The Picture Of Mental Health

Happy summer! Many of you have been worried about me since I've landed myself in a cast, lost my phone to a watery abyss, and had no car for human contact. Just to show you how well and sane I am staying, I am proving it by sharing some of the daily questions I get asked--because I am such an *ambitious, organized, and put-together mother! I've finally decided to put together a FAQ'S post from me to you--toodles!

Love,

Me

FAQs

"I have a hard time with bath time--trying to bathe all four of my kids feels nearly impossible!"

Then don't, you idiot. It's summer--just hose them down in the yard before-hand. If you live in an apartment, use the driveway. If you're rich, have a drain installed in your garage. I personally, pass them all off to my husband for bath time as soon as he walks in the door, and pretend I am a tenant living in the other half of the house next to a dysfunctional family. Sometimes, I even hit the wall with my fist and yell, "Can ya keep your vermits QUIET in there?! Some people wanna watch Bravo!, geeze!"

"It is so difficult to teach my young children not to run away when we're anywhere away from home (the zoo, store, parking lots etc.)! Any tips?"

Yeah--three words for you, my friend: RETRACTABLE-DOG-LEASH. Sometimes when I feel a little guilty about having my kids on a leash, I pretend they're puppies instead. "HEEL!" I shout and it's kinda like having a dog-sled team.

"Help! My significant other won't share in the cleaning duty--I thought it was 50/50!"

Word. Clinical teaching has taught me this: you can't make anyone do anything; you can only try to show them the truth of the situation and be patient while they figure some things out for themselves. Solution: make a giant bonfire and torch his half of the possessions in a fiery flame. This way, he'll feel like you listened to him--it was just too much for him to do his share. Well now, it doesn't exist! And, you win because the only chores left for him to do are yours. Solved!

I really need some encouragement: I am desperately trying to get my body in shape after having kids, I start seeing results, then things keep stopping me--nasty flu, tendonitis, and a fractured ankle! What should I do?"

First of all--what are you--some kind of freak? God doesn't do that to ONE person all at once, psh! I suppose if you're not lying, my best advice is: accept it's going to take time and that you just need to heal for now. Then, become one of those people that actually watches every P90X, Insanity, and Asylum infommercial available, just to torture yourself. Do this preferably while drinking from a box of wine and eating a fried-chicken salad. This is healthy, right? Look at it this way--maybe by the time you get around to being healthy enough to exercise, you can just have saved up money and can BUY yourself a new ass! That's what I call optimism!

[*Disclaimer: Okay, okay--so maybe that isn't a picture of me,  and it's actually Donna Reed...And maybe no one's actually asked me to answer anything...What's that? No--absolutely NOT--these questions are not uncannily like my own ponderings and these QUACKY answers certainly are nothing I've made up in my own head, just to laugh out loud... What kind of schmuck would publish anything but fiction with something like this?! Not me...nope. Not me.]

Well, as it turns out, my stupid appendix decided that while I am sixteen and a half weeks pregnant, this was a good time to come out and nearly rupture. The positive: we're not dead and I suppose as is the usual in writing, these life experiences always make for the best stories. Sadly, this particular post highlights my jerk-non-Christianly-streak. But don't fret new friends; there will be posts a'plenty with all of my life's little humilities. So, I'd like to start our relationship out with honesty because that's how I roll. Ergo, I am admittedly on a lot of narcotics/pain meds and will not risk trying to make more sense than this: I need to laugh (though I don't recommend trying it with two holes in your gut and one giant staple). I'm guessing you need to laugh. So, I write, you read, you laugh. BAM! Just like Emeril Lagasse. Here goes...

Ten Of The Funniest Things I Think About To Brighten My Day

The time when I was five and my mom was determined not to be found while playing hide-and-seek and instead, got stuck under the coffee table. Instead of helping her, I went to her chocolate stash, sat in front of her and ate (all) the chocolate and laughed while she tried to get out. (Don't worry, Divine Providence has deemed that I've gotten mine back MUCH worse than this injustice I caused her. For example, I have four boys under the ages of 6...The bathroom stories I can tell you alone make for a lot of suffering.) 

Once when I was ten, I was riding my bike in our ghetto-fabulous trailer court. With the wind in my tangley hair, and the sun on my chubby face, I was beginning to think, maybe this is what models feel like in all the pictures with well, wind in their hair and sun on their faces. When, I flew past a group of other 5th graders, I thought maybe, just maybe, they were smiling because they were having this model-me realization too and--that was the last thought I had for a while because I drove right into our neighbor's ghetto-shed. For the second time in my young life, I saw stars. I believe, that if I saw a chubby little kid swinging her hair whilst riding a bike in a trailer court, and crash into a shed, I'd laugh my ass off.

I picture myself in my favorite outfit in 6th grade: a mustard yellow, brown, and cobalt blue body-suit (if you don't know what a body-suit was, refer to picture), with Luigi-colored green, baggy pants. And, I laugh my ass off.

I think of the time when I first met husband in college and I told him that his name, "Jimmy" sounded like a funny name. And, for no reason at all, I would say, "Jiiiiimmy...Jimmyyyyy" in a Pee-Wee Herman growly voice, with a Pee-Wee Herman laugh, every time he was turned around. I did this for a solid month. The guy was a statue and never showed annoyance until, I yelled it in his ear in a Pee-Wee Herman voice. Then he was angry. Really angry. That still makes me laugh out loud. Especially because, I don't know who'd have the patience to marry someone who talked to them in a Pee-Wee Herman voice.

I think of the time when our oldest, Michael, was only one year old, and we had this toy-remote control that made this slipped-on-a-banana-peel-like-in-Looney-Tunes noise. One night, my husband was angrily picking up the living room because Mike wouldn't go to bed and I'd "fallen asleep". (Wow, the more I read these, the more I wonder how I got married.)Anyway, I saw Jim step on the toy remote, activate the "slip-on-banana-peel" noise and watched his legs nearly go over his head. My cover was blown when laughed out loud in hysteria and, we both laughed so hard we cried. Then, he was maaaad I had actually been awake. 

Once again, feigning sleep: When I was in college, my mom was married to a crazy man that in my head to this day, I diagnose him with Douche Bag NOS (Not Otherwise Specified). He didn't want to let my sister and I hang out because we "laughed too loudly." We heard his heavy body pounding down all three levels to the basement and even though our bodies were shaking with suppressed laughter, we shut our eyes pretending to be asleep. It was dark and he shone a flashlight on our faces and said, "SWELL. You're asleep. I better not hear another PEEP!" and with that first heavy step on the stairway, he farted. Like, MAJOR big man fart. My sister and I laughed ourselves off the couch, and didn't even hear what he was yelling about all the way back up the stairs.

When my aunt was in the hospital for the birth of one her children, my sister and dad and I waited impatiently in the family waiting room. There was a playhouse that looked like a tree-house, complete with a faux-fox hole for kids to squeeze themselves into. My sister was misbehaving and my dad glared at her with daggers and said, "If you don't get back here RIGHT NOW, I'm going in there to get you MYSELF!" All I could barely see were two pig-tails furthering themselves to the back of the fox hole and heard a muffled, "You can't, you're too FAT, Daddy!" I watched in horror and awe as my dad dove toward the fox hole, lifted the entire tree house (complete with all other kids running back to their parents, like an ogre had attacked NeverLand), and pulled her out by her pig-tails. Maybe this isn't funny to you if you lived in a healthy, non-psycho-traumatic home, but think not so violent, and more just, laughing at a bad parenting moment, and a sassy-pants kid.

I'm sure he's gonna be pissed about this (though he'll say he's unashamed) but I convinced my brother when he was 10, that for his boy-scouts trip to Water World the next day, that my mother had failed to find trunks, so he'd be wearing a Boy Suit. I told him a Boy Suit (which is of COURSE, made up) was the new thing for boys, and that it was a swimsuit with boyish colors. I said, "Zachary AARON--you'd better wear it because mom spent A LOT of money on it!" I gave him my best big-sister glare. He stammered trying not to cry, "W-well, is it at least...b-blue??" I shook my head sadly, "Nope. The bow is red. The suit's black-ish-purplish." He threw his hands up. "BOW?!" He stormed up the stairs yelling, "Maaaaaam!!!!" My mom of course, was confused and handed him his trunks and he chased me all over the house yelling, "I HATE YOU!!" throwing shoes at me. 

I think of this one day in college when my two best friends and I drove all through Greeley in my white Geo Storm yelling to people on the street, "THUMBS UP! ATTENTION EVERYONE: IT'S THUMBS UP DAY!!! That's right! Get 'em up get em' up! YOU SIR--THUMBS UP!! YOU MA'AM--GET THOSE THUMBS UP!!!" It seriously made people really happy.

I think of just yesterday, when I tried talking to our Parish secretary and she came in on the part of my conversation with kids, and only heard me yelling, "MATTY! Nuts are dangerous--NEVER put them in your mouth--even if someone else gives them to you, that doesn't know that they make you sick!" Yeah; I'm special.

Moral of the Story: laugh recklessly and, there are always more things to make you laugh. Just ask.

Dear OB/Prenatal Establishment Where-From I Am Reluctantly Receiving "Care":

I don't like you. I don't know why anyone does but I definitely don't like you. I have some requests that have been gathering up for quite some time and here they are, in writing.

Requests

To the Medical Assistants: Please don't talk over and around me whilst taking my vitals, thinking I am not there. Furthermore, please refrain from having idiotic and asinine discussions,  wherein you are wrong about everything you're talking about, and when I politely give you the correct information, you stop for a moment as if, "Did you hear something?" and then continue in your ridiculous conversation. (Like, discussing that there are wolf spiders in Colorado the size of dinner plates, that are lethally poisonous...that live in large webs.)

 

(*In case anyone reads this and dares to challenge such a nerd as myself who is married to Spider-Bug-Man expert: the largest found wolf spider in Colorado was 2.5"--yuck--and they don't weave cobwebs, they live on the ground and burrow webs; and are only mildly poisonous.)

Anyway, it leaves me no choice but to be annoying and turn into the 10 year old trapped inside my brain and start just making non-sensical statements because I know you're not listening ("His underwearrrr were hardly therrrre...is your degree from way out therrrre?...I guess yer movin' me to another prego chair!" etc.).

Request #2: During ultrasounds, please don't set me up with some nurse that chomps on bubble gum the whole time, while digging around, giving me an exam, and then during the very first picture of my baby says, "Wellll...it looks like all is well except for...this schmutz right here behind the baby." SCHMUTZ?!  "No need to panic--could be mass; could be another baby *shrug*." Or, upon the second-sixth ultrasounds, set me up with a beautiful, snooty young woman who hates kids, and has no patience for pregnant woman, with kids. She might say things while becoming exasperated , like, "AH! Your baby is caddy-wampus--" CADDYWAMPUS?! Is this a medical term for a golf-laden-platypus?! "--and simply refuses to move where I can see him." She might also say other memorable one-liners like, "*sigh of anger* This baby is out to GET me today! I was going to have an extra hour to pay my bills, look online etc., but now I guess I'll be here with you..."  She then may proceed to become so upset that my unborn baby won't move because he is "caddywampus", that she will begin to use her sonogram tool to jab at various places on my stomach, thinking that this will jar him. I just might have felt like a piece of meat getting tenderized. I might have said, "Um, I know it seems like fluff to you but it's MY fat and stomach...and it hurts..." She may also try to assure me when measurements come back slightly abnormal by saying, "Now, I'm not a doctor--" SHOCKING! "--but my Spidey-Sense is telling me that everything is a-okay!" [insert thumbs up and bouncing ponytail with fake enthusiastic head-nod]. Perfect! I'm assured by a woman who's confidence is embedded in her inner Spider-Man, that my baby hasn't already suffered Shaken Baby Syndrome by her stomach-abusive shenanigans. 
So, my dear highly-rated,ridiculously expensive establishment: would it be too much, to request that she receive some sort of socialization classes? Anger Management? Or perhaps, have her superiors administer some sort of questionnaire that asks questions like: "I am annoyed by unborn babies that don't cooperate with the rest of my schedule" or, "situations that are not in my control really make me feel psychotic" etc. If she checks "yes" on say, ANY of them, maybe she can be redirected to something like...another job? Just a request.


Request #3: Please educate your staff on important things like, not making diagnosis that sound definitive, when come to find out, they were not qualified to do so. For example, Gum Chomper Nurse, after giving me a five second exam, declaring that my cervix is "too short" and rushing me into a panic that the baby will drop out into existence, at any time. Throwin' around terms like "bed rest" and "pre-term labor;" it's...unsettling and just might nearly throw me into cardiac arrest...which probably would bring about pre-term labor...


Request #4: Finally, I know this may be harsh but--please hire a secretary who can actually see...and hear...and use a computer? It would be so helpful when I'm having cramps and trying to explain my medical symptoms several times because "stomach cramps" sounded the same as "wallup clamps" (??) and my saying I thought it might be due to "severe dehydration" somehow translates into "severe deridation" (which isn't even a word). Yes; it could be helpful because then the doctor won't call me, thinking I'm a lunatic, clearly suffering from some cortisol-amped episode of psychosis. 

Actually...if you really want my request...Can you just shut the place down and turn it into a day spa?


Sincerely And In-Debted To You,
Me

On Being Glamorous

Since I have realized how wonderfully glamorous I have [not] become, I decided it was time to make some of you stay at homer's feel better. Much better. The following are positive reframes of some possible situations that might cause you to--GASP!--lose your glamor swing. It's entirely possible I've suffered all of them; it's entirely possible I won't even write about half of them. 

Scenario: No shower in more than three days (this could include but is not limited to: visible dandruff, enough grease to oil the TinMan--'Oil can!'--and/or oily skin and leftover makeup), no clean clothes and you've gotta go to the grocery store, a playdate, or some other place where people will in fact remember you, and will in fact report you to Social Services for "poor hygiene" or "malodorous scent", or "disheveled appearance." 


Solution: First, take a look at your nearly homeless-looking-self and say, "I may as well black out a tooth but dang it, this is gonna WORK!" The key here is to think creatively. Take a blow-dryer and heck--blow off the dandruff! (This actually works...not that I've tried it.) Wash your face all except for your eyes and reapply a little makeup--yup, just keep plowin' through that old mascara. Feel extra glam in extra makeup--you just might get hit on (bonus!) by one of those guys that is always cleaning out the port-a-potty at the park, right when your 4 year old needs it. No clean undies? Psh--no problem! Either borrow your husband's (clean) briefs or if this isn't possible, consider yourself as daring as the Kardashians, and go commando! Worried that you smell, "less than fresh"? NO worries--this can be taken care of by any of the following: whilst applying Desitin on your kiddo, rub a little on your wrists--it's all anyone will be able to smell; or going the glam route--spray some cologne from your hubby's stash--just say "it rubbed off during our rendesvous this morning *wink wink*!" And heck, that's why the make up is heavier, and your hair's a mess! (because of course, in your glamorous life, you and your spouse have time, energy, and space to have something like a rendesvous).

Scenario: You almost make it out the door. I said "almost" on purpose. Well, now that you're all ready to walk out the door with the kids and five different bags for any situation in-tow, you can handle ANYTHING, but wait! You sat down to put on your boots and--you've sat in an UWP (Unidentified Wet Puddle...and yes, there is such thing as a "dried puddle"--the kind that have already long dried before you realized there was a puddle). You go to check for a clean pair of pants--NOTHIN'. 

Solution: Don't stress! Put on that PBS cartoon you've been denying the kids (I mean  because you never fail to plan all-day activities so as to avoid them watching any of that evil television!..This should conjure up an image of a fire-and-brimstone preacher at the pulpit somewhere on the Bible Belt) and walk yourself to the bathroom. Once again, whip out your trusty blow-dryer. The clothes' dryer is more thorough--true, but you don't have time for thorough; you just need your soggy underwear (if you wearing them) and pants to be dry enough to not look and feel like you've wet yourself pre-Depends Diaper stage. "I can do this! I can do this!" you tell yourself in the mirror, as your children laugh hysterically at their Mommy (since the show will be done by the time you actually can start fixing yourself.) "Why are you blowing air on your tushy?" they ask in between erupting giggles. "Well," you say as you regain your glam flair (you recall yourself in those times you wanted to audition to be an actress or a stand-up comedian and channel your drama Chi), "sometimes tushies get reeeeally cold and think that they live in the Arctic, where there's always snow! So, I have to remind my tushy that it lives in Colorado, where it's not so cold bahahaha!" 

Was this joke...funny? Hell no! But, take in these times with young kids because, all you have to really do to make them laugh is: say something inappropriate like "tush" or "butt" or "poop"; say something in an inappropriate context; or say anything inappropriate. Especially if it rhymes. This won't last, so make yourself feel like Seinfeld and do whatever it takes to make them laugh, and make yourself feel completely normal.

Scenario: You get to the grocery store, you prepare the kids with "Good boys/girls get ___ when they have good behavior at the store" etc., you get the stupid carts with the car attached that drives like a blimp (yes, I compare it to a blimp on purpose because blimps aren't supposed to drive, and apparently, neither are the giant pieces of crap they give you at the store), and head in there with all the gusto you can muster. The kids are falling out of the cart, screaming "BEEP! BEEEP!" because as they explain "These horns don't work!", and in the check-out line, they swing from a fantastic pendulum of trying to make out with one another by licking tongues ("...Just like our friends who got married at that church!") and then ending it by punching each other in the face right there, in there little no-horned car-cart. 

Solution: It's ALL about the reframe, remember? So, be PROUD! Maybe someone recorded the whole ordeal with their Smart Phone, will post it on YouTube and you'll be RICH! So what if you feel like you look like Zach Galifianakis with your gut hanging out of your too-short, stained shirt and bad grease-ball hair? You've MADE IT OUT, Mama, and whether its Hellish or not, you will make it back home! You've OVERCOME, just like Mel Gibson in Braveheart (not the part where he's tortured and murdered...). You are probably funnier, savvier, and pleasantly more crazy because of it. Now, go home, throw the kids in one room and safely lock it (and laugh manically to yourself like the evil Stepmother) so you can really take a shower. If you can't, then spritz water on your face and call it good. 
Then dear friends, go write about it.

Peace OUT!

Synopsis

The Kids: all sick with an evil bug, forcing bodily fluids out in practically every orifice. The bathroom looks (and smells) like a battlegrounds in the worst way; I don't know how much longer it will hold. Reinforcements needed but it is unlikely none brave enough will come.

The Cat:  still fluffy and smelling of Men's Care Dove bodywash. She eyes me suspiciously, awaiting the growing madness to pounce upon her the more I, her ill-brained master, is kept indoors to tend to the natives.

The Kitchen: in fact dirty except for--lo!--one space between the sink and the window, there it is still unscathed and shiny. Yet as I approach ye spot, all virgin clean I am deceived--Alas! I have been tricked by the gods (said with a fist shaking in the air but actually saying other words than what might be made-for-TV; like in those 1950's movies when Hercules was actually in Italian but dubbed over by some golly-gee American voices)! It is only "shiny" because a clear coating of Pedialyte has oozed and dried over this falsely cleaned spot. Sadly (and sickly), I slough into the living room to retreat. Unfortunately, the natives spot me and attack with a hungry fierceness I had not perceived from the battlegrounds (bathroom)! "FOOOD! HUNNNGRY!! My TUMMMMY!" they shout like midget zombies. I wonder how much time I'll have before their poisened devilries take effect (one has a diaper the size of a human head, and is sitting on my neck). I close my eyes..."it's going to be okay...it's going to be okay..." The last thing I remember is hysterical laughter from the diaper-monger who hears my desperate attempts at coping and finds them utterly hilarious. "MWAMWAHAA!!" he laughs over me, as giant drool spiddles down onto my hair. "You crazy nuts, Mommy" he laughs. "Yes, yes I am, " say I.
Sitting up, I breathe through my mouth only and hug the natives tightly, poop neck (me), Giant-Dump-Diaper McGee, Drooly McFooly, and Major Trouble, and kiss them. Then I repeat this again. If this is what parenthood's about, then I'd hate to overcome all the insanity, only to fail in forgetting what's most important: to love and be loved.

Lost And Found

      So I pose the question: where do our husbands go when they are taking all the time of ETERNITY when we send them into the store? When we are only to be left with screaming children, a stuffy car (because you're a dead woman if you open your window for a few precious breaths of air and the whole parking lot hears the wailing and gnashing of teeth coming from your automobile), and no way to let your kids run free. That's the worst part--that they act like you've tied them up, awaiting some torture because you really want to hear them screaming, yelling, and writhing like zapped worms. And WHY the car?--when all four sides of your rectangular vehicle are the smallest area you just might be in and that's precisely where they decide to lose it. And it never fails--you forgot the pacifier; you forgot to pack extra milk; the snacks you did pack have lost favor with the kids all within a 5 minute time frame of when they began screaming (because the screaming doesn't necessarily start right away, oh no--it seems to start right when you are getting comfortable in the car and listening to a good song thinking, 'Maybe this is like a little brea--'). And should you gain the courage and get out of the vehicle to let just one kid out, there's always that person walking by in all their youth and glamor and it's like being in dorm life and you're that loser that has to get to bed, wandering to the neighbors door asking if they'll turn it down and getting smacked with sound waves so powerful upon the door opening that you either peed your pants from the scare, or you just sauntered away as they looked at you like the nerd you were. (Oh...maybe this was just me...) And you never know if you should like, apologize for your kids screaming or pretend to be confident and smile as though this is just one of the many perks of having toddlers cooking in a car while your husband is doing--WHAT--smelling flowers? Manufacturing a new product, sure to please the whole family?! It was precisely this train of thought that got me through.

Last time I was in this little Purgatory Zone, I tried several techniques, "I won't let my peace be disturbed!" I said with my She-Ra sword. "Heeeheeeheee!" sneered a Skeletor voice of Evil (or maybe I've finally cracked for good, and those were the early onset voices finally coming through...but either way, they sounded just like Skeletor) "Peace SCHMESE!" he heckled. First technique: Meditation. Hafta tell ya--unless you are the reincarnation of Ghandi or Christ Himself, this DOESN'T work with three screaming toddlers. I tried meditating on the image of the ocean I saw on my vacation...and all that kept coming through were images of the kids finding me on little toddler jet-skis. That was a no-go. Next, I tried a positive reframe--I tried telling myself that "Welp, even though this SUCKS, at least I'm not with the kids in the store..." Then, I decided that I don't even like the phrase positive reframe and that it makes me angry, very angry, inside. So my last ditch effort was to imagine worse scenarios than mine at the time: having my legs chopped off at the ankles and being forced to run through a sticker patch...living with my mom...bending over in a store to smell a flower only to have a part of it get stuck in my nose resulting in hospitalization etc. That's when it hit! I begin to imagine what could be waylaying Handsome Husband and that saved me because I began laughing out loud.
 In fact, I was laughing so loudly that I even opened the windows, unashamed and unafraid of people seeing, "Honda CRV: The One-Car Freak Show."  Here are just a few of my ideas but you know--be creative and think of your own and hell, write them down on a Steno pad for every time you are in this situation. The best part of this technique was that I got my nearly four-year-old in on the scenarios and he thought they were hilarious. (You might not think they are hilarious but cut me some slack--remember what state of mind I was in at this point.)

Possibility #1: In a desperate attempt to pick the perfect can of cream of chicken for me, Handsome Husband digs deeply through the display and picks it out, holding it up high in all it's Campbell's glory when suddenly, the display crashes down, burying him beneath boulder-like cans. He must use his stealth skills to come out alive.

Possibility #2: Unbeknownst to innocent Safeway shoppers, there in the very bakery of the store, lurks a witch. Seeing my Handsome Husband she thinks to herself whilst stroking her wart, "Ahhh, here is a very fair child--he looks a little lean but he'd be puhfect for my pie!" So offering him homemade brownies (his absolute favorite), the swarthy bakery wench lures him into the back. He is enjoying delicious bite upon bite of chocolatey brownie goodness when suddenly from behind, he hears an opening 'SCCREEECH!' he dives out of the way, foiling Witch Warts plan of pushing him into the oven. Unfortunately though for our hero, he has fallen into the pie concoction. Will Juan the Mopster hear Husband's desperate cries to toss him the handle of the mop or will he go on, mopping, listening to his Shakira remix?

Possibility #3: (This one is Child #1's favorite because he's into inappropriate body parts being a part of ANY story, and especially if they get lost or "broken." Don't look at me--I don't even have those body parts.) Whilst humming a happy tune and finding Mommy her favorite Lean Cuisine in the frozen section--the very last one--a giant oversized gentleman trying to shed a few pounds gasps in astonishment. "YOU don't need that Lean Cuisine! You're already skinny! Give it meeee!" In anger, he runs into Daddy, trying to smash him in the door. The good news is, Daddy isn't smushed but the really bad news is, his tush seems to have been snipped off by the big freezer door! It rolls sadly into the freezer. The Giant Man grabs the Lean Cuisine because Daddy is stunned, and takes Daddy's tush out of the freezer and puts it in a grocery bag and throws it across the store, miniscus-style, as hard as he can. "NOOO!!! My perfect TUUUSHH!!!" Daddy yells in despair. "Bob, we're gonna need assistance in aisle 12...and clean up in aisle 1.." interrupts a voice on the store intercom, "...there seems to be a...butt...that's nearly stuck in the meat shredder...Bob..." Running as fast as he can to the Deli, Daddy yells, "That's MY BUTT! Don't shred it!!" When he gets there it has not been shredded but packaged and--oh no!--someone is buying it! Well this is awkward. Pooor Daddy. "Please--I know this is odd but, that's my butt and uh...well, you can't buy it. It's mine so...it uh...won't fit you." What will happen? Will Daddy have to buy it back? Or will the bidder have mercy on his not-there-derriere?

Well, you get the idea. Hope this brought you a laugh. It made the kids laugh, the people stare, and it made my day. God bless!

Well, here I am again. I am actually working on a more transition-into-this-blog-blog but I have writer's block of it and need a break. So I am here talking about...(drum roll, please) that stupid punk cashier at the grocery store who makes you feel like you wanna chuck a big poop diaper in his waxed little face. Granted, we go to one of the most ghetto-fabulous, worst-service-ever-at-a-grocery-store-because-it's-ran-by-17-year-olds (no offense to 17 year olds) who all think they are the epitome of Chicano Shiznay with a name tag. Don't get me wrong--I've (sort of) been there: being so young and so not attached to many of the world's woes or even...anything going on in the real world...at all, for example, other than flirting with the female sackers and barking out tough-guy orders to the newbies who aren't fast enough "Ay-yi-yiee! What are you doing, Chewy? Do your job right--go push some baskets okay? It's Mexi-CAN, not Mexi-'I-don't-wanna'!" I love my heritage. We're just, so classy and humble...
So the store's being "remodeled" to look more...store-like and tasteful. Funny, the workers are still there though...So the whole store is upside down (diaper wipes were found next to Romance novels and Hallmark cards) and each aisle about half the size it used to be, and the produce section is now all fancy with the fruit on these super high wooden tables--much too high for us Hispanic folk. It looks like Hispanic Hobbit-Ville with all of us jumping up and down, having to ask the 17 year old Anglo moppers to get avocados down for us.
So, back to brooding Don Juan De Cashier Man: I go to get my groceries and after ringing up our gigantic bill (because our boys eat like they're preparing to go into deep space hybernation), my card won't go through for some reason. Anxiety creases my once wrinkle-free eyelids and I say, "Okay. Please run it again, I know there is money on it." [Obnoxious sigh from Don Juan De Cashier Man]. "What's going ON here?" barks Mullet Man from the back of the line (he spent the entire two hours I was wandering the store yelling--yelling I tell you--"What the f*** did they do with my TOMATO sauce?!") And now, I had the privilige of having him in my line. "Pardon me? Are you speaking to me?" I say with a smile dripping sweetly of anthrax. Mullet Man glares at me but goes back to talking on his phone. The register bleeps absurdly loud, announcing that the card didn't go through again. "Okay;" I say, "I'm sorry about this but can you please just hold my things up here while I call my husband?" I begin to dial Husband with all eyes and ears listening. Me: "Honey--the card's saying "not authorized." Honey: "Well then that means there wasn't that much money on the card." Me grinding my teeth together: "Um. Then WHY did you give me that card, Honey?" Honey: "Because I thought there'd be enough. Just come home and get the other card." Oh! SILLY ME! I'll just drive home and let 50 people in line chillax while I cruise home. I relay this to Don Juan and ask if he can just hold my stuff up there while I go get the other card with money on it. Don Juan: "[BIG heave of a sigh with agitation] Well if I did that, I'd have to void everything. Can't we just put it all back and you get it all again when you get back? It is your fault you don't have money on your card and plus, I'll be late for my lunch break." Did he say that? Did he really say that? Now I have my Mad Eyes on. In fact I kind of had a Garth moment and turned into a crazy pants. (If you don't know what I'm talking about, please oh please, watch Wayne's World the movie sometime. It's a classic to be sure)."Look son, I am aware this is frustrating. Once not so long ago, I had a job too but not now. So when you have three little kids, stretch marks, and no money, and you have to choose between light bulbs or cleaning sponges because you're too poor to have both, and did I say stretch marks?! Can you be a little patient? I just walked through your Maze of Madness for TWO hours to find this stuff so you're NOT putting it all back. VOID it please. P.S.--isn't it your JOB to do your job?!"
Don Juan De Cashier Man froze and looked very afraid of Psycho Grocery Mama. Manager Man came over and did the whole, "What seems to be the problem?" Needless to say, they held my groceries. I ran from the store exodus to the car looking like a person who shouldn't be able to run that fast without unhealthy palpitations, drove home real quick, got the other card, and repeated the running scene into the store. After making me wait almost twenty minutes to "find" the cart of groceries (I know, it must have been SO hard to spot an abandoned cart of $200 worth of groceries! Tough job!) I was finally re-rung up. When I got home I realized that we were charged about $50 less. When I called about it later the next day I was told, "Consider it providence. Sounds like you had it comin' to ya." I am pleased to say that it ended this way, though in some ways I would have rather just thrown a diaper pie in Don Juan's face, this way was much better for our finances however.

Moral of the story: stand your ground, stand firm, and definitely throw in as MANY uses of the words "stretch marks" as possible.