My first day

Today was my first day to sub for our elementary school although I’ve racked up loads of volunteer time. I’ve only subbed at the preschool prior to this.

I have to admit that I was a bit nervous about how the day would go. Would the kids behave? Could I get everything done? Could I count to 22 all day long? Well, the day went great for me.

My bladder? Not so much.

While staying at home, or working from home, or even when I worked in an office, I could go to the bathroom whenever the need struck, which for my pea-sized bladder, it strikes fairly often.

So, you can imagine my dismay when I looked at my schedule to see that I would have to wait four whole hours without even the POSSIBILITY of a bathroom break!

We recently went to see our family for Thanksgiving. They live four hours away and we had to stop twice for potty breaks. Not for my eight-year-old, not for my five-year-old, but for me – both times. My boys LOVE driving with me.

I’m not really sure what happened, because before I had kids (Yes, I am blaming them. No, I am not above it, or ashamed about it.) I could go for hours and hours without having to stop.

So, I’m contemplating this whole four hour thing and thinking, “wow, it’s really hot in here.” I broke out into a sweat over the whole bathroom situation. So, finally, after morning announcements, attendance, running club (don’t ask), reading to the kids, circle time (we called it something else and I’m still used to subbing at the preschool so whatever), some writing activities, two, count them TWO bathroom breaks for the kids, but not for me, I take my kiddos down to lunch and then I’m off to find a potty.

I stop at the ONLY adult bathroom in the ENTIRE school (a school for 1000 kids I might add) and someone is friggin in there!!! CRAP! They have no clue that I’m about to wet my pants, and going home and changing my clothes, is so NOT in my scheduled 20 minute lunch time (I had to make sure the kids got to where they are going and all – I’m sure I probably didn’t need to do that, but it was my first time). So, I politely knock. No one answers. I’m trying to decide whether to break down the damn door or call 911, when our receptionist happens to walk by. So, I ask, “Her Name, are these the only bathrooms?”

Luckily, they weren’t. They have two hidden bathrooms that are secret for people who work there and I (yes, I) got to use one. I felt honored and relieved to get to go.

Eight-year-old goes to the ballet

Today, my third grader went with a bunch of other third graders to see the Nutcracker. Just so you know, the Nutcracker ballet is one of my all-time favorites. It conjures up memories of me in a frilly taffeta skirt, patent leather shoes, and a pretty, frilly white shirt with my hair all curly and in bows. It gives me that same magical feeling you get when you go to Disney World. So, I always dreamed of taking my children with me to the ballet to enjoy this wonderful form of art.

So, naturally, I was a bit peeved, and more than a little jealous, when I discovered that the third grade field trip would be to one of my favorite ballets, and that they didn’t need any chaperones. In a 20 minute speech, I told my eight-year-old son how privileged he was to get to go and how much I love it.

This morning dawned nice and cold – perfect for my son to dress up in stuff that usually makes him hot and whiney. I sent my darling off and wondered during his time on the school bus if he was anticipating the magic that would happen on stage. I glanced at the clock later and knew that he was watching a beautiful performance and hoped that he could follow the story. Then it came time for me to pick him and some neighbor kids up from school.

“How was the play guys?” I ask.

An eight-year-old’s critique: “It was boring. And the guys wore tights!” Lots of giggling from boys and girls, and I’m thinking “Oh, great, what are they gonna say about what they saw in the guys’ tights?” And, I wait for it as the giggling dies down enough for them to speak. “ The guys wore tights, and you could see their butt cracks!”

A car full of kids erupts in laughter. And that is what an eight-year-old thinks of my favorite ballet. Oh, well, I guess I didn’t really want an eight-year-old that was cultured anyway. Then I was told that they looked like little Lego people on stage.

News Flash: I'm going to get REALLY old!

So, I had some lab work done and my doctor informed me that I’m going to live to be a hundred!

Wow! That is OLD. Although I wasn’t entirely surprised considering how long my great-grandmother and great-great grandmother lived (yes, I was privileged enough to get to know them both). But, to actually hear those words come out of my doctor’s mouth was a little surprising. He may have been exaggerating a little, but hey, who cares?

So, that puts my expiration date around 2076. If I’m going to get that old, then I expect science to make some advances in the last two-thirds of my lifetime.

We need a permanent fix to graying hair. After all, I can’t spend my whole retirement on getting my hair done. And, for those of you keeping track, I’m already retired. Yes, I know, I have a sweet life. Don’t you wish you could retire in the first third of your life?

Second, after watching my grandmothers, they really need to do something about arthritis. What good is it going to do me if I live to be 100, and can’t put on my jewelry, or write these wonderful posts?

Third, also after seeing my grandmothers, you have to do something about that whole hunched over thing. I’m already short at a whopping 5’1”. I’m pretty sure they don’t make cute clothes with a hump in your back. It’s hard enough finding clothes to fit as it is.

Fourth, you REALLY need to get cracking on this whole Alzheimer’s thing. Who cares if you’ve seen a century’s worth of innovation if you can’t remember how to walk in heels?

Fifth, you need to do something about heart disease. Hubby’s response to the news was “Wow, that’s great honey.” Quickly followed by “I guess that means you’re going to have a second or third husband.” But, really, how could I ever live without my wonderful, sweet, charming husband? Gag. Yes, well, maybe next time I’ll marry for money. Love you honey!

So, here’s to science and hoping they can learn to make cute shoes that don’t hurt your feet! Get crackin’ guys!

Oops!

Is anyone else ever nervous when they back out of their garage? I’m always scared to death I’m going to hit something. I get that feeling in my stomach where it feels like I’ve just suddenly dropped 10 stories.

So, here’s the deal. My hubby and I take turns parking in the garage. Do we have a one-car garage? No. Embarrassingly enough, we have a 2.5 car garage. But somehow, all of our crap takes up the equivalent of 1 and a half cars! It really isn’t all that unorganized either. We have floor to ceiling shelves that line one side of the whole .5 raised side, then we need room to walk and get to the shelves. But, you do have to walk around the huge Taylor Tot-size battery-operated Hummer and the Radio Flyer wagon, because you just look at that wagon, and who can rid of such a thing? Apparently, not me, despite offers. So, on the other side where a typical car would usually go, are our bikes. I have one, hubby has one (his takes up the most space), older tot has one, and younger tot has two – don’t ask. Therefore, hubby and I have to take turns parking in our 2.5 car garage – I know…kinda pathetic.

So, he gets to park his fancy smancy car in the garage when it’s hot, but as soon as the temperature drops to 60 in the mornings, he gets the boot. This is because he is cold tolerant and I am so very not – that’s why I live in Texas. On the flip side, I can handle the heat – I guess that is also why I’m the one that cooks. Ba dump bump. And, he really isn’t heat tolerant, so I’m not sure why he wants to live in Texas?
Any who, he argued for years that he deserved to park in the garage because he was the one with the expensive car, with the blah, blah, blah, whatever. While I, on the other hand, have a very practical car – a typical suburban mom car. It’s a Honda – how very mom of me. It’s a Pilot so that I can shuffle the Taylor Tots and their friends around – also very mom of me. AND, it’s silver – to hide the dirt – also very mom of me. And it looks like every other car in our suburban town. In fact, I often get mine confused with the others and go to the wrong frigging car. Yes, you would think that the gigantic (the only size they sell) stickers declaring my child’s name and favorite sport might be a hint, but alas, no, not so much.

Hubby, meanwhile, has the expensive car with the yadda yadda whatever. I just know that it’s cool and goes really fast. So, hubby had traded in his two-seater Porshe for a much more family friendly (well, it has 4 seats) Beemer, that, I found out, is faster than the Porshe that he had (this self-sacrifice thing is looking rather dubious). So, four little months after he sacrificed? his Porshe for the good of his family, I back out of the garage to take the kids to school, and take out the ENTIRE right side of his car with the left side of mine. It caused quite a bit of damage. Oops! (BTW – LOVE my insurance agent)

In my own defense, I was recovering from the flu or some such debilitating illness, and he really should’ve gotten out of bed to take the kids to school anyway. So, really, it’s all his fault. What’s so bad about it is that I did take out the ENTIRE right side of his car. Everyone asked, “Didn’t you feel yourself hitting his car?” Well, no, I didn’t. I felt my car go over the little hump in the garage that separates the garage floor from our driveway, and then, well, by the time I realized that I was taking out his car, I had already made it to the end. Did I say, oops?

So, you can see why my stomach always falls when I back out of the garage. And, even if I hadn’t hit a parked car, you have that whole side of the garage thing to worry about. Which, to be fair, several of my friends have had issues with – just look at their cars before they get them fixed. Sometimes it’s their side-view mirror, sometimes it’s the whole side of their car, sometimes, it’s forgetting to put it in park and rolling into the garage and taking out the little column thing separating the garages (see, at least, I didn’t do that!) So, clearly, this is an issue that builders should look into. Maybe it’s their fault?

Hubris in the "real world"

I was astounded at this woman’s hubris! A working mother emailed another volunteer and I to enlighten us on the ways of the “real world”. As if our world of stay-at-home moms and the teachers at our elementary school are make-believe.

I can assure her that there is nothing imaginary about cleaning up diarrhea, giving breathing treatments and medicine every four hours to two sick kids, and trying to recreate the boys’ school day so that they don’t get behind while baking bread, doing laundry and cleaning the house.

I can also assure her that there is nothing imaginary in a school teacher working a long day with 22 kids and then going home to grade papers. Even if I am not a school teacher, I can appreciate what they do. After all, I’m related to a few, and have been taught by several exceptional ones. I know that they feel that there is nothing imaginary about dealing with difficult children, or in some cases, their more difficult parents.

But the sheer arrogance of this woman to assume that no one else works in the “real world” is astounding. What does she think? That we all got our degrees and then stayed at home to pop out babies, cook and clean while filling our heads with daytime television?

Not that I’m knocking that route at all, or any route for that matter. But, almost every stay-at-home mom in this neighborhood left their careers to stay at home with their children. We understand what working in the “real world” is like thank you very much. And more importantly, we also know what it is like to stay at home. Us stay-at-home moms in this neighborhood have college degrees, nursing degrees, master’s degrees, and even a couple of doctorate degrees. A few of us are even former teachers.

Now, I had debated about sharing how this whole thing started because a few of those wonderful teachers at our school read my blog. But then I also know that they’ve heard it all before.

So, it all started with a simple email telling the parents in our children’s class that our grade level is providing snacks for the upcoming monthly staff meeting and asked if any of the parents would be interested in contributing anything from a list of items.

Instead of ignoring the email, or responding to our homeroom parent directly, this woman responded to the entire class telling us how shocked she was to receive this request. She asked, “What next, contributing to the teacher’s lunch fund?”

We responded by saying that we were sorry that she felt that way. And, that as she mentioned herself in the email, this is optional and not required. I also added that this has been done in the past and that our teachers work very hard. This is simply one way we choose to thank them.

Well, that pissed her off.

She wanted us to know that her child had gone to our school for the past few years and she had never received this request. (Quite possible, as every homeroom parent handles this differently – some provide the snacks themselves, while some others ask a few people directly.)

Then she gets on a roll to let us know that she works very hard too and doesn’t get snacks at her staff meetings. (Maybe she’s jealous?) She understands that our teachers work very hard too, but that her expectation is that they should have a potluck, or that their manager should provide something. (Does she really think the principal should provide snacks for more than 60 people at each meeting?) “Just a difference of opinion as someone who works in a real world environment.”

Can I just say, “Wow!”

I’d love to respond and tell her that maybe she can go to a “real” bookstore and find a “real” book on manners and etiquette and shove it up her “real” butt.

But that would be a waste of time. I can tell that this woman prefers to climb up on her cross and there isn’t anything that I can say that will make any difference at all. So, I’ll just be satisfied with sharing with you all instead.

Enjoy your hump day!

Shoes, shoes, shoes!

Tallion got a new shopping app for his iPad. So, naturally, I was looking at shoes.
Oh, those shiny, beautiful works of art. All of a sudden, an hour had gone by and I didn’t even realize it.

Louboutin, Choo, Gucci, Prada, Kate Spade how I love thee…

He looked over my shoulder to see what all of the fuss was about. Of course, I had periodically exclaimed, look at these! And, even the more fun, aren’t these just hideous! But, I had just found a pair that I adored. He was shocked and exclaimed, "You can get a used KIA for that price!"

Trying to be helpful and reasonable, he said as he was typing, “I wonder if you can filter it by price and set a price cap.” I assured him that you probably can, but what was the fun in that?!!

Then he hit “done.” He had reset all of my shoes to just show cheap shoes! I didn’t want a price cap! What does he think this is? I don’t dream over shoes from Walmart. He quickly found out that was not what I wanted and fixed it back to my original shopping page. Thank God! I thought we were going to have to divorce.

Ah, men, they just don't understand a woman's love affair with shoes.

My foray into laser hair removal

After going in for my initial appointment to see if I’m a good candidate, sitting through an hour sales pitch, and asking questions verifying that yes, in fact, they can completely remove the hair in the areas I want, I take my quote home to hubby to discuss. My birthday, Mother’s Day and our anniversary are all coming up soon. So, he tries to surprise me with the whole package.

The surprise is foiled however, when the laser center in question (actual name rhymes with laser center) calls me to confirm the package and set up an appointment. This is despite the fact that he explicitly said that it was a surprise gift that wouldn’t occur for a couple of weeks.

So, after the blown surprise, I set up my first laser appointment. Upon entering the facility, you are instructed to wait in a small waiting area before being ushered back to a room. After the tech comes to get me, we are walking to the back when I hear: “Ahhhhh! Oh s*#@! Ouch! Ooooooo!Eeee!”

Me, in horror: “Is someone in labor?”

Blonde tech whispering and giggling: “Oh, no, she’s just a little sensitive.”

Me giving blonde tech a raised eyebrow scrunched up face look that makes me look like the Bride of Frankenstein: “Seriously?”

Blonde tech, giggling again: “Oh, yes, most people just feel a little snap kind of like a rubber band popping you.”

Okay, let’s just stop right here. My dog trainer was over the other day to work with our beast of a wild dog. After months of training, he brought out the big guns – a shock collar. I know what you’re thinking, I was horrified at first too, but it really isn’t all that bad. He demonstrated it on me by having me hold it in my hand. He zapped me on a 1. He said, “Did you feel that?”

“Yes, of course I felt that, it tingles like something is vibrating my hand.”

Dog trainer: “Oh, you must be very sensitive because most people don’t feel it until at least a 2.”

So, yes, for some reason, I feel everything. I feel it when an ovarian cyst bursts inside my body. It is highly painful and most people never feel it. I feel the softest touch. My nerve endings are highly sensitive.

So, I go in for my first laser hair removal appointment. I’m basically getting my ENTIRE body done. No, I’m not a hairy beast, but I like to be hair free, so here we go.

“Holy…. AHHHHH. Oh my god. Hmmm.”

By the time I’m done, the tech is convinced that I suffer from Tourettes. Hubby starts coining phrases like “hot crotch” to describe my now lobster like skin. Let me tell you, I’ve been popped with a rubber band, and no way does this feel comparable. Whatever, you do build up a tolerance for it – or at least that is what I’m told. After a few treatments (about a year later), I really don’t feel much anymore.

Think you want laser too? Three years later, I still have enough hair left that I have to shave each day plus I’ve had two burns from the techs that rotate out of there like it’s a ride on the Ferris wheel. The first burn was on my face when they accidentally zapped the hair on my head that was lying on my face. It burned the side of my face and left a line where the hair was. Then I got a whopper of a burn up and down my shin. It looked like someone mistook my leg for a fish and tried to grill it. They actually had to give me microderm to remove the scar.

And, as for not feeling it much anymore? Well, that is because for over a year, they had it turned down really low so that not only did I not feel anything, but it also wasn’t removing any hair.

After three years of erratic treatments with each tech having their own ways of doing it as well as their own rules, I was left with over 50% hair on my legs, among other places. Over these three years, I had several meetings with the managers there (another revolving door position) to try and get a handle on this. None of them really did anything about it, although they assured me that they were going to. One tech will run through the treatment with the thing beeping in the air, while others will tell you that they can’t get that spot around your eyebrows.

Funny thing is, when they are selling it to you, they can get all of those places. I guess the sales manager doesn’t actually talk to the people they train. The laser centers’ suggestion to me? They were gracious enough to offer to sell me another package. I’m sorry, maybe I’m crazy, but after $3000 and 3 years, and they weren’t able to completely remove hair from any one of the “treatment areas” and I decided to pass.