Nearly Lost It

Easter is a Christian holiday right? I swear last I checked it was. Night before Easter I decided it was probably time to buy the commercial stuff for the holiday. Baskets, goodies, overpriced toys that are already in my trash. The grocery store was packed, and people were angry and frantic. Not me. I was in my happy place. Grocery shopping alone is like therapy. I get to look at all the suckers shopping with their kids, as I nonchelantly buy whatever I really want in my own quiet world. I was slowly sauntering down an isle when I came to the end of the isle. I stepped just far enough to look both ways at the end of the row to avoid hitting anyone walking perpendicular to my isle. As I came to a stop a Large Bra-less Redneck about my age and her mother walked where I had just stopped short of. She gasped, clearly afraid my cart was about to hit her. (Glad I had stopped) I said, "Sorry", relieved that I had opted to stop and check out the traffic before proceeding. She replied "its fine", and continued on. Three steps later she said to her mother, "Stupid Bitch ought to watch where she's going". My sonar hearing caught each word and my heart and mind began to race....Can I take this chick? Is she packing heat? Would I go to jail if I punched her in her face? Why isn't she wearing a bra? How can she affort all that crap in her cart if she can't even buy a bra? Why didn't she say that to my face? Would my husband be proud or pissed if I called him from jail.....pissed. I swallowed my pride, counted to ten in my mind, and bought more easter crap. If I punched her I would end up back in court. The local Judge hates me and wanted to put me in Jail for running a red light (granted I had been laughing at all the drunks and druggies getting of scot free and she caught me smirking prior to my hearing). She gave me the most expensive ticket she could, and added fifty bucks for my attitude (thank heavens the DA had reduced the charges to the least charge possible). I left court, counted to ten and then laughed, and laughed and laughed. Who would have thought that a sober housewife would be so much more detestable than a room full of drunk drivers and criminals. Note to self, counting to ten and buying more crap works better than laughing at a defendent in court!

Moist

Yes, The title of this post is "Moist". I occasionally go to a recipe swap, or a girls night and it seems that the word "Moist" is extremely gross/borderline offensive to a large number of my friends. I would like to passive-aggressively address this issue. Why is it that the word "moist" is so horrific? I know atleast three women who shudder at the word and will ask you to avoid saying it in their presence. I don't understand. When describing the consistency of a food, there is no other term for "moist". The cake was moist and delicious. It is the opposite of stale, or dry. How can that possibly be offensive?! I realize that the same word in reference to the gauze pad on your ceserean incision is disgusting, but at a recipe swap that is hardly the topic of conversation, though, I am sure if was to be brought up it would be MY doing. I think that the words chunky, or runny could also be used in a repulsive manner. I would typically give several examples of how I could use them to be disgusting, but I will refrain. There are two words that can be used when describing me...Gross, and Gluttonous. I love to horrify people with gross comments, and I love to eat (and eat, and eat). I have racked my brain comparing the gross uses for "moist" with those used in cooking and eating. I can think of many more yummy "Moist" things than disgusting "Moist" things. I can generally take any normal word and make it gross, but I'm not on board with this one. I think it is a wonderful word, and when I think of it my mouth waters. I can picture the moist Jello Cake, or Cheesecake, or Spice Cake, or Carrot Cake. YUM! I have looked for synonyms for "Moist" so that I can TRY to be more politically correct when I am with the ladies. If I am going to offend people, I want it to be for something really rank, not in reference to the texture of a cheesecake! Damp, oozy and soggy were on my list of candidates, but in the end I will smile and tell them that their cake is succulent.

The Two Space Parker

I went to the YMCA with my children today, and spent fifteen minutes circling the gigantic parking lot for a vacant space. Feeling frustrated and angry I finally saw a miniscule parking spot far away from the entrance. I was thinking, DAMN these ginormous cars with only two carseats inside them! They don't need to take up so much space, and why do people with small families need freaking huge vehicals? That was not the case today, however. The cars next to me were reasonably sized. I felt angry at the white car to my right for being two close to the line and looked over to see why that made my space so small. The brand new SUV to my left was a foot and a half into my parking spot. I drive an older car that spent its youth in the garage of an elderly couple who apperantly had a small garage because it has more dents in the doors than it has smooth sections. I think there is a dent every other half inch on both sides of the car, so I figured what's one more dent. I should pop my door open and slam the crap out of this beautiful shiny luxury SUV. Now you may be gasping in horror that I would consider intentionally denting a beautiful car that doesn't belong to me, but let me tell you that unloading a carseat and a three year old is a task alone, and being fat doesn't exactly help my situation. Doing it in 2/3 of a parking spot is nearly impossible. So I opened the door...slightly more forcefully than I would have usually. And when I say slightly more forceful than usually, I mean I slammed the crap out of that selfish, rich, entitled, idiot's car. People, I don't care if you are a crappy parker. I am terrible at it. I don't care if you are on the line. It is gray area in my book. But if you are a foot and a half in a parking spot thinking nobody can fit in the miniscule spot and that your precious new car will be untouched, think again. You may have an angry hurried woman more than willing to squeeze into whatever spot she can find, and she will ding the hell out of your car. You are not doing yourself a favor by assuming people just won't park there because it is near impossible for a car to fit. I will find a way to make my sedan fit, and you will have several dings in your car, because I will not warn my children to open the door softly, I will tell them that the person who drives the fancy car is an ass for making me have to flip the car seat upside down to try and get it into the car, and that they can practice opening and closing their car doors as much as they want for two minutes, and to put some muscle into it!

Fatalistic Valentiner

I hate Valentines Day. It has nothing to do with the fact that I punctured my son's eardrum last valentines day, had a miscarriage the valentines before, or had my babysitter run away from my house and be chased down by her parents the year before, I really just think it is a putrid holiday. I hated this holiday before all that crap happened. The real reason I hate Valentines is the reason I LOVE Halloween. People pretend to be something that in fact they are not. I think about romantic relationships and have them placed into several categories in my head. The Cheaters, The Cowards who want to cheat (but are afraid of getting busted), widows, those who have never loved, those who were in love but have drifted apart as a result of trials and life, those who despise their spouse but are too lazy to get divorced, the "friends", the lop-sided relationships where one person thinks things are picture-perfect and the other partner is suffocating in marital despair, and the the floaters who float by comfortably. I am, of course, excluding newlyweds since they are mostly freaks and are hormonally altered. I am not saying that there are no happily married people. They are few and far between in my opinion, but I am sure they exist. I think people can be happy, and be married, but Marital Bliss is as realistic as the easter bunny. My question is this....why for one day, do people pretend? It is as strange a practice as someone who doesn't believe in Christ having a Nativity in their yard at Christmas time. I think that those flowers husbands buy their wives would be far more productive on a day she has spent with a GI bug barfing into the toilet all day. Or a husband could surprise her with her favorite perfume one day because he notices that she is out. Women, why not make our husband a special candle-lit dinner on a day we know he has a rough schedule, or fill up his tank of gas when we see it is empty and know he will be rushed in the morning on the way to work. Don't you think if we did these things along the way, we would quit floating through marriage, or despising our partners, or cheating, or helping them feel justified about cheating. I wouldn't know....I don't do these things. My marriage has fallen into several of these categories in our ten years of being together. Right now we are floating. Floating is good....it buys us some time, but you can only float so long. I can tell you one thing I will not be doing on Valentines, and that is writing an ooey gooey mushy Hallmark Card filled with fflowery bullshit just because it is February Fourteenth. I will talk to my husband about his day, give him a realistic gift and a card that is sincere, and hope that nobody dies or gets hospitalized.

Shameless Cyber-Stalker

I admit it...I am a shameless cyber-stalker. I figure the first step in recovering is to admit my fault. I can't help but keep tabs on old friends and enemies and random people that have made some sort of impression on me at one time or another. I have to spy on them and see how and what they are doing. I feel like I am peeking in their souls and staring at their lives in hope that they are not any happier than I am. I shouldn't technically feel like a total loser though... right? Because technically if you have an open blog you should expect people to look at it. Random people surfing online can find it if they want...So am I so bad for wanting to check on them? I don't think the fact that I do it is the real problem. I think my intentions are what are a little disturbing. Am I really the fattest person in my graduating class? If I had married that one loser I dated would I be living in a nice house in Pleasantville? Or has he been excommunicated for fornicating with the Nanny? I can't help but ask myself these questions. And every asked question HAS to be answered, so why not just check...just real quick. Does this make me a cyber-stalker? Is it bad to check up on people you hated passionately just to make sure they haven't won the lottery, or been given a Nobel Peace Prize, or have the perfect life that you wish you had. Oddly enough the Blogosphere is completely subjective. So maybe Mr. Nanny- Fornicating Excommunicated Perv's wife doesn't KNOW he is a pervy fornicator, his blog may show a perfectly happy home life. Or maybe she does know and is devastated but chooses to post cute Christmas pictures of their happy family...just for the sake of pretenses. I don't think people want all of cyber-space to know what really goes on behind closed doors, so why do I bother reading their blogs? So I can look at the portion of their life that they choose to show me and wonder if my life is less adequate. Add Masochist to my title as cyber-stalker.

Qualified

Have you ever noticed that people LOVE to give advice? They give advice when they are asked. They give advice when they are not. The tell people what they would do if it was THEIR child rolling around the floor at Gymboree, or how they feel about pacifiers, thumb sucking, co-sleeping, losing weight, drinking Pepsi, or VBACs. I am one of those people who loves to give my opinion. My dad has an old saying, "Opinions are like Butt-Holes...everyone has one and they ALL stink." My dad is wiser than I gave him credit for. Originally I thought I was "Qualified" to give my opinion on most things. I do a great deal of research. Most decisions I make have been thoroughly studied and thought-through. I have a degree in Psychology. I minored in Family Studies, focusing mainly on Child Development. I know nothing of Politics and don't claim to. I love the Internet and when I say something dumb I typically check up on the dumb thing I said so I can either learn from it, or beat myself up about being wrong in the first place. All in all, I think I am pretty sharp. I say dumb crap once in a while, and my memory sucks so I get information wrong from time to time. At the end of the day though, it doesn't matter. Nobody wants my opinion, or they would ask it. They don't give a crap about how many people have a uterine rupture with a VBAC, or the amount of Caffeine March of Dimes says is okay to drink during pregnancy. They most likely think I am making my information up, or that I am snotty for imposing my information on them. If they wanted to know these answers they would ask a Gynecologist. The reason I even bother to mention this is that I realized today that I HATE getting advice from people. It has taken me 28 years to figure out who I am. So how can someone claim to have an edge on my life after knowing me for seven months. Even if you really know me, you only know the side of me I show you. I can say the same for you. I could point my finger at you, at your lifestyle, at your parenting, at your marriage, at who you claim to be from what I see. But is that fair? Does what I see adequately represent what you are? Is what you see when you look at my life how it really is? Next time I think to give my advice I will refrain. I will hold my tongue. I will try and realize that there are proffessionals in this world who could give qualified advice and that I am not one of them.

My Day at the "SPA"

For my birthday this year my husband asked the gals at work what he should get me and they suggested a day at the spa. My husband knew instantly that this would be perfect. Yesterday was THE day. I arrived at the Spa feeling a little out of place in my sweatshirt and jeans. The woman coming out of the door when I was entering had ATLEAST a full carat and a half of diamonds on her ring finger. First stop was the facial. I met a very friendly and Spa-like lady who took me to a room, told me to undress and wrap this towel thing around me and climb into this Gernie and then left the room. I looked at this very small towel thing thinking...how and where in the HELL is this supposed to go. I opted to keep the bra ON and wrapped the miniature towel around my waist like a hula skirt. Knock knock went the door. Before I had a chance to protest that I wasn't under the blanket on the Gernie, the Esthetician walked in. She took one look at the giant pregnant belly and the hula-skirt bra ensamble and began to laugh. Apperantly it was supposed to go under the armpits and cover the bra. Woops. How does one come back from that and enjoy a facial? Once the laughter died down I let the pasty mud on my face soothe my humiliation as well as my face. The lady proceeded to tell me that I have one of the driest faces she has ever seen. Thanks. She added that the lines and wrinkles that are surrounding my eyes are due to skin starvation and not to aging. Thanks again. It is surprising to me that ANY part of me could be starving. She listed off the many products she was going to give me. Finally, something for free I thought. She excitedly shows me my new face with an amplifying mirror. Eew, if I am this hidious now, imagine how I was BEFORE the facial. I NEVER want to see my face that close up ever again. When the facial was done I got to go to the massage. More nudity and Gernies. More nature music and more hippies rubbing my body. This time add a body pillow. You would think THIS would be relaxing, unfortunately I am slightly uncomfortable with ANY physical contact. I know, with three kids how uncomfortable could I really be, but I am one of those people who will stare at a crying person rather than hug them. Alan likes to call me Frigid, but I prefer the word awkward. The massage felt nice, but the entire time I was thinking..."Damn I haven't shaved my legs for a week and a half...I wonder if I am going to be allergic to this massage lotion...I bet I am the fattest, poorest person she has ever massaged...What am I supposed to do with this arm...Do you think they washed this body pillow after the last pregnant woman used it? How much am I supposed to tip each of these ladies?" Halfway through the massage, the therapist turned off what little lighting there was in the the room. That answers the question about being the fattest person ever...she can't even stand to look at the appendage she is massaging. Nice. Fifteen long, embarassing minutes later I heard the sweetest words I have ever heard. "You can go ahead and get your clothes back on and come out when you are done." At this point I have gone an hour and a half without speaking, mostly naked, getting touched by strangers I am paying. I have a new definition of hell. It is a place of quiet nudity where lights are dimmed, candles are lit and people are touching me. There is seriously something wrong with me. Most people enojoy crap like that. I wrapped my day up with the Manicure/Pedicure which I can say nothing bad about. It was awesome. I went to pay my balance, leave my tips and pick up the crap the esthetician took up front for me, I love free stuff. The free stuff came to a total of $300 and the tips came to $27. I passed on the free stuff and left with what dignity I could muster. I may have starving wrinkly skin, and a fat gooey body, but my nails look spectacular. Thanks Alan for the birthday gift.