In honor of Charlie Sheen, and shameless self-promotion, I have decided to run a contest for the month of March. That’s right, I am gonna bribe you. So what is in it for you? Dignity, a pat on the back, a warm fuzzy feeling? No, none of those things. But, I will be giving away a gift bag valued at over $40 in merchandise! Woo hoo!
I know what you are thinking. I am a poor starving artist, suffering for my craft. How can I afford such an expensive give-away? Ha ha! I can’t. But I hit up my sugar-daddy and he agreed to give me some moolah so that I can bribe, I mean entice, you ungrateful, I mean, lovely folks.
Ok, so here is the skinny . . . All you have to do is leave a comment in the “comments section” and please include your email address. For each comment I will give you one (1) entry in the contest. If you put a link to my blog (http://myfirstlaunch.blogspot.com) on your blog, web-site, facebook page or twitter page--you will get five (5) entries. That is correct, five, like wow, right? Just shoot me an email to make sure I have a way to contact you. You can contact me at: soniatodd@frontier.com or via facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/sonia.todd
So, I won’t disqualify you if you write mean, irate, or nasty comments--but I like nice ones better. A friend of mine, who is a shift supervisor at Jiffy Lube, who has a cousin that is a custodian at the courthouse, knows all the legal lingo and he says we have to make it fair. Oh ya, I almost forgot, if you become a follower, you will also get another (5) entries in the contest. Yes, your eyes are not deceiving you—five! As in golden rings, fingers on each hand, and the money that Lincoln’s face appears on (it is the five dollar bill right?)!
Maybe you are thinking, ‘I don’t want no stinking gift bag.’ Well, my friend, you would be what I like to call--wrong. This thing is packed, with like, cool stuff. It isn’t something I shelled out a handful of pennies for at the dollar store. This stuff is nice, top-of-the line goodies.! The best stuff that money could buy in a small town, without any selection, or self-respect, and with inflation creeping up, the recession smacking us down, and the U.S. dollar reaching pitiful lows. Trust me, you want it.
Before I forget . . . this contest is only open to legal U.S. residents (I really cannot afford to ship this thing out of the country). Some exclusions may apply. For example, anyone involved in the making of the book, or the movie, Twilight, or any of its ridiculous off-shoots, is ineligible, vampires are stupid, seriously. Additionally, I am not responsible for emails or comments lost in cyberspace. This contest will end March 31st. A winner will be selected at random, on or before April 8th, by scooping a wadded-up sheet of paper with names on it, out of a plastic bag, shoebox, or mixing bowl--depending on the number of entrants.
So there you have it. A contest—Yee Haw! Enter now!
Showing posts with label Losing my mind. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Losing my mind. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Monday, December 6, 2010
On the First Day of Christmas . . .
Ahhh the holidays! Food, family, friends, suicidal thoughts . . . This year Christmas decorations were going up before Halloween. I was waiting for the marketing people to put up a nativity scene in October with baby Jesus wearing vampire teeth. If they dressed the Christ child in a diaper and wings, holding a bow and arrow they could leave the whole thing up until February. These days not everyone celebrates Christmas, but most folks celebrate something. That is why I say Happy Holidays; just like the marketing people, I think it is more inclusive and it covers all of them.
No matter what holiday is celebrated though, it seems they all require gifts. That is another requirement of the marketing people. It is like they have a meeting and decide to add another holiday on the calendar. One guy says, “Hey lets celebrate national free to be alive day.”
The other marketing guy says, “Yeah, but it isn’t really celebrating unless they have to spend money, so let’s make them pay for the air.”
And the first guy says, “What a great idea!”
The marketing people want you to panic, which is why they do those countdowns for everything. I will be in the store and see a giant sign “Only 362 more shopping days until Christmas!” What do I do? I panic and I start throwing stuff in my cart. Those guys want me to be in a perpetual state of shopping frenzy. It is enough to drive a person to the edge. I swear I am one Nerf gun away from ending it all! Ok, well maybe not ending it, but definitely leaving a really red welt on my temple. But still, you get the idea!
So anyway, for each holiday I have to do a lot of shopping. I am not a great shopper, but I do my best. Since my husband travels so much, I will sometimes ask him to pick things up for me, which is worse than just going to the mall myself. In my defense, I start by giving him very specific instructions and a list, and have him call me on his cell phone while he is at the store. I also debrief him on the specifics before he leaves the house and try to go over every possible scenario that may occur while he is at the store, but no matter what, I always get a cell phone call like this:
“Ok I am at the store and they do not have blue ones.”
“Well, he wanted a blue one.”
“They have black and red.”
“Are you sure they don’t have blue?”
“No.”
“No, you are sure, or no you are not?”
“I mean they do not have any blue.”
“Did you ask a sales person?”
“No.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
***Noise of me screaming into a pillow*****
“What was that?!”
“Oh nothing. Why don’t you ask a sales person for help?”
“That is ok, I rummaged through the rack and I found a blue one.”
“What kind of blue is it?”
“Blue?”
“Is it seafoam, or teal, or sky blue, or royal blue?”
“Ummmm . . . I know it isn’t navy.”
“Yes, but is it a light blue or a dark blue?”
“Well, it isn’t a bright blue.”
“Do you have something to you could compare it to?”
“You know the stars on the flag? It’s that color.”
“The stars on the flag are white. The background is blue.”
“Ok fine, it is the color of the background then.”
“Alright, I am going to take a deep breath and ask you one more question before I go shove my head in the oven and turn it on broil. You know when you are in kindergarten and you pull a crayon out of the box and it says blue on it? Is it that color?”
“Yeah! That is it exactly. And that was two questions.”
“That is the one he wants. Just go pay.”
“Are you sure you don’t need me to pick up anything else?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, you are sure you don’t need me to buy anything else, or yes, you do need me to grab another gift?”
***Noise of me screaming into a pillow*****
So this holiday season, if you see a nativity where the Virgin Mary is wearing a green top hat and a button that reads “Kiss me, I’m Irish” just know that it wasn’t my idea.
No matter what holiday is celebrated though, it seems they all require gifts. That is another requirement of the marketing people. It is like they have a meeting and decide to add another holiday on the calendar. One guy says, “Hey lets celebrate national free to be alive day.”
The other marketing guy says, “Yeah, but it isn’t really celebrating unless they have to spend money, so let’s make them pay for the air.”
And the first guy says, “What a great idea!”
The marketing people want you to panic, which is why they do those countdowns for everything. I will be in the store and see a giant sign “Only 362 more shopping days until Christmas!” What do I do? I panic and I start throwing stuff in my cart. Those guys want me to be in a perpetual state of shopping frenzy. It is enough to drive a person to the edge. I swear I am one Nerf gun away from ending it all! Ok, well maybe not ending it, but definitely leaving a really red welt on my temple. But still, you get the idea!
So anyway, for each holiday I have to do a lot of shopping. I am not a great shopper, but I do my best. Since my husband travels so much, I will sometimes ask him to pick things up for me, which is worse than just going to the mall myself. In my defense, I start by giving him very specific instructions and a list, and have him call me on his cell phone while he is at the store. I also debrief him on the specifics before he leaves the house and try to go over every possible scenario that may occur while he is at the store, but no matter what, I always get a cell phone call like this:
“Ok I am at the store and they do not have blue ones.”
“Well, he wanted a blue one.”
“They have black and red.”
“Are you sure they don’t have blue?”
“No.”
“No, you are sure, or no you are not?”
“I mean they do not have any blue.”
“Did you ask a sales person?”
“No.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
***Noise of me screaming into a pillow*****
“What was that?!”
“Oh nothing. Why don’t you ask a sales person for help?”
“That is ok, I rummaged through the rack and I found a blue one.”
“What kind of blue is it?”
“Blue?”
“Is it seafoam, or teal, or sky blue, or royal blue?”
“Ummmm . . . I know it isn’t navy.”
“Yes, but is it a light blue or a dark blue?”
“Well, it isn’t a bright blue.”
“Do you have something to you could compare it to?”
“You know the stars on the flag? It’s that color.”
“The stars on the flag are white. The background is blue.”
“Ok fine, it is the color of the background then.”
“Alright, I am going to take a deep breath and ask you one more question before I go shove my head in the oven and turn it on broil. You know when you are in kindergarten and you pull a crayon out of the box and it says blue on it? Is it that color?”
“Yeah! That is it exactly. And that was two questions.”
“That is the one he wants. Just go pay.”
“Are you sure you don’t need me to pick up anything else?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, you are sure you don’t need me to buy anything else, or yes, you do need me to grab another gift?”
***Noise of me screaming into a pillow*****
So this holiday season, if you see a nativity where the Virgin Mary is wearing a green top hat and a button that reads “Kiss me, I’m Irish” just know that it wasn’t my idea.
Friday, November 19, 2010
I See Naked People/My Eyes Are Burning
Other than politics and celebrities, the evening news is mostly about the recession. Everyone is talking about saving money, or ways to cut back on spending money, or ways to earn more money. As most of you know, I am a genius, and this next idea is going to prove it. Let’s all cut way, way back; all the way back to Adam and Eve. Let’s become nudists!
We have all had to give up things for this economic down-turn. We have had to give up going out to eat, getting new cars, cell phones, cable TV; some of us have even had to give up our homes. I say let’s give up our clothes too! What we all really crave is living in a simpler time, well, now is the chance!
Now, I know what you are thinking, “This is so crazy, it just might work!” Think of all the money it would save if we didn’t have to buy clothes anymore. We would save a fortune in socks and underwear alone! Sometimes the big problems have the simplest solutions, and I can’t think of a simpler solution than everyone just getting naked. So c’mon people, America actually needs the shirt off of your back . . . for reals.
Every movement needs a slogan, so I have been brainstorming and here is what I have so far. How about: “Don’t be loathed, get unclothed!” Or how about: “The economy has flipped, let’s all get stripped!” Or maybe: “C’mon Dude, just get nude!” And lastly: “Get more sun, expose your buns!” Ok, these are just to get us going, once things really take off (pun totally intended), I am sure I can come up with something a little more catchy.
Seriously America, what else have we got to lose? We are running out of things to get rid of in these tough economic times. With most of our money, possessions and our dignity already gone, we have nothing else to lose but our clothes. In case you are still unsure of the nudist movement, I have taken the liberty of making a pros and cons list, so that the decision to go au natural will be obvious.
Pros
Easier to go through screening at the airport, no need for an x-ray and we wouldn’t have to waste time taking off our shoes.
No more sweat shops (take that Kathy Lee Gifford).
I was always told when I give a speech to “imagine everyone in the audience naked” so that I will be less nervous, now, there would be no reason to imagine.
There would now be no reason to “moon” anyone.
Some federal money might finally be allocated for finding a cure for some of the world’s most horrible diseases like: cankles, cellulite, varicose veins, stretch marks, and saddle bags.
People could shave messages and designs into their back hair.
My sisters would stop borrowing my clothes without asking.
Magazines would stop air-brushing cover models because, really, what would be the point?
A woman might finally be elected president!
Snuggies would finally go out of business.
No more surprises on blind dates, what you see is what you get!
Getting a new summer wardrobe would mean buying earrings and/or a new sweatband.
Wicker and leather furniture would finally be eradicated from the Earth!
Everyone could take turns being “streakers” at sporting events.
No more laundry!
Cons
Two words: “snow angels.”
It would be hard to find workers for the deli-counter (Hello! There is a meat slicer back there).
Parent-teacher conferences would be even more uncomfortable.
It would cause malnutrition in those around me.
Law enforcement/police officers—where does the badge go?
I have too much money invested in Spanx and control-top pantyhose to just let that dream die.
Campfires and stray sparks would be a health hazard.
There would no longer a reason to go to Vegas.
Letting people sit on my furniture would be problematic.
I cannot afford that much plastic surgery.
Back Fat/Front Fat.
I would have to shave my legs at least once a month, maybe more often.
Where would I put my change?
The words diarrhea and incontinence would take on a whole new meaning.
I spent, like, ten bucks on one of those clips for my cell phone and I would never get to use it.
Hazard pay, and workers compensation, would go up for welders, loggers, sheet metal workers, and anyone who has to cook bacon.
Accidentally seeing “plumber’s crack” would be the least of my worries.
I would never be able to give anyone a ride in my car . . . ever.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I started spreading the “naked truth” as I like to call it, and my sister, who is anti-everything, had this to say about my idea, “Yeah, but wouldn’t everyone see you naked?”
“Yes,” I told her. “Did you not listen to the entire propaganda, I mean, idea?”
“Yes, I heard you. But I think there is a flaw in your ‘plan.’”
I assured her, “No, way, this baby is air-tight.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, it isn’t like everyone we know is a super-model. All those people that shop at Wal-Mart would now be seen in ‘all their glory.’ Also, have you met my mechanic, Flirty-Bertie? The guy with one brown eye and one blue eye, and both eyes look in opposite directions? Well, people like that would be ‘in flagrante.’ All. The. Time. How would I ever get away from him then? Besides, he is the only person on the planet who thinks of me as a goddess, why ruin the illusion? I am sorry, but I am keeping my clothes on.”
“Well with my new plan maybe your husband would think you were a goddess.”
“There is no way I am going to let my husband see me naked!”
“But I am trying to save America! You know, the ‘land of the free, home of the brave?’”
“No one should be that ‘free’ and no one that is sane is that ‘brave.’”
“I bet John F. Kennedy had the same reaction from his family when he tried to change things too.”
“And, he was assassinated.”
“Yes, he was probably taken-out by his own sister on the grassy knoll wearing his favorite cashmere sweater (without asking) and scuffing up his new leather boots!”
“I said I was sorry! But I am still not going buff!”
“Fine, we all wear clothes! But stop borrowing mine! Are you happy now?"
I am sorry America, another great idea nixed by lobbyists. Well, if we have to buy clothes anyway, I guess we can charge them. Who has the president's Visa? Mastercard? Anyone? I wonder if they can just add it to my national debt tab? I'm coming Macy's!
We have all had to give up things for this economic down-turn. We have had to give up going out to eat, getting new cars, cell phones, cable TV; some of us have even had to give up our homes. I say let’s give up our clothes too! What we all really crave is living in a simpler time, well, now is the chance!
Now, I know what you are thinking, “This is so crazy, it just might work!” Think of all the money it would save if we didn’t have to buy clothes anymore. We would save a fortune in socks and underwear alone! Sometimes the big problems have the simplest solutions, and I can’t think of a simpler solution than everyone just getting naked. So c’mon people, America actually needs the shirt off of your back . . . for reals.
Every movement needs a slogan, so I have been brainstorming and here is what I have so far. How about: “Don’t be loathed, get unclothed!” Or how about: “The economy has flipped, let’s all get stripped!” Or maybe: “C’mon Dude, just get nude!” And lastly: “Get more sun, expose your buns!” Ok, these are just to get us going, once things really take off (pun totally intended), I am sure I can come up with something a little more catchy.
Seriously America, what else have we got to lose? We are running out of things to get rid of in these tough economic times. With most of our money, possessions and our dignity already gone, we have nothing else to lose but our clothes. In case you are still unsure of the nudist movement, I have taken the liberty of making a pros and cons list, so that the decision to go au natural will be obvious.
Pros
Easier to go through screening at the airport, no need for an x-ray and we wouldn’t have to waste time taking off our shoes.
No more sweat shops (take that Kathy Lee Gifford).
I was always told when I give a speech to “imagine everyone in the audience naked” so that I will be less nervous, now, there would be no reason to imagine.
There would now be no reason to “moon” anyone.
Some federal money might finally be allocated for finding a cure for some of the world’s most horrible diseases like: cankles, cellulite, varicose veins, stretch marks, and saddle bags.
People could shave messages and designs into their back hair.
My sisters would stop borrowing my clothes without asking.
Magazines would stop air-brushing cover models because, really, what would be the point?
A woman might finally be elected president!
Snuggies would finally go out of business.
No more surprises on blind dates, what you see is what you get!
Getting a new summer wardrobe would mean buying earrings and/or a new sweatband.
Wicker and leather furniture would finally be eradicated from the Earth!
Everyone could take turns being “streakers” at sporting events.
No more laundry!
Cons
Two words: “snow angels.”
It would be hard to find workers for the deli-counter (Hello! There is a meat slicer back there).
Parent-teacher conferences would be even more uncomfortable.
It would cause malnutrition in those around me.
Law enforcement/police officers—where does the badge go?
I have too much money invested in Spanx and control-top pantyhose to just let that dream die.
Campfires and stray sparks would be a health hazard.
There would no longer a reason to go to Vegas.
Letting people sit on my furniture would be problematic.
I cannot afford that much plastic surgery.
Back Fat/Front Fat.
I would have to shave my legs at least once a month, maybe more often.
Where would I put my change?
The words diarrhea and incontinence would take on a whole new meaning.
I spent, like, ten bucks on one of those clips for my cell phone and I would never get to use it.
Hazard pay, and workers compensation, would go up for welders, loggers, sheet metal workers, and anyone who has to cook bacon.
Accidentally seeing “plumber’s crack” would be the least of my worries.
I would never be able to give anyone a ride in my car . . . ever.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I started spreading the “naked truth” as I like to call it, and my sister, who is anti-everything, had this to say about my idea, “Yeah, but wouldn’t everyone see you naked?”
“Yes,” I told her. “Did you not listen to the entire propaganda, I mean, idea?”
“Yes, I heard you. But I think there is a flaw in your ‘plan.’”
I assured her, “No, way, this baby is air-tight.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, it isn’t like everyone we know is a super-model. All those people that shop at Wal-Mart would now be seen in ‘all their glory.’ Also, have you met my mechanic, Flirty-Bertie? The guy with one brown eye and one blue eye, and both eyes look in opposite directions? Well, people like that would be ‘in flagrante.’ All. The. Time. How would I ever get away from him then? Besides, he is the only person on the planet who thinks of me as a goddess, why ruin the illusion? I am sorry, but I am keeping my clothes on.”
“Well with my new plan maybe your husband would think you were a goddess.”
“There is no way I am going to let my husband see me naked!”
“But I am trying to save America! You know, the ‘land of the free, home of the brave?’”
“No one should be that ‘free’ and no one that is sane is that ‘brave.’”
“I bet John F. Kennedy had the same reaction from his family when he tried to change things too.”
“And, he was assassinated.”
“Yes, he was probably taken-out by his own sister on the grassy knoll wearing his favorite cashmere sweater (without asking) and scuffing up his new leather boots!”
“I said I was sorry! But I am still not going buff!”
“Fine, we all wear clothes! But stop borrowing mine! Are you happy now?"
I am sorry America, another great idea nixed by lobbyists. Well, if we have to buy clothes anyway, I guess we can charge them. Who has the president's Visa? Mastercard? Anyone? I wonder if they can just add it to my national debt tab? I'm coming Macy's!
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Be Still, My Beating Heart
I had been having chest pains for four days. I thought it was odd, but I had just gotten some new brassieres so I just made the assumption they were too tight. I wore my old undergarments for a few days but I still had chest pains. As I was clutching my sternum one day a friend said, “Maybe you are having a heart-attack.” My response to that was, “Naaaah.” But inside, I was freaking out, so I went home and took some aspirin.
My insurance company sends me a self-care book every year, to keep me, I mean assist me, from making superfluous visits to the doctor. It has little charts in it to help me in making a self-diagnosis. For example, if I have a rash, the first box of the diagram asks if it is red and itchy? If the answer is no, it asks more questions. If the answer is yes the diagram always recommends ‘go to the doctor.’ I grabbed my book and looked up ‘chest pains’ in the index. Instead of a diagram the page said, “dial 911, or seek immediate medical attention.”
The pain got worse. I went on to read the information about a heart-attack and had to lie down. I read the other things that might cause chest pains, everything from indigestion to a blood clot in a lung. I was sure death was imminent, but just in case, I took more aspirin.
I didn’t tell my husband because I didn’t want to stress him out. I debated about following the advice in my book, but decided on a little more research instead. Hello internet old friend. Every website I came to about chest pains was like a flashing warning, GO TO THE DOCTOR, it seemed to scream. The pains continued.
My husband didn’t know what was going on. He wanted to go out to a nice dinner, I thought it would ruin the mood to mention that I may, or may not, be dying and was in excruciating pain. Besides, if I was going to die anyway, I might as well have some salmon first.
Dinner was lovely, other than me clutching my chest in between bites, it was without flaw. The next day, still more pains. By then my malady had been going on for about four days. I had taken enough aspirin at that point, had I gotten a paper cut, I would have bled to death in two minutes. I had such bad pains that I had to wear, yes wear, a heating pad strapped to my chest. My husband finally noticed something was amiss.
“Are you having chest pains?”
“What gave it away?”
“I think I should take you to the emergency room.”
“Nah, that place is a rip-off. You know they charge an arm and a leg. No pun intended.”
“I am worried about you.”
“I promise I will go to the doctor tomorrow.”
That night as I lay in bed, my chest pains continued to get worse. I started to think, that maybe, I was really ill, that the chest pain thing was really serious. So, I did what all really guilty people do at death’s door, I started to pray. I prayed for my kids and my husband, and for all the people I love, and I prayed for forgiveness. I was crying a little bit. I thought: “This is it, this is how it is all gonna end. One minute you are living and the next you are preparing for your own demise. Cut down in the prime of life. Woe is me! Good-bye cruel world!”
In the middle of my dramatic monologue (I was whispering it to myself—I didn’t want to wake my husband) my youngest son started to cry.
“Mommy, I had a nightmare. Can I come snuggle with you?” he said.
So my littlest boy crawled into bed, snuggled up next to me, with his arm across my neck. Something about that sweet gesture, his innocence, his gentleness or maybe the fact that his arm was directly over my larynx and completely cutting off my air-supply, whatever it was, I fell right to sleep.
The next morning, I sent my husband off to work, took the kids to school and went directly to the doctor’s office. There is something about saying that you are having chest pains that gets those nurses moving, I had absolutely no waiting. The nurse took my blood pressure, my heart rate, and temperature, then she wanted to weigh me. All I could think is what malicious irony that in my last moments of life I have to get on a scale. It is the first thing they do when you come into the world and now the last thing they do on your way out?
Well, dying or not, I have a policy that I must remove as many items as possible to get the number on the scale to a more manageable one. First I set down my purse and took off my shoes, then my sweater, then my earrings. I removed my necklace and rings, and socks. The nurse started tapping her pen when I removed my belt and hair clip and the lint from my pocket. I would have removed my makeup but she said something about getting paid by the hour so I just went ahead and got on the scale.
By the time the doctor came in, I was almost hyperventilating.
“Have you had any nausea?”
“Not until I ate about two bottles of aspirin to keep from having a heart attack. Technically though, it might count as one since both bottles had expired in 2007.”
“Have you had any indigestion?”
“Not until I started reading about angina, arterial fibrillation, blood clots and imminent death.”
“Do you smoke?”
“No. But do you think it is too late to start? I could really use a smoke right now.”
“Do you have a family history of heart disease?”
“No, we are cancer people.”
The doctor hooked me up to an EKG, took blood and x-rays, pressed on my ribs and chest, listened to my heart with a stethoscope and poked and prodded. Finally, she said, “The good news is, you are not having a heart attack. However, your heart is in a state of tachycardia.”
I about keeled over. Note to medical personnel—do not use big words that a lay person would not understand. I am the moron your mother warned you about.
“I have a disease called tachycardia?!!”
“No, it just means your heart is beating rapidly. In fact it is beating at 138 beats per minute. The average person has a resting heart rate of about half that. I definitely would not recommend coffee for you.”
“So I am not dying?!”
“No. Your chest pains are due to stress. I am going to put you on some medication and you need to make some lifestyle changes.”
I stopped listening when she said I wasn’t dying. But I did go on to make some major lifestyle changes to protect myself from another heart scare.
To prevent a heart attack:
1.) I buy my aspirin at Costco.
2.) I have two clothes-irons spliced together making a homemade defibrillator.
3.) I eat a heart healthy diet except for special occasions, PMS, the weekends, when I am with friends and family, and daily between the hours of nine a.m. and three p.m.
4.) I don’t smoke or sniff the clothes or belongings of those who do smoke.
5.) I drink plenty of water (do melting ice cubes in a glass of Chardonnay count?).
6.) When I get stressed I calmly take a deep breath, sit down, relax and have another slice of cheesecake.
And I always, always, always remember to take my medication . . . so hopefully my husband will never have to come home and find my lifeless body with two irons burned into my chest next to a four-foot bottle of aspirin.
My insurance company sends me a self-care book every year, to keep me, I mean assist me, from making superfluous visits to the doctor. It has little charts in it to help me in making a self-diagnosis. For example, if I have a rash, the first box of the diagram asks if it is red and itchy? If the answer is no, it asks more questions. If the answer is yes the diagram always recommends ‘go to the doctor.’ I grabbed my book and looked up ‘chest pains’ in the index. Instead of a diagram the page said, “dial 911, or seek immediate medical attention.”
The pain got worse. I went on to read the information about a heart-attack and had to lie down. I read the other things that might cause chest pains, everything from indigestion to a blood clot in a lung. I was sure death was imminent, but just in case, I took more aspirin.
I didn’t tell my husband because I didn’t want to stress him out. I debated about following the advice in my book, but decided on a little more research instead. Hello internet old friend. Every website I came to about chest pains was like a flashing warning, GO TO THE DOCTOR, it seemed to scream. The pains continued.
My husband didn’t know what was going on. He wanted to go out to a nice dinner, I thought it would ruin the mood to mention that I may, or may not, be dying and was in excruciating pain. Besides, if I was going to die anyway, I might as well have some salmon first.
Dinner was lovely, other than me clutching my chest in between bites, it was without flaw. The next day, still more pains. By then my malady had been going on for about four days. I had taken enough aspirin at that point, had I gotten a paper cut, I would have bled to death in two minutes. I had such bad pains that I had to wear, yes wear, a heating pad strapped to my chest. My husband finally noticed something was amiss.
“Are you having chest pains?”
“What gave it away?”
“I think I should take you to the emergency room.”
“Nah, that place is a rip-off. You know they charge an arm and a leg. No pun intended.”
“I am worried about you.”
“I promise I will go to the doctor tomorrow.”
That night as I lay in bed, my chest pains continued to get worse. I started to think, that maybe, I was really ill, that the chest pain thing was really serious. So, I did what all really guilty people do at death’s door, I started to pray. I prayed for my kids and my husband, and for all the people I love, and I prayed for forgiveness. I was crying a little bit. I thought: “This is it, this is how it is all gonna end. One minute you are living and the next you are preparing for your own demise. Cut down in the prime of life. Woe is me! Good-bye cruel world!”
In the middle of my dramatic monologue (I was whispering it to myself—I didn’t want to wake my husband) my youngest son started to cry.
“Mommy, I had a nightmare. Can I come snuggle with you?” he said.
So my littlest boy crawled into bed, snuggled up next to me, with his arm across my neck. Something about that sweet gesture, his innocence, his gentleness or maybe the fact that his arm was directly over my larynx and completely cutting off my air-supply, whatever it was, I fell right to sleep.
The next morning, I sent my husband off to work, took the kids to school and went directly to the doctor’s office. There is something about saying that you are having chest pains that gets those nurses moving, I had absolutely no waiting. The nurse took my blood pressure, my heart rate, and temperature, then she wanted to weigh me. All I could think is what malicious irony that in my last moments of life I have to get on a scale. It is the first thing they do when you come into the world and now the last thing they do on your way out?
Well, dying or not, I have a policy that I must remove as many items as possible to get the number on the scale to a more manageable one. First I set down my purse and took off my shoes, then my sweater, then my earrings. I removed my necklace and rings, and socks. The nurse started tapping her pen when I removed my belt and hair clip and the lint from my pocket. I would have removed my makeup but she said something about getting paid by the hour so I just went ahead and got on the scale.
By the time the doctor came in, I was almost hyperventilating.
“Have you had any nausea?”
“Not until I ate about two bottles of aspirin to keep from having a heart attack. Technically though, it might count as one since both bottles had expired in 2007.”
“Have you had any indigestion?”
“Not until I started reading about angina, arterial fibrillation, blood clots and imminent death.”
“Do you smoke?”
“No. But do you think it is too late to start? I could really use a smoke right now.”
“Do you have a family history of heart disease?”
“No, we are cancer people.”
The doctor hooked me up to an EKG, took blood and x-rays, pressed on my ribs and chest, listened to my heart with a stethoscope and poked and prodded. Finally, she said, “The good news is, you are not having a heart attack. However, your heart is in a state of tachycardia.”
I about keeled over. Note to medical personnel—do not use big words that a lay person would not understand. I am the moron your mother warned you about.
“I have a disease called tachycardia?!!”
“No, it just means your heart is beating rapidly. In fact it is beating at 138 beats per minute. The average person has a resting heart rate of about half that. I definitely would not recommend coffee for you.”
“So I am not dying?!”
“No. Your chest pains are due to stress. I am going to put you on some medication and you need to make some lifestyle changes.”
I stopped listening when she said I wasn’t dying. But I did go on to make some major lifestyle changes to protect myself from another heart scare.
To prevent a heart attack:
1.) I buy my aspirin at Costco.
2.) I have two clothes-irons spliced together making a homemade defibrillator.
3.) I eat a heart healthy diet except for special occasions, PMS, the weekends, when I am with friends and family, and daily between the hours of nine a.m. and three p.m.
4.) I don’t smoke or sniff the clothes or belongings of those who do smoke.
5.) I drink plenty of water (do melting ice cubes in a glass of Chardonnay count?).
6.) When I get stressed I calmly take a deep breath, sit down, relax and have another slice of cheesecake.
And I always, always, always remember to take my medication . . . so hopefully my husband will never have to come home and find my lifeless body with two irons burned into my chest next to a four-foot bottle of aspirin.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
I'm Not Perfect, But Let's Pretend
I wanted to be the perfect mother, so I did what any modern woman would do, I Googled it. You can learn anything from the internet. I found an article on the World Wide Web titled “How to be the Perfect mother.” You can view it here: http://www.ehow.com/how_2103655_be-perfect-mother.html
This particular article said anyone can become the perfect mother in only six steps and the article had a difficulty rating of “moderately easy.” I thought to myself, now this is the kind of information I need. Finally, someone has boiled it down to the simplest terms and now, even I, can be the perfect mother.
Step 1: Understand your child is unique. No book, article, parenting class or lecture will give you the exact answers for your child. Take in information, then adapt it to each of your children based on his or her personality.
“Mom, are you awake?”
“Mmmgmpf.”
“Mom?”
“Hmm?”
“MOM!?”
“What?!”
“Your breath stinks.”
Step 2: Follow your instincts. You should know your child better than anyone else. Even mothers without the "mothering gene" have internal warnings and insights to their children that no one else has.
I was in the middle of cooking dinner so I asked my husband to help with the children. “Honey, can you go check on the kids. I told them to bring that pitching machine up to the back deck and it is taking them a long time. I think there is something wrong.”
A few minutes later . . .
“Well, I checked on them. The older one was carrying the machine and all of the balls while the little one kept hitting him over and over with a plastic bat. Is that what you were envisioning when you thought something had gone wrong?”
Step 3: Be your own kind of mom. Parenting the exact way another mother parents will not make you the perfect mother. Use your own talents and strengths to enrich your child's life and influence your family's activities and schedule.
At Easter I was purchasing eggs for the kids to color and hide in the yard. I always buy the organic eggs even though they are more expensive because I don’t want my kids pumped up with hormones from eating the eggs of steroid enhanced chickens. I was debating getting the low grade eggs for dying, since I knew that no one would be eating them and they were only for Easter activities. I stood at the egg section in the grocery store for 10 minutes trying to talk myself into the lower quality eggs but broke down and bought the expensive organic ones, ‘just in case’ one of the kids ate one hard-boiled egg while hunting for them in the yard. When I got home, unloaded the groceries and prepared the kitchen for egg coloring, I opened my package of 5 dozen organic eggs and knew right away that I should have gone for the hormone laced ones. All 5 dozen of the eggs I purchased were brown.
Step 4: Acknowledge that being a mother is trial and error. Admitting that something is or is not working is key in being a more perfect mother. Being able to identify what works, but especially what does not work allows you to make positive changes for you and your child.
I wanted my kids to learn to be responsible for themselves, and realize that they have a choice between right and wrong. I went on to talk about the fact that rules were not as important as our own internal code of morality. In the middle of my lecture my youngest son began telling me that he was going to sneak out of his room and get candy in the middle of the night and also telling me that I could not stop him. He went on to say that since “I wouldn’t know about it,” I could not punish him. I told him, “Even if I don’t know, your conscience would, and you would feel guilty because you know it would be wrong.” My oldest son then interjected with, “Mom, brother does not have a conscience.” The little one then followed it up with, “Oh, I have one. It is just that I don’t like to use it.”
Step 5: Treat this like a job. Parenting is not something that just happens. It is something that you will have to work at everyday. You have to want to do your best in this occupation to be successful and to see results.
So, I guess that means no driving the kids to school in my pajamas anymore.
Step 6: Know when to step back. Being the perfect mother does not mean that you do everything for you child. Allowing your children to grow and develop on their own will not only strengthen them as they age, but will also strengthen your relationship as mother and child.
“Mom can you carry me?”
“I can’t, you are too heavy.”
“Yes, you can. I know you can.”
“Honey, you are five years old, you can walk. Besides, we are almost back to the car.”
“I know you could carry me if you wanted to. What if there was a fire? Would you want me to burn up?! Wouldn’t you want to save me?!”
“Ok, yes, if there was a fire, then I would probably grab you and run.”
“Well, then just pretend there is a fire and pick me up!”
Based upon those 6 steps I came up with my own way of recognizing the difference between good mothers and bad mothers.
A good mother tells you that you cannot have a flamethrower for your birthday. A bad mother tells you she would have gotten you one--but they weren’t on sale.
A good mother takes you on outings and reminds you to be careful so that no one gets hurt. A bad mother barks, “Knock that off or you could get somebody killed.”
A good mother tells you to use your best manners and to be considerate of other people. A bad mother tells you that if you talk with a mouth full of food one more time she is going to force you to watch something that you don’t want to see, like the Lifetime movie marathon on a Saturday afternoon.
A good mother wants you to get into the best schools, win awards and be the most popular kid in school. A bad mother just wants you to survive childhood and not grow up to be a criminal.
Because of my own observations, and the article I read, guess which category I fell into (and which one I didn't)? My husband said I didn’t need six steps to be a “perfect mother” and he told me there is no such thing anyway (well, except for his mother, of course) and all anyone can do is their best. He must have been reading that article on “How to be the perfect Husband.”
This particular article said anyone can become the perfect mother in only six steps and the article had a difficulty rating of “moderately easy.” I thought to myself, now this is the kind of information I need. Finally, someone has boiled it down to the simplest terms and now, even I, can be the perfect mother.
Step 1: Understand your child is unique. No book, article, parenting class or lecture will give you the exact answers for your child. Take in information, then adapt it to each of your children based on his or her personality.
“Mom, are you awake?”
“Mmmgmpf.”
“Mom?”
“Hmm?”
“MOM!?”
“What?!”
“Your breath stinks.”
Step 2: Follow your instincts. You should know your child better than anyone else. Even mothers without the "mothering gene" have internal warnings and insights to their children that no one else has.
I was in the middle of cooking dinner so I asked my husband to help with the children. “Honey, can you go check on the kids. I told them to bring that pitching machine up to the back deck and it is taking them a long time. I think there is something wrong.”
A few minutes later . . .
“Well, I checked on them. The older one was carrying the machine and all of the balls while the little one kept hitting him over and over with a plastic bat. Is that what you were envisioning when you thought something had gone wrong?”
Step 3: Be your own kind of mom. Parenting the exact way another mother parents will not make you the perfect mother. Use your own talents and strengths to enrich your child's life and influence your family's activities and schedule.
At Easter I was purchasing eggs for the kids to color and hide in the yard. I always buy the organic eggs even though they are more expensive because I don’t want my kids pumped up with hormones from eating the eggs of steroid enhanced chickens. I was debating getting the low grade eggs for dying, since I knew that no one would be eating them and they were only for Easter activities. I stood at the egg section in the grocery store for 10 minutes trying to talk myself into the lower quality eggs but broke down and bought the expensive organic ones, ‘just in case’ one of the kids ate one hard-boiled egg while hunting for them in the yard. When I got home, unloaded the groceries and prepared the kitchen for egg coloring, I opened my package of 5 dozen organic eggs and knew right away that I should have gone for the hormone laced ones. All 5 dozen of the eggs I purchased were brown.
Step 4: Acknowledge that being a mother is trial and error. Admitting that something is or is not working is key in being a more perfect mother. Being able to identify what works, but especially what does not work allows you to make positive changes for you and your child.
I wanted my kids to learn to be responsible for themselves, and realize that they have a choice between right and wrong. I went on to talk about the fact that rules were not as important as our own internal code of morality. In the middle of my lecture my youngest son began telling me that he was going to sneak out of his room and get candy in the middle of the night and also telling me that I could not stop him. He went on to say that since “I wouldn’t know about it,” I could not punish him. I told him, “Even if I don’t know, your conscience would, and you would feel guilty because you know it would be wrong.” My oldest son then interjected with, “Mom, brother does not have a conscience.” The little one then followed it up with, “Oh, I have one. It is just that I don’t like to use it.”
Step 5: Treat this like a job. Parenting is not something that just happens. It is something that you will have to work at everyday. You have to want to do your best in this occupation to be successful and to see results.
So, I guess that means no driving the kids to school in my pajamas anymore.
Step 6: Know when to step back. Being the perfect mother does not mean that you do everything for you child. Allowing your children to grow and develop on their own will not only strengthen them as they age, but will also strengthen your relationship as mother and child.
“Mom can you carry me?”
“I can’t, you are too heavy.”
“Yes, you can. I know you can.”
“Honey, you are five years old, you can walk. Besides, we are almost back to the car.”
“I know you could carry me if you wanted to. What if there was a fire? Would you want me to burn up?! Wouldn’t you want to save me?!”
“Ok, yes, if there was a fire, then I would probably grab you and run.”
“Well, then just pretend there is a fire and pick me up!”
Based upon those 6 steps I came up with my own way of recognizing the difference between good mothers and bad mothers.
A good mother tells you that you cannot have a flamethrower for your birthday. A bad mother tells you she would have gotten you one--but they weren’t on sale.
A good mother takes you on outings and reminds you to be careful so that no one gets hurt. A bad mother barks, “Knock that off or you could get somebody killed.”
A good mother tells you to use your best manners and to be considerate of other people. A bad mother tells you that if you talk with a mouth full of food one more time she is going to force you to watch something that you don’t want to see, like the Lifetime movie marathon on a Saturday afternoon.
A good mother wants you to get into the best schools, win awards and be the most popular kid in school. A bad mother just wants you to survive childhood and not grow up to be a criminal.
Because of my own observations, and the article I read, guess which category I fell into (and which one I didn't)? My husband said I didn’t need six steps to be a “perfect mother” and he told me there is no such thing anyway (well, except for his mother, of course) and all anyone can do is their best. He must have been reading that article on “How to be the perfect Husband.”
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
No Purchase Necessary
I have been saving Sara Lee bread bags all summer. I only needed 5 UPC codes to send away for a free Toy Story light-up lunchbox (soft, full-sized zippered lunch tote--$14.00 value and includes shipping and handling fees—Collect the entire set!) for my soon-to-be 1st grader. Today was the day I decided to clear off the kitchen counter and see where to send my codes to redeem them for this “very special” offer.
So, I went to the website as instructed on the bags, which directed me to enter the 10-digit number from the UPC area which I did without a hiccup, I took a high school accounting class, I have mad 10-key skills. Anyway, after that, the website asked me to either register or login. What does that mean? I did not understand, but I decided that my odds were 50/50 that one of the choices would take me where I needed to go to get my prize, and since I have a “back” button, I picked register.
Then the computer asks me a series of personal questions (everything from my date of birth, to mother’s maiden name, and how I take my coffee in the morning) but I do not fret, because I am a woman of the new millennium, a Gen-X’er (or is it Gen-Y'er?)on a mission for a free-freakin’ lunch pail, so I give them all the data they ask for and press enter. The screen pops up with a message “This Login has been taken please try again.” Ok, my name must be really common, I will try a different user ID, i.e. name, that is not my own and pick something totally random, like: Apple pie. The computer screen says: Taken. So I try: Dutch apple pie. Taken. Pecan pie. Taken. Banana Cream Pie. Taken. Lemon Custard. Taken. Scotch. Taken. Scotch and Soda. Taken. Scotch and Soda with a Twist of Lime. Taken.
AAAAAh, I take a deep breath, bang my head on my keyboard a few times and then pour myself another cup of coffee and take 2 aspirin, crack my knuckles, and think to myself, maybe I have registered on this site before. I go back to the “Register or Login” section and pick Login. Then I click the button that says “Forgot Login ID,” because I have. I think. A new screen pops up and asks me to enter my email address. They, the evil torturing people who are running this website, send me my login info in an email, so now I have to go check my email. Sure enough, I have registered at this site before, because right before my eyes, in my email inbox is the Login ID (name) of a long-since-dead pet--a fire belly newt--named by my children: Goliath Scooby Doo.
Phew! Step 1 complete. That wasn’t so bad, 45 minutes or so, went by in a breeze. I wonder if I can suffocate myself with a bread bag? But alas, I have to continue my quest, I can almost see the light at the end of the tunnel, I mean it is a $14 value after all, so I go back to my screen, and search for the tab where I can enter my Login. No, not that one, not that one either, no not that one, a-ha I found it. Now I click “forgot password” and sure enough they, still the crazy psycho-paths running this site, will send it to me in an email. So I go check my email. Nothin. I reload my messages. Nothin. I put my coffee cup in the sink and stare longingly at my knife-block contemplating my own demise but snap back to reality when I hear my 6-year-old yell from across the house, “Mooooom, I need to poop!” I yell back, “Well, go then!”
Ok, back to this lunch tote thing. Check my email. Nothin. What in the heck? So I go back to the screen that said it would send it to me electronically and read the fine print. “Our system will usually send a response immediately, but please allow 24 hours for password to arrive in your inbox.” As I started to crawl under my desk to unplug my computer to chuck it out the window, the screen popped up with “You have 1 new messages.” Eureka, I am saved! I pick myself up and open my email and there it is: One password. I enter it in the proper screen and wait for it to tell me where to send my plastic bags to redeem my free gift.
Then the screen says the unthinkable: “Oops, we are out of stock. Please check back for future promotions from Sara Lee.” AAAAAAAGGGHHHH! I start cursing under my breath. I have lost over an hour of my life, one that I cannot get back. I am not a young person; an hour is a lot to a person my age. I am beside myself with grief. “Why? Why me?” I lament. How could I be so deceived by these devil-bread-maker-free-lunch-tote-offering-lunatics? Then in small print on the bottom of my screen, blurry from my tears, were the words I had been longing for: “Enter UPC Codes for a chance to win a family vacation for 4 to Pixar Animation Studios, have lunch and meet your favorite Toy Story 3 characters.”
Hope is not lost! I have 5 UPC codes! I may not have a lunch box, but wouldn’t a family vacation be better? So I click on it. I enter my information. Things are going smoothly. I am already registered. I know my password, I know my login, and I have my codes. Then I get to the final screen and it says: “I am sorry this contest is now closed.” The fine print says it ended yesterday, which is about the amount of time I spent trying to get my information entered on-line.
The moral of the story is, don’t eat bread, it is full of carbs and it will just raise your blood sugar, your blood pressure, and steal your soul, causing you to die. Trust me; I know what I am talking about.
So, I went to the website as instructed on the bags, which directed me to enter the 10-digit number from the UPC area which I did without a hiccup, I took a high school accounting class, I have mad 10-key skills. Anyway, after that, the website asked me to either register or login. What does that mean? I did not understand, but I decided that my odds were 50/50 that one of the choices would take me where I needed to go to get my prize, and since I have a “back” button, I picked register.
Then the computer asks me a series of personal questions (everything from my date of birth, to mother’s maiden name, and how I take my coffee in the morning) but I do not fret, because I am a woman of the new millennium, a Gen-X’er (or is it Gen-Y'er?)on a mission for a free-freakin’ lunch pail, so I give them all the data they ask for and press enter. The screen pops up with a message “This Login has been taken please try again.” Ok, my name must be really common, I will try a different user ID, i.e. name, that is not my own and pick something totally random, like: Apple pie. The computer screen says: Taken. So I try: Dutch apple pie. Taken. Pecan pie. Taken. Banana Cream Pie. Taken. Lemon Custard. Taken. Scotch. Taken. Scotch and Soda. Taken. Scotch and Soda with a Twist of Lime. Taken.
AAAAAh, I take a deep breath, bang my head on my keyboard a few times and then pour myself another cup of coffee and take 2 aspirin, crack my knuckles, and think to myself, maybe I have registered on this site before. I go back to the “Register or Login” section and pick Login. Then I click the button that says “Forgot Login ID,” because I have. I think. A new screen pops up and asks me to enter my email address. They, the evil torturing people who are running this website, send me my login info in an email, so now I have to go check my email. Sure enough, I have registered at this site before, because right before my eyes, in my email inbox is the Login ID (name) of a long-since-dead pet--a fire belly newt--named by my children: Goliath Scooby Doo.
Phew! Step 1 complete. That wasn’t so bad, 45 minutes or so, went by in a breeze. I wonder if I can suffocate myself with a bread bag? But alas, I have to continue my quest, I can almost see the light at the end of the tunnel, I mean it is a $14 value after all, so I go back to my screen, and search for the tab where I can enter my Login. No, not that one, not that one either, no not that one, a-ha I found it. Now I click “forgot password” and sure enough they, still the crazy psycho-paths running this site, will send it to me in an email. So I go check my email. Nothin. I reload my messages. Nothin. I put my coffee cup in the sink and stare longingly at my knife-block contemplating my own demise but snap back to reality when I hear my 6-year-old yell from across the house, “Mooooom, I need to poop!” I yell back, “Well, go then!”
Ok, back to this lunch tote thing. Check my email. Nothin. What in the heck? So I go back to the screen that said it would send it to me electronically and read the fine print. “Our system will usually send a response immediately, but please allow 24 hours for password to arrive in your inbox.” As I started to crawl under my desk to unplug my computer to chuck it out the window, the screen popped up with “You have 1 new messages.” Eureka, I am saved! I pick myself up and open my email and there it is: One password. I enter it in the proper screen and wait for it to tell me where to send my plastic bags to redeem my free gift.
Then the screen says the unthinkable: “Oops, we are out of stock. Please check back for future promotions from Sara Lee.” AAAAAAAGGGHHHH! I start cursing under my breath. I have lost over an hour of my life, one that I cannot get back. I am not a young person; an hour is a lot to a person my age. I am beside myself with grief. “Why? Why me?” I lament. How could I be so deceived by these devil-bread-maker-free-lunch-tote-offering-lunatics? Then in small print on the bottom of my screen, blurry from my tears, were the words I had been longing for: “Enter UPC Codes for a chance to win a family vacation for 4 to Pixar Animation Studios, have lunch and meet your favorite Toy Story 3 characters.”
Hope is not lost! I have 5 UPC codes! I may not have a lunch box, but wouldn’t a family vacation be better? So I click on it. I enter my information. Things are going smoothly. I am already registered. I know my password, I know my login, and I have my codes. Then I get to the final screen and it says: “I am sorry this contest is now closed.” The fine print says it ended yesterday, which is about the amount of time I spent trying to get my information entered on-line.
The moral of the story is, don’t eat bread, it is full of carbs and it will just raise your blood sugar, your blood pressure, and steal your soul, causing you to die. Trust me; I know what I am talking about.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Lost and . . . Well, Just Lost
I lost my child again today. This time at the library. I would like to say it hardly ever happens, but unlike you, I am a bad parent. I have lost this one particular kid in a variety of places, including, but not limited to: the mall, an airplane, 4 Wal-Marts, my own house, a church and Disneyland. Now I know what you must be thinking, that I am not very observant or I don’t care about my child, or I am just distracted. The truth is simply, I have no idea how he gets away. Either the tranquilizer darts are not working or I don’t have that leash on tight enough. I am not sure. The point is this was not our first incident.
The most recent lost and found episode at the public library should not have happened. He was in the children’s book room trying to choose between “Little Duck Lost” and “Where is Thumbkin.” I was at the entrance of that very room in the parenting book section. I was making my way through the huge shelf of dusty books on how to be a better mother, trying to select one book that would help me regain my sanity. Somehow, as I had my head down, my four-year-old child walked right past me. Because, with the perfect eyesight that God has given him, he didn’t see me and thought I had wandered off.
One of the books I was looking through actually said that it is a good idea to give your children some freedom in decision making. It improves their self-esteem and let’s them know that you trust them to be responsible. I was reveling in the book’s good advice when I looked up to see that my little angel had disappeared. So, I logically did what any normal parent would do, I started screaming his name hysterically at the top of my lungs while running around the library still carrying two parenting books, waving them like flags to alert patrons that my child was missing.
As I was racing around screeching like a mental patient, he was also looking for me. My little sweetie has 20/20 vision but evidently cannot see the overweight middle-aged woman that feeds him and tucks him in every night, from four feet away. His auditory function, although also perfect, inhibits him from hearing that same woman crying and wailing for him at the volume of a low-flying 747 as she tromps through the library like a mother bear.
Since I am good at multi-tasking, as I was searching for him, I was also going over in my mind what I would tell the police when I called them as well as the picture that I was going to use of my son on milk cartons. Because after 10 seconds of looking I was certain he had been abducted. While I was planning a tri-state coordinated search in my head, complete with the use of tracking dogs, FBI surveillance and a helicopter, he was calmly walking up to a clerk and asking, “Have you seen a woman with brown hair and a black sweater? I can’t find my mom.”
Unlike my offspring, I was not calm and I, on the brink of panic, did not ask a clerk. I questioned what appeared to be a 3-year-old girl, with a Kool-Aid mustache in the middle of eating her own mucus, “Have you seen a little boy, with blonde hair?!” I screeched maniacally.
She, appeared to be totally unmoved and replied, “No, I don’t think so. Well, maybe. Ummm . . . did he have a train shirt on?”
“No.”
“Did he have a dinosaur shirt on?”
“No.”
“Did he have a race car shirt on?”
“No.”
“Did he have a monster shirt on?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t think I saw him.”
I ran off trying to find the next innocent bystander to scare, I mean ask, when I spotted my older son. “Have you seen your little brother?!”
“No.”
“Are you sure?! You didn’t see him come by here?!”
“No. I didn’t see him mom.”
I could tell that older brother was as shook up as I was, because he paused for almost a mili-second and very nearly looked up at me to answer, before he continued with what he was doing. When he is in such emotional distress I know that it is no use to try to talk to him, so I raced on.
Apparently, you are not supposed to scream in a library. I could tell because people were acting awfully peculiar as I continued on my quest for my youngest. Patrons were gawking, shaking their heads and shushing me. Hello?! I have lost my baby! I really don’t care if you are trying to read Jane Eyre--I need to find him. Ok, that was a little far-fetched, no one reads the classics anymore, what I meant to write was, I don’t care if you are in the middle of your Spider-Man graphic novel or People magazine, my child has been stolen!
Just when I was sure all hope was lost, along came the librarian with my child in tow. Children who run away from their mothers get a sticker and sympathetic looks. Mother’s who have heart palpitations from children who run off get nothing but a warning from the library staff and maybe a visit from child-protective-services.
Once my sweetie-pie was back in my possession and I had assured any, and all, interested parties that he indeed was my son, I did not go look for any more books. I just took the ones I had up to the counter and checked them out, being sure to maintain a death-like grip on my child the whole time. When I got home, I thought I was going to collapse, but my nerves were all charged up again when I heard my little bundle of joy recount his version of the story to his father at dinner time.
“Mommy got lost at the library. I couldn’t find her anywhere. By the way, where is brother?”
Maybe Mommy needs to get lost next week, but somewhere a little more relaxing, like the mall or the spa . . . or Mexico. Just don’t send anyone looking for me.
The most recent lost and found episode at the public library should not have happened. He was in the children’s book room trying to choose between “Little Duck Lost” and “Where is Thumbkin.” I was at the entrance of that very room in the parenting book section. I was making my way through the huge shelf of dusty books on how to be a better mother, trying to select one book that would help me regain my sanity. Somehow, as I had my head down, my four-year-old child walked right past me. Because, with the perfect eyesight that God has given him, he didn’t see me and thought I had wandered off.
One of the books I was looking through actually said that it is a good idea to give your children some freedom in decision making. It improves their self-esteem and let’s them know that you trust them to be responsible. I was reveling in the book’s good advice when I looked up to see that my little angel had disappeared. So, I logically did what any normal parent would do, I started screaming his name hysterically at the top of my lungs while running around the library still carrying two parenting books, waving them like flags to alert patrons that my child was missing.
As I was racing around screeching like a mental patient, he was also looking for me. My little sweetie has 20/20 vision but evidently cannot see the overweight middle-aged woman that feeds him and tucks him in every night, from four feet away. His auditory function, although also perfect, inhibits him from hearing that same woman crying and wailing for him at the volume of a low-flying 747 as she tromps through the library like a mother bear.
Since I am good at multi-tasking, as I was searching for him, I was also going over in my mind what I would tell the police when I called them as well as the picture that I was going to use of my son on milk cartons. Because after 10 seconds of looking I was certain he had been abducted. While I was planning a tri-state coordinated search in my head, complete with the use of tracking dogs, FBI surveillance and a helicopter, he was calmly walking up to a clerk and asking, “Have you seen a woman with brown hair and a black sweater? I can’t find my mom.”
Unlike my offspring, I was not calm and I, on the brink of panic, did not ask a clerk. I questioned what appeared to be a 3-year-old girl, with a Kool-Aid mustache in the middle of eating her own mucus, “Have you seen a little boy, with blonde hair?!” I screeched maniacally.
She, appeared to be totally unmoved and replied, “No, I don’t think so. Well, maybe. Ummm . . . did he have a train shirt on?”
“No.”
“Did he have a dinosaur shirt on?”
“No.”
“Did he have a race car shirt on?”
“No.”
“Did he have a monster shirt on?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t think I saw him.”
I ran off trying to find the next innocent bystander to scare, I mean ask, when I spotted my older son. “Have you seen your little brother?!”
“No.”
“Are you sure?! You didn’t see him come by here?!”
“No. I didn’t see him mom.”
I could tell that older brother was as shook up as I was, because he paused for almost a mili-second and very nearly looked up at me to answer, before he continued with what he was doing. When he is in such emotional distress I know that it is no use to try to talk to him, so I raced on.
Apparently, you are not supposed to scream in a library. I could tell because people were acting awfully peculiar as I continued on my quest for my youngest. Patrons were gawking, shaking their heads and shushing me. Hello?! I have lost my baby! I really don’t care if you are trying to read Jane Eyre--I need to find him. Ok, that was a little far-fetched, no one reads the classics anymore, what I meant to write was, I don’t care if you are in the middle of your Spider-Man graphic novel or People magazine, my child has been stolen!
Just when I was sure all hope was lost, along came the librarian with my child in tow. Children who run away from their mothers get a sticker and sympathetic looks. Mother’s who have heart palpitations from children who run off get nothing but a warning from the library staff and maybe a visit from child-protective-services.
Once my sweetie-pie was back in my possession and I had assured any, and all, interested parties that he indeed was my son, I did not go look for any more books. I just took the ones I had up to the counter and checked them out, being sure to maintain a death-like grip on my child the whole time. When I got home, I thought I was going to collapse, but my nerves were all charged up again when I heard my little bundle of joy recount his version of the story to his father at dinner time.
“Mommy got lost at the library. I couldn’t find her anywhere. By the way, where is brother?”
Maybe Mommy needs to get lost next week, but somewhere a little more relaxing, like the mall or the spa . . . or Mexico. Just don’t send anyone looking for me.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Mealtime Isn't for Sissies
It is hard to have a peaceful meal with children. During dinner my husband averts his eyes and won’t even lift his head during a meal in which children are in attendance, afraid of what he might see, afraid it might ruin his appetite. Coward.
I agree, it is difficult, but after a while you do get used to it; the many strange concoctions: applesauce and ketchup, or pudding and noodles, or eggs and peanut butter. I tell him that you can learn to tune out the fighting, the bodily sounds, the spilling of everything from milk to Pepto Bismol, and even the constant gagging. I believe that you can learn to deal with all of that, if you just remember the goal: nourish the children with healthy food and family companionship. Boy, it sounds good in the hypothetical.
I read a parenting book that said to give your kids choices and there will be less hassles at meal time.
“Do you want apple slices or grapes with lunch?”
“No.”
“Do you want strawberries?”
“Nooooooo.”
“Do you want raisins?”
“No! No!”
“Now son, you have to have some fruit. You can choose, either raisins or strawberries or grapes or kiwis or apple slices or oranges or mango or nectarines. But those are your only choices. I am serious.”
“No! No! No! I want neither! I want my Daddy!!!”
The parenting book also said that being firm would stop power struggles in their tracks.
“Mom, can I be done?”
“You hardly touched your food. You need to eat a little bit more.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“How about, if you eat two more bites of carrot and 1 bite of chicken.”
That is when the switch is thrown and your child becomes like Sybil, with their second personality being that of an ACLU lawyer used to strong-armed negotiation tactics.
“M’am, my client will pass on your first offer. Let us know when you want to come to the table with something serious.”
“Ok, how about one bite of carrot and one bite of chicken?”
“No.”
“One bite of chicken and one bite of potato?”
“Here is what we are willing to do: one bite of chicken—no marinade, no carrots, and no potatoes, no bite of roll, and absolutely no salad. Plus, we would like extra whipping cream on desert. Do we have a deal?”
Now, I recognize my part in all this, I never claimed to be a gourmet chef, but I do make an effort. I try new recipes and look through cookbooks searching for real food that the kids will eat. Even when I put out a five course meal that took hours to prepare I can tell that all they really want is a pizza. They say rude things like: “Can we just order a pizza?”
I tell them ‘just try it,’ and ‘you have to give it a chance’ but it doesn’t help. It wouldn’t be so bad except for all of the negative and inappropriate comments. Things like:
“What is this black stuff on the bread?” and “Why is the gravy greenish-blue?” And “It is gravy isn’t it?” Yes, my husband can be a tough critic, but the kids are worse, they say things like “EWWWW! Gross!” or “Look, Mom, when I do this doesn’t it look like puke?”
I guess the bright spot in all this is, thanks to the recession, the cost of food is so high we can no longer afford anything nutritious anyway. Meal time has become less of a battle. So thank you Ponzi schemers and predatory lenders, thanks to all you generally bad people and no-gooders, you have made meal-time happy for children everywhere. Macaroni anyone? There are little pieces of hot dog in it.
I agree, it is difficult, but after a while you do get used to it; the many strange concoctions: applesauce and ketchup, or pudding and noodles, or eggs and peanut butter. I tell him that you can learn to tune out the fighting, the bodily sounds, the spilling of everything from milk to Pepto Bismol, and even the constant gagging. I believe that you can learn to deal with all of that, if you just remember the goal: nourish the children with healthy food and family companionship. Boy, it sounds good in the hypothetical.
I read a parenting book that said to give your kids choices and there will be less hassles at meal time.
“Do you want apple slices or grapes with lunch?”
“No.”
“Do you want strawberries?”
“Nooooooo.”
“Do you want raisins?”
“No! No!”
“Now son, you have to have some fruit. You can choose, either raisins or strawberries or grapes or kiwis or apple slices or oranges or mango or nectarines. But those are your only choices. I am serious.”
“No! No! No! I want neither! I want my Daddy!!!”
The parenting book also said that being firm would stop power struggles in their tracks.
“Mom, can I be done?”
“You hardly touched your food. You need to eat a little bit more.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“How about, if you eat two more bites of carrot and 1 bite of chicken.”
That is when the switch is thrown and your child becomes like Sybil, with their second personality being that of an ACLU lawyer used to strong-armed negotiation tactics.
“M’am, my client will pass on your first offer. Let us know when you want to come to the table with something serious.”
“Ok, how about one bite of carrot and one bite of chicken?”
“No.”
“One bite of chicken and one bite of potato?”
“Here is what we are willing to do: one bite of chicken—no marinade, no carrots, and no potatoes, no bite of roll, and absolutely no salad. Plus, we would like extra whipping cream on desert. Do we have a deal?”
Now, I recognize my part in all this, I never claimed to be a gourmet chef, but I do make an effort. I try new recipes and look through cookbooks searching for real food that the kids will eat. Even when I put out a five course meal that took hours to prepare I can tell that all they really want is a pizza. They say rude things like: “Can we just order a pizza?”
I tell them ‘just try it,’ and ‘you have to give it a chance’ but it doesn’t help. It wouldn’t be so bad except for all of the negative and inappropriate comments. Things like:
“What is this black stuff on the bread?” and “Why is the gravy greenish-blue?” And “It is gravy isn’t it?” Yes, my husband can be a tough critic, but the kids are worse, they say things like “EWWWW! Gross!” or “Look, Mom, when I do this doesn’t it look like puke?”
I guess the bright spot in all this is, thanks to the recession, the cost of food is so high we can no longer afford anything nutritious anyway. Meal time has become less of a battle. So thank you Ponzi schemers and predatory lenders, thanks to all you generally bad people and no-gooders, you have made meal-time happy for children everywhere. Macaroni anyone? There are little pieces of hot dog in it.
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