Almost There...

Six more weeks to go

TMI

Scene: Interior, bathroom

Him: So do you flush those pads when you're done with them?

Me: No. They'd totally clog the toilet. You wrap them up and throw them away.

Him: So, there's a fetus in our bathroom trash can?

Me: Well, maybe not an entire fetus, but I'm willing to bet there are parts of a fetus in there.

(Pause)

Him: Remind me to take out the trash first thing tomorrow.

End Scene

My Secret Fear of Bees

A long time ago, I developed a severe and somewhat irrational fear of bees. I say 'somewhat' because even though the event that formed the root of my fear was totally traumatizing, intellectually I know that bees are not the big baddies my brain makes them out to be.

My subconscious, however, isn't convinced.

It was July and my brother's birthday. I can't quite recall, but I know it was somewhere in the eight, nine or ten age range for him because I was on the cusp of puberty. We usually had semi-big parties for his birthday, since the summertime afforded more space for rambunctious guests. The usual family, friends and neighbors were there.

Growing up I was the only girl in the neighborhood. One neighbor had four sons, another had two and yet another had one. And then there was my brother and me. Naturally I was rather tom-boy-ish, but by fifth grade I was already sporting tiny breast buds and well aware that play time as usual was probably going to change. So was this one neighbor kid named Tim, who used to pinch my bottom and offer up what he though were encouraging words on my new, um, developments.

Anyway, my brother's birthday party. We were all playing outside and running around, consuming near fatal doses of sugary soda and cake with everyone under the age of twelve and over the age of two. A game of hide-and-seek commenced, and I volunteered to help my cousin Nicole, as she was one of the youngest kids playing. We decided to hide under the shrubs in front of my house, and she easily scootched her little three year old self into the perfect hiding spot. As you can imagine, my ten, eleven or twelve year old body didn't fit quite as well. As I crawled into place, I dislodged a hornets' nest above me. Luckily, it wasn't super big, but it landed squarely on the middle of my back.

It only took a few seconds for me to realize what was going on. I grabbed my cousin and literally tossed her over the porch railing and started screaming. As I tried to make my way out of the shrubs I inadvertently grabbed a handful of the nest when I reached for some limbs to hold onto. I was getting stung all over my back, neck, head and now my right hand.

When I finally separated myself from the shrubbery, a crowd was waiting. One neighbor, who was a nurse, took charge of the situation. I had a countless number stinging insects trapped inside my clothing, so she immediately starting stripping me down in the middle of my front yard. Once she had me naked, save for my underpants, she instructed me to get into the shower. My mom came with me. I thought she was there to kill off the remaining hornets that were trapped in my hair, but more likely she was there to make sure I wasn't going to pass out or have an allergic reaction.

The whole ordeal probably only lasted two or three minutes, but it felt like an eternity. In the end I only suffered just under two dozen stings. They were painful, but a little aspirin paste applied to the sites helped ease the pain. However, the humiliation of having my entire family, my entire neighborhood and my brother's entire hockey team see my nearly naked body as I flapped and screamed in the front yard is something that still makes me cringe today.

All of this is my very long way of trying to make amends for totally knocking over an old man last week while trying to dart away from a bee. I hope that by sharing this humiliating story with the world wide internets I'll earn some sort of cosmic forgiveness.

Next time, ask me to tell you about the time I got head lice.

Another One Bites the Dust: Dead Fish 2.0

If you ever read my posts over at the Philly Moms Blog, then you already know that Sam's birthday fish died when we were away at the end of March. Quick recap: I bought a weekend feeder that didn't work and when we got home the fish was dead. We quickly concealed this fact and I picked up a replacement fish for all of $0.19 the next day and he was none the wiser. 

Well, Sunday night we discovered that Nemo 2.0 had also gone to the great fishbowl in the sky. First of all, I was PISSED! I spend several hours minutes once or twice a week cleaning the damn fishbowl, which was a total pain in the ass. I fed the little bugger right on time, and if he didn't eat everything I offered him I would fish out the excess so that his aquatic home would stay fresher longer. I did everything in my control to ensure he would have a long and happy life.

But this tweaker of a fish decided that all of my hard work wasn't worth it and he kicked the bucket. Last time this happened, we debated on how we would manage the situation in regards to Sam the next time. Now that it was, in fact, the next time we were still quite at a loss as to what to tell the kid. We fretted and debated, and then I did what I should have done right off of the bat. 

I called my mom. 

Naturally, she was able to come up with a stellar solution in mere seconds. For those of you unfamiliar with the plot of Finding Nemo, a young clown fish gets caught by a diver and put in a tank in a dentist's office in Sydney. He desperately wants to get back to his father in the ocean. A jaded old fish in the tank tells him that the only way to escape is to get out down a drain, because all drains lead to the ocean. 

(Never mind that these are salt water fish and the drains in question are all fresh water drains, unless somehow Aussies have the magic ability to consume salt water without, um, dying. Care to weigh in on that Arizaphale?) 

ANYWAY.

Conveniently, we had decided to keep the fish bowl on the kitchen counter, within reasonable distance of the sink. So my mother, of course, told me that when Sam discovers his fish is gone (because we totally flushed that mother effer first thing) we can just tell him that he jumped down the drain like Nemo so that he could go and find his daddy. Brilliant!

I hope I'm that smart when turn into a grandma. 

The Thrill of the Hunt

Many moons ago my mother taught me about bargain shopping. Growing up in south western Pennsylvania, we were surrounded by fabulous bargain outlets, the shining jewel in the crown being Gabriel Brothers. Gabes, as it is generally called, is like a low rent TJ Maxx. The lighting is dim and the employees aren't much brighter. There baseline level of cleanliness dictates that you go to the bathroom before you leave the house, and the store is simply crowded with racks upon racks of clothing. Overstock and damaged merchandise find respite at Gabes, and bargain shoppers find, on a good day, a cart full of treasures. On my last visit I left with three bulging bags of Anne Taylor goodies, including sweaters, maternity wear and shoes, and my total bill was less than $70. 

Sadly, there are no Gabes in the Philly area, so I have to be a little more creative with my bargain shopping. I scour clearance racks, watch for sale circulars, and hit stores like Ross and Marshall's for one off merchandise. Practically the only place where I will buy something off the rack is Target. 

Last weekend my mother-in-law and sister-in-law were in town, so us gals all went out for an afternoon of shopping. I live rather close to a Saks, and while I've never set foot inside, my MIL has, so we started our shopping there. I needed some new mascara and some touche eclat, and cosmetics are the one thing I do splurge on. (Plus, anyone who sleeps as shittily as I do needs this under eye concealer so that they don't go 'round resembling a zombie.) Within three minutes of walking in the door, I had made my purchases and was ready to browse with absolutely no intention of buying anything else.

Until we got to the outerwear department.

Now I can rationalize with the best of them, but let me just say one thing. Coats are, in my opinion, sometimes worth spending a little more money on. A shirt you don't wear every day. A coat is something you put on day in and day out, and a nice, quality garment can bring you years and years of warmth and style. So when I discovered the rack of Burberry coats marked clearance, my pulse quickened. Right on the end was this gorgeous, butter soft grey trench in just my size. It was a wool cashmere blend and it was exquisite. It was also almost four hundred bucks. A little more than I could rationalize, natch. 

As I wept and petted this lovely coat, a sales lady wandered over and whispered in my ear that everything on that particular rack was an additional 50% off the lowest ticked price. Meaning that the coat, which was originally eight hundred dollars, could, no, would be mine for under two hundred. 

I practically skipped to the register. 

Here is my new lovely, the crowning achievement in my bargain shopping history. Right now it is hanging on my closet door so I can gaze at it as I fall asleep. Sometimes when I get up to pee I rub up against it and a shiver runs down my spine.

I'm weird, I know. But I have an awesome fucking coat. 

Breakfast of Champions

The other day I was perusing the cereal isle at the grocery store. I noticed that the Fiber One brand is now making a high fiber version of pop tarts and that made me squeal a little on the inside. Why? Because now I can buy pop tarts for myself without feeling guilty or pretending they are for my kids. Even those organic ones from Trader Joe's still make me a little guilty. Moving on! So I picked up the brown sugar cinnamon version and headed home. 

The next morning I indulged in my sweet little fibrous treat. Pretty tasty overall. They don't hold a candle to the s'mores ones, but still not bad. All was well until about 12 hours later. Now I get plenty of fiber in my diet already, but I guess this extra little bolus was rather, um, productive. At least in the noise and smell department. I didn't connect the dots, however, and the next morning I popped another two into the toaster. 

Last night the light bulb finally went on over my head. And SOB's, too. And right after that, he decided we couldn't sleep in the same bedroom. 

This morning I contemplated the two remaining 'fart' tarts, the nickname we came up with last night. But since SOB is going to be working late, I said 'fuck it' and threw them in the toaster! 

Moral of the story? Don't come visiting me tonight!