The Incidents Where Holiday Activities Take A LOOOOONG Time!

A lot of people do top 10 lists this time of year. Or top whatever lists. None of you want my list of top 10 events that happened in my family's life this year. Jazzercise, credentials, potty training--none of you give a shit about that crap!

So, here is my list of things around the holidays that take a LOT longer when you have 3 year old.


1. Wrapping gifts.
Here's hoping our family members love wrinkly paper and lots of tape.





2. Making cookies.
This took a lot longer for a few reasons. #1 I have to find a decent vegan sugar cookie recipe that would be safe for my allergy-ridden kiddo. #2 The allergy-ridden kiddo insisted on rolling the dough himself. REALLY? Like 8 hours later, we finished. And now have a box of vegan sugar cookies with finger prints in the middle of the frosting. Pretty sure I won't have to fight anyone for these treats.


3. Shopping.
Which is why I finished mine Monday night at 10 pm. Thank god for stores open after bedtime. And I was most certainly NOT the only one with that bright idea. There were lines that late. Made of mostly mothers who were delighted to be kid-free. Which explains why everyone was actually in really great moods.

4. Cleaning up glass.
I've been saying our house is so messy, it looked like something exploded in it. This week, a glass pan literally exploded all over my kitchen while I was making quesadillas. Trying to keep the kid and the dog out of the kitchen while picking glass out of my garbage disposal, all while envisioning some horror movie scene where the evil ghost in the house turns on the disposal thus grinding my hand into hamburger meat, was super fun. Oh, and said glass also melted my kitchen rug. Awesomeness. But at least now I have an excuse for the mess.

5. Sleeping.
He's been crawling into bed with me before 6 am every morning. Grrrr. I'm a teacher and officially on 'vacation' (I use the term lightly. I went to work yesterday. And have taught 6 Jazzercise classes in 4 days. And have worked my butt off getting ready for Christmas. Not exactly a relaxing vacation. But still, sleeping til 7 would be nice).

6. Reading holiday stories.
If I have to explain who baby Jesus is again mid-read, I'm gonna cry.

7. Finding a pet mouse.
After reading a Christmas story that had a mouse in it, he now has an invisible pet mouse. Let me tell you, that sucker is hard to find. He hides in pockets, on the front seat of my car, in bowls of oatmeal. And only the kid can find it. The mouse eats nothing, doesn't poop, and smells great. Best pet ever.


8. Opening Christmas cards.
He insists on opening them. And then we have to name everybody in every single picture. We had a dry day earlier this week and tried to trick him with a bill. No luck. Bills don't have pictures.

9. Drinking hot chocolate.
I was so excited to make him allergy-safe hot chocolate to drink while we watched Charlie Brown Christmas. But the word "hot" freaked him out. By the end of the movie, it was cold enough for him to try.

10. Typing a top 10 list for my blog.
He's cuddled in my lap as I type. With his bear and his blanket. Which smell terrible.

I guess there is something to be said for taking time to enjoy the special moments around the holidays. Right?

Hope your holidays are slow and merry!

The How Dumb AM I? Incident

How dumb am I, you wonder? Wonder no more. The answer: REALLY fucking dumb!!!

Ok, so in recent weeks, there have been little notes on the copy machines at work. From our principal. With the breakdown of how many copies we, as an entire staff, have made this year and how much money that is. It's a lot. Like over 10K, a lot.

There have also been retaliatory, anonymous notes from teachers saying things like "450 assessments for 5th grade each week=solid API score. Priceless".

Yup, staff full of smart-asses.


And no, none of the notes were from me. Swear.



Anyways, so despite these notes which sent a very clear message about our heavy copy-use, I made some VERY illegal copies. Our family Christmas letter. 70 of them. Now, I was smart about it. I did it when I was leaving for the day and most people were gone, so no one saw me do it.

Ok, wait, I was only relatively smart about it.

No, wait, I was totally dumb about it.




I get home that night, go to take them out of my bag, and realize they are not there. And realize shortly after that they were still in the copier tray at work.

Nooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!

"Yesssssssss", giggled Fate. Bitch.

Ok, so I worried about it much of the night, and actually busted my butt to leave early the next morning in hopes to get to work a little early and whisk them away from the copier before someone else saw them.

"Mwahahahah!" laughed Fate.

Yeah, didn't happen. I got to work and they were sitting in my box. I have NO idea who put them there, and did not get any smart-ass emails that day about it, so whoever it was, was just being nice. And apparently did not have a sense of humor about it.

Fairly certain it wasn't one of the bosses though. Cuz I'm still employed and my copy code still works.

Thank you, copy gods. I promise to repay you by not copying my ass any more.

Oh wait, was that my out loud typing? Kidding, I would never copy my butt. And if I did, I certainly would NOT leave it in the copier tray! Well, you know, not purposely anyways.

The Incident Where I Find Things Amusing

Things I have found amusing as of late:

The word jeggings. Jeans + leggings = jeggings = random fashion trend. Sounds like some sort of jello flavor to me.

My child telling me that cows are real. While pretending to put on make up with a carrot.

My child answering the question "What do you want for Christmas?" with "presents". Can we say SCORE?!?! He should be quite easy to please this year!


My husband telling me I'm obsessed with fudge. Ok, so I did make 2 kinds of fudge for the fudge contest at work. But it's not like I made fudge all summer to practice or anything. Obsessed? Hardly. Just passionate about winning.

The candy canes I crushed with a mallet (for said fudge-contest fudge) that are currently coating my counter, hair, and bathroom. I smell minty fresh. But am also sticky.

Getting a work email from a father who basically said his ex-wife (who is driving me CRAZY) is full of crap. Hilarious. It made me want to run a victory lap around my desk!

23489734987 questions about what my 3rd graders should wear to our big musical performance of A Sombrero For Santa. The teachers all said wear a red shirt. Who would have thought every 3rd grader would have a question about that? "What if your little brother spills a vat of tar on your shirt as you are going to school. What should you wear THEN?". Ok, maybe I'm slightly exaggerating. Slightly. My favorite actual question: "Can your red shirt be green?" Boom boom boom! That sound you hear is the beating of my head against a wall.

My schedule this week. At school, on top of teaching, I'm running 4 rehearsals, 3 assemblies, co-running a 4th assembly, and planning a pajama breakfast/craft day. None of that is amusing. However, knowing I need to finish shopping, wrapping, and mailing gifts while doing all that and teaching several Jazzercise classes is fucking hysterical.

Better go sample that fudge to see if it's contest-worthy. Another thing that tickles my funny bone? I'm on a diet. And made 2 types of fudge.

The Incident of Teamwork

My cat and child have formed a team. Typically, I find teamwork admirable. They could team up to fight crime (to the Cat Mobile!) or locate items they've lost in the house (I know that water bottle straw has to be around here somewhere). Or even clean up after themselves ("OK, I'll scoop the shit out of the litter box, you hold the back"). And I would greatly admire any of those goals. But no.

They've teamed up to ensure I never sleep past 6:30 on a weekend again.

Awesomeness.

The cat plays her part by walking laps up and down my body until she finds the warmest spot, the cuddles there, purring loudly, while kneeding her paws (complete with razor-sharp needles) against my thigh, tummy, or boob (like my boobs need puncture wounds).

The kid quietly pads into our room and stands next to me breathing heavily until I pull back the covers so he can climb in. Then he 'rests quietly' while kicking me and rolling around.

The cat, realizing she's found someone with some life in him, stands on my shoulder so the kid can pet her. He pets her until she tires of it and bites him, thus causing him to hit her, thus causing her to wander back down my body to sulk for approximately 12.6 seconds before coming back for another round.

It's a beautifully orchestrated ballet, one that has happened 3 weekend mornings in a row now.

Ahhh teamwork. I'm so proud.

The Incident Where I Didn't Forget About My Blog (swear!)

Hello Blog. Nice to see you again. I have not forgotten about you. Pinkie swear.

But since becoming an officially certified Jazzercise instructor, I've spent 2 weeks learning about 20 new routines. My brain has been mushtified (yes, it's a word). And we have video-proof that our son can do many of those routines almost perfectly. Like, scary perfectly.

And in there, I also celebrated 2 Thanksgivings (and decided the reason Thanksgiving and Christmas are far apart is because we need at least 4 weeks in between large family events in order to not kill each other), drove up and down half of California (mapquest it--it's a big state), and spent some quality time with 3rd graders. My kid got his first black eye (ran into a box at day care--clearly he is the epitomy of grace), my husband curbed his car and popped two tires (yup, that was pretty much the nail in our Christmas coffin), and I started a diet (hello, how dumb am I? Dieting THIS time of year? Good lord, I'm a freakin' idiot).

Oh, and did you know that Christmas is coming? If you were not aware, walk into ANY elementary school classroom. The teacher will have a glazed look in her eyes and her hair will be thinner than the day before. There will be at least one student wearing a Santa hat. And another wearing reindeer antlers. And another wearing a tank-top and flip-flops despite the fact that it's 36 degrees outside. And it will be very loud.

And you will hear conversations like this:
"What happens if Santa dies?"
"Then there's another one."
"What happens if HE dies?"
"Oh, your parents will still buy you presents, don't worry."

3rd graders seriously crack my shit up.

I should mention these same third graders will soon be involved in a FABULOUS musical titled....wait for it....A Sombrero For Santa.

Cuz nothing says Christmas like Santa taking a trip to Mexico. I'm assuming it's because there's cheap drugs there, but haven't read the script that closly.

Seriously, how do I get roped into this shit?


Anyways, blog, I have not forgotten your existence. And hope to get reacquainted soon.


Quit laughing, Fate. I KNOW I'm busy, but really, do you have to be such a bitch about it????

The Incident Where I Passed!

Yup, you read that right. I passed my big huge ginormous Jazzercise tryout. There were some scary moments, but I'm officially certified now!

And tired as fuck. I've worked out for 7.5 of the last 36 hours. That's a lot.

Interesting that after passing your tryout, you go through such intense training, it actually makes you hate Jazzercise.

Here's hoping it's only temporary, or I just spent a long time preparing for squat!

The Incident Where I Realized It's Here

I've been training for the past 3.5 months. Hours and hours (and hours) of classes, one-on-one training, practicing at home, listening to the same 10 songs hundreds of times (not exaggerating--got the counts on itunes to prove it)... In my head, November 18th has been marked with a gigantic red X. And no days after November 18th have existed (which would be damn convenient cuz then I could skip Christmas shopping).

I'm writing this the evening of November 17th. 24 hours from now, I'll be finishing a very intense Jazzercise tryout and then finding out if I get to be a certified Jazzercise Instructor.

I started dropping things Monday morning (including teachers' edition textbooks--those things are ginourmous and I'm damn lucky I didn't hurt a kid!), and tearing up at the drop of a hat Monday afternoon. It's here and it's huge. And I'm overwhelmed by its hugeness. And the massive amounts of support I've received. Cards, texts, gifts, emails, Facebook posts....not to mention the countless well-wishes I've gotten from other students and instructors at my Jazzercise center. Even got an "I'll be praying for you" tonight. Bless you, random lady whose name I don't know, bless you.

Also got a huge "Good Luck" from an instructor whose kids go to my school. Which she gave to me in front of my whole class. And the gossipy mom who was in the room. So much for keeping this tryout (and the reason I'm taking 2 days off before a week-long Thanksgiving break) a secret. Oh well.

So, currently, November 19th is sorta this black hole date in my mind. Either I'm certified, and then in intense training all day, or I'm not, and will be digging a hole under a rock somewhere to hide my head in. While eating chocolate and drinking wine. And vodka. Possibly mixed together.

Please let it be the first one!!!!!! Cuz then, sometime around November 20th or 21st, I'm having a little party for one to celebrate! With wine. And vodka. But probably not mixed together. Though I make no promises.

The Smaller Bra Incident

I am such a fuckin' IDIOT! So, if you read a few posts ago, you know my floppy boobs have been the subject of conversation among the other instructors at my Jazzercise studio.

It took me a while, but it FINALLY occurred to me that I've lost some weight (due to the massive amounts of workouts I've been doing) and that I MIGHT NEED SMALLER CLOTHES!! Seriously, how dumb am I?

So, my child and I took a trip to a local sporting goods store where I tried on like 12 different sports bras. With each bra, I stood in front of the mirror and jumped up and down, staring at the girls to examine the jiggle factor.

My kiddo thought the whole jumping up and down thing was hilarious. I can only imagine what people walking by the fitting room must have thought!

By the way, trying on sports bras is almost as good a work out as actually working out in them is. The amount of stretching and pulling involved--excellent strength training. The jumping up and down? Fantastic cardio.

Sure enough, the smaller size was better. Who knew? Not me, apparently. Cuz yeah, I'm that dumb.

I considered this little number, but decided with the amount of sweat I shed during an hour class, it could be dangerous.

The Bags Full of Sin Incident

I went to the grocery store to get 2 things yesterday. 'Square' cereal (don't ask, it's a 3-year-old thing) and dental floss (not a 3-year-old thing, but we take dental health pretty seriously around here and kinda freaked out when we ran out. Of all the things I need to worry about, missing two days of flossing is probably last on the list. Yet, it was 50% of the reason for my grocery store trip).

So, my list read exactly like this:
square cereal
floss

Yes, I make a list for 2 things. I'm so busy worrying about how my teeth are going to fall right out of my gums due to a few missed flossing sessions, I can't remember 2 things on a grocery list.

Please notice how there are no baking items on that list. None.

So my pathetic list and I go to the grocery store. Where I happen to wander down the baking aisle, despite the list being absent of any baking items. Anyone who knows me in person knows I have a baking problem. Like, seriously, you could check me into some sort of Betty Crocker rehab center and I'd fit right in. It would probably go something like this:

"Hi, my name is Bag Lady and I'm a bakeaholic".
"Hi Bag Lady."
"It's been less than 24 hours since my last baking binge. Does anyone have any new recipes I can try? Oh wait, this isn't some sort of baking CAMP? Dammit."

Anyways.

So, I'm accidentallyonpurpose wandering down the baking aisle when I see these bags full of sin.



Dark Chocolate Mint Morsals.

Dear god. Why does Nestle have to create REASONS for me to bake? REALLY? Don't they know I'm less than a week away from my Jazzercise tryout? And that means I need to eat like a 'real' fitness instructor eats? Which means not eating goodies baked with dark chocolate mint morsals?

Of course, being the good baker that I am, and having little to no will-power, I bought 2 bags. They were on sale, after all. All part of the evil plot, I suppose.

So, while I have about 2340923048 things to catch up on this weekend, I will probably spend a fair amount of time searching for the perfect recipe, baking said recipe, then eating the goods. Because my name is Bag Lady, and I am indeed a bakeaholic.

The Floppy Boobs Incident

Ok. So I'm doing this Jazzercise instructor training thing. My tryout? 2 weeks from yesterday! Can I get an "eeeeeeeekkkkkkkk!!!!"?

At this point in my training, I now have 1 'real' mentor, 1 'partial mentor', and 3 'helper' mentors. It didn't start out this way, it's just sorta happened. Every day, I'm either training or discussing training with SOMEONE. It's a little overwhelming. Both in the 'wow, so many people want to see me succeed' way, and the 'wow, so many people are telling me so many different things, I no longer know my head from my ass' way.

As I've gotten farther along in this training process, I've realized that NO subject is off limits. There's the basics, of course: technique (arm placement, shoulder placement, knee placement, ass placement, pinkie placement...), cuing (too loud, too soft, not talking enough, talking too much, what said when talking...), equipment (take the battery out of the mic, wind the cord this way, use these plugs, don't smash your hand into the beam on the ceiling...), you know, all that crap that one would expect.

And then there's the not-so-basics. Like my pony tail (it's bouncy. The students love it. The instructors? Not so much). Or my height (seriously, you'd think it was some great accomplishment. And it led to that whole smashed hand on the ceiling thing I referenced earlier.). Or my clothes (to wear the Jazzercise logo or not to wear the Jazzercise logo. Thick straps or thin straps. Full length or capri. Low shoes, or midrise shoes. Seriously, the clothing for this little en devour is an investment!).

And this week? MY BOOBS! Apparently my sports bras are not quite supportive enough and the girls sorta flop sometimes. I can handle one person gently pointing that out. Really, I appreciate it. But, 3 separate conversations about the floppy chest lumps I'm sporting, all stemmed from several conversations they had about me without me around? Seriously? They sit around and discuss how my breasts are floundering about? It's not like the girls are gonna pop out and hit someone, thus causing some sort of disastrous breast/nose injury and leading to the strangest law suit ever.

Sigh. Knowing my floppers have been a subject of conversation among my mentors is less than fabulous. It's downright embarrassing. And now all I can think about when I'm on that stage.

If I had a Native American name, it would have to be 'Floppy Boobs'.

'Floppy Boobs,' coming soon to a Jazzercise studio near you.

The Incident In Which I Realized I Am Really Tired

I've stretched myself too thin. Far too thin. Not like 'I'm jealous of that skinny bitch' thin (trust me, that'll never be your problem with me. Promise). More like 'there just ain't enough to go around' thin.

How did I realize this? Well.
This morning, I went about my morning routine. Waking up my son is at the tail end of it. Usually I'm completely ready to go before I get him up. We eat breakfast, get him dressed, and head out.

But not this morning. Oh no. This morning, I forgot to dry my hair. Didn't realize it til I had my purse in hand.

Seriously? I mean, really? Forgetting mascara or lipstick (which I don't wear anyways)? I can see that. Packing your lunch and forgetting it on the counter? Anyone who bothers to pack a lunch has done that. But forgetting to dry your hair? REALLY?

Needless to say, we left a little late today. Although, we leave a little late everyday, so I suppose one could argue that we left right on time.

On a side note, the kid wore the fireman jacket from his halloween costume to day care. And carried a silver sparkly wand. And in the car, pretended to cook egs. Which he's allergic to. Goober.

Anyways.

I spent all day feeling like there's something on my back. More specifically, under my bra. I assume zit and continue on with my day. Finally, at lunch, I take a peak in the bathroom. The hook from my bra had rubbed the skin RAW! I was so tired, I didn't realize there was totally gross bodily fluids oozing out of the ginourmous hole on my back! Seriously? So gross.

So then, tonight, I'm giving the kiddo a bath. A bath that involved some scrubbing off of the Halloween tattoos that have been 'beautifying' his arm for 3 days. A bath that, upon his realizing the 'stamps' were gone, ended in shrill screaming. Me being so tired, and so filled with mommy-guilt, I almost cried with him.

And then I gave in. He got another tattoo before bedtime. His bedtime. Which was hours ago. My bedtime? About an hour ago. Yet here I sit, typing away. No wonder I'm so tired.

Scissor Safety Incident

Here's how I started my morning:

"Good morning boys and girls. Let's talk about your behavior. Halloween activities on Friday? A privilege, not a right. A privilege I can take away from you IF YOU DON'T JUST SHUT UP FOR ONE BLESSED MINUTE!!!!:"

Ok, so that's not exactly how I speak to my students. Damn straight that's what's screaming in my head though.

Seriously, I had to ask these kids to be quiet like 2304930849 times before 8:25 am. At about 8:23, I knew something had to be done. Besides rush to the flask that all teachers keep in their top drawer and start guzzling.

So, we had a little chat. Oh wait, lemme back up. I first had them get out the materials they were going to need for their next activity, then we had a little chat. Now, any good teacher can instantly spot my mistake in this. Yeah, it was the materials out BEFORE the chat part.

Damn straight no kid is going to listen to you tell them how you will take away all their Halloween fun when they have weapons in front of them.

And by weapons, I mean scissors. Not even good ones, just your average cheap school scissors.

So, I'm telling them how I need them to stop talking while I teaching, stay in their seats, keep their hands to themselves...all the normal teacher bull shit...when I look at one of my little girls and see she has her pencil between the blades of her scissors and is attempting to carve it. While I'm discussing behavior. Ironic, no?

Damn straight I called her out.

While I finish telling the class that scissors are not for carving pencils, I notice another little girl doing the same thing little girl number one was doing, except instead of a pencil, it was her finger. Even more ironic, no?

SERIOUSLY??????????

Damn straight I called her out, too.

The chat about behavior turned into a scissor safety lecture instead. To 3rd graders. Who have been in school for 4 years. And used scissors a lot.

I spent 4 years getting my undergraduate degree in Liberal Studies. One year getting my multiple subject credential. One year getting my reading certificate. 2 years getting my masters in literacy.

All that time in school learning how to be a good teacher and I get to spend my days telling kids not to chop off their own fingers? SERIOUSLY??????

Damn straight I had a drink when I got home tonight. Not from the desk-flask though. Gotta save that shit for faux-Halloween Friday. I'm gonna need it.

The Tinkerbell Incident

Today, I was informed by my son that he wants to be Tinkerbell for Halloween. Upon further conversation, I was also informed that I will be dressing up as Tinkerbell, Daddy will be dressing up as Tinkerbell, and the dog will be dressing up as Tinkerbell.

I couldn't bring myself to ask what the cat will be.

Boy is he gonna be disappointed on Halloween when I pull out his fireman costume.

Or, do I embrace it? Then, the only question is, do we go for cutesy Tinkerbells, or slutty Tinkerbells? Tough call...

The Incident Where I Still Have My Boobs

I could bitch about how I don't like having to hold the handle on the gas pump.

I could bitch about how I have 3 paper cuts on one hand, forgot about them, and used hand sanitizer. Which resulted in a fair amount of swearing.

I could bitch about how my child spilled orange juice all over the carpet.

I could bitch about how it started raining and I can't wear sandals tomorrow. And will probably be stuck indoors with 25 eight year olds all day.

I could bitch about a lot of things.

But the fact is, today, I got to keep my boobs. And a friend of a friend, Miss A, did not. So instead, I will bitch about cancer. Cancer, you suck. Breast cancer, you suck a lot. How dare you visit your innocent victims? Back the fuck off. She's gonna beat you. Fear her, cancer. She's gonna win.

The What's This Incident

My kid is in the 'what's this' stage. He wants to know what EVERYTHING is. Tough in the car when he points out the window and there's like six billion things I see and have no clue what he's asking about. But we make it work.



Recently, he discovered the box of tampons in the bathroom. And proceed to pull out EACH ONE and ask 'what's this'? Really, it was a tampon the first 17 times you asked me. Do you think it changes as you get to the bottom of the box? REALLY?



I'm just glad he didn't ask what it was for.



But I fear the day he's going through my purse in the crowded grocery store, finds a tampon, pulls it out, and picks that moment to remember exactly what it's called. That announcement will be super fun.

The How I Know Incidents

I confess I know I'm stressed when I have a minor freak out over the fact that 3 magazines came in the mail in one day and I feel I'll never have a chance to read them.


I confess I know I'm sick of the clutter in my house when I'm putting dishes away and stop to turn an entire drawer full of utensils upside down on the counter, and then just start throwing shit away.

I confess I know I'm craving chocolate when I resort to eating the chocolate covered pretzels in the hundred calorie pack to fulfill the craving. Damn things aren't even real chocolate.

I confess I know I didn't check my freezer before going to Whole Foods when after the trip, I have 8 packs of my favorite English muffins in it. Eight. Packs. I have issues.

I confess I know my priorities are screwed up when I spend more time picking out my Jazzercise clothes than my work clothes.

I confess I know I'm too polite when I actually listen to the guy at my door pushing religion for more than 3 seconds. I also know I'm an ass when I wish the diet coke I was holding was actually a beer just cuz it would have been funny.

I confess I know I cook too much when my fridge is completely full and I have 3 loaves of bread sitting on my stove. And a container of homemade pumpkin granola.

I confess I know I cook too many pumpkin recipes when I've made 6 different pumpkin-themed dishes in one week. In two weeks, I think my total is 10. You should know this information for when you check me in to pumpkin rehab.

I confess I know I'm craving real ice cream when my most happy dreams are about Dairy Queen Blizzards. Pumpkin ones (no surprise there).

I confess I know I should have cleaned out my t-shirt drawer long before this when I finally do and get rid of shirts that are 12 years old. And ridiculously stretched out and huge.

I confess I know I have an unhealthy obsession with Ebay when 70% of my emails are informing me of my latest Ebay activity. Seriously, I get more Ebay emails than junk email. That CAN'T be good.

I confess I know I have an unhealthy obsession with 80's music when I search for the term 'monster' in my itunes library, and all that comes up is Monster Ballads and Monsters of Rock.

I confess I know am tired when I fall asleep before 8pm on the couch. While my husband is vacuuming. And my child is poking me with a fish straw.

I confess I know I'm never going to get a full-night's sleep again when I set my alarm for before 7 am on both Saturday and Sunday mornings.

I confess I know I'm never going to get peaceful morning time again when I set my alarm early both Saturday and Sunday mornings to get shit done, and my 3 year old STILL wakes up before me. How the fuck does he ALWAYS know?

Your turn! Confess your best "I know".

The Incident Where I Got Tagged

I got tagged by E, the author of
http://whiningattheworld.blogspot.com/

Yeah, this tag is from forever ago. I'm beind on everything in my life. Even got an email from an ebay vendor wondering if I was going to pay her! Oops. Anyways....


I'm supposed to answer 8 questions, then tag 8 people to answer 8 more quesitons. I'm skipping the tagging 8 people part, though I did put my 8 questions at the bottom for you to answer in the comments if you're feeling crazy. And if not? That's too damn bad. Do it anyways.

1. How do you / will you know when you are all grown up? When I drive to work gripping my commuter mug as if my life depended on it, I feel very grown up. Then I glance down at my wrist and see that I'm wearing jelly bracelets and realize it'll never really happen.

2. As a child what did you want to be when your grew up and are you doing it?

Teacher, which I have been for 10 years. I was the oldest of 5 kids and have 4 little brothers. My childhood was pretty much teacher training.

3. You could have an entire day 24 hours to do whatever you wanted (no expense spared). So what would you do?

Is it soooo sad that my first inclination is to say cook so I won't have to do it the next week? Ok, let's assume that all my weekly cooking is already done. I would gather my 16 mommy friends who I only get to see once a year, sit on a tropical beach, eat gourmet cupcakes, and drink. A lot. Oh, and the cupcakes and drinks would be served to us by really hot, shirtless men. Named Gabe.

4. Someone invents a new cocktail and they want to name it after you. What are the main ingredients?

Alcohol.

Oh wait. You want me to be more specific?

Good alcohol.

5. How many blogs are you currently following or subscribed to?

A bunch, though I honestly don't have the time to read very many. And the whole blogging world? Kinda leaves me a little lost and overwhelmed at time. I feel bad. There's a lot of great writing out there. Siiiiiigggggh, yet another thing to add to the list of 3408349 things I feel guilty about.

6.Why did you start blogging and is the reason you started still relevant?

I was encouraged to by some of the mommy friends I referred to in #3 after the writing I did about a disasterous incident that occured in a parking lot got put in our local paper. Do I still have disasterous incidents in parking lots? Not today, but who knows what tomorrow will bring.

7. What is your favourite item of clothing?

Toss up between pajamas and work out clothes. Both are comfy. And I don't have to iron any of them.

8. If you had to give up blogging or chocolate what would you chose? Is it a hard choice?

No question, I'd give up blogging. Realistically, I'd probably cut off my left hand before giving up chocolate though. Yup, I'm that shallow.

So, here's the 8 for you to answer. Or not. Really, what am I going to do if you don't? Nothing. Cuz I'm nonconfrontational like that.

1. Biggest pet peeve?
2. Long day....massage or wine?
3. Tight month money-wise...what do you cut out?
4. Extra money one month--what do you splurge on?
5. Christmas: magical or stressful?
6. Do you care about sports, even a little?
7. What's your secret talent?
8. In 8 years you hope to be....

The Incidents of Fringe Parents

I teach 3rd grade. Therefore, I deal with a lot of parents. A. Lot. Most are just fine, some are FABULOUS, and a few are downright obnoxious. And then, there's the fringe element.

So, here's my fringe element parentals of the week.

1. The pot-head

Popped my head through the window of a student's car to inform his mother he had been stealing random shit from his seat partner. Was greeted by the intense smell of pot. Not like just-smoked-pot, but like just-bought-so-I-can-go-home-and-smoke-it-pot.

I'm not judging, but damn, I better get a kick-ass Christmas gift from that family.

2. The BFF

I get a lot of emails from this lady. A lot. And when she volunteers in the classroom, she hovers around her son. A lot. She really likes to be her kid's BFF. And apparently mine. Since she emailed me with her cell phone number and encouraged me to text her any time.

Ummm, can I get a hell to the no? I will not be exchanging cell phone numbers with this woman.

3. The mean mom

I like this mom. Her daughter's a very bright, 'let's push the limits' kind of girl and the mom totally backs me up. So, when my student pushed the limits big time this week and got tangled in a web of her own lies and deceptions, she was brought back to school by the mean mom one afternoon. The mean mom proceeded to lay into her daughter to the point that my student had crocodile tears dripping to the floor. Seriously, at that moment, I was SO thankful that mom wasn't MY mom.

4. The helicopter

This woman is nice. Very friendly, has very good intentions. She's one of my homework correctors and always brings in cute stickers to put on the kids' work (I won't mention how she needs an answer key to grade their spelling homework. 3rd grade spelling? Not hard. At all. Answer key? REALLY? Whatever, I go with it.). But, she hovers around her son like a small child hovers around his mom while she's trying to go to the bathroom (not that I'm speaking from experience or anything). Today, she just followed the line of 25 third graders into my classroom and watched her son unpack his backpack. We're on like th 47th day of school. He can handle it. Go get a coffee. Or bring me a coffee. Or go to Columbia and see how they grow coffee. But let your kid unpack his own backpack. And get out of my classroom.

5. The tell-it-like-it-iser

I love this woman. At her parent-teacher conference, she actually said about her child "yeah, he's totally gonna be my kid who shows up with a purple mohawk one day. What the hell, man?". Swearing in front of your kid's teacher (note how I said IN FRONT, not AT): kick-ass. I'm sold. You rock, lady.

The Creating Your Own Happiness Incident

I decided this past summer I was unhappy (Ok, I was flat-out depressed for months, but who's labeling?). I made some very conscious decisions to end a few toxic friendships, read some good books just for fun, give my son some extra attention, and throw myself into something I love (hence the Jazzercise obsession).

Truly, I'm incredibly thankful for the changes I made. The combination of them absolutely drew me out of the depths I was in and I'm a happier person now. I learned that we are in charge of creating our own happiness. We cannot depend on others to make us happy.

Which leads me to wonder why the FUCK people get so obsessed with their sports teams? I know several people who wanted to jump of ledges today after their favorite football team blew it. Again.

SERIOUSLY? Talk about something people have NO control over. YOU cannot make your team win. You have NO control over who tackles who, who doesn't throw the ball, who made a shitty call, or who wore their helmet backwards. You can wear rally caps, beards, socks, underwear, or nose rings all you want, but it will change nothing.

And the assholes who aren't doing what you want them to do will still make 23409823048 times more money than you!

If you wanna have fun watching a game, go for it. But if your team losing ruins your entire afternoon/day/week/lunar cycle, maybe you need to rethink your priorities.

Just sayin'.

The Incidents Where I Realized I'm Sick of Urine

Ok, really, no one embraces urine. No one is like 'oooo, yeah, I just looooove me some urine'. Unless you're into golden showers or something. And if that's the case, I'm just gonna be honest with you: I don't understand you. At. All. And think you're a little gross. Not that I'm judging.

Anyways, so saying I have negative emotions towards urine might sound just a little silly.

But really. I'm sick of urine today. Like, over it.


Reason #1: CVS brand pull-ups. Yeah, they can totally bite me. My kid likes them because they have robots on them. However, they leak. I've only used them for nap times (his, not mine. I don't get to nap. And if I do, I typically don't need a pull-up.) and they've leaked pretty much every time. Saving like $1.50 by going with the store brand has resulted in a lot of extra laundry. Probably not worth it.




Reason #2: Accidents. We've had major potty training regressing the past two weeks. I think it's because I've been off work, so the kid's been off his routine. He's not telling anyone when he has to go, then refuses to go when we tell him to. Which typically results in a temper tantrum. And what happens during temper tantrums? Loss of bladder control. What a fuckin' vicious cycle. Which leads to reason #3 for me being sick of urine.


Reason #3: Clean up. Excluding clothes, this week, I've had to clean up urine from the rug (same spot, 3 times. At least he's consistent. It's like he's marking his territory. It's working. I have no desire to step on that spot, let alone sit on it or roll around on it.), the car seat, the kitchen floor, the entry way floor, the sheets, and the pillow. How the hell one gets urine on a pillow is a fuzzy concept to me, but that doesn't change the fact that I had to clean it. Thank god for Nature's Miracle. We originally bought it for cleaning up after our pets, but a 3 year old is pretty similar to a pet, so it's got double duty.



Reason #4: Noise factor. Noise factor, you might ask? Yeah, well after all that cleaning up, I kinda earned my 2 hours of me-time today during nap, wouldn't you say? Silly me, I decided to pee during the first 20 minutes. The kid's bedroom is right next to the bathroom. And my peeing was so loud, it woke him up. I didn't flush (we're a 'if it's yellow let it mellow' household), so it had to have been my pee. As a result, I did not get my me-time and the pee-soaked car seat cover is still sitting on the car seat in the car. Gross.


To sum up, urine, you can totally suck it. Go find someone who enjoys golden showers and piss them off for a while.

The Boobage Incident

I saw some amazing boobs over the past weekend. Like, hawt boobs. Really, mine don't even compare.

I was feeling a little left out, envious even. Hawt boobs in corsets? Really, I'm uber jealous at those who pulled it off. Even more jealous of those who pulled it off while wearing stripper heels.

Then I came home to my 3 year old who clearly missed me after my 4 day absence. Missed me to the point that he's developed a new little habit. One that he only indulges in when in public places, naturally.

He feels me up.

Seriously. He hurls himself in my lap, says something cute and nonsensical, then grabs both boobs and just sorta hangs out there.

Ok, so yeah. They are soft. They are squishy. They are large enough that they are hard to miss. But really? The kid hasn't breast fed in a really fuckin' long time. What the sudden interest in my boobage is, I couldn't begin to guess.

I guess I can be thankful he's not lifting up or pulling down my shirt to get at them. Or calling them nickles. Which is what he calls his own nipples.

I think it's time to have a 'my dance space, your dance space' conversation with him. Of course, him being only 3, the Dirty Dancing reference will be completely wasted on him. But any day in which I can refer to that movie is a good day, so I'm gonna run with it.

The Incidents In Which I Realized My Complete Lameness

Ok, I know can completely own the term "Jazzerfreak" cuz that's how I am such a freakin' freak for Jazzercise. I didn't realize just how big a freak until this week though. You see, last week, I over did it. A lot. In 4 days, I took 9 classes and did 4 one-on-one trainings. My body? NOT happy with me. At. All. And I knew it.

Then I really screwed things up by sitting and driving for a collective 15 hours over 4 days for my girls' beach trip.

Come Monday, I went to the doctor and learned I, in fact, sprained my back. You hear 'back sprain' and you think 'wild sex', right? Oh no, not me. Because I am totally THAT lame, I can say I actually sprained my back driving.

My workouts came to an abrupt and complete halt. And I have actually cried several times over this. Because yes, I am THAT lame and love Jazzercise THAT much. And am THAT freaked out that my instructor tryout is in 6 weeks and feel like I'm pretty much going to have to start over. I am NOT handling this well.

So yeah, fast forward to mid-week. I go to print out some pictures for my grandmother (who I should have called about 23409308 times in the last 2 months, and never have. Again, due to total lameness.). I click one thing on printer settings, then spend an hour trying to figure out why my computer refused to talk to my printer. Or why my printer is refusing to listen to my computer. I'm so lame. Only I could get create communication issues between two inanimate objects. It's as if they are husband and wife or something.

So then, I've been so distracted by being upset that I forgot to go to a dentist appointment that I had remembered just hours earlier. I've never missed an appointment like that before. Laaaaaammmmmmmmmmmeeeee.

Then, I make soup. Red pepper slow-cooked soup. The last step is to puree it in a blender. Ok, the contents are basically red bell peppers, onions, and broth. That have already been slow cooked. Musy and liquidy, right? But apparently my blender got so used to only crushing ice for my drinky-drinks this summer, it rebelled. Only I could break my blender pureeing freakin' soup. REALLY? Lame.

It's now midnight. Because my shower schedule typically works around my workout schedule, I just realized I have yet to shower today. Again, I'm that lame. Who gets too confused by a change in their schedule to fuckin' shower? Only me.

So yup. Today was just one big realization that I am incredibly lame. Tomorrow, I plan on embracing my lameness. I will engaged in activities like breaking my hairbrush, drinking water out of a coffee cup, and wearing two slightly different shoes. Watch out world.

The Sex At The Right Moment Incident

A little less than 4 years ago, 17 women and their husbands had sex. Some purposefully planned it, some were drunk from holiday parties, some were just being nice. But, all 17 of these women's eggs were fertilized by their husbands' super swimmer spermy guys. And all 17 of these women conceived a child.

Each woman had a different background than the other. All were from different walks of life with stories that made them each unique. But, because they all happened to have sex at just the right moment, they were given the opportunity to use the common thread of pregnancy to become friends.

Ok, yeah, it was through the Internet, but still. Friends. Friends who know everything about each other. EVERYTHING.

They know who is still in love with their husband, and who is simply living with a roommate. They know who is on what meds, and what their natural hair colors are. They know who has struggled with their weights, depression, anxiety, meds, and alcohol abuse. They know who has started new jobs, started school, or started trainings. They know who spends their weekends cooking, who spends their weekends working, and who spends their weekends at soccer games and ballet recitals. They know who lacks bladder control, who hasn't had sex in 18 months, and who has had sex on the hood of their car. They know whose children are reading War and Peace, and whose children are barely talking. They know who gets regular pedicures and who hasn't showered in days.

See? EVERYTHING.

They have celebrated each other's birthdays, their babies' birthdays, and new pregnancies. They have mourned cancer, sickness, and death. They have offered potty training advice, day care advice, school advice, eating advice, cooking advice, shopping advice, outfit advice, hair advice, husband advice, sex advice.....the list is endless.

Their friendships have spanned thousands of miles, thousands of texts, and hundreds of phone calls and cards. Their friendships have spanned countless hours of typing on keyboards, viewing each others pictures, and imagining the voices behind the written words on a computer monitor.

Because of the common thread of having had sex with their husbands at just the right time, some of these women had the opportunity to unite this past weekend, hear the voices in person, and experience the exhilaration of inhaling common air. Because these women had sex at just the moment, 12 of them got to share meals, share drinks, share cupcakes, share cookies, share stories, share embraces, share laughter (LOTS of laughter) and share tears (and dearly miss the 5 would couldn't join). Shared experiences can be powerful. Experiences shared with the women who know everything about you? Precious.

I am so incredibly fortunate to be one of these women. Because of them, I'll never walk alone.

And am so incredibly tempted to share some of the complete debauchery that we were engaged in this weekend. However, it would be a violation of trust to do so.


Instead, I leave you with pictures of the aftermath. And no, I did not stage these.

Oh hells yeah, it was a fabulous weekend.

The Thanks for Your Free Crap Incident

I have a mentor instructor. A few, actually, but one in particular who has been working with me the most. They are all doing their best to get me ready for my big Jazzercise tryout that's in about 6 weeks. Gulp. I've been working my ass off. Literally, it seems. Pretty sure that after 4 hours of training tonight, I actually left part of my ass on the floor of the studio.

So, my main mentor. She's great. I really look up to her. Ok, not literally. She's like 5'4", and I'm like 5'10". On a side note, I've never had so many people discuss my height as I have since starting this instructor training process. Apparently I'm some sort of unnatural Amazonian woman or something.

It's not like being tall is some great achievement. And I'm not THAT tall. There are many people way taller than me. I just happen to look nice enough that untall people feel comfortable asking for my help getting things off high shelves in grocery stores.
So, you know, I figuratively look up to her. She's spent a lot of hours working with me and has allowed me to do a lot of practicing during her classes. I'm extremely grateful, and feel like I owe her a lot.


After our training sessions, I wait around for her to finish up so she doesn't have to walk out to her car by herself. The neighborhood the studio is in? Not stellar. I should know, seeing as how I live there. Want more info? Click here. Don't give a shit? Then don't click.


http://confessionsfromapaperbag.blogspot.com/2010/06/china-incident-aka-these-are-people-in.html


We're walking out to our cars and she says "Oh wait, I have something for you!". Hmmmm, I wonder. She hands me a small box and says "Here's a little something from Jazzercise". Hmmmmm, I wonder again. Inside is a metal water bottle with the Jazzercise logo on it.

Ok, so CLEARLY she somehow acquired this random free item and wanted to unload it on someone. I'm cool with that. But to play it off like it was some GIFT? REALLY???????? What total and absolute bullshit. So I had to be all "oh, that's so great, how cute, thanks" and shit, when really I wanted to say "Ummm, gee, thanks so much for giving me your free crap you don't want!".


Had she simply said, "Hey, I got this. Want it?" I wouldn't have blinked an eye. But really. Giving someone the free crap you don't want and acting like it was some gift you got especially for them? Kinda lame. I mean, not as lame as the 'Look! I traced Garfield for you from a coloring book so you can put it on your wall" teacher crap I get, but still pretty lame. And at least the teacher crap comes with the most pure intentions. The intention behind the water bottle? Cleaning junk out of her car.

I'm still extremely grateful for everything she's done for me, and do feel like I owe her a lot. But now I'm thinking as a 'Thank you for training me' gift, I'll just offer to clean out her car for her and bring all her free crap to Goodwill.

The place where free crap goes to die

In the meantime, who wants a cute metal Jazzercise water bottle for Christmas? Cuz I'm soooo regifting that shit!

The I'm Too Excited to Sleep Incident

Ok, this should really be called incidents, because it's been a few nights now. With good reason.


This week, 11 of my Mommy Besties are flying in from around the country for a Mommy Weekend. No kids, just moms. And booze. And the beach.

As one of them put it, the amount of organization that goes into a trip like this is insane. We have people flying into FIVE different airports and the beach house is 3 hours away from most of them. And all of them are leaving kids behind, so all of them are doing massive amounts of organizing so their households stay running while they are gone. With the exception of maybe more TV time than normal, hair going unbrushed, and bad food being eaten. But all the kids will survive. Let's just hope the dads and grandparents do, too.


This group of women (there's 17 of us total, but not everyone can make it this year) have been an essential part of my life for the past almost 3.5 years. And the weekend we spent in Florida last year was hands down, the best weekend of my life.

So you can see why I'm too excited to sleep!

And fucking nervous. I'm hosting. Pressure, right?

Too bad I get throw in I have to go a Jazzercise training in the middle of the weekend. Which will involve about 7 hours of driving on my part. For a 3 hour training. Totally my choice to go, and I know I won't regret it. But killer to miss out on time with my besties. And to have to do that much driving.

Oh, and I get home from class tonight to my kid having just puked everywhere. While with a sitter. How crappy do I feel? Oh well, still dumping him at Gran and Grandpa's tomorrow. They'll survive and so will he. Right? RIGHT???? Someone convince me, please.

Outta here. See ya next week, where hopefully I'll have tales to tell.

The Regurgitated Carrots Incidents

I usually eat a snack on my way home from work. Typically, grapes and baby carrots. Don't let that fool you or anything. I'm not THAT healthy. Once I get home, you can be damn sure I bust out the chocolate and wine. After a day of dealing with temper tantrums and tattle tales, I feel like I'm entitled. If you disagree, you should probably try shutting up a little bit. Kthanks.

Anyways.

No way in hell I can eat a snack without the 3 year old freaking the fuck out and wanting one as well. So, I pack two snacks: mine and his. My kid typically gets a cup full of grapes. Or Kixx, if we're out of grapes. Which means I typically find either raisins or puffed corn crumbs on the floor of my car. And in his carseat. And on the seats. And in the basket of toys in the back. And everywhere else.

Anyways.

Occasionally, he'll ask me for one of my carrots. Who am I to deny the kid a vegetable? So, I always comply. The ritual goes like this:

Him: "I need a carrot!"

Me: "How do you ask?" (seriously, if I had a dollar for every time I asked that, I could solve California's budget crisis.)

Him: "Carrot please."

Me: "Ok!" *passes back a carrot*

Him: *puts carrot in mouth, chews, spits into hand, brushes carrot off hand*

The chewed up bits end up on the floor of the car. Or in the carseat. Or on the seats. Or in the basket of toys in the back. Or everywhere else. And yes, that's how it goes every time.

It ends up looking like this:

Can we say double ick?

Like cleaning up the fruit formally known as grapes and the cereal formally known as Kixx isn't bad enough. I also get to clean up regurgitated carrots. I am sooooooooo lucky.

Maybe he's practicing for when he's a mama bird.

Yet, because he's ASKING for a vegetable, I continue to give in to his request. Hello, my name is gluttenforpunishment. It's nice to meet you. Allow me to introduce my friend filthycar. We're a team. We could fight crime. You know. Once we clean up all the carrot bits.

The Eyelash Orgasm? Incident

I saw this at the drug store the other day. And I seriously don't get it. My EYELASHES need something that VIBRATES? I, personally, don't even own a vibrator. Mostly cuz I'm too embarrassed to buy one.

Yet my EYELASHES apparently need pulsing action. What. The. Fuck. Whose idea was this? Did someone wake up one day and think to themselves "Damn. An eyelash orgasm would just SO hit the spot right now"? Do eyelashes even possess the magical, mystical g-spot we've all heard so much about? Do eyelashes give you that special tingly-all-over feeling? Do eyelashes make your heart race and shoulders sweat?

I guess the good thing about eyelash orgasms is that eyelashes won't ever want to talk about how they feel. And they'll never expect you to return the favor. And you don't have to cuddle afterwards.

And to think, all this time I've been using plain old nonvibrating mascara. My eyelashes just haven't lived. Apparently.

The Latte Incident

Today was my son's birthday. He turned 3. We opted for a low-key birthday party at a park. But, once we invited our families and close friends, we were at nearly 30 people. REALLY? Lotta work. Could have been way worse, but still.

So, we spent a lot of Friday and Saturday getting ready for it (the killer was having our families back for present opening after--had to have a clean house. My husband--saint. He did it all. I'm not kidding.).

By the time this morning came around, we were already exhausted. I, of course, hoofed it to Jazzercise to start the day, then rushed home to destinktify myself and get ready to pray for the rain to hold off while we head to the park. Somewhere in there, I skip eating breakfast, but made myself a chai tea latte.

We get to the park about 10 minutes later than we wanted to, and all the tables are gone. Except for the reserved area. Which we did not reserve. But took anyways. Cuz we are crazy like that. Getting the killer area for free felt good, not gonna lie.

Party was fun and the kiddo seemed to have fun. Fate was a bit of a bitch and a bounce house for another party was set up during ours, but not til we were about done, thank goodness. Cuz the kids? Pretty excited to see a bounce house. And pretty pissed to learn it wasn't for them.

Anyways, we get back to the house and my teeny living room is instantly filled with my asshole brothers and their girlfriends, our parents, and several small dogs. Cuz nothing says party like yippy Pomeranians.

I head into the kitchen to put some stuff away before the gift opening begins and see this:

My latte. Undrunk. From 4 hours ago.

Yup, that pretty much sums up my life. I'm exhausted beyond the point of being able to successfully do anything about it.

So, like any good mommy, I turned to beer.

The Incident Where I Remained Totally Calm and In Control...and apparently delusional

In the past month, I don't think there is a single day where I have gotten more than 5 hours sleep. Which today led to the Worst. Morning. Ever. I tried to convince myself I had it all under control. But, Fate being the bitch she is, saw to it that didn't happen.

Woke up wayyyyy early (like, almost 4 am early. After going to bed at midnight) to the sound of my child coughing. No problem. Just needed to make sure he was up earlier than normal so I could nebulize him. Cuz nothing says "yay Friday" like gassing your kid up with neb fumes while he watches giant stuffed animals sing (big shout-out to the stoners who created Yo Gabba Gabba. Haaayaaay!).

So, he neb'd. All is good with the world. Until I put his breakfast on the table and the screaming begins. First he wants something else. Then he wants it in a bowl. Then a plate. Then he wants water. But not in his water cup. Then he doesn't want to get dressed. Then he wants Bear and Waldo. The list goes on and on and on and on and on....you get the idea. And if you have small children, you totally understand the determination a mother can get when she needs to leave the house by a certain time, screaming child or no screaming child.

Well, I had the screaming child. Like, SCREAMING. Blood curdling, someone was pulling his toenails out one-by-one, screaming child. And I had the determination. I managed to get him dressed and gather up all our crap to get us out the door.

We got in the car and drove for 10 scream-filled minutes before I pulled over and just stood in front of the car for a little while. It was either that or drive us off a freakin' cliff. Seriously.

He did finally calm down and we continue to day care. Late, at this point. Shocking, right?

We're about 4 blocks away when it hits me. I left the nebulizer mask and mouth pieces on the counter at my house. Which is wayyy too far away for me to do anything about it. Oh, and something changed in the music (probably the song, as songs tend to do) so he was screaming again. After screaming for roughly 45 minutes of the last hour, I knew he'd have to be neb'd again, yet had a bad mommy moment (yeah, just one, right? HA!) and left some crucial pieces out of his day care bag. FUCK!!!!!!

When I pull up to day care, I do what any rational mother would do. I drag his screaming self out of the car , slam the door, and begin to cry in front of my day care provider. Awesomeness.

But not nearly as awesome as when I got to school and started panicking while asking around to see if anyone has nebulizer stuff with them. A coworker sees how upset I am. Out of the true kindness of her heart, she gets my vice principal who comes to my room to check on me. It's approximately 43 seconds before the bell rings. And I remained totally calm and in control. Except for the fact that I wasn't, so didn't. Yup, totally sobbed in front of my boss. Pure frustrating and total tiredness will do that to a girl.

It did all workout, my child breathed through the rest of the day, I managed to restrain all tears, and I may consider letting the kid live to see the age of 3. Which is two days from now. But if he keeps this up, his chances are slim. Cuz delusion is only going to carry me so far.

The Cover Up Incident

So, my skin? It's bad. Like baaaaaad. Like, I have no right leaving the house bad.

But, seeing as how I have to do shit like earn a living (damn that job thing), I have to leave the house. Therefore, my tube of cover up and I have a very close, personal relationship. I bring it EVERYWHERE. Except maybe in the shower. Cuz really, talk about antiproductivity.

A few days ago, I lost it. I searched through all my makeup, my purse, my workout bag, my desk at work, my pockets, everything. Gone. Although I did find some playdough, hair clips, wayward Kix, and a purple pen. All of which pretty much suck at covering my multitudes of flaws. So I've been using my back-up cover up stick as, well, back up. Duh.

How can I misplace something I use so regularly, you ask? Good question. Well, you see, this week has kicked my ass. And then thrown me to the ground, backed over me with a truck, then dragged me back to my feet so my ass could again be kicked. And then pointed and laughed at me as I attempted to recover. I blame the busyness for the fact that I don't have time to sit down at my computer at work to answer emails, the fact that I have returned no phone calls, the fact that I've only put my kid to bed one night out of 4, and the fact that I lost my good cover-up.

So this morning was possibly the first morning all week my child wasn't throwing a tantrum when we needed to leave the house. I actually got to hold his hand as we walked down the stairs, instead of flinging him over my shoulder like I usually did.

Because we were walking, the descent was slow. I caught myself looking at the drainage grate in our condo's parking lot. And see a flesh colored tube sitting next to it.

No freakin' way. It was my cover-up! Which had a huge dent in the top from being run over by a car.

I couldn't help that this tube of cover up was an excellent relfection on my life. It goes through temporary periods of being lost, is totally overused, and has been beat up (or run over by something). And it's sole purpose is to attempt to cover up flaws.

Which is so strange cuz all this time, I thought I was perfect! Oh wait...........

The Incident in which I shed tears before 8:00 AM

Ugh. So, Sunday morning. Like EVERY WEEKEND MORNING FOR THE PAST SEVEN WEEKS, I set my alarm early in hopes to walk/jog the dog before my child wakes up. Because, when my child wakes up, it's another half an hour before we even leave the house and the whole walking/jogging thing is a lot longer and a lot less peaceful. Remember, I've done this every weekend morning for almost 2 months.

Well, on this particular Sunday morning, like EVERY WEEKEND MORNING FOR THE PAST SEVEN WEEKS, and because fate's a fucking bitch, my child woke up shortly after I did. Damn damn damn. ANOTHER morning lost. After hearing him knock on the inside of his door and whine "Mommy, come iiiiinnnnn", I heaved a sigh and let the beast out of his cage. And so began the downward spiral of the morning.

First, he wants 'banananana bread'. Fine. I had just made some the other night and the freezer was stocked with his safe bread. Then, he insists on being the one to push the buttons on the microwave and throws himself to the floor screaming when I do it instead. Fine family fun, all before 7: 30 AM.

So, we manage to get past the banana bread/microwave issue, and move on to getting dressed. He's not interested. The dog, on the other hand, has to pee and is VERY interested in getting the whole show on the road. So, I wrestle the kiddo to the ground and pin him down while pulling on whatever happened to be at the top of his drawers (thank god for white shirts that go with everything).

He then insists on bringing a teddy bear with us, but the bear is cold and must wear a specific monkey sweatshirt. Which I could not find. After several more minutes of screaming, I talk the kiddo into letting the stupid bear wear a different monkey sweatshirt and we manage to make it out the door. No small feat, lemme tell ya.

I'm determined to jog. DETERMINED. Knowing the jogging stroller has a flat, I look high and low in the garage with for the pump. After almost 10 minutes, I find it sitting in the seat of the jogging stroller. My thoughtful husband had put it there for me. Figures it's the last place I looked.

I attempt to inflate the tire, all working against the clock of the kiddo finishing the banana bread and being out of food to distract him. Another 8 minutes goes by (yeah, banana bread so totally gone at this point) and I finally get the stupid thing inflated only to hear a slow leak. Fuck. My. Life.

This is where the tears were shed. I also kicked the door of my car. Which, yes, hurt my foot.

So, we take the nonjogging stroller for a walk instead, complete with a bear wearing a monky sweatshirt. Of course, a tantrum is thrown because my child wants to say hi to everyone he sees. When I told him some people don't like to say hi, he responded "But I wanna say hi to EVERYONE". Now, how can the same kid be so polite, yet throw a screaming tantrum over pushing the damn buttons on the microwave?

Coming home was tantrum after tantrum over ringing the doorbell, wanting milk, wanting cereal, wanting to pour milk in the cereal, and not wanting to go upstairs to wake up Daddy. Upon hearing me stomp my feet on the floor in frustration (yeah, not my finest parenting moment), Daddy caught a clue and came downstairs.

I quickly abandoned all the inhabitants of my household, errr, I mean, left for a bit, then went for my jog, and headed straight to Jazzercise without skipping a beat.

Not gonna lie. After class, I ran errands. I mean, they needed to be run, but I was just sooo excited to have another hour without a small child placing demands on me, I couldn't help myself. Shedding tears before 8:00 AM on a weekend will do that do a girl.

The Awwwwwkward Incident

I went to a little festivity this weekend. It was a very informal pot luck/pool party with people from Jazzercise. I didn't really want to go. I don't talk to that many people while I'm at Jazzercise beyond the "how are you?" conversations, and certainly haven't made friends with anyone, really. But since I'm training to be an instructor, I figured it would probably be a good move professionally on my part. And everyone is pretty nice. No murders or anything, pretty sure.

Plus, we've lived in this city for 6 years and have made all of 2 sets of friends, one of them being our next door neighbors. Why not attempt to reach out and touch someone?


Not THAT way! Get your mind outta the gutter!


So, with my homemade pita and hummus in hand, I went. Brought sparkling lemonade, too. Debated bringing vanilla vodka to spike it with, but wasn't sure if it was THAT kind of party. It wasn't. Good call, me

Imagine it. I'm sitting on the edge of the pool, relaxing, enjoying the fact that I'm kid-free for a few hours, and sticking my toesies in the water when this rather large chick in a pink bikini with eyes that cross ever-so-slightly plops down next to me. I'm fairly certain I had never seen her before in my life, but thought she maybe recognized me from my recent time up on stage during class or something, and allowed her to start a conversation with me. She asked me a series of rapid-fire personal questions (how old are you, do you have kids, how long have you been married, what do you do?) before I actually got to chit chat with her and figure out who the hell she was.


Turns out she goes to totally different classes than me, so I really didn't know her. But that didn't stop her from, approximately 3.7 minutes into our conversation, asking me, "Can I confide in you?". Ummmm, sure. We clearly go waaaaaay back, why not? She tells me she's Jewish. I wasn't really aware being Jewish was a big confession, so I kinda waited for the next part of the confession. Like "I'm Jewish. And an alien from Mars." Or "I'm Jewish. And would give anything to experience an uncircumcised male." Nope, just being Jewish was the big confession. Ooooookaaaayyy.

She then asks me if I know any single Jewish men. Who have never done any drugs. And who might also be saving themselves for marriage.

What. The. Fuck???? Who does she think I am, Yente?

In the next several minutes of our conversation, I find out she's 26, lives with her parents, is unemployed, and just one year ago learned how to drive on the freeway. And has been on approximately 70 first dates thanks to the Jewish dating website J-date (or something along those lines). Now, after the first 4 things I mentioned about her, does that last one surprise you, even a little? Yeah, me neither.

A few minutes later, I overhear her asking my mentor instructor if another instructor is gay. When an affirmative answer was given, her response was "But, how come he has kids, then?". Oh my. Way to be uber sensitive and pc about things that are none of your business, little lady.

Shortly after that, she began singing show tunes. I'm not kidding. Awwwwwkward!

Seriously, the whole thing was just so socially awkward, I didn't really know how to handle it. I was embarrassed for her. And ridiculously uncomfortable. Especially during her little solo performance.


Next time, I'm soooo bringing that vodka. Not for me, mind you. For her. I'm spiking her drinks, bringing a video camera, and praying for youtube gold.

The Sometimes Incidents

Sometimes, my 3 year old takes off his shoes in the car, usually about 30 seconds from our destination. It's everything I can do to stop myself from throwing the shoes out the window.

Sometimes, I see my students holding hands on the playground and think it's so precious, I can't stand it. Then I think how incredible it is that I have so many friends in my life I can freely say "I love you" to. And mean it.

Sometimes, people who only post things about their kids on Facebook bug me. But people who only post about their child's sporting victories just plain piss me off.

Sometimes, I get back to work on Monday and have a 3 second moment of panic because I have temporarily forgotten the name of all 25 of my students who I haven't thought about for 48 hours.


Sometimes, I look around my house and fear the Hoarders producers are secretly clapping with glee, knowing they'll have another episode to film soon.

Sometimes, my downstairs neighbor pounds on his ceiling/my floor while I'm practicing Jazzercise and I wonder why they don't appreciate dance aerobics at 5:15 am.

Sometimes, I feel guilty when I don't copy and paste the stupid "I have a husband/son/dog/plant/chia pet I love more than life itself" status updates from Facebook. But I think they are really stupid and can't bring myself to do it.

Sometimes, my ankles hurt so bad, I spend Saturday afternoon cooking in my running shoes for extra support.

Sometimes, I walk home from Jazzercise after a great workout, and actually feel kinda pretty. Which is fuckin' funny since I'm sweaty as hell with messy hair and bad skin.

Sometimes, my skin is so bad I feel like I might as well be wearing a training bra and braces while doodling in my diary about the captain of the football team.

Sometimes, I listen to really bad music really loudly. And sometimes, I make my son listen to it, too.

Sometimes, I check my phone frequently just in case I missed a text from someone who might make me feel loved.

Sometimes, I mix two different cereals in one bowl, just to show I can live on the wild side.

Sometimes, I feel like I have a pretty good handle on living with a child who has multiple life-threatening food allergies. Other times, I just wanna be able to have pizza for dinner.

Sometimes, I leave my house feeling frustrated that I have 23403980 things to do around it. Then I go to work and leave work feeling like I have 54009834 things to do there that I'll never get to. Only to go back home to all the undoneness. And it makes me wanna just keep driving.

Sometimes, when one of my third graders tells me it's their brother's birthday (or their mom's or second cousin's twice removed or their dog's or their aunt's nephew's sister-in-law) I wanna scream "WHY ARE YOU TELLING ME THIS?????"

Sometimes, I miss sleep, TV, and reading for pleasure.

Sometimes, when the Netflix envelope comes, I wanna march over to the Netflix people and ask them when I'm supposed to find time to watch whatever is in there.

Sometimes, when my child says Hi to every person in the grocery store, I think it's really cute.

Sometimes, when my child tantrums because he wants to say hi to someone who might be unavailable, I think it's less cute.

Sometimes, my child cuddles with me during bedtime stories and songs. And I find it easy to ignore all this other crap!

The "They Actually Give Tickets for That?" Incident

This morning started off just fuckin' fantastic. I'm in the middle of a horrible dream when I was woken up abruptly by "Mommy, come in! I need to poop!" at around 6:30. On a Saturday. While I appreciate being awoken from the dream, I did not appreciate having to read the alphabet book to a pooping 3 year old before I had gotten to pee or brush my teeth. Or having to pin him down to wipe his ass afterwards.

An hour and a half later, I'm walking to Jazzercise. Dum de dum, just me, my workout mat, and my commuter mug with some speed in it (ok, it might have been orange tea, same dif). I get to the cross-street, see no cars coming, and scurry across the middle of the street rather than wait for the light half a block down.

I make it to the other side and am walking through the parking lot towards the studio when a cop car zooms in front of me with it's lights on.

"Noooooooo,!" I scream very loudly in my head.

"Yesssssss!" Fate screams back. I hate that bitch sometimes, I really do.

The very polite officer gets out and asks for my ID, which I don't have. Thank goodness I wasn't behind the wheel of a car, I suppose. He tells me he has to give me a ticket for fuckin' JAY WALKING. SERIOUSLY????????? They ACTUALLY GIVE TICKETS FOR THAT?

The answer to that is yes, yes they do.

So I stand there and dictate all my information to the guy (he didn't even give me props for having my driver's license number memorized), while the 25 or so people waiting for class to start can all see me through the windows of the studio.

We finish our little "tell me all your personal info" discussion, he tells me the fine should be half of whatever a moving violation would be (greeeeaaaat), and I thank the guy (WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME?) before heading to class. Where the instructor, into her microphone for all to hear, asks me if I had just gotten a ticket for jay walking. AWESOME.

So, to recap, my day started with poop and pretty much went to shit.

The Teachers Can't Have Fashion Sense Incident

I know there are super cute teachers out there who dress in super cute outfits. Me? Not so much. I mean, I don't wear stupid teddy bear sweaters or apple earrings or anything, but still.

Today. I wore a black skirt with a white tank top (it was over 100 degrees, had to dress for sweat). Accessorized with a chunky necklace, bangle bracelets, and a chunky ring. Sounds alright, right?

One would think.

By the end of the day, the skirt had several pulls in the material (not sure how that happened), I was wearing my lanyard with jangling keys over my necklace, the ring was in my purse because it was too big, two rubber bands were on my wrist amongst the bangle bracelets, and I had thoroughly sweat through the whole outfit. Not to mention my hands were covered in blue and pink marker.

Seriously? Why the hell do I bother? I work with eight year olds. They could not care less what I look like, and I clearly can't pull off a decent outfit anyways.

I'd probably be better off wearing a stupid teddy bear sweater.

The Incident in which I Redeemed Myself

Last night. Went to Lady Gaga concert with a person I find amazing, love dearly, and had the best time with. We spent 7ish hours together and only stopped talking when there was music going. Gotta love a comfortable friend.

Had floor 'seats' (standing only). Dance and screamed for hours. Enjoyed the incredible Gaga dancers (extremely gorgeous looking men with fabulous bodies, who I'm sure make other gorgeous men with fabulous bodies very happy), enjoyed crazy costumes (both on Gaga and on Gaga fans, holycrazypeoplewatchingbatman!), enjoyed marvelous music, enjoyed a wonderful companion, enjoyed enjoyed enjoyed.

Did not particularly enjoy getting less than 4 hours sleep and teaching today, but I still did it and was still the same teacher I always am, just with a voice that was slightly more hoarse than normal.

But, the best part is, I totally redeemed myself. This concert experience did NOT remind me of how I can't drink like I'm in my early 20's any more, did NOT end in vomiting, and did NOT cause the breaking of any shoes.

I consider the entire evening a win at life. WINNER!!!!

The What Color? Incident

This weekend, I took the kiddo to the grocery store. I hate that. Like, really hate it. It takes twice as long as when I go by myself and often involves whining. If not screaming. Plus, we were at the grocery store that has those damn car carts. Nothing says HI I'M A MOM like pushing one of those things around. They don't steer. You just have to throw you entire body weight around while hauling it with you (good thing I work out). The back wheels don't touch the ground. The cart is so deep you have to crawl into it to get things out. The kid thinks it's funny to try to climb out of it. They are filthy dirty. The reasons to hate go on and on.

Anways.

So, we're picking out Teddy Grahams. We call them Teddy Bear Cookies and use them as potty training treats, so if you could not tell him they are not actually cookies, I'd really appreciate it. Kthanks. Although the fact that my child who is allergic to everything can have them means they are so processed, there are precious few natural ingredients in them. So they might as well be a cookie.

Anyways. Again.

The grocery store with the car carts had cinnamon and chocolate. Like I'm gonna get into a discussion with an almost 3 year old about the differences between cinnamon and chocolate. So, I went for the basic "red box or yellow box?" strategy. He picked, and after throwing my entire body weight around several more corners while dragging the stupid car cart along, as well as him consuming a small bag of crushed up cereal I found buried in the bottom of my purse (mmmm, crushed Kashi), we finished the trip.

The 'red box or yellow box' reminded me of a skittles incident from YEARS ago. I was probably 10 years old. We were on Catalina Island at a Christian family camp that my parents were speakers at (this happened several summers in a row...there's a random piece of family trivia for ya: my parents were speakers at church camp. CHURCH camp.). During free-time one afternoon, I headed over to the mini-store to purchase my allotted candy bar for the day (this was all prepuberty when I had never heard of the word cellulite and all my clothes fit beautifully. Sigh. Memories.).

There was a smaller girl in front of me attempting to buy a pack of Skittles from the young, blissfully unaware teenage boy running the store. He asked her SEVERAL times which flavor she wanted (sour, tropical punch, berry, original, cow, grass....), and she looked at him like he was speaking German. After watching this pointless exchange for several minutes, and really wanting my own candy, I finally looked at the girl and said "Do you want the purple one, the yellow one, or the red one?".

The light bulb in her head went off so fast, she probably singed the roots of her hair. She picked and went happily on her way. The zit-faced boy looked at me and said "Thanks, I'll have to remember that". Yeah, no kidding.

One can only hope that teen is not working with small children as his current day job.

Guess wreaking havoc throughout the grocery store with the ginormous germy car cart isn't the only thing that makes me a mom. Apparently knowing how to talk to small children is also a plus. I'll be sure to add "knows how to give choices to small children" to my resume. Will have to leave off "enjoys pushing car carts" though, as well as "eats candy bars and does not gain weight". Rats.