfortunately, she took this as wild enthusiasm, and firm commitment. For the ensuing week and a half she talked to me about Zumba every day. <br />
"Try and come early," she told me. "You want to stand in the front row, that way the teacher can be more interactive with you. And that way, too, you can help us clear tables from the board room."<br />
Clearing tables, too.<br />
Awesome.<br />
If there was any part of me that was in any way inclined towards this Zumba class, and believe me- there wasn't-- but if there <em>was,</em> this itself would have been a deal breaker for me.<br />
I'm not moving any tables.<br />
<br />
"Well, I'll have to see with Geoff's schedule right now. It's a very busy time." <br />
Frankly, I'm surprised at how smoothly the lie comes out. <br />
He works at a golf course. There's still two feet of snow on the ground.<br />
Peak season this is not.<br />
She looks slightly hurt, so I add, hopefully, "But we'll see."<br />
She brightens up immediately. "You don't need to bring anything. Just a pair of spandex pants to change into."<br />
<br />
Oh God help me if I have to go to this thing.<br />
God help all of us.randinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10155819253156693572noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8669351552848596513.post-75388842797229265032011-02-24T08:43:00.000-08:002011-02-24T08:43:28.133-08:00Contemplating KindleSo- I never thought I would say this but lately I've been contemplating Kindle.<br />
As in- getting one.<br />
I know, right.<br />
I'm an old fashioned kind of girl. I love the way books smell, the way they feel. The excitement of starting a new one- I always skip ahead to the last page and just <em>skim it.</em> Ever so slightly. Just to see. And of course I read the acknowledgements, to see who the authors agent it.<br />
But two recent events have made me start to think that it might be time to jump ship.<br />
<br />
A couple of weeks ago, I was at Wal Mart and perusing the books. The selection was very minimal. Most of the books had 40% off stickers. Some of the books were in bins, one marked $5 one marked $7. Some of the books in the bin were hardcovers. <br />
"I hate to say this," said a stranger who was standing beside me, in the same predicament. "But I think we're going to have to get an EReader soon," he said.<br />
I nodded slowly. "You may be right," I concurred, with a sad sort of smile, though I wasn't quite sold on it.<br />
At least, not yet.<br />
Although I sensed something. That somehow, this strangers words were important, that things were shifting for me. For us, even, as I felt connected to this person, as book connoisseurs.<br />
<br />
And I thought about <em>Under the Dome, </em>which I happened to be reading when I went to Mexico, which was unfortunate, because the book is over a thousand pages, and very weighty. I dragged that ting through the airports, to the beach and back every day. It was cumbersome, even to read, much less carry around. I would have preferred, I told my husband one night, if he had written the book in two parts rather than one that size. <br />
And for all of my lugging it around in Mexico, I read maybe only a hundred pages. <br />
In two weeks.<br />
Pitiful, I know.<br />
<br />
But in my defense: this is an example of a day at the beach:<br />
<br />
Get down to the beach. <br />
Unpack the kids towells and sand toys.<br />
Sit down to read book.<br />
One sentence later: "Mom, I have to go potty!" Alex says, holding himself.<br />
"Okay," I say, getting up and walking the half block or so to the bathrooms. Along the way we stop and observe birds, his bathroom needs seemingly forgotten. He chases the birds for a while, cries when they fly away once he's within a few feet. Then he sees the outdoor showers, and of course he has to go in, he stands in the shower, playing with the water. Doing a version of the hokey pokey, putting the left foot in, the left foot out. I drag him away. <br />
<br />
Finally, we get to the bathroom. <br />
I sit him on the toilet. He has to take his shorts completely off, and his shoes as well. Then he sits on the potty, dangles his feet up and down. Looks at me with an adoring smile and says "all done." as he hops off. <br />
"But you didn't go!" I tell him. <br />
"I don't have to," he says, as he tries to open the door. I hold him back, wriggle his little but into his shorts and his little feet into his shoes. <br />
<br />
We make the slow walk back to the beach.<br />
<br />
Along the way we pass the bar. "I need a drink," he tells me. So we stand at the bar, order a Spiderman, which is a convoluted drink that involves red Jello and blue ice cream. Alex insists on carrying it himself to the beach. By the time we get there, he has spilled most of it on himself, and it's almost completely melted. He cries that he's sticky, and this necessitates another trip to the shower area. I can't get him away from the shower area. I walk away, thinking he'll follow. He does not follow. A security guard comes over and stands, protectively, beside the shower, observing Alex. I watch from the beach.<br />
<br />
"There," I say, as I pick up my book. "The security guard is looking after him." But then I remember that the security guards are all, apparently, crooked and possibly involved in the drug cartel, according to a lady we met who was either the most brilliant detective since Sara Sidle or completely paranoid and deranged. I look at him talking on his two way radio, and wonder what he's saying, feeling vaguely suspicious about it for some reason. <br />
<br />
I sigh and put my book down, walk back to the shower, pull Alex away, causing a slight scene in the process.We get back to the beach, I sit down, poised to read my book again. It feels nice.<br />
I feel the sun boring into me, and I look up at the kids. <br />
Hatless!<br />
"Get your hats on," I tell them. I pull the hats out of the sand, shake them vigorously, put them on the kids, who promptly take them off. This goes on for some time. Finally I convince them to wear their hats, and they do so but begrudgingly. <br />
Then I remember that I haven't sunscreened them recently, so I go and rub them down with SPF 50.<br />
<br />
Then I sit down, poised to read, finally.<br />
<br />
"I have to go potty," Alex says, again holding himself and dancing around, and I think- I think this is for real this time, although I'm never sure until we get there.<br />
"Okay," I say with a sigh, getting up. <br />
And so on and so forth.<br />
<br />
Anyways. <br />
Would a Kindle have prevented these problems?<br />
No. Nothing could have prevented these problems, except for maybe birth control, but it was way too late for that.<br />
But, still. I wouldn't have had to cart that damn book around with me, everywhere we went, for two weeks, so that I could read precisely one sentence every day.<br />
So here I am, contemplating a Kindle.<br />
I don't know what's happening to me, somehow, I'm becoming current. I even have a Blackberry now.<br />
I even know how to use it.<br />
Well, sort of. I mean, some stuff I can do.<br />
What's next- maybe I'll read the Hunger Games or watch Inception.<br />
Probably not. But you never know?<br />
<br />
Anyways, you tell me: how do you read?randinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10155819253156693572noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8669351552848596513.post-12294431783041204032011-02-22T07:51:00.000-08:002011-02-22T07:51:51.485-08:00Misadventures in ReadingI was standing in the kitchen, playing an impromptu round of "What did I just step in?"<br />
I do not like this game, but being that I'm inclined to walk barefoot in my home and live with three kids, a dog and a cat, this is a game that is thrust upon me quite frequently.<br />
Tonight's rendition seemed too easy. The texture was slimy, the temperature warmish.<br />
"Ugh, dog puke," I thought, as I picked up my foot to see what, indeed, I had stepped in, partly hoping that I was right (for the win!) and partly hoping I was wrong (cuz- ew, dog puke? Need I say more?)<br />
I was puzzled, but pleasantly surprised, by the result. Canola oil. Because trust me, it could have been worse. A lot worse.<br />
Just think of it like an abbreviated paraffin wax treatment, I thought at I dabbed at my afflicted foot with paper towell, which felt kind of gross as it oozed between my toes. I covered the oily splotch on the floor with a tea Towell, wiping it ineffectively with my foot.<br />
Why there was warm canola oil on my kitchen floor, I wasn't sure, but left the matter alone. It's better not to ask questions sometimes. <br />
Besides, the end result is the same.<br />
<br />
I poured myself a glass of wine, which is what I had gone into the kitchen for in the first place, and returned to the living room. A few minutes later, I was interrupted by my kids. First the pouty cry of Payton, as she emerged from the bedroom holding her left arm. She was followed by Alex, who was also pouting.<br />
"I'm hungry for a sandwich," he said, in a whiny voice that was not quite a cry, but verging on it.<br />
"A sandwich?" I asked with a laugh, finding it strange that he would be asking for a sandwich at nine pm.<br />
"And what happened to your arm?" I asked Payton, thinking the two incidents were unrelated.<br />
"Alex bit my arm because he's hungry for a sandwich," she said, looking disgruntled.<br />
I couldn't help but laugh at that.<br />
<br />
Oil on the kitchen floor, the kids apparently cannibalizing each other out of apparent hunger.<br />
What the hell was going on in my house, you might be asking yourself.<br />
I'll tell you what.<br />
I got my book shipment today from Amazon!!<br />
I started reading, at noon, Heart of the Matter by Emily Giffin. I was still reading it at nine, when said cannibalistic act took place. Maybe I have a problem, I thought, but then dismissed that.<br />
What could be wrong with reading?<br />
Besides, it wasn't my fault that the book was so captivating and engrossing that I couldn't, not possibly, be torn away from it, despite my initial misgivings.<br />
I wasn't sure about the book in the beginning. The back jacket made it sound like there was some cataclysmic event, but then I found out a few pages in that said event was a boy burning himself while roasting marshmallows at a sleepover party. Now granted, his burns were somewhat bad.<br />
But still.<br />
This did not seem cataclysmic to me.<br />
I realized with some shock and horror, that I had been fully expecting, and even hoping I think, that the boy would die. I felt oddly deflated when I discovered that no such death was forthcoming (what's wrong with me? I thought). But, in my defense, I mean, really? Four hundred pages about a boy who got burned while roasting a marshmallow?<br />
<br />
I felt that I was the one who had been burned.<br />
<br />
But then I found that that wasn't the cataclysmic event, but more or less the precipitating factor which led to this event- which as it turned out, was even better (or worse, because for me- the worse, the better) than I thought-<br />
a cheating husband. This topic appeals to me, because I have often wondered why a person would choose to go down that road. It's a slippery slope, I've always thought. More like a series of small transgressions rather than one big one. And the book ended exactly the way I thought it should, which was nice. I hate it when I don't get my way in the end. But I have to say that even I was surprised that I was satisfied with the outcome. Well, I guess I can't say much more than that. Don't want to ruin the ending for anyone who hasn't read it.<br />
<br />
Anyways, that was my day yesterday.randinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10155819253156693572noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8669351552848596513.post-82064332531899501532011-02-16T11:32:00.000-08:002011-02-16T11:32:41.825-08:00Strange Compliments, Part 1This isn't what I had planned on posting today, but I thought this would be fun. These are some compliments, I think, that I've gotten that have made me go "what the..." afterwards.<br />
<br />
<br />
-I ran into an old coworker once a few years ago. She was getting on the elevator, I was getting off.<br />
The conversation was awkward at once. I wasn't sure what the protocol was, when she had her hand holding the elevator open, was half in and half out. Should I stay? But that would hold her up. Should I go? But that would seem rude. So I offered I quick, "Hey, long time no see." or something like that as I brushed past. She was like "Wow, I can't believe it's you," and I was like, okay, yea, this is weird but whatever- because it's not like I was assumed dead in some hiking accident and then come back to life like you see on TV. I had merely switched jobs. I was like "yeah it's been a long time, I guess" <br />
She still seemed so taken aback.<br />
"You -just-- look --so-- different," she stammered, as she studied me hard. "You look so-- so <em><strong>nice.</strong>"</em><br />
Uhm. Okay.<br />
Thanks.<br />
I guess?<br />
<br />
-My mom said to me the other day about a recent blog post- the one about para sailing, to be exact. "Well," she said, when I asked if she had read it. "You really do know how to make a short story long."<br />
"Thanks!" I said. Then "Wait a minute- is that supposed to be a compliment? Cuz I'm not really sure."<br />
It's called building tension. Or rambling.<br />
Or whatever.<br />
<br />
-At my latest Pap test, my doctor was trying to explain to me how and where to put my feet. For some reason, I was having a problem following her directions. She was like "Just put your," she said as she picked up my leg, "more like this," and then she frowned, moved it back how I had it, and was like "actually this is better this way. I didn't know legs could go like that. You're really very flexible," she said, seemingly excited by this prospect.<br />
I was like "Er, thanks- I guess?"<br />
That was awkward.<br />
Even for a pap test. I refuse to call it a pap smear, because don't you just hate the word "smear."<br />
I don't know why but it sounds gross to me.<br />
<br />
Anyways, those are the ones that come to mind right now. I'm sure there will be more.<br />
Have a good day!randinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10155819253156693572noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8669351552848596513.post-77626438592464148012011-02-14T07:39:00.000-08:002011-02-14T07:45:58.828-08:00I have to deal with my procrastination problem, but I'll do it later.Every year, I promise myself one thing. <br />
Actually, there's several, but for the purposes of this post, one thing.<br />
I promise myself that I won't be<em> that</em> mom- not again-, standing before a near empty shelf, at ten pm on February 13th looking for Valentines for my daughters class, trying to convince her that Thomas the Tank Engine could be for girls, too.<br />
<br />
But alas, this year, there I was. <br />
<br />
Actually, I thought I had the jump on it. On Saturday I went to Superstore to get the Valentines, I brought Payton with me. "What kind should we get?" I asked, thinking that there would still be tons of possibilities.<br />
But we couldn't seem to find any.<br />
So I asked someone working in the cards section. "Where are the Valentines cards for kids?"<br />
"Like, in the boxes you mean?"<br />
She looked kind of baffled. I nodded.<br />
"We sold out of those. Like last <em>weekend</em>," she said.<br />
"What? Really?" I asked.<br />
My daughter looked disappointed, but hopeful. "Maybe we could make them!"<br />
I groaned. It's not that I didn't want to, but...<br />
OK it <em>is</em> that I didn't want to.<br />
There are twenty six kids in her class, which has to be against the law I think, or against something. <br />
I just couldn't imagine cutting and pasting and coloring twenty six valentines.<br />
It was bad enough just helping her write the kids names on it. You would think it would be easy, but this itself is a long, slow process. Especially when we lost the class list, and had to brainstorm all the names ourselves.<br />
<br />
"Maybe we'll try Wal Mart," I said. "I'm sure they'll have them."<br />
"But what if they don't?" she asked.<br />
"Well- then we'll try another store. They've got to have them somewhere," I told her, but I wasn't sure myself.<br />
"OK, let's go," she said.<br />
"We'll go tomorrow," I told her. Because one crazy busy store was enough for me in one day.<br />
So the next day found me at Wal Mart. Luckily they still had a reasonable selection. I remember one year when I went the day before and all they had left was The Wiggles, and my son was in about Grade four he was kind of humiliated, but it was all I could do.<br />
Besides, what are they doing exchanging Valentines in Grade 4? I mean, really. Grade 4!!<br />
Grow up already.<br />
<br />
<br />
Then there was the 100th day of school. I read something about it, somewhere, made a mental note of it and forgot the whole thing.<br />
And then on Thursday night, I tucked Payton into bed. "But tomorrow's the 100th day of school!" she said. "We were supposed to make a poster with a hundred things on it!" <br />
"What? That's tomorrow?" I asked, panicked.<br />
She nodded. "Are you sure?" I asked her. "It can't be," I said. "I thought that was next week."<br />
"It's tomorrow!" she said, nearly shouting. "My teacher said it is because there were 100 Teddy bears in the jar and today when we took one out and there was only one left so that means the party's tomorrow! And we're supposed to bring a poster of 100 things." I groaned. Honestly, I didn't really understand the whole teddy bears in the jar thing, it sounded kind of out there, but there was enough urgency in her voice that I believed her.<br />
And so there I was, at nine pm on Thursday night, buying poster board.<br />
Sometimes I feel bad for my kids that they have such a scatter brained mom.<br />
But then again- all's well that ends well. The Valentines went out this morning. And we even got pencils and erasers to put in them, so this made her happy.<br />
She had a project for the 100th day of school. It wasn't<em> exactly</em> what they were supposed to have. We ended up making a necklace with a hundred Cheerios, because it was late and I was really too tired to tackle the poster anyways.<br />
But still. It was fine.<br />
And I <em>will</em> deal with my procrastination problem.<br />
Just, you know- later.randinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10155819253156693572noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8669351552848596513.post-11904565262143470782011-02-10T14:00:00.000-08:002011-02-10T14:00:11.010-08:00Product Review: Sally Hansen Kwik Off<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiis2X_8DyDyF4TfS9EMKycEuIivRrzQsREDYCkrECSOiUEQbGiOEgbEIvrn8K7ImEXretfRz1ssiCRYjNmJAvwKHp2xQd53gz4LusYkyzhkS1mYLymO_5qmoxtsSm6IhMShU3fUDVQqRgQ/s1600/Kwik+off.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" h5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiis2X_8DyDyF4TfS9EMKycEuIivRrzQsREDYCkrECSOiUEQbGiOEgbEIvrn8K7ImEXretfRz1ssiCRYjNmJAvwKHp2xQd53gz4LusYkyzhkS1mYLymO_5qmoxtsSm6IhMShU3fUDVQqRgQ/s1600/Kwik+off.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="left">Disclaimer: I did not get paid in whole or in part for reviewing this product.</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left">I don't usually do product reviews, but I really had to write about this, for three reasons:</div><div align="left">1) It works really well!</div><div align="left">2) It smells like mangoes!</div><div align="left">and 3) If feels like a vagina</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left">So if you have, like I do, a six year old daughter who likes to paint your nails really garish colors and do a piss poor job of it while she's at it, painting not just the nail but almost the entire finger, you should definitely check out this product. With one dip of the finger and a quick twist, your nail polish will magically disappear. Now, I never considered using a nail polish impregnated cotton ball laborious. But since using this: I have come to realize that it is, in fact, very labour intensive. </div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left">Also, it smells like mangoes, and in my mind- anything that smells like mangoes is worth buying. If they made mango scented QTips I would probably buy those, even though it would be kind of pointless in some ways.</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left">Lastly, and perhaps- most importantly- it feels like a vagina! Inside the jar is basically a sponge that's soaked in nail polish remover. When you stick your finger in it, it feels warm, squishy and wet. It feels kind of weird, but not entirely unpleasant. </div><div align="left">"Stick your finger in here," I told my husband.</div><div align="left">He looked at me. "Can I ask what it is?"</div><div align="left">"No," I said. "You can't, just stick your finger in it."</div><div align="left">So he closed his eyes, winced as though expecting pain (really?? I thought. My own husband, scared of what I would do), and stuck his finger in.</div><div align="left">Promptly he withdrew it. "What the<em> fuck</em> was that?" he looked kind of panicked about it.</div><div align="left">"Nail polish remover," I told him, showing him the bottle. "And now your finger will smell like a mango! Smell it!" I told him.</div><div align="left">He just sighed at me.</div><div align="left">He always sighs in mock exasperation, although lately I'm beginning to wonder about the 'mock' part.</div><div align="left"><br />
Anyways, if you like mango smelling vagina feeling products, then this is something you must try.<br />
Even if you don't, just try it anyways. <br />
<br />
Also, if you have any other products that you want me to review, just let me know. Because I like buying new things. However, preferably, they should smell nice. I do not want to try anything that smells bad, or contains ketchup (or any other form of condiment, because I just can't deal with that), or could be potentially dangerous or toxic and they should be inexpensive. <br />
Because my husband does not understand the concept of "you have to spend money to make money." He just doesn't. Although, OK, he's probably right. I'll probably never make any money out of it, at least not in the literal sense.</div>randinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10155819253156693572noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8669351552848596513.post-75136074159675879202011-02-07T11:01:00.000-08:002011-02-07T13:53:16.554-08:00Parasailing: It's Not as Easy As it Looks (with 33% more swears)I didn't realize I wasn't entirely serious about going parasailing until it was too late.<br />
It looked like fun, at least, it did when you were sitting on the beach, drinking a daiquiri and watching other people do it.<br />
"That would really be something," I said.<br />
"Yeah, I'd like to try it," my dad said.<br />
"Me too," I said, absently<br />
"I think I'll do it," my dad said, standing up.<br />
"What? Right now?"<br />
"Yeah," he said, as he stalked off towards the hut.<br />
"Right now?" I asked again, trailing after him with camera in hand.<br />
"You going up, too?"<br />
I looked up at the person 200 feet in the sky, tethered to a speed boat by a rope.<br />
"Uhh, I think I'll wait a bit."<br />
"Nah, just do it," he urged me.<br />
"I'll do it on Friday," I said, this being Saturday.<br />
Because Friday was practically forever away.<br />
<br />
Except that it wasn't.<br />
I blinked and it was Thursday.<br />
"That'll be you tomorrow," my mom said that morning, pointing at a parasailor.<br />
My stomach clenched. "Yeah," I said. "Assuming, of course, that the conditions are good tomorrow."<br />
<br />
Which, of course, they were. <br />
"I'm not feeling so good,"I told my husband on Friday morning. "I think I'll just stay in bed today."<br />
"Oh no you don't," he replied, dragging me up. "You've been putting this off all week. Let's just do it and get it done."<br />
Reluctantly, I got of bed.<br />
<br />
<br />
I'm not afraid of heights. <br />
At least, not per se. <br />
But the idea of being tethered to a speed boat and dragged around the ocean at great height with only a rope anchoring me was fast losing it's appeal to me. <br />
But- I had given my word. And my word is my word. And I knew that I would probably regret NOT doing it. So I thought, I'm just going to do it. Even I feel like puking. Even if I <em>do</em> puke. <br />
<br />
Besides- you could get a free T shirt if you go. And that sort of made me feel happy about it. Of course, I wasn't really sure where I would wear an over sized T Shirt with a giant, cartoon parachute on the back that says "Yo Yo's Parasailing. Since 1968."<br />
But that wasn't the point. The point was, it was free.<br />
OK it wasn't exactly free.<br />
You could it for the low price of ten dollars. And according to my logic: <a href="http://randine-herewegoagain.blogspot.com/2010/09/sixty-thirty-rule.html">the sixty forty rule</a>, that is free, because at that price-- they're practically giving it away!<br />
Besides, what exactly, could go wrong?<br />
It was a good thing that I didn't get the chance to google <a href="http://www.philadelphiainjuryattorneyblog.com/2010/02/parasailing_accident_kills_a_p.html">this</a> or<a href="http://www.digitaljournal.com/article/261156"> this</a>.<br />
Because, as it turns out, a lot could go wrong.<br />
<br />
Truly, I probably would have backed out of it. I wanted to.<br />
What kept me from backing out? I don't know. Stubborn determination. The onlookers. The force of inertia. The fact that Pedro already had me harnessed into that thing and had already taken my money and I probably wasn't going to to get it back. The boat pulled away from the shore, trailing with it the rope that I was now tethered to.<br />
My stomach was turning, churning. <br />
<br />
"Has anyone ever gone in?" I asked the guy, pointing at the ocean.<br />
He laughed in response. <br />
But this was no joke. <br />
"Has anyone ever gone in?" I asked again, now terrified and beginning to suspect that the answer was obviously yes if he wasn't going to give me a straight answer about it.<br />
"Seniorita," he said, putting a hand on my shoulder. "Relax, breathe."<br />
"Has anyone gone in?" I asked again, more intently.<br />
The rope before was fast uncoiling and I knew I would be airborne soon. I was beginning to think that I <em>would</em> puke. I imagined chunks fallilng as I ascended. Then I would be shark chum for sure.<br />
And still the guy refused to answer my question.<br />
"Don't worry," he said. "We have very calm day."<br />
<br />
Oh Fuck, I thought as I began to walk forward, the rope getting shorter, tauter.<br />
My feet were on the ground one second, and the next second, not.<br />
I squeezed my eyes shut.<br />
Fuck fuck fuck, I thought, tightening my grip on the rope that tethered me to the balloon.<br />
I was told that I could let go, but there was no way I would do that, no way I <em>could</em>. I held tight, afraid that the thing would come undone and I would float away, just like the movie UP, but deadlier.<br />
<br />
I peeked open one eye. And then the other.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzbMKIta3qMX58FxaN-OEDKC0FpsnHzSLEsWnjkyVS-IwqXe7UJ3etPp93NZWitjXxG5Sbt19SyHov3n9ep4Ii39WVek3ACz-4CltbP8Hba4NKtivzYLKqVNU95JKz2LSSZQn0isCkSTHL/s1600/parasailing.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzbMKIta3qMX58FxaN-OEDKC0FpsnHzSLEsWnjkyVS-IwqXe7UJ3etPp93NZWitjXxG5Sbt19SyHov3n9ep4Ii39WVek3ACz-4CltbP8Hba4NKtivzYLKqVNU95JKz2LSSZQn0isCkSTHL/s320/parasailing.bmp" width="320" /></a></div>And it was beautiful. Breathtaking. Soaring above the ocean, with the mountains off in the distance.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
That is actually me. You really can't make it out, because my husband doesn't know how to work the zoom button. Hey, what can I say. I'm still working on getting him to put the toilet seat back down. I was nervous and tense the whole time, but I survived! And I hve the pictures, and the T shirt, to prove it.<br />
<br />
And would I do it again? Hell No.randinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10155819253156693572noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8669351552848596513.post-455889983302957792011-02-04T09:42:00.000-08:002011-02-04T09:46:49.381-08:00The Mother LoadYou don't get a vacation from being a mom. Even when you're on vacation. Maybe even, especially on vacation. There are a lot of things that could go wrong. Starting with the airplane ride.<br />
<br />
I'm not afraid of flying. At least, not per se. But it doesn't make me feel very good when:<br />
<br />
-in the boarding area an air traffic personnel person tells me, chirpily, that we'll commence boarding right away. They're just fixing our plane's flat tires.<br />
<br />
-once we board, the captain announces that we'll spend a good deal of time de icing the plane. And a distant memory surfaced. Somewhere, sometime, I remember watching on TV- maybe an episode of Mythbusters, I couldnt' be sure- but something along the lines of even a tiny little drop of ice or condensation of the wing of the airplane could bring the whole thing down. I look at my kids, who are innocently and happily licking their lollipops, which were for take off. "I can't wait to take off!" Payton tells me. "Mmm Hmmm," I reply, absently, still watching the crew spray some sort of chemical on the wings. I hope they get it all, I think.<br />
<br />
-The flight attendant approaches me and says, again chirpily- why are they always so chirpy?- that "the captain has decided to make this a four hour flight instead of five and a half. So I thought I should give you the heads up that you might want to keep your kids seat belts fastened for the duration of the flight. I'm expecting a really bumpy ride." I force a smile and nod.<br />
<br />
Fucking awesome. Our pilot has apparently decided to go Kamikaze on us. Thanks for keeping me in the loop. Maybe I would rather not know that, I think, as my heart rate begins to speed up. I glance again at my kids, still licking their lollipops. For some reason it wrenches my heart to see them like that. So blissfully unaware of my deepening unease. I begin to wonder if my unease is a <em>sign</em>. Something more than just a feeling.<br />
<br />
An intuition. <br />
A premonition. <br />
My heart rate speeds up again. And I think <em>what if</em>...<br />
I have a sudden vision of the cabin losing pressure. Oxygen masks deploying. The children looking at me, eyes wide with fear. And I just know that I wouldn't be able to put my own mask on before helping them. The one thing you're supposed to do in an emergency and I don't think I could do it. <br />
The engine revs, and the kids look at me with anticipation. "Here we go," Payton says.<br />
"Here we go," I say. For better or worse, here we go.<br />
And the thought occurs to me: I wonder if they keep on Valium on here- for emergency purposes? I mean, what if someone has a panic attack while they're on board? It's not like you can get off. All they offer is a barf bag? <br />
Thanks.<br />
<br />
But that flight wasn't bumpy at all!<br />
In fact, the worst thing that happened was the in flight movie was Eat, Pray, Love. And that was pretty bad.<br />
I was almost wishing that the plane <em>would</em> go down.<br />
<br />
Anyways. That feeling cropped up, on and off during the vacation. We got to our suite on the third floor. I felt a lot better about that one than the one that was practically <em>inside</em> the parking lot (AKA possible crime scene.) Until I went out on the balcony. <em>What if?</em><br />
<br />
<em> </em>I thought as I looked at the table and chairs that were near the railing. Knowing Alex he would try to...<br />
"Keep this door locked when we're not out here," I told Geoff.<br />
Paranoid?<br />
Maybe, but bad things do happen, even in paradise. That thought was never far from my mind. I thought of Madeiline McCann often. <br />
<br />
And of course, it doesn't help when I meet up with some kook in the hallway (at least I'm hoping she was a kook) who tells me that the hotel has MAJOR security issues. She emphasizes the word major so much that it actually becomes two words. May and Jor. Apparently, the staff is all corrupt and the maids are in it with the security guards and they communicate everything on two way radios- who's in what room, when they're in or out of their room, what kind of stuff they have in their rooms. It was hard to believe that Bertha, our maid, who was about seventy years old, who walked with a limp and had a dowagers hump, could be plotting against me. But then again- you never <span style="background-color: yellow;">know.</span><br />
And not only that, but the locals (read: drug cartell) can and do watch the movements of everyone on the third floor because the shrubbery doesn't go up that high and there's a clear view to the interior of the rooms. "Just keep your shades down," she said. "And you should be all right." Emphasis on should.<br />
<br />
And so I felt, among other things, when I got home a sense of profound relief that we were all home and we were all safe. Payton had a slight sunburn on her cheeks. Alex had gotten a rash from his bracelet. Other than that, we had survived, unscathed.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvUAmSmdgajqFyNTboJDlreyyP7fE7vnvMLu-dTZ7glatrvTEf33NSzZE8SP77wZ8tZ3SmYvGnpo-qD0ilOwtM9IhFIvlUa9V3jophJCu_UkeWRiAevNcmmiGR_AUwyOlJ2gZRZoiD2M_N/s1600/Kids1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvUAmSmdgajqFyNTboJDlreyyP7fE7vnvMLu-dTZ7glatrvTEf33NSzZE8SP77wZ8tZ3SmYvGnpo-qD0ilOwtM9IhFIvlUa9V3jophJCu_UkeWRiAevNcmmiGR_AUwyOlJ2gZRZoiD2M_N/s320/Kids1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Anyways, I think it's about time that I started to post some GOOD vacation stories, because believe me, there are lots- and I will do that. Mondays post: parasailing.randinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10155819253156693572noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8669351552848596513.post-55335516211376190912011-02-01T19:03:00.000-08:002011-02-01T19:11:22.085-08:00The Gritty BeginnningVacation is like childbirth in a way. A less bloody and gory way, generally speaking, depending on what floats your boat. But you tend to, when all is said and done, forget about the bad aspects of it and glorify the good. <br />
<br />
Reflecting back on my vacation from last year I remembered nothing but palm trees, hot sun, pina coladas, a stunning view and three kids that might have been a throwback to a fifties sitcom. "Gee Wilikers, Pop, I'd love another soda! That's dandy!" Of course there were moments that were frenzied and chaotic and sometimes even awful - moments where Payton had a temper tantrum or Alex had diarrhea, or God forbid- both. Or the kids spilled their drinks in the restaurant and dumped their food on the floor accidentally on purpose because they were tired and cranky and probably had too much sun.<br />
But those moments, it seemed, were completely forgotten. <br />
Until we went back.<br />
<br />
I was so looking forward to that magical moment when our vacation would start, to feel that warm sun our face. We would be glowing under it! Or so I thought.<br />
<br />
Strangely, though, I cannot recall with any clarity or precision the moment that I first felt the sun on my face. I was bogged down with three kids, two carry ons, my purse, two fleece blankets, a plush dog and a plush monkey. I trudged down the stairs of the airplane and onto a tarmac, which I realize now must have been hot. Surely it was. But all I remember thinking was "Do I have our passports and our papers" Doing a head count of the kids. Shepherding them onto the bus, holding them close. The thought occurred to me that it was hot, but not in a "Wow this is amazing" way but more in a "Good God could they get some A f'ing C on this thing? And would it kill the guy next to me to be a little less stingy with his deodorant?" I fanned my face with our passports, but then stuffed them back down into my purse. Would people kill me for my passport? I didn't know. I looked around. They looked like mostly older, white haired touristy people, but you never know.<br />
You never do.<br />
<br />
Finally we got to the airport terminal. People were swarmed around the luggage belt, which was spewing out black bags. Thousands of black bags. Ours was one of them. Ours were six of them. <br />
<br />
Alex stood too close to the belt and someone nearly took off his head with their suitcase. I picked him up, consoled him, the offending party turned, gave me a dirty look. I wanted to tell him to fuck off, but I wasn't sure if you could be arrested in Mexico for saying fuck or what, so I smiled and muttered sorry while my baby's lip bled on my shirt.<br />
<br />
OK there was no blood. I'm just being melodramatic here. But it was not good times in the luggage line. Bloody lip or not. <br />
<br />
Then he had to go potty. Then Payton had to go. And then the stroller wouldn't unfold and I was sweating and holding the baby and pushing a now defunct stroller along, or trying to, but the damn thing was being so <em>stubborn.</em> And Geoff was giving me the <em>look</em>, the "I TOLD you not to bring that goddamn stroller!" look.<br />
Yes- we have an "I told you not to bring that goddamn stroller" look. We have a lot of looks.<br />
And did I mention that I was sweating?<br />
<br />
And I wasn't sure, when we got to our hotel room an hour or so later, whether to be horrified or proud when my daughter, six, surveyed the room and then declared, quite matter of factly. "This is not acceptable."<br />
"Hey," I told her. "Don't be like that! This is! Just great!"<br />
<br />
I looked out the window. It was on the ground floor, facing directly onto a parking lot. Some faded yellow ribbon cordoned off the perimeter, and I wasn't sure if it was crime scene tape or not.<br />
Probably not, I told myself. Hopefully not. It could have just as easily been left over from some kind of a fiesta night or something, although something about that didn't quite ring true. I mean- would you have a fiesta in a parking lot? <br />
I doubted that.<br />
But then again- what do I know about fiesta's?<br />
<br />
In the parking lot, a truck pulled up and a couple of lanky looking locals unloaded a donkey (for the fiesta??)off of a flat bed while speaking loudly Spanish. I wasn't sure what they were saying. But they didn't look happy. Neither did the donkey. <br />
The windows didn't lock.<br />
Our room smelled like sewage. <br />
"It's just not what I suspected" Payton told me, hands on hip. "Not at all."<br />
Myself, I find it kind of endearing, but I pity the man who marries her.<br />
<br />
But my point is this: all of that stuff was almost immediately forgotten, rather coincidentally, around the same time that I had my first rum and coke on the beach. We upgraded our room and got a beautiful suite with an ocean view. We looked out onto our parking lot (AKA possible crime scene) and said sienera with a stiff upper lip.<br />
<br />
The kids played in the surf, laughing and giggling and throwing sand all around. It was cute- that first day, anyways. After a little while- getting sand in your eye, and most importantly- your drink, not so fun.<br />
<br />
We stayed like that until the sun went down and it got cold on the beach.<br />
<br />
And, now, honestly, looking back on it- I even think that it was strangely beautiful, being in that crowded airport with the kids, holding them close, carrying that cursed, fleece Monkey blanky around with me, sweating with Alex on my hip. <br />
Because it marked the beginning. A tough and gritty beginning, but beginnings often are?<br />
No?<br />
<br />
<br />
Anyways- the rest of the vacation?<br />
was perfecto. We went parasailing and swimming with dolphins and on a pirate ship and up in the mountains and to the old down town, our children became performers, we got to know the locals. We had too much fun.<br />
<br />
But I'll write more about that later.randinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10155819253156693572noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8669351552848596513.post-46515997342038558612011-01-13T14:41:00.000-08:002011-01-13T14:42:15.246-08:00The Day Before Take OffSo last night I had to get underwear for my son, which was awkward, cuz he's 13.<br />
"Bob the Builder?" I asked him, jokingly. He offered a tense laugh and then replied no thanks, but boxers, not briefs, if you don't mind. <br />
"Oh," I said, feeling a little taken aback. "Why? Whats the difference?"<br />
"There's a difference," he said. "Everyone else wears boxers."<br />
"Oh," I said, again feeling taken aback. "But who sees your underwear anyways?"<br />
"Mom," he implored. "That's not the point. Boxers are cool and briefs aren't."<br />
"Well," I said. "I just don't see how they could support your-" my voice trailed off as I made a cupping motion with my hand. "Your sausage and eggs," I concluded.<br />
"Mom! Really!" he said, now sounding kind of annoyed for some reason. Teenagers, I guess. <br />
"Actually," my husband said. "Boxers <em>are</em> better. Wearing constricting underwear can lower your sperm count."<br />
"Oh really?" I asked. "And we shoddily be concerned about his sperm count? When he's THIRTEEN!!"<br />
"Well, I'm just saying..." my husband said.<br />
"Fine," I said, "I'll get the boxers."<br />
It felt the marking of some invisible line in the sand. From boy to man. <br />
Weird.<br />
<br />
<br />
In other news, finally we are all packed for Mexico, thanks in no part to my husband.<br />
Last night, while having my head in the fridge, sweating and swearing and scrubbing off a bottle of sweet and sour sauce that had apparently spilled at some point, after having already scrubbed the floors and the toilets, my husband was tackling the very serious chore of cleaning out the junk drawer in search of a peg for his crib board.<br />
<br />
"Do you really think you'll need a crib board in Mexico?" I asked, annoyed, both at the congealed pool of sauce- because who does that? Spills a bottle of sauce and then just leaves it to congeal??- and at my husband, who simultaneously was annoyed with the state of the junk drawer. He threw a cook book in the garbage, with an exasperated sigh.<br />
"Hey that's my cookbook," I told him, pulling it out of the garbage.<br />
"Well when have you ever used it?"<br />
I looked at it. "Easy Casseroles" it said on the cover with a picture of a deep brown dish that seemed to have hotdogs poking out of some kind of pasta, or maybe beans. It was hard to tell. It resembled something the dog puked up after getting into a package of sausage.<br />
"Well," I said, hesitating. "You never really know," although ya, okay, he was probably right. I probably wasn't going to be cooking up a hotdog casserole anytime soon.<br />
<br />
But anyways. That's not the point. The point is that of all the cleaning and scrubbing and laundry that had to be done- my husband picks these two chores to focus intently on:<br />
-vacuuming out under our bed and washing the dust ruffle<br />
-organizing the junk drawer<br />
And not only did he focus on them, he complained about these like these were the heaviest, hardest, and most necessary chores. Like I should be thankful to him, because in the event of visiting dignitaries ending up on our bedroom floor for some reason and looking under our bed, he would save us a load of embarrassment. Because apparently I wouldn't believe what was under there!<br />
<br />
But I don't care about that.<br />
Because tomorrow we leave!<br />
PS- I gained back the four pounds I lost. <br />
PSS- I really don't care about that anymore, either.randinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10155819253156693572noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8669351552848596513.post-3637629724376613052011-01-10T11:59:00.000-08:002011-01-10T13:52:38.808-08:00Blogcations and Vacation and Unposted PostsSo apparently I've been on a blogcation. I really hadn't intended to be away this long. But then I just got caught up with the holidays and all that stuff. And then after that every idea I came up with to write about was crap.<br />
<br />
I was going to write a post called "My year in incidental expenses" but then I thought- do people really care that I had to shell out a hundred bucks to get my dog dewormed this summer? And then I was going to write a post about hand sanitizers, because I don't buy antibacterial soap- don't beleive in it- but it's getting virtually impossible to even find just plain soap anymore, everything has ANTIBACTERIAL written all over it. But then I thought- do people really care what kind of hand soap I buy? And then I was going to write a short story using all of my blog titles from 2010, but that quite quickly became impossible because I've used such weird titles like "But Stephen King has a penis yo" and "Strange Entrance Paths" and "The sixty forty rule" and the story was really going in a strange direction. Anyways, my dashboard is full of drafts in various stages of completion, and NO published posts yet.<br />
Shame on me.<br />
2011 hasn't been a very good year thus far for me blogging wise.<br />
<br />
Anyways. I'm back, and I'm gonna write something whether or it sucks or not.<br />
The main going on in my life right now is preparing for Mexico, which means, for me- losing ten pounds. Or trying to. Easy peasy, I thought initially. I'll just skip breakfast, drink an instant breakfast for lunch, have a sensible dinner, walk everyday, no snacks, no calories in my drinks. The first few days were good. Great.<br />
But then I started gagging on those instant breakfast thingys. Turns out after a few days they don't taste so good.<br />
<br />
And then it got cold outside. Like really cold. -20 ish. And I really don't want to walk outside in the cold. My ears were all red when I got home, and that can't be good for you. Plus there are people that don't even shovel their sidewalks and it's all icy and slippery. Frankly it's just hazardous. I mean- I <em>want </em>to excercise, I just don't want to break my hip. I mean- what kind of a vacation would that be?<br />
Exactly.<br />
<br />
So long story short- I've lost four pounds. And I'm leaving in four days. Six pounds in four days? Doable? I don't know. At this point I'm like whatever. I'll just drink a daquiri- maybe two- when I get there and then all my reservations will fly out the window anyways and I'll be happily prouncing about in my little bathing suit- six pounds or not. I mean- haven't you ever seen anyone who's had three kids before? Yes, I do have a slightly unsighly roll at my waist that looks strikingly like a batch of unkneaded bread dough. But it's too late to worry about that. Oh well who cares. People like bread dough. Don't they? <br />
And if they don't, well, they should.<br />
<br />
So I probably won't be around much again for the next few weeks. We leave on Friday for two weeks in Peurta Vallarta. My family is crazy excited about it and the anticipation is palpable in our house right now. Last year we went for first time and were vaguely excited about going. Having never been there before we were excited, but only in an abstract way, like the way that I would- perhaps- look forward to retirement. It's like "Yeah- it'll be nice, but it's a long way off." And then on top of that, the week prior to leaving I watched a Dateline special called like (and don't quote me on this) "Gone in the Night" and it was about all these slayings in Mexico and abductions and that left me with a seriously bad taste in my mouth. <br />
But this year I have no such reservations. If I get beheaded I get beheaded, what can you do?<br />
<br />
I'll leave you with this, the lyrics to a song that we are forever quoting in our house right now: Toes, by Zack Brown. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><em>I've got my toes in the water, ass in the sand</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Not a worry in the world, a cold beer in my hand</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Life is good today</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Life is good today.</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"></div>randinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10155819253156693572noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8669351552848596513.post-62382397665333899232010-12-15T06:08:00.000-08:002010-12-15T06:08:39.212-08:0013 Things I Want To Tell My 13 Year Old Son- I don't know why, but I feel compelled to start by saying that <strong>I'm not perfect</strong>. I don't know everything about everything, I won't pretend that I do. This post isn't meant to be preachy. <br />
I sense you know this already, or at least are beginning to suspect it, like the other day when you were having a problem with your math homework, and I told you "don't ask me" and you made a grunting sound and said "Don't worry, I wouldn't even bother." <br />
<br />
When I was a teenager (back in the nineteen hundreds), I had the idea that my parents thought they knew everything, but they actually knew nothing.<br />
But let me tell you, I do not know everything, nor do I think that I do. There is a lot, I will admit, that I don't know. I pick up a cell phone and have to ask <em>you </em>to turn it on. The damn things are so complicated. Back in my day there were no cameras in the phones. A phone was a phone. Period.<br />
Anyways, these are uncharted waters for me, too, and believe me you, I'm more than a little nervous about what lies ahead. I may not do everything right. I may not say everything right. And honestly- I don't even think there is a 'right'. All I want to do is try to guide you through the next few years, to the best of my ability. <br />
I don't know everything. But I do know some stuff. I hope you will, at least, give me that much credit.<br />
<br />
-Out of anything and everything I could possibly tell you, there is one thing that I want you to know, and not just know on an intellectual level, but on a level deeper than that. To the very core of your being. <strong>Do not give in to peer pressure, </strong>especially when it comes to drugs<strong>. </strong>You are allowed to make mistakes as a teenager. I even hope that you do, though, probably- I don't want to hear about them. Experience is a wonderful teacher. But in this instance, experience is a very bad teacher. The kind that takes advantage of their students and has to do jail time.<br />
<br />
Drugs are harmful and dangerous, in ways that I can't even really describe. I could go on Wikipedia and print out a list of side effects, but it just doesn't describe what I have seen, what I have<em> felt</em> when I have seen the pain in the people I work with, the burden that they carry that is addiction. I have looked addiction in the eye and it is an ugly, ugly, beast. I have seen young girls with track marks on their arms, their bodies mere skeletons, their eyes hollow and dark in their sockets. They looked ruined. And they are, I think.<br />
And it only started with "just trying it", "just once."<br />
Please do not go down that path.<br />
And know in your heart that any friend who tries to make you do something you don't want to do isn't a friend at all.<br />
<br />
-This one pains me to say it, but <strong>life won't always be fair</strong>. <br />
As your parent, I have tried to protect you from the often harsh realities of the world. I have tried to create an environment for you that is safe, and loving and warm. But as you begin to have your own experiences in the broader world, I won't be able to protect you from the fact that, sometimes, life just plain out sucks. As Dr. Suess says "Bang ups an hang ups can happen to you."<br />
And they will. But just know that this is all part of the process. <br />
And it, too, will pass.<br />
That heartbreak you think you'll never get over?<br />
Well, you will.<br />
Of course you will.<br />
<br />
-<strong>It's okay to be sensitive</strong>. I see such a sensitive side to you, the child that asks me how my day was when I get home from work, rather than just "What's for supper?" The child that cried at the end of Marley and Me. That snuck into Paytons room after I sent her to bed, and read her that extra story that she begged me for. That makes me my peppermint tea when I am tired at the end of the day, and asks me if I want cream and sugar in it.<br />
<br />
-<strong>It's okay to cry</strong>. <br />
<br />
-Even though it will feel like it at the time, <strong>getting a zit is not the end of the world</strong>.<br />
And no, the entire HIGH SCHOOL won't notice it.<br />
And no, you won't be the laughing stock of the WHOLE WORLD.<br />
It's all part of the process.<br />
It, too, will pass.<br />
And there will be always be Clearasil.<br />
<br />
-I hope you know that <strong>you can always talk to us</strong>. There is no problem too big or too small. I can't guarantee that I will have the answers. In fact, I probably won't. For most things, there are no easy answers. But talking helps. And you can talk to us. About anything. <br />
<br />
-<strong>Your socks? Are supposed to be changed on a<em> daily</em> basis</strong>, not biweekly, as you seem to have assumed.<br />
Just FYI.<br />
<br />
-I hope that you <strong>respect women</strong>. I don't really want to go into this whole <em>area </em>with you right now, cuz it's kind of awkward, but it doesn't pay to be a playa. OK. What goes around comes around. Plus you could get all kinds of nasty diseases. And I know that scare tactics don't work, but what the hell? This is a picture of a<a href="http://www.pathguy.com/fem/f311.htm"> venereal wart.</a>See, it's nasty. So think about that. Anyways, this is way premature anyways. <br />
You're a long way from that, years, decades- maybe, even. OK, years. I think. I hope.<br />
<br />
But even aside from that, treat women well in general. Think about the fact that every girl is someone else's daughter, possibly someones little sister. Treat them the way you would want someone else to treat your own little sister. With respect and dignity. Always be a gentleman.<br />
<br />
-I hope that you, someday, <strong>appreciate your siblings</strong>. I know that sometimes they can be annoying- OK, most of the time. I know that they did lose your XBox games and your MP3 player. <br />
But some day you will need those siblings. <br />
And they need you. They need a big brother to look up to. <br />
And I know that being the oldest is hard, and we expect a lot out of you. But it also a great privilege.<br />
You get to be their hero growing up.<br />
So be it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
-I know that I don't always show it- it's much more fun to tease you about your shaggy hair, but <strong>I'm proud of you. </strong>I'm proud of the young adult you're becoming more and more every day. I see you sometimes helping your brother or you sister. You make me laugh every day with your sense of humor that is quirky and silly- not unlike my own. You're smart at school, without ever trying too hard or taking yourself too seriously. You are confident without being arrogant. You have a soft and kind heart. You're not afraid to call your grandma your friend, to post on your facebook status that you love your mother (even though- yes I know, it was just copied and pasted.) <strong>Don't be afraid to be yourself. </strong>Real friends accept you for exactly the person you are. <br />
<br />
Lastly, <strong>enjoy the ride</strong>. <br />
My parents once told me "Youth is wasted on the young."<br />
I wasn't sure what that meant. Frankly, I'm still not sure I do. But I think it means that teenagers are often times too young to appreciate the boundless energy and passion that they possess. They take it for granted.<br />
Don't waste your youth. There are few times in your life when you get to do basically whatever you want. So I hope you live large, dream big, laugh lots, break your curfew a time or two. <br />
Okay, maybe not the last one.<br />
Live large within the confines or your curfew.randinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10155819253156693572noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8669351552848596513.post-65529601542996539582010-12-14T09:38:00.000-08:002010-12-14T19:30:01.188-08:00Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice??This is what little girls are made of: sugar and spice and everything nice. <br />
So says a nursery rhyme that I recall from my childhood, when there were less taboos about political correctness and something like that could be published without fear of backlash from feminist protesters.<br />
<br />
But let me ask you this?<br />
Would sugar and spice throw a plastic hamster (who knew it could be used as a weapon?) at your head and order you to "Get out and stay out" when you try to wake her up in the morning??<br />
She's not a morning person, I figure.<br />
Honestly, I'm kind of scared of her.<br />
And the <em>really</em> scary thing is-<br />
<br />
she's only six.<br />
<br />
So I finally roused my sleeping princess at quarter after 8, after about an hour of trying. <br />
"Hurry up," I told her. "We have to go in ten minutes." (Which was actually twenty, but I say ten in the hope that she might be motivated to budge from her perch on the top bunk, with her pillow held firmly over her head.)<br />
I gave her her clothes, nervous to see what she would say about them.<br />
But she didn't say anything. She just took them wordlessly.<br />
Relieved, I left the room to give her some privacy to change.<br />
I returned five minutes later to check on her progress.<br />
<br />
She had one sock half on.<br />
"Payton! You have to HURRY" I told her, now on the verge of hysteria.<br />
<br />
And then she flung herself to the ground, collapsing into a puddle.<br />
"You YELLED AT ME!" she said, crying. Her words quickly became unintelligible.<br />
"Oh for God's sake," I said, leaving the room.<br />
I passed my husband in the hallway.<br />
"She is going to bed EARLY tonight!"<br />
My husband nodded. But we've had this conversation before. Every day.<br />
That early bed time?<br />
Never comes.<br />
<br />
Anyways, by the time I get to work at nine o'clock, honestly, I'm already spent.<br />
And then I have to work eight hours.<br />
I'm very tired, my stress is high and my energy is low.<br />
At work the first thing I saw was a poster that said "Tips for dealing with stress:"<br />
So I read it earnestly.<br />
(I love the word "earnestly" and it's really very sad, because so few opportunities come up to use it. So when I do get to use it, I get really excited about that.)<br />
Anyways the tips were crap.<br />
"Talk about it" "Laugh about it" "Exercise" "Plan ahead" "Relax"<br />
I do not know who designed that stupid poster.<br />
Because I didn't see on there anywhere- binge drinking, drug overdose, or stabbing, which was really too bad. <br />
So I tried to talk about it- but everyone at work was like 'Ohya. That's girls for ya. Just wait a few years."<br />
And then an evil laugh.<br />
I mean, where's the love? I'm still feeling like stabbing something.<br />
And speaking of stabbing-<br />
<br />
You would think that when you go to a hotel and you approach the front desk and you ask them for a knife and a stack of heavy duty paper towels that they might ask a bit more questions than "what kind of a knife?"<br />
"Oh, I don't know," I said. "Something sharp."<br />
"Okay," she said with a nod. "Sure thing."<br />
So they went and got me this seriously scary looking knife and a big stack of napkins.<br />
"Enjoy your stay," she said with a smile, and then I had to carry this knife all through the halls, and I felt more than a little conspicuous let me say, but people merely smiled and nodded, as though seeing a knife wielding woman in the hallway was pretty common.<br />
Maybe it was.<br />
What the hell kind of a hotel was I in, exactly??<br />
And then I thought- I hope no one gets stabbed here in this hotel, and then they canvass all the rooms, and the people are like "come to think of it I did see someone walking around with a carving knife."<br />
Anyways- all I needed it for was to cut my sons birthday cake, because we had forgotten to bring a knife with us. I mean, who thinks of bringing knives to a birthday party??<br />
I felt the need to tell that to every person I passed, but then, as it turns out- no one is really that interested in entering into a dialogue with a person carrying a knife that looks like a prop from Night of the Living Dead.<br />
Go figure.<br />
Anyways-<br />
writing makes me feel better.<br />
Now I can breathe.<br />
So thank you, dear reader.<br />
<br />
And please tune in tomorrow where I will publish my post "Thirteen Things I Want to Tell My Thirteen Year Old Son."<br />
Have a good day!!randinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10155819253156693572noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8669351552848596513.post-76253921982558111352010-12-07T20:38:00.000-08:002010-12-09T19:41:36.862-08:00Happy Holidays<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>I've always been hesitant about posting pictures of my kids on this blog, on account of all the creepy Internet stalky people out there. I mean, I know it's not most of you- but just today someone found my blog by googling "How to insert a Nyquil soaked tampon." It is entirely unclear to my why this blog came up. I do not recall ever writing about Nyquil soaked tampons. Further more I cannot imagine why a person would even want to-<br />
Ew.<br />
<br />
Anyways, I've decided to post a picture of my kids for three reasons:<br />
1) Because I want to show that I actually do have kids.<br />
2) I want to show that they are not actually traumatized.<br />
and 3) Because they are cute!<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6WYdqftX2A6-robhQy1uD3FZfys4PZHYtCILo-5OglJBy-WD6dIoT6LpeaQZONLTH2yVsVVDnWHwZ1YJ8RSMCb6_l4PKLtcaEjlKn4LljJIhmQxaqpda6qBIyiqwi5B9KQRbnryFTrvFl/s1600/Fall+2010+037.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6WYdqftX2A6-robhQy1uD3FZfys4PZHYtCILo-5OglJBy-WD6dIoT6LpeaQZONLTH2yVsVVDnWHwZ1YJ8RSMCb6_l4PKLtcaEjlKn4LljJIhmQxaqpda6qBIyiqwi5B9KQRbnryFTrvFl/s400/Fall+2010+037.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
That's Gage on the left, who is turning 13 soon.<br />
Our baby, Alex is in the middle- who, at the moment is not dealing well with wearing clothes. He does have clothes- so please do not alert child and family services.<br />
And Payton on the right, our only girl- our drama queen and self appointed princess. Seriously. For a long time she actually made us refer to her as "Princess Payton." She is very sparkly, and probably, if we let her, would wear that garland 24/7 until Christmas was over- maybe even a little bit into the new year.<br />
<br />
Anyways, from my family to yours, happy holidays.randinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10155819253156693572noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8669351552848596513.post-36483484984597728732010-12-03T09:26:00.000-08:002010-12-03T11:25:30.370-08:00Not Connecting With ItEven though the term "not connecting with it" is the bane of my existence right now, I"m going to go ahead and use it as a title anyways, because sometimes- even though it sounds trite- you just <em>don't</em> connect with it. What can you do?<br />
<br />
I can, and I will (and I have), read just about anything- except for the usual caveats (no time travel, no meth labs, it has to be set in present day, the MC has to be human- or at least, mostly human, no pirates, no dragons, no wizards, no conspiracy theories and no drug lords, vampires- well, maybe. It would depend. I did read the Twilight saga.)<br />
<br />
Last weekend I bought a new book "Not My Daughter", because the plot seemed interesting. It was about a seventeen year old who becomes pregnant as some sort of pregnancy pact at her high school. So I threw it in my cart and was on my way.<br />
<br />
A week later, I'm about fifty pages into the book.<br />
<br />
I'm finding it difficult, and I'm asking myself: at what point should I just set it aside permanently? It I haven't connected with the material yet, then maybe I never will. Usually I read a book until the end, no matter what, just because I feel like I have to.<br />
<br />
Some books have slow starts and that's okay. But I think that this is more than a slow start. I just don't find it plausible. The story is told from the POV of the mother of a pregnant teen, which I thought might be an interesting point of view. But. She's facing possibly being fired from her job because her daughter is pregnant, which I find kind of a stretch- even with her being the principal of the school.<br />
<br />
Even where I come from- a small city set in the middle of province that still has a largely rural population- most of our high schools have a built in child care facility- not for the teachers- for the students.<br />
Even ten years ago (okay, more than ten, but we won't go there right now.) when I was in high school, the bus ride home was often crowded with babies and their vacant stares, working the soothers in their mouths, some furiously, some lazily. Their mothers stood, laden with a back pack slung over one shoulder, a diaper bag over the other, and a baby on hip. They did make it look sort of attractive, though. The Playtex bottles in shades of aqua and pink, neatly labelled with cool names "Allyx" "Bryanna"-- are teen moms more inclined to use a "Y" in place of a vowel? I don't know, but it always sorta seemed that way.<br />
<br />
Anyways, coming from this background, the authors handling of the subject matter just didn't ring true to me. The mother was in total denial, insisting that her daughter only had the stomach flu. She was fearing backlash from the community, facing possible suspension from the school board. It seems like this was a book written in a different time. Like fifty years ago. <br />
So I'm considering whether or not I should see it through.<br />
Honestly, at this point, even if I try real hard, I doubt if I'll be able to finish it.<br />
<br />
What I have been reading a lot of lately is the Junie B: First Grader series by Barbara Park. I got the series to read with Payton, who has now, herself, risen to the ranks of first grade. We are both enjoying the books. They are hilarious. Last night when we went to bed, Geoff was reading his Stephen King book and I was reading Junie B. <br />
They're really quite clever.<br />
Anyways, that is all for today. Have a good weekend.randinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10155819253156693572noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8669351552848596513.post-11953610740845355442010-12-01T10:47:00.000-08:002010-12-03T07:30:27.152-08:00An Open Letter to SuperstoreI am writing with a heavy heart to tell you that it is totally, completely, over between us.<br />
<br />
We had a good thing going, we did. But lately we've been growing apart. I've strayed before, we both know, but I've always found my way back to you. But this time will be different. No matter if you have one kilo bricks of Cracker Barrel cheese on sale again for nine dollars or not.<br />
But damn, that's a good deal.<br />
But at this point, I'm feeling foot loose and fancy free with my cheese wheeling, and if I have to pay a few dollars more at Safeway, I'll do it, if that's what it takes to make a clean break.<br />
And I even fell for your Joe line. I bought that argyle sweater that looked so cute. But later on, after that brief rush was over, I went home and put it on. That thing itched the fuck out of me.<br />
<br />
But still, I went back for more, all in the name of cheap cheese and laundry soap. That deal you had on Gain, that was hard to resist. And so I stayed firmly by your side, though I knew in my heart that the line ups were getting longer. The aisles got all mixed up. The taco kits were in the cookie aisle, the corn by the ice cream. The whole thing was seriously messed up, and I spent so many days and nights wandering around, trying to find what I was looking for, sighing in despair, and at times- going home empty handed. I'm still not sure where the soy sauce is. Would it be so hard to keep it by the rice? Would it??<br />
I believed for a while, that it was just happenstance that I always ended up with the one cart that didn't steer properly. I now believe that every cart is broken, with shoddy wheels.<br />
<br />
And for a while, when the self serve check outs became available, I had new hope for our relationship. I thought, maybe, we could still make it work.<br />
<br />
But today was the worst it's ever been.<br />
The line ups were so long and so big and so deep that I waited for over thirty minutes. Pathetic, I know. I stood there, shifting my weight from one foot to the next, looking forlornly at all of the people you were serving before me while I read an old issue of Hello! Canada! But I just couldn't concentrate, despite the fact that they had a rather enticing recipe for a Christmas Flan. I was tempted to leave, right then and there. Leave with nothing but the clothes on my back and a dream in my heart. But no, I stayed. Stayed because I wanted that tub of sea salt cashews too much. <br />
<br />
And after all of that?<br />
You could give me a smile. A gesture, for returning to you. For waiting for you.<br />
"It's pretty crazy here today," I commented, feeling the need to reestablish my connection with you, however fleeting, though I knew there were others. So, so many others, including the lady in front of me, who bought only bird seed by the ten kilogram bag.<br />
And you looked at me, and I saw something there. Annoyance. Something vaguely condescending, and you said and I quote: "Ya, well. That's what you get when you go shopping on the last day of the month."<br />
"Oh, really?" I asked, nicely. "That's a busy time?"<br />
You gave a haughty laugh. "Payday. What do you think."<br />
<br />
You want to know what I think? <br />
Here's what I think:<br />
I think that not every one in the whole bloody world gets paid on the same bloody day, and yes I know that I used the word 'bloody' twice there, but at this point, I don't even care about that. And I think that if you KNEW, which you say (so condescendingly) that you did, that the last day of the month is a busy time, you MIGHT have found it in your heart to open more that FOUR check outs. And do you think that you could hire at least ONE of them that didn't make it look as though the zombie Apocalypse was, like, a real thing??<br />
<br />
I didn't get paid today. But that doesn't mean that I didn't need to go out and get my milk and my bread and cashews and mini cheese quiches and a fine cracker assortment and three pairs of socks with Christmas hams on them and an animated bell shaped Christmas light display.<br />
<br />
Anyways, you had moved on. Pressing that little black button until all my items were all crammed together at the end of the counter. "Stripe out" was all you said when I handed you my debit card. I hadn't even paid yet when you were pushing the next person through.<br />
Our conversation was over.<br />
I packed my groceries- if you can call them that- and walked away, feeling a sad, sinking sensation.<br />
I knew I would never return.<br />
The price of Gain be damned.<br />
<br />
As an aside- if there's anyone out there jonesing to buy me a Christmas gift but is asking themselves the question: what to get for the girl that has it all (OK, I am sure that no one is asking that question), but I'll tell you anyways (mother) that I saw this saying and I would really like it on a mug:<br />
"A metaphor is like a simile"<br />
I love it so much and I really MUST have it. It's exactly the kind of geeky joke that I would fall for, head over heels.<br />
Just sayin.<br />
Christmas IS coming.randinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10155819253156693572noreply@blogger.com3