Dirty Little Secret

I feel like I’ve been busy, even though I don’t seem to have accomplished anything lately. Well, the kids are alive – I suppose that’s something, right? Anyway, here are the thoughts I’ve been too busy (or lazy) to turn into posts lately. . .

1. Even though I hate the character Tinkerbell in Peter Pan, I’m so glad Ironflower is now into the whole Disney Fairies thing, instead of the whole Disney Princess thing. The fairies actually do things and have talents, whereas those princesses just wait around to be rescued. I would totally rather have magic powers than beauty.

2. Yesterday’s soft, misty rain made me miss the Pacific Northwest. Today’s steady downpour makes me want to kick things. Also, what the hell, weather? Why am I wearing long pants in August?

3. Shrek the Musical really is awesome. We listened to the soundtrack yesterday – I forgot how truly good a lot of the songs are. The whole thing is so, so much better than the movie. I wish we could take the kids again.

4. Whoever put up the Twitter link that led me to Ebay deserves to be slapped. I am not to be trusted on Ebay. I’m not buying things, I just keeping looking at stuff I could be buying. I won’t bid more than $2, except for the Tinkerbell costume that got me there in the first place. Because otherwise outfitting Ironflower in her desired Halloween costume will cost like $60. Still, it’s hard not bidding $60 for 4 Yankees tickets.

5. Signed Ironflower and Lovebug up for classes at the Y. Instead of doing it online or whenever, there is a huge gathering where people get numbers and then you wait anxiously for your turn, hoping classes are still available. I was warned that I should go early. I got there an hour early and ran into our former neighbor. She had gotten there 3 hours early and had gotten number 3. I was 87. The whole process took 2 hours. Reminded me of my first college registration back in the dark ages. And by the time I’d graduated in 1993 we were registering by phone, at least.

6. My kids seem really hyper and crazy unless I’ve forced them to go outside (in which case they are mellow and quiet) or let them watch TV. Thinking of putting a tent over the patio and putting a TV out there until school starts. Seriously. If my boys don’t stop shrieking and yelling about every little thing I’m going to start wearing ear plugs.

7. I feel kinda sorry for Danielle Staub, even though she is a loony bitch who would never talk to me. (If you don’t know who I’m talking about, uh, don’t worry about it. Your TV viewing tastes are more highbrow than mine). I feel more sorry for her daughters, of course. But she’s just so obviously crazy and you can just see how badly she wanted to be accepted by the “popular girls”. And if she thinks the Manzos are bad, she should totally go hang out with Jill Zarin and Kelly Bensimon. Or that British chick on D.C.

On Saturday, I tried to take my kids swimming. It sounds so simple. But, much like keeping a clean house or resisting bagels, things that are simple for other people are kind of challenging for me.

My first challenge was getting Hot Guy up and going. Unless Hot Guy has a pressing reason to be up early, he is a night owl. But we had to go early, because Hot Guy had a pressing reason to be somewhere in the afternoon (this should have been my first clue to delay the whole enterprise, but it was such a perfect pool day). So there might have been some snapping and grumbling.

Then I had to assemble the troops and get bathing suits, sunblock and water shoes on them. Then I had to pack the car with noodles, snacks, towels, sand toys, beach chairs and the new kick board. There might have been some reminders that whiny children don’t get to go swimming.

Then we had to drive to our local pool. Now, we are not members of our local pool, which is really a very large pond. It’s not cheap and I don’t know anyone who goes there, making it unappealing for times when I might consider taking all 3 kids myself (which – spoiler alert! – is never going to happen now.) But as residents, we have been able to buy day passes in the past.

Not, apparently, anymore.

We could not swim in our town’s pond without paying a full family membership. So I called my parents, who are members of their town’s pool, by virtue of being senior citizens (but for us to join that pool would be even more expensive, FYI). My Dad agreed to meet us at his town pool so that we could be his guests, because after all that build up and preparation we couldn’t possible tell the kids that we would be skipping the pool altogether.

By the time we got settled at my parents’ town pool, the whole thing had taken almost 2 hours.

We could have driven to the shore and gone to a real beach (that doesn’t demand several hundred dollar membership) for that amount of time.

I am reasonably sure that Lovebug and Ironflower had fun once we got there, but I can’t be positive because sandbox loving/ wading pool adoring ChunkyMonkey hated the whole experience.

And as soon as Hot Guy went to get himself some food, ChunkyMonkey decided to let me know how much he hated the experience. He was mad that I didn’t have snack packs. He was mad that he couldn’t eat the crackers he’d thrown in the sand. He was mad that I wouldn’t let him head butt me. He was mad that I wouldn’t let him hold the open bottle of apple juice. It was like all the tension of the morning exploded out of him in the world’s longest, loudest tantrum. Eventually Hot Guy took him to the car while I watched the older kids from the beach chair where I’d collapsed.

Not exactly the fun family day I’d had in mind.

Dear Lady-at-the-park-this-morning,

First, congratulations on your new daughter. I’m sure she’s adorable, not that you ever uncovered her long enough for me to see her face. Also, may I commend you on your well-behaved boys. They played well with my Lovebug and seemed very polite – they actually got your permission before going on the jungle gym and waited for you to join them.

I’m sure you noticed that my children did not ask me permission for anything. Not even the toddler. They roamed freely within the confines of the playground. I followed the toddler, who seems to have a strong urge to return to the emergency room. My kids were all over the place, but I always knew where they were. Okay, I knew where they were for the vast majority of the experience.

I’m sure you also noticed that I was the only adult with my children, while your husband sat patiently with your sleeping baby. I wonder how you’ll handle things when he’s not there. I wonder if you’ll still give me dirty looks after you’ve taken 3 mobile children to a park by yourself. I wonder if you’ll still sniff at me when your boys become more independent and don’t want to do the same things all the time.

I sure hope we run into each other again. Preferably when my youngest is a reasonable 3 year old and yours is a toddler.  And you don’t have any back-up.

Sincerely,

Jerseygirl

I’m pretty sure a woman caught me staring at her boobs today.

This would not be a big deal under normal circumstances. I stare at people all the time. Either because I’m thinking about something else or because I’m a nosy bitch. Or because I think I remember the person, but can’t remember how. (I also eavesdrop compulsively. It’s the writer in me. Or the nosy bitch part. Whatever.) Anyway, normally I smile when caught. Or escape behind a pile of produce.

But boob staring, that’s a little different. I suppose if I were a guy or a lesbian, I’d have learned how to do this more subtly, but being a straight chick hasn’t prepared me for such things.

I was. . . .gobsmacked by the boobs. (I have been reading too many books set in England. But it totally works here, doesn’t it?)

My own have become rather disappointing lately. After nursing 3 kids and celebrating their 22nd year (approximately), their formerly perky fullness has deflated and now seems to be oozing toward my armpits.

So I may have been slightly jealous when I saw boobs that looked exactly like mine used to look. On a woman my age, no less.

On a woman, I’m pretty sure, who did not have them a few weeks ago.

Maybe she found the bra Holy Grail. Maybe that’s what happens to her boobs when she gains a few pounds or gets preggo. Maybe she had implants. I don’t know.

And while I do know who she is and she knows who I am (unfortunately), we’re not on the kind of terms where I can say, “Oh my God, you stole the awesome boobs I had at 20! How?”

So I just stared like a 13 year old boy. Well, not really. There was no lust involved. It was envy. But I had all the finesse and class of a 13 year old. So it kinda works.

I know she saw me staring. I hope she thinks I’m just jealous and not that I’m having sexual fantasies about her. Not that there’s anything wrong with having sexual fantasies about acquaintances, if that’s your thing. But if I was having sexual fantasies about my acquaintances, I would never choose her.

(And why would I fantasize about acquaintances when Friday Night Lights will be back on in 2 days? And I can watch Curtis Stone on Celebrity Apprentice? And. . . uh, I think I’m getting off topic. )

I am sure I am blowing this out of proportion. Right?

So today another preschool mom mentioned that I should blog about the red character on Yo Gabba Gabba because, (whispered) “He looks like a giant dildo.”

He totally does, doesn't he?

I really love that when people think of children’s TV characters looking like sex toys, they think of me. It shows that they get the real me, because I’ve hardly ever seen a children’s show without having dirty thoughts.

Hell, I had questions about Bert and Ernie when I was a child myself. (Like that never occurred to you).

Anyway, I hadn’t really made the Yo Gabba Gabba/dildo connection because I hate Yo Gabba Gabba and hardly ever let my kids watch it. But it reminded that I’m pretty sure everyone who creates children’s television is drunk, high, hates their parents and/or has weird sexual fetishes.  (Except for whoever made Olivia. I love that show. And I’ve never had a perverse thought while watching it.)

There’s a dildo shaped character on Oswald too. And there are background dildo shapes all over Wow Wow Wubbzy. I wonder if Nick Jr. has an interest in a sex toy company?

I also have questions about Mr. Noodle from Sesame Street. I’m not sure what they are, but I know I have them. I would also like to talk to whoever  created Oobi, which is the one with the creepy talking hands (Hands. Not puppets, but decorated hands.) Then there’s LazyTown. I think the relationship between Stephanie and Sportacus is weird. Plus, you know, almost all the other characters are puppets with plastic-faced masks that make me think of bank robbers and that creepy movie V is for Vendetta.

And what about all the shows that have virtually no parents? They don’t even talk about Max and Ruby’s parents. . .maybe “Grandma” is really their foster mom and Ruby mothers Max so much because she is actually his mom and that’s why they’re in foster care? And how many episodes of Dora and Diego show their parents? And what about Blue’s Clues? If Steve and Joe are brothers, where are their parents?

I’d like to rest my case with this: listen to a kid’s show when the characters are excited about something. Don’t look, just listen and let your mind wander. If hearing those, “Oh oh ohs” without kid context doesn’t make you think about sex, you need to get laid.

I totally should have gone into children’s television programming, don’t you think?

So this morning I had to go to the grocery store. With all 3 kids. I know there are some moms who bring their 6 well-behaved kids to the grocery each week, along with their lists and their coupons.

I am not one of those moms.

I try to do my grocery shopping when the older two are in preschool and Hot Guy is able to watch the toddler. I am lucky if I remember to bring my list or my coupons, because I have yet to manage to bring both.

It is not that my kids are bad at the grocery store. Generally, they are pretty good – so good, in fact, that I often bring home more junk food than I’d intended. Because they ask so politely. And they’ve walked in the aisles without hitting each other. It’s just that I have a hard time having 3 simultaneous conversations, remembering what I want to buy and using the scanner correctly.

In retrospect, I probably should have skipped the scanner. But I like scanning as I go, because that means I can bag as I go and then I don’t get stressed out at the checkout. Besides, I thought Ironflower and Lovebug would like using the scanner. As usual, I was wrong about what they’d like. ChunkyMonkey was the only one who liked the scanner. As in, he liked eating the scanner.

Despite the wrestling matches that ensued every time I had to take the scanner away from ChunkyMonkey to actually use it, I made it through most of the store in a fairly good state. In the juice aisle, however, all 3 kids needed me at the exact same second, which also happened to be the second that I was trying to scan juice boxes. So I put the scanner down.

Somewhere.

After dealing with each kid’s issue, I reached for the scanner so that we could resume shopping and get the hell out of there. But the scanner was not in the cart. Or under the cart. Or next to the juice boxes. Or in my bags. Or in ChunkyMonkey’s hands.

I had a sudden vision of having to go up to the customer service counter and tell them that I lost a scanner. I realized that I would have to start shopping all over again. I ordered Lovebug and Ironflower to look. I muttered exasperatedly. Finally, I said loudly, “How could a scanner just disappear?”

The elderly man behind us averted his eyes. He’d witnessed the whole thing and didn’t even give me a smile of sympathy. Fortunately, another mom came by. She discovered the scanner on the shelf under the juice. Where I hadn’t looked, because why would I put it under the juice? That would just be dumb. I thanked her profusely. I was reminded that there are still good people in the world. I will be forever grateful to the scanner fairy. My heart soared until I noticed the sour old man.

He pushed his cart by us, shaking his head. I think he saw me put the scanner under the juice and was too afraid to interrupt my rant. Or he’s the scanner troll.

So yesterday I had an epiphany. Not the kind that will solve the healthcare crisis or even make the Jersey shore cast return to their natural selves (no steroids! no tanners! no saline!), but hey, it made me feel better.

For the longest time, I’ve been really slacking in the blog arena. Not keeping up with my favorite bloggers, not posting as much, not posting as well. I blamed it on writing for Demand Media and on not having as much time in general.

And that, dear readers, is bullshit.

I have been depressed and I haven’t wanted to post about it. I’ve had a lot of excellent reasons to be depressed, but I haven’t wanted to post about them either. In fact, I’ve been afraid to post about a lot of things, for fear of insulting or over-sharing with the people I know in real life who read this blog.

And it occurred to me yesterday that the more I worry about not living up to other people’s expectations of me, the less I feel like myself. You’re probably thinking, “Duh, it’s so sad that you didn’t figure that out when you were 20.”

I did. But motherhood – and all the inherent expectations of “good” motherhood – made me forget. Then we moved back here to Stuck-Up (where not everyone is Stuck-Up, but you all know what I’m talking about) and I completely lost it.

I started imagining other people’s expectations of me. It was like in my head I went back to the last time I lived here. In high school.  Do you have any idea what it’s like to have a high school mentality and adult problems?

My head has been like a really bizarre episode of 16 and Pregnant.

And I am SO over it. If one of my posts offends you, I’m sorry. Feel free to write a nasty comment or ignore me at the grocery store. If you don’t like me and you take it out on my kids (my greatest fear), I will kick your ass.

And if I’ve been ignoring your blog, I’m sorry. I’m back now.

I have just received Ironflower’s 8 PAGE packet for her dance recital. Now, I might welcome the packet if it told me exactly what make-up to put on her or what to do with her beautifully unruly hair. I might welcome the packet if it laid out her 2 routines so that we could practice at home. I might welcome her packet if she wasn’t in preschool. But instead I look at the packet and think, are you FREAKING SERIOUS?

I still don’t know how to do her hair or her make-up. . .or even what her costume looks like (which doesn’t really bother me because the recital is not until late May, but why not just include this info in the packet?). But I do know that we can’t make our own DVD of the recital AND that it will cost us $40 to buy one. I also now know that I can purchase extremely over-priced bouquets and photos. Oh, and there’s a complicated lottery system for ticket purchases. I have also read about the procedures for picking up my child after the performance and extensive details about the dress rehearsal.

I am also to provide non-staining snacks and toys for her use backstage.

Snacks????? Toys??????

You know what I did backstage during the myriad recitals and performances I was in?

I talked to my friends and I watched the other dancers. When I got older, I put on more make-up. And I didn’t get to eat anything. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I also walked 2 miles up hill to school (actually, I would have done that, if my mom hadn’t driven me to school most of the time) and survived just fine.

I am usually the person who stands up for the booster seats until they can drive (or whatever the rule is now),  helmets and bouncy playground surfaces. I’m reluctant to leave my children with a baby-sitter or for them to have playdates without me. I overanalyze everything (which you have probably noticed if you’ve ever read this blog before). In short, I am a modern parent.

But I think we’ve gone off the deep end where dance recitals are concerned. First come, first served seating is no longer good enough for today’s families.  DVDs have to be professionally produced. Bouquets have be  big and expensive. Photos must be taken by an overcharging professional. Children must be entertained backstage. Packets must be sent home 3 months beforehand. All the spontaneity of live performance must be crushed.

I am so NOT cut out for helicopter parenting.

I live in a place where people range from comfortable to wow-is-that-a-Murano-glass-chandelier-in-your-toddler’s-bedroom?-rich. And because of all the perks of living in such a place – the safety, the amazing public schools, the proximity to cultural events, the fact that no one wears house slippers to the grocery store – I try to ignore all the things that bother me about living in such abundance (I didn’t say I always succeeded. I just said I’d try.)

But I can’t ignore this one.

There are a few places that I tend to visit nearly every day. Because my life is exciting like that. Anyway, two of my local places have put out jars to collect change for the people in Haiti. Both places are reputable and reliable and will donate the money without a doubt. If they had any money to donate.

In one place, the jar is empty. In another, where it has been up for a week, it is nearly so.

I would like to think that all of my neighbors have driven their Porsche Cayennes and Ranger Rovers to their banks so that they can wire thousands of dollars to Haiti. I would like to think that they are all too busy using their credit cards to carry change to put in the jars. I would like to think that they just haven’t noticed the jars.

But the jars are rather obvious. In one case, there was even an email about the jar. And who doesn’t keep change in their car?

Every day, when I drop in all the change I can scrounge up, I keep hoping that the jars will be full. Maybe I’m obsessed with them because I can’t write a huge check or volunteer for Doctors Without Borders. Maybe they just seem so important to me because helping to fill them is all I can do. Maybe this is why I’ll never own a Range Rover – I can’t save money worth a damn.

Would this bother you? Does the idea of the empty change jars in what is literally one of the wealthiest counties in the country bother you? Or am I just being bitchy again?

When I grow up, I’m going to stop caring what people think about me.

It would be one thing, I suppose, if I worked really hard to fit in and make people like me. But I did that in high school and I’m kind of over it now. It would be one thing if I didn’t already have friends. It would be one thing if I was running for office.

But I’m not running for office. Hell, I couldn’t even handle being a class mom. And let’s face it, if I was trying to make people like me my blog probably wouldn’t be a constant bitchfest about stupid people and/or why my children are more awesome and more challenging than average. I would probably repost those status updates on Facebook that describe how awesome my mother and my husband are.

If I wanted more people around here to like me, I would probably spend a lot more money on clothes. I would also probably remember more people’s names. Oh, and I might stop talking so much (look, I don’t get out a lot. I get a little excited.) Maybe I’d even be more patient when the woman ahead of me at the grocery store has to run back through the aisles FOUR times to get stuff she forgot and then pays with PENNIES (although you’d think refraining from punching her would make me likable enough).

But I’m not in high school anymore (Even though I have theory that life is really just a big version of high school, the lack of blue eyeshadow and the presence of wrinkles should be enough to remind me that actual high school, is, in fact, over). I would rather spend money on my family. And clearly I’m not going to grow out of this bitch phase. The patience for others is not going to magically appear.

So why does it bother me so much when people don’t like me? Especially if, as is generally the case, I don’t like them either. Is it just because my WASP background makes me believe that dislike should be buried so far under politeness that you can never even be sure if it’s really there? Like these people are disrespecting me by being so obvious about it?

Or is it because at heart I”m still a 13 year old girl (and the fact that I actually get more zits now is just a little young-at-heart bonus)?