Dear Lady in the Parking Lot

Dear Lady in the Parking Lot,

I counted.  There were 37 open spots in the lot this morning.  In fact, I was the only car in it, until you arrived.  So I’m curious, with a lot full of spaces, why did you pull up RIGHT NEXT to me? I park there, by myself, for several reasons…and you messed up my whole routine.  

First of all, I park that far away just so no one will pull up next to me.  I don’t want anyone next to me because this is the time I like to spend in my rearview mirror.  This is the perfect time for me to make sure there are no “bats in the cave.”  It is also the place with the perfect morning sunlight (that no bathroom vanity light can replicate) to catch the tweezer oversight.  That insane two inch long blonde hair poking out from the chin or upper lip that somehow made it past my close inspection.  You know the one, the one that sprouts out of nowhere in record time.  The one that leaves you horrified, wondering how many people saw it before you caught it.  Well my morning parking lot routine is where I find it, and I couldn’t with you there, so I probably have a goatee by now, thanks a lot.

As if it wasn’t bad enough that you pulled up right next to me, you sat in your car forever.  It was like you were taunting me.  I waited, and waited, and waited..and you just sat there.  I know you weren’t waiting to pick or tweeze or you would have parked at the other end and gone to town.  

You’re probably the same lady that had a cell phone conversation in the bathroom while I was in the stall waiting for you to leave.  Yeah you know who you are, the one that was talking to your “boo” for eternity.  The total weirdo that that ended your call, apologized to me by saying “Sorry girl, you know how it is when your man calls, you got to get the phone…”, and left!  No I don’t know how it is and why didn’t you leave first?  You had no business left in the bathroom at all…Who does that??? It felt gross and I couldn’t pee. Didn’t your “boo” hear  the flushing?  Aren’t you afraid of sick little public restroom germs clinging to your phone?  How can you use the word “boo” in a public bathroom anyway?…yuck.  That’s like getting it on at your grandma’s house or something..you just don’t do it.  I had three appointments after that and all I could think about was how weird and gross that restroom interaction was.  I lost almost a day of productivity just thinking about it.  That bathroom stunk and you were talking a lot, which means you were inhaling the funk word after word.  I always hold my breath in that bathroom, its just good practice.  Then I started to wonder if I am ever talking to my "boo" on the phone and he is in some sick ass public restroom talking all sweet and nice as if he is sitting on a rainbow holding a kitten.  Because that's what you did and I bet your boyfriend has no idea.    Kinda misleading don't you think? I wanted to find you and confront you but I’m really a big wuss, so it never happened. 

Look it’s not rocket science, its simple bathroom and parking lot etiquette.  Does there need to be a book, really?  Come on lady, get your life together. In the meantime I’ll be parking down the street and peeing in a cup under my desk.

Fred Bird is a pervert and quite possibly a communist

Puppets, big and small, but mostly big, creep me out.  Anyone that knows me is aware of this.  I make no secret about the fact that I want nothing to do with Bugs Bunny at Six Flags or the BHS Beaver at the local high school game.  I don't like big puppets looking at me or doing weird hand gestures and body shakes in my direction.  The only reason I don't like good seats to the Cardinals games is because of the increased likelihood that Fred Bird will come near me.  This isn't some unfounded phobia, I have logical, concrete reasons for my feelings toward big puppets...and here they are.

First of all, you have to ask yourself, what kind of a person thinks it is a good idea to dress up in a big hot costume and walk around bothering people for a living?  Why would anyone make this a career choice? One time when I was working in student services at UMSL I had to pick up the mascot costume.  It smelled like salty B.O. and greenbean water.  It was disgusting.  I knew I wouldn't want anything to do with somebody that would put that on their head and dance at basketball games.  Think about it.

Second of all, they never talk.  That's just weird. The cartoon characters talk.  So now you're like a huge  puffy mute version of the real thing and that makes no sense.

Third of all...where are they looking?  Their eyes are plush and don't even have pupils.  They have this mesh air hole that I can't see in, but they can see out of. I don't trust anything that can look at me and I don't know it. You old creepy ass.

Finally, they can't take a hint.  If a kid is screaming at the top of their lungs because they are smart and know that you're not right, why would you keep trying to high five them?  If I turn the other direction and pretend not to see you, why do you single me out for an extra weird shake dance thing, or whatever it is you're doing. Why are you so damn pushy?  You get the same 7 bucks an hour regardless, so this is personal.  Back off.

Ask yourself this people.  If someone came up to you at Schnucks wearing sunglasses and started shaking their butt  and trying to high five your kid,  never saying a word....would this be ok?  Yet somehow if they dress up like a chicken it's all good? I say no.

Do you know anyone personally that is a big puppet for a living?  No?  Me either.  Who are these people and how come we don't know them? Where do they hang out when they are not terrifying the public at a theme park?  There is probably some big creepy puppet hangout where they all get a good laugh at the psychological damage they did that day.  They probably have big creepy puppet parties where they do the duck dance and the locomotion.

Be afraid people, be very afraid.

Dueling Grannies

 

Women, even the best of friends, have a way of subtly being in competition with each other, whether they  admit it or not.  Your best friend loses 20 lbs, and suddenly your goal becomes 25.  She gets a breast lift after you both swore that you were strong women that loved your bodies just as they are...and now you're shopping for silicone.  She brags that her husband or boyfriend did the most romantic thing in the world, you get home and tear into your partner for never doing anything for you. It's not that you can't be happy for your friend, its just that  it is a LOT easier when you look and feel better than her.  Yeah I said it.

I always thought that with age and wisdom things would change.  I assumed that the time spent coveting your friends was replaced with canning or trinket collecting. I was wrong.

My mom has had a group of girlfriends for as long as I can remember.  They have been getting together since I was a kid.  They all have kids around my age, so it was no surprise that we starting having kids at the same time. We all had boys, which I think was God's way of getting back at them for years of bitching about men.

The first time mom called me with some baby product advice, I didn't think anything of it.  It seemed innocent. 

Mom:  Do you have one of those things called a Gumbo or Bumbo or something like that?

Me:  No

Mom:  Oh, well Sid said Gavin has one and just loves it.  You should get one of those.

Me:  What is it?

Mom:  I don't know but I'll get you one.

The next week when she came to visit, there it was.  I had a Bumbo. Maybe she just really wants her grandson to be happy and thought this rubber seat would do the trick. That's probably it.

A few weeks later I was talking to mom about Kellen having some trouble with his formula. She had a solution right away:

Mom:  Have you tried those Avent bottles?

Me:  No, aren't those really expensive?

Mom:  Well they might be but Gavin uses them and he doesn't get gas like that. Why don't you return those bottles we got and get those Avent bottles.

Me:  Ok, maybe I will try that, talk to you later Mom.

A few minutes later....my phone rang.

Mom:  Ok, Sid said they are the 16 oz with the yellow nipple.  Are you picking them up now?

Me: I'm on my way...

$60.00  and six months later Kellen was still crying.  In the meantime I was well aware of what Gavin ate, what he wore, words he was saying, that he was potty-trained at a ridiculously young age.  It wasn't until Kellen was almost two that I realized that I wasn't the only one.  During a get-together with Gavin's mom I was telling her about how much Kellen was talking when she stopped me. "Oh I know, Sid told me."  We soon realized what was going on.  The grannies were dueling.

I confronted Mom and let her know that we were on to them.  She laughed and said, "Oh now that's ridiculous, we are not."

Right now Mom and Sid and Kellen and Gavin are at the pool.  Mom thought Kellen needed to start swimming lessons.  It probably had nothing to do with the fact that Gavin  started swimming.   Mom probably was just making conversation when she pointed out that Kellen could hold his breath and go under water longer than Gavin.  That probably wasn't a half-smile I saw as she told me. Time to step your game up Granny Sid, you need a rebound.

BUTTERPROOF

I am not sure why I spend so much time trying to prove my point with my 3 year old son.  You would think it would be easy for me to just let it go, chock it up to him being 3, and move on.  But I can't.  I have to fight to the finish, especially when it is something really important, like with one of our most recent disputes.  On the way to daycare we were doing what we always do, singing and dancing in the Golden Previa (if you haven't seen one, I suggest a google search...they are pretty sweet), music all the way up (mostly to drown out the road noise..it's a 94') and getting ready for our day.  In the middle of one of our favorites (actually our favorites have to be one of the six they play on the radio because that's all we have) I stopped singing to ask Kellen if he had any underwear on.  I remembered that I was really proud of how fast he had dressed himself that morning, and just now realized that he could very well be missing some essentials.  At any rate, that's when I noticed it.  Singing the new La Roux song I heard Kellen say, "This time baby, I'll be e e  butter - proof."  I cracked up laughing and  asked him to repeat the lyric.  Yep.  He said "butterproof".  Casually I said, "Honey it's not butterproof, it's bulletproof."  He paused, "No its butterproof.  See listen.  Here it comes.  This time baby I'll be e e butter-proof."   Still in light spirits I laughed again.  "No its bulletproof"  "Mom, its butterproof."  "What does butter-proof even mean Kellen?  There's no such thing as butter-proof." "Yes there is, like in the song." Now I was getting defensive. "Oh, butter-proof like in the song where you just MADE UP that it says butter-proof?  Like in that song?" "Yep."  I was defeated.  Luckily we were finally at daycare.  I kissed him goodbye and just as I jumped in my van yelled, "It's BULLETPROOF", and slammed the door closed before he could respond.  As I drove away I could read his lips in slow motion in my rearview.  "It's Bbbuuuttttttteeerrr  ppprrrooofff."  Yeah, try telling that to Miss Charlotte.  Haha.  She's not falling for that crap either. 

It wasn't as bad as last time when he butchered the Jordin Sparks song and said "Better go and get your labra" instead of "Better go and get your armor."  That time the argument lasted all afternoon with me challenging him to go and get me a labra.  He couldn't produce and I was victorious.  I think I will be this time too because I thought all day about what my comeback would be when he inevitably challenged me again."Spell Butterproof"  Ha ha ha ha ha.  You're 3 and can't spell.  BOO-YAH!

Fro sho

Now I know that Kellen is my son, I distinctly remember the 30 hours I spent trying to squeeze that head out of me. It was no small feat.  After he finally popped, I remember looking over and seeing him, all of us thinking the same thing, but not saying it.  That is, except for his dad, who just looked at me after 30 hours of labor and whispered..."what's wrong with his head?"    At that time it looked like someone had planted a mushroom in his eyebrows.  His dad later said he was sure we would have to home-school him.  Fortunately, these things have a way of correcting themselves.  Either that or it worked when I tried to secretly round it out every time the nurse brought him in to breastfeed.  They assumed he was having trouble latching on, but really I was too busy trying to squish his head into shape by repeating these kind of circular strokes on his little cap.  I didn't dare move it to see if I was making progress.  By the time we got home, two things were obvious. His head was finally round, and there was a  mix-up at the hospital between me and the leprechaun that must have been giving birth nearby.  I didn't go to trade him back though because with my overbite and poor vision, genetically I probably had the better "wee little baby."  Besides, how would my true offspring ever be able to make delicious purple horseshoes? He was a keeper.

 I didn't start to worry until he was about six months old.  That's when he started to lose his hair.  It took months to regrow...and eventually curl.  That's when the reality set in. Kellen was not a leprechaun baby at all.  No.  With those puffy red locks and receding hairline, there was only one possibility...he was most likely  the offspring of Billy Crystal and Ronald McDonald. I should have known.  We are in the bible belt.  They would never let a man and a creepy-clown-man raise a son together.  He's in good hands guys.  Your secret is safe with me.