Monday, February 28, 2011

Son of a Biscuit

035 I fell down the stairs last night while giving Ian a piggy back ride.

I slipped and fell backwards and Ian hit the edge of one of the stairs with the middle of his back.

But enough about him.

In an attempt to spare him having all **5 pounds of mommy landing on top of him, I used my right foot and ankle as landing gear and as soon as I did it I knew I was screwed.

The pain knocked the wind out of me, but I was coherent enough to witness that:

1. Out of the half a dozen or so eyewitnesses that were present, only 2 sprang into action while the rest tried to ascertain the seriousness of the situation from the comfort of the dining table.

2. I’m talking about YOU, Dad.

3. Ian was the first to be triaged, and I’m assuming it’s because he was crying louder than me.  I’m going to have to work on that.

4. No one offered to carry me down the stairs to my bedroom.  I’m going to go out on a limb here (ha!) and say it was because they wanted to spare me the humiliation and not because they were concerned with the laws of gravity.

I managed to make it downstairs by scooting on my butt, breathless the entire way.  I have a pretty high threshold when it comes to aches and pains, but this was a doozy.  I knew immediately after it happened that my foot wasn’t broken, but I also knew that a bedpan was not necessarily out of the question.  When I mentioned this to my husband he looked slightly nauseous and appeared a bit faint, but I think he was just super worried about me.

I endured the Oscars (not sure what was more painful, to be honest) and went to bed hopped up on extra strength Tylenol.  It was a sleepless night but not the kind that you brag about to your friends.  The morning brought more pain and I struggled with:

1. Watching Mikey NOT do things my way as he got the kids ready for school and packed their lunches.

2. Watching Mikey NOT listen to me as I micromanaged from the couch.

3. Watching Mikey walk away when he had had enough of my unsolicited advice, knowing full well that I couldn’t run after him.

4. Determining the distance between Mikey and my left crutch.

It wasn’t until everyone had left and I was stuck watching The Suite Life of Zack and Cody, the remote clear across the room on the other couch, that the severity of my situation began to sink in. Luckily I was able to get an early afternoon appointment to see a local Orthopedic Surgeon.  My best friend drove me and my husband met me there.  The concerned look on his face filled me with warmth and love. “Seriously?  You steal my brand new socks everyday and then you wear your most hideous pair to the doctor’s office?”

Charming, isn’t he?

At this point the pain was getting worse and worse, and in the intensity of the moment I began to say things that made no sense:

“I’m so sorry I was so unpleasant this morning; it’s not your fault you don’t know the kids’ morning routine by heart. It’s my fault for assuming you should know what to do instead of realizing that you are at the office and not aware of our schedule.”

Obviously I was delirious at this point.

After taking some x-rays and moving my foot around until I yelped in pain, the doctor confirmed my worst fears:

I’m a moron who needs to watch where the hell I’m going, or at least let my son soften the fall next time. 

Also, I sprained my ankle.

Let the pity party  (and gift-giving) commence.

Friday, February 25, 2011

No Wonder Grown-ups Are So Grumpy

JGS_CrayonDrawing So I’ve got this new gig as a freelance columnist with OC Moms for the Orange County Register.

I’m not sure, but I might have mentioned it.  Once or twice.

I’m also doing some behind-the-scenes stuff for them, such as editing blog posts, scheduling content, and marveling at the fact that I have access to news stories before you do. 

But mainly I spend most of my day convincing myself that rearranging the content so that my articles are in the Breaking News category and displayed on the front page, all day, every day, might not be such a great idea and could create some discourse.

I’ve been successful so far, but I can’t make any promises.

This new gig has definitely lifted my spirits though, since I’ve been down in the dumps about leaving my teaching job, which I loved, when we found out about Andrew’s CF diagnosis last fall.  Writing the column has been a dream come true, and I’m thrilled to be part of such an awesome network of writers and contributors.

Last week I had to go into the office for some additional training, and spent the better part of Wednesday morning at the Orange County Register headquarters, a large, looming, pink(!?) building that I’ve driven by countless times as a perplexed Orange County resident.

I was promised a tour of the newsroom, and was fascinated by what I saw:

Grown-ups.  (Everywhere).

Hot beverages and sharp scissors in precarious places.

Unsupervised candy

And by what I didn’t see:


Glitter.  (Not one little speck)

Lincoln logs

I learned (rather unpleasantly, I might add) that not everyone appreciates a good solid nose wipe (not to brag, but I can spot a rogue boogie from a mile away and can nab that sucker in 2 seconds flat, left-handed, using a one-ply tissue), and that certain people really take offense when you remind them to tuck in their shirts and tie their shoes.

I also had a difficult time finding the potty, and no wonder, since the door isn’t painted lollipop purple and instead of a picture of a cartoon toilet, has the word Restroom written across the top. How confusing is that?

The other thing that struck me as odd was that when it was time for snack and lunch, everyone ate at their desks. In front of their computers.  And kept working.  No recess. No monkey bars. No freeze tag.

No wonder grown-ups are so grumpy.

I got the distinct impression that, even though every bone in my body knew it was the right thing to do, a game of twister and a finger painting session would be out of the question.

But I’m definitely going to suggest pajama day the next time I go back. And maybe some glitter.

Because even grumpy grown-ups need a sparkly Pajama Day once in a little while.


Thursday, February 17, 2011

Kismet or Coincidence? Neither, actually.

So our Valentine's Day was pretty mellow this year.  And by mellow I mean that Mikey went to work and I spent the day covering five hundred strawberries in chocolates, tying ribbons on last-minute teacher gifts, dropping children off, running to the store for steak, setting the table for dinner, attending back-to-back classroom parties, eating back-to-back cupcakes, and spending the rest of the afternoon nursing what some may refer to as a diabetic coma.

We had a nice family meal and adopted my mom (dad is in Singapore on business), my sister (single, and looking!), and my grandmother (single since 1943, and looking.......for her dentures!) as our Valentine Orphans (catchy title, huh?  May even trademark that).  We all exchanged little goodies and cards, and had a magnificent time. At least I think we did.  I was still in that diabetic coma.

When my husband and I opened up the cards we got for one another (yes, we do get roped into this Hallmark holiday, so suck it), we were pleasantly surprised when we realized we had gotten the exact same ones!
 "I'm Blessed to Have you for a Husband/Wife" 
"Even when it seems the days just get more hectic and theres always some new worry or stress....blah blah blah blah."

My husband declared it one more sign that we were soulmates, and we high-fived across the table, glowing with love and excitement.

The truth is, I didn't have the heart to tell him that this card was the one I had settled for, when the one that I was actually looking for, the one I really really wanted to get for him because it summed up perfectly what I felt for him, the one I spent days hunting for, wasn't anywhere to be found:

To My Husband:

When you leave your shoes, scattered all over the floor, because the shoe closet is a whole ten freakin feet away
it makes me want to scratch my eyes out

When you give the boys a haircut and then leave the little hairs stuck in the sink, on the toilet, on the floor, and in the soap dish
it makes me want to stick my hand in the blender.  On high.

If you ever want me to put out again, wash a #$%!!! dish once in a @#$!! while.

Happy Valentine's Day!

*Thank you honey, for being such a good sport.  You are an amazing husband and father, but that's just not that funny, you know?*

Friday, February 11, 2011

PSA: Ladies, Don't Put Those Panties On Please!

Photo courtesy
Gross teenagers and desperate husbands not included.
I was at Victoria's Secret with my sister this morning and the place was pumpin', filled with doting boyfriends and horny hopeful husbands picking out that perfect little ensemble to present to their significant other.  There's nothing like the promise of cleavage romance that motivates a man to plunk down $150 on something he's probably going to rip to shreds with his teeth anyway (and I'm just talking about the obligatory steak dinner).   Bras, panties, lace lingerie; it was all there for the picking. 

And the probing. 

And the groping.
And the.........ew.

First it was the group of adolescent boys, deep in the throes of puberty, huddled over by the flourescent piles of g-strings, their grubby little hands and teenage hormones raging all over the merchandise, their mouths wide open, the drool landing in places you just don't want drool to land.

Then it was the old man standing in front of the lingerie display, his wrinkled and cigarette stained hands man-handling the backless pink apron number, and for some reason I got the impression that that little exchange was about as much action as gramps was gonna see. Ever.

I stood back and took a good hard look around; the place was pumpin' alright, with testasterone-drenched men of every shape, color, and size, sweating, fantasizing, and panting all over your panties.

That's right.  Kind of gives new meaning to Victoria's "Secret," doesn't it?

So when your kind, thoughtful, loving man gives you that coveted pink and red striped box this Valentine's Day, I urge you to

smile gratefully

accept it carefully (wearing latex gloves, of course)

place it on the nearest flat surface

and then set that box o'nasty on fire before the cooties have a chance to escape and infiltrate your personal space.

*This message was lovingly brought to you by a fellow woman who is gravely, if not a bit irrationally, concerned about your lady parts*

Thursday, February 10, 2011

A Discussion Over Dinner

"Hi honey.  How was your day?"

"Oh man.  It was brutal."

"Really?  I'm so sorry to hear that.  Tell me all about it."

"Well, it started off okay, until I was notified that someone was trying to take over part of my account."

"Oh no!"

"Yeah.  The guy tried to recruit some of my guys and was trying to buy them for loads of money. It was so stressful, I wasn't sure how I was going to be able to reconcile my account and resolve this mess!"

"What did you do?"

"I spent the money to get them back.  It was an expensive move, but well worth it.  Except he came after me again!  Dude. This guy was trying to wipe me out! I ended up talking to someone about it and they contacted the Admin for my group; he got back to me pretty quickly and we went over the details of what had been going down.  He told me that what the guy was doing was illegal and made him apologize; basically banned him from having anymore contact with me. " 

"Wow!  Good for you honey!  Sounds like you were able to resolve things!"

"It was so intense babe.  I kept getting updates the rest of the day from other people who had experienced similiar issues with guys like this and they gave me some pretty great ideas on how to better protect my allies and my Kingdom in the future.

"Well, that's terrific.  Ha! You just said Kingdom on accident.  You must be working too hard."

"No, I meant to say it.  Why, what did you think I was talking about?"

"Um, work?"

"Work?  No. Work was fine."

"Well then what the hell have you been talking about this entire time?"

"My game. On my iphone. You know, Kingdoms at War."

I can't wait for date night.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Not Guilty


Recently I had the opportunity to accompany a friend to a warm and fuzzy little place called the Santa Ana Courthouse.  She needed to straighten out a traffic violation and always hungry for blog material being the good friend that I am, I offered to come along for moral support.

Upon entering the facilities, which are, um, spacious and decorated in what I would refer to as DMV Chic, I began removing any metal I was wearing and noticed a bunch of folks taking off their belts.  Wanting to warm up the crowd a bit, I jumped in with “I hope everyone wore pants that fit today!” and waited for the round of chuckles my cheesy jokes usually garner.


The officers were not amused and, judging by the signs they flashed, neither were our local gangbangers (who, by the way, did not wear pants that fit, thankyouverymuch).

Just as I was about to retrieve my duffle bag purse from the conveyor belt, one of the policemen guarding the x-ray machine stopped me and pulled me aside. 

“Ma’am?  What is your business today at the court?”

“I’m here to support this woman, who was pulled over by one of your fine-weathered friends for driving like a jackass.”

My girlfriend shot me a dirty look; I shot one back at her that said “he’s got a gun and a very official looking moustache, so shut it.”

“Ma’am, I cannot allow you to proceed past this point until you give me permission to throw this away.”

And that’s when he pulled out, and held up for all of the criminals of Orange County to see, a four-pronged, silver-handled, dinner fork.

Yep.  I had a dinner fork in my purse.

Someone snickered.

I felt equal parts mortified and…….nope……mortified just about sums it up.

I told him he could toss it and tried not to let him see the pained expression on my face.  It was a good fork.

Once we got passed the check-in, we headed towards the courtroom designated on my friend’s paperwork and it was harder than you might think to distinguish the lawyers from the defendants; you can take the crackhead out of wherever a crackhead would hang out and put him in a cheap, oversized suit with a matching polyester tie and pleather shoes, and he’ll look just like the lawyers.  Luckily the handcuffs help; also, lawyers tend to have less facial piercings and usually don’t sport forehead tattoos, but really, that’s where the differences end.

Mostly though, I was surprised to find that the court has such a family-friendly atmosphere!  There were children everywhere: climbing the benches, eating Cheetos off the floor, coughing NOT into the inside of their elbows.  I was especially moved by a family who stood behind us in line; the father was dressed to the nines in a t-shirt that must have been a gift when he renewed his Hustler subscription, the silhouette of a woman in a compromising position splayed across his back.  His wife/girlfriend/baby mama/call-girl was equally classy in her cleavage baring top and low rise jeans, her penciled in eyebrows positioned in an arch that clearly said “Gurl, you best not be staring at my penciled in eyebrows,” her ruby red platforms the perfect contrast for her black ankle monitor.  Their daughter was adorable and the way she pronouced the word $@#% with a little lisp just melted my heart.

Suffice it to say, I was a tad disappointed when it was my girlfriend’s turn to go before the judge and she got her ticket thrown out without my help; I didn’t even get to shout “You can’t handle the truth!”

With any luck, someone close to me will break the law soon because I can’t wait to go back.

Someone over there owes me a fork.