Wednesday, April 2, 2014

Shingles in my Twenties?! #oldpeopleprobz

I'm too friggin' young for this.
That was my initial thought as my urgent care doctor (no, I don't have a regular doctor), diagnosed me with Shingles. At age 29.  Talk about an age crisis.  Turning 30 is bad enough, now Shingles.

He's Asian, so I'll try to imitate his accent here.

(note- I'm not making fun of Asians - I don't discriminate when I spell out people's accents).

Doctor: "You have Shingles.  You okay with shot in butt?"

Me: "Ummm, I guess, never had one, but sure if it gets the Shingles out faster."

Doctor: "It help with symptom - pain and itching."

Me: "Alrighty, go ahead.   And hey, I'm leaving for Vegas in 3 days, can I have a drink in Vegas? Say Vodka?"

Doctor: " Okay - no direct sun. No Mojave Desert.  You can take 2 sip of Vodka. No more."

Me: "Awesome."

4 Year old: "Mommy you're getting a shot?! In your butt?! I'll hold your hand.  Are you going to scream?"

Let's rewind to - 4 DAYS BEFORE SHINGLE DIAGNOSIS

I felt an unidentified foreign object on my head Tuesday night while lying in bed watching Bravo.  I begged my husband to touch it.  I was like, "Duuuddeee, it's a freakin' tumor, I know it.  Or it's the world's largest pimple.  Either way, can you touch it? I need to know what you think."

He refuses, over and over and over again.

Hubby's all like, "That's nasty, I'm not touching your massive zit."

Me, "But it could be a tumor!"

Hubby, "Oh my Gaawwdd, fine."

Hubby, "GRROOOOSSSS!!"

Me, "You should probably wash your hands."

Hubby, "I'm too tired to get up."

Me, "Suit yourself homie."

At this point, I'm blaming the "pimple" on vanity.  Cursing myself...in my head.  Dammit?! Why did I have to go to the friggin' tanning salon?!  For what?! To get a base tan?! Base tans are bullshit! I cannnnottt beeelllieeeve I got a massive pimple before my Vegas trip.  Fucking tanning salons.

Side note here- I do NOT tan regularly, I'm terrified of the effects, but in recent months leading up to my thirtieth birthday, vanity has overridden all sane decisions related to my appearance.

Next day, I have a hair appointment.  I'm getting bleach - so I kinda figured the bleach would kill the pimple. WRONG.  By the end of the night, I have 3 more mysterious pimples - 2 on my forehead and 1 on my eyebrow.

Day after that - still pimples.

Friday - I'm busy as shit running around like a mad woman trying to make sure my house is clean, my pantry is stocked and I am packed for Vegas.  My mother in law is coming into town to take of my kiddies, and the TO DO list is a mile long.  Not to mention, taking care of all of the mini crises that popped up before my trip.

Late afternoon, I decide I need coffee - so I stop at Panera with the kids and give them cookies and milk.  Then, all nonchanlantly, I stroll over to the urgent care office a few doors down - to have them check out my pimples/boils/tumors before my trip.

Enter SHINGLES.

The meds they give you - alone - are enough to make you go nuts.  Anti-virals, steroids, and if those don't cut it - you get prescribed creepy pain meds.

The steroids, made me fucking loony.  I was a danger to myself and society.

The shingles on my head and eye were friggin' painful.  We're talking stabbing pain in my eyeball.  Nothing touches the pain.  Nothing.

The exhaustion is another thing.

You feel like you have the painful, itchy version of the flu.

On Monday, I'm just trying to figure out how the fuuccckkk I'm supposed to get through Vegas feeling like utter shit.

Either way, I ponied up - cuz that's what workin' mamas do - and went on my business trip.

Yes, the first day sucked utter balls.  Desert air, 3 hour time change, and the expectation to stay out late.  It all about killed me.

But the next day, I felt so much better.  And thankfully, it kept getting better.

Yes, there is the occasional stabbing sensation in my eye and neck.  But, nothing like the excruciating pain from before.

From what I've read and heard - I still have a long road ahead.  Maybe 4 weeks of recovery time IF I don't have any complications.

All of this Shingles shit, seven months before D-day.  I mean B-Day.  The big 3-OHHH.

So of couuuurrrsssee, I'm thinking - I got Shingles because I'm old.

Just put a fork in me - married, kids, muddied career path, muffin top, Shingles, 30.
Boom, done.

#oldpeopleprobz.


Sunday, March 2, 2014

Musings of a City Girl Stuck in Suburbia



I'll spoil the ending and tell you - I have no idea how to survive in Suburbia.

My only coping mechanisms are to enroll my kids in tons of activities, travel to the "city" to do as many culturally enriching experiences as possible and drink enough wine to numb it all away.

I am by nature, personality and looks - a city girl.

I like to walk everywhere.  I like to haul my groceries for blocks and blocks - sometimes through snow.  I like to go to several different stores to get my groceries for the week - the bakery, the farmer's market and the florist - instead of shopping at big box stores.  You can't get fresh bread at Super Wal-Mart.  You just can't.

I like passing people on busy sidewalks (sometimes bumping shoulders), smelling the scents of the nearby restaurants and peaking in the boutiques on my way to the post office.

I like going to the local book store -that sells new and used books.  It smells like old books in there.  Stale paper - nothing is better than that.  Well, except for maybe a good public library - where all the books are free.

I like trying to maneuver my double stroller down busy sidewalks.

I don't mind the occasional urine soaked bus stop that stinks to high hell - hell, I might get on that bus.

I don't mind the flashing neon lights of the sex shop.  The intoxicating smell of a smoke shop.

I don't mind the occasional ramblings of a crack head  - I might fist pump him.  I might give her a dollar.

I love the noise of cars honking, trains chooing and 20-somethings getting drunk at the local dive bar.

The energy of a city is electric, motivating and inspiring.

Fast forward to my stale life in Suburbia.

Who comes alive here?

Suburbia feels like settling.  The words are almost synonymous.

Not to say there aren't motivated people out here - but how could they possibly have their finger on the pulse of culture?  REAL culture.  Unless of course, suburbia is simply home base and they work in a city - or travel to great cities.

In Suburbia, everyone is either in their cars driving (because in Suburbia you have to drive everywhere), or they're at home - their slice of the suburban pie.

For a typical housewife - this shit is stifling.  Stale.  Suburbia feels like a stop before death.  I don't know how these muthas do it.

It's the  - okay, I've settled down, with my 2.5 kids, bought my McMansion house (because it's cheaper out here) - it has granite counter tops, fake hardwood floors and stainless steal appliances. Isn't that the dream house nowadays?  The flipped HGTV house.

Suburbia boasts good schools.  It's always the city schools that get blamed for being all fucked up.  So maybe that's the draw.

Suburbia boasts the best shopping.  It's one shopping complex (complete with a Fro-Yo, Target, Kohls, nail salon and Mattress City), after another.  One carefully, constructed, perfectly, rectangle shopping center with a fountain after another.

The vehicles you'll find in Suburbia consist of  well,  The Suburban (how appropriate), BMW or the lovely Mini-Van.

The style.  Ohhhhhh Gawd, can I even call it that?  The style in Suburbia is as stale as the lifestyle.  And sometimes - worse.  Enter - yoga pants.  Yoga pants and a pink baseball cap are not okay to go anywhere in - except for - to the gym.  And maybe even pumping gas after the gym - if you must.

I don't get all dolled up everywhere I go - pah-lease.  But I do believe in putting together a proper outfit  - that is fit for my outing.

Yoga pants don't qualify as any part of an ensemble. Except for an exercise outfit.  Boom - so will the suburban sweeties stop wearing them to pre-school events, or the grocery store, or out to lunch?

Lastly - and this may only pertain to Southern Suburban Sweeties: Religion.  Stop preaching it.  Stop telling your kid to recite bible versus in front of my kid.  No one cares that your kid knows Luke number bla bla bla in book bla, verse bla. No one.  It's uncomfortable.

What if I said my religion was the Beastie Boys and Ghostface Killah?  And what if I asked my kid to recite thoooossseee verses in front of your kid?  Yeah, didn't think so.  Or maybe you don't even know what rap music is?

Do people live in Suburbia for the bigger house, bigger yard, bigger car and best schools?  Is that the recipe for a successful family and successful children?

I don't think so.

Diversity breeds the kind of kids I want.  Diversity is what I thrive (and apparently, survive) on.

Diverse people, living in close proximity, always colliding.  (I also think this holds true if you live in the country.  People in rural areas know each other - because they lean on each other more).

In Suburbia - no one collides.  Everyone is to themselves.  And when they are out in social situations - it's like no one knows how to act.  No one knows how to be real.  No one knows how to show their genuine selves.  In the 5 months living in Suburbia - not one single person has even tried to befriend me.  I take that back - the one, foreign mother in my kid's preschool class has befriended me.  Her English is getting better by the day - and the fact that she is befriending me - means the world.

If my kids are too cool for school - then I'm too cool for Suburbia.

This can't be life.


Saturday, February 22, 2014

What the F*#% did my kid just say?!




By now you know I have a potty mouth.

I swear...a lot.

It's not to be cool, but more like, for emphasis.

I'm like the rapper - that's opposite from Will Smith.  I'm like the Gangsta Rapper (minus guns).

I'm like the Parent that needs Parental Advisory stamped across my chest.

But my lyrical, linguistic identity is built upon consistent use of puns (profane and non-profane), dry humor and well, swearing.

And you guessed it.  Naturally, when you cuss 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, you raise potty mouthed little children.

Our first encounter with swear words happened at storytime in the public library.  You can read about THAT here.  Oh yeah, older one blurted out not one, but 2 swear words in front of a packed storytime hour.

And I handled it like a really appropriate parent.  I laughed my ass off - until tears tumbled out of my eyes.  The kind of laugh that you can't catch your breath.

I was mildly effected by the - should have been - embarrassing moment.  I should've felt shameful.  Like a bad parent.  But I didn't.

And it was definitely not the last cuss words I'd hear leaving the mouth of my then- toddler.

So far, the popular cuss words/phrases are:

"Dammit!"

"Fucking driver!" (with and without the exclamation point, and with or without being in the car)

"What the fuck Syracuse?!" (during a very close basketball game last weekend)

And literally, I've never yelled at my children for swearing.  It sounds crazy, right?  Isn't the "right" parental thing to do - is to yell at your kid?  Wash their mouth out with soap?  Send them to bed with no supper?

Here's why I can't even entertain a reprimand:

Point number one, I swear - so can I possibly ask my kids not to?  I mean, they hear me swear probably (at least), once a day.  It seems ridiculous to impose unequal language rules in the family.

Number two, I actually don't care that my kids swear sometimes.  I really don't care!  They don't go around daily, even monthly screaming the F word in public - or even at home.  When it happens, it's truly a slip.  And you can tell - it's a slip that was brought on by a big emotion - like anger or frustration.  So how can I blame them?  They've learned how to express anger and frustration with a cuss word - just like most of the population.

Stub your toe - tell me how long it takes you to scream, "FUUUUCCKKKKK!"

I bet not even, a millisecond.

My husband who swears occasionally - hates me swearing.  He thinks it's low class.  He thinks it's vile and is totally disgusted by my profanity.

My husband flips out on our kids when they use a cuss word.  Flipping out  is mild terminology.  My husband goes DEFCON 5 on their asses.  He screams.  He threatens.  He tells them they should never, ever say those bad words.  He's even been known to put them in time out for swearing.

On the flip side - here I am - Miss Free Spirit - Miss I Don't Give a Fuck - Literally.

When my kid cusses - I pause, lower myself to their eye level - and say very calmly, "Mommy and Daddy sometimes use bad words.  Sometimes we say them at home.  Let's try only to have slips at home - and not use those words when we're with our friends, at school, at the grocery store, etc."

I guess my thinking is - I don't actually want my kids to tell their classmates to effe off - or call them the B word, or the A word, at the playground.  But, I also don't want to make a big deal out of it.  Simple logic says, once you tell a child not to do something,  they like to do it more.

My husband's theory is to put the fear of God in them every time they say a bad word.

The truth is - for me, cuss words are powerful.  I don't know if they are any more or less powerful than words that aren't deemed bad.  Like is "fuck" more powerful than the word "rage"?  Is "pissed off" more powerful than "furious"?  Is "bitch" more powerful than "Unpleasant"?  Maybe those profane words are less powerful?

My vote, is that profanity is powerful.  Profanity is brought upon by emotion.  I will never yell at my kids for swearing - or put them in time out for foul language.  I refuse.

Interesting article written in TIME magazine about swear words titled, Nine Things You Probably Didn't Know About Swear Words.

Feel free to TWEET ME your comments, or write a comment on this blog-  or my facebook page.  How have you dealt with swearing in your home?




Monday, February 17, 2014

Post Baby Bod

Back n forth, back n forth I go.  I hate my muffin top, I don't care about my muffin top.  I hate my ba-dunk-a-dunk ass, I love my ba-dunk-a-dunk ass.  I love my thick thighs - I hate them.

Usually- the loving moment is drunk off of a really good bottle of red wine, and the hate moment is sober...looking at myself...in the bathroom mirror.... right before I get in the shower.

Here's the truth about my post baby bod.

I weighed about 130 at 5'6 before my first baby was born.  Not the best shape - but bearable.  I exercised minimally, and ate okay.  I appeared thin and fit to most of the world.  And with minimal effort.

I drank like a fish -- even beer.GASP! I know.

I gained 30 pounds while pregnant with my first child.  Which is totally bizarre because she was born at 4 pounds, 8 ounces.  Like, that wasn't baby weight apparently.  That was simply, fried chicken padding.

I lost it all within 8 months.  Not easily.  A little breast feeding (3 months), walking every morning possible for an hour, and exercise classes 4 times a week.  Not to mention - a diet that consisted of barely any carbs.

Well...except Pinot Grigio and Grey Goose.  That doesn't count.

At the 8.5 month mark - I found out I was pregnant again.. with my second child.

How rude.  I was just getting my post baby bod back - not to mention my life.  Or some post baby version of a life.

Right before I found out I was pregnant, AGAIN.... I went to my gyno 2 weeks before for a check up.
She was singing my praises.  She was commending me, saying, "Most moms never lose all of the weight.  Like 30 % of moms actually lose it.  That's great for you."

HHAAAAA!

So, now I'm 6 weeks pregnant with child numero dos, and I've gained numero DIEZ pounds.

And fast forward, to 9 months later about to give birth to angel number 2, I had gained yet, 30 pounds again.

30 fucking pounds again.  Damn fried chicken.

Ugghh.

If you lost count, that is, I am 160 pounds at 5'6 right after baby #2.  Not cute.  Not morbidly obese, but not cute.

So breastfeeding didn't work out so well.

Finding the time to exercise with 2 kids, is ridiculous.  Unless of course you have a nanny and personal trainer at your beck and call.  Yes, I did in fact, have a nanny for 2.5 months.  But that was literally, a medical necessity.  A prescription if you will, for a new mom, who had a c-section, and a 16 month old - that was NOT walking yet and a newborn.  Ohhh... and no family around to help.

The point is  - exercising was the furthest thing from my mind.

I was inundated with poop, diapers, sick babies, laundry, cooking and well, just living... trying to stay awake and sane at the same time.

My second baby was in and out of hospitals for the first 5 months of her life.  There was no friggin' way I could care about trying to exercise...let alone, trying to get into a routine.

So, here I am.  My 2nd baby is 2 and a half years old, and I'm still 20 pounds over my pre-baby weight.  Give or take a few pounds.  Give or take folks.  One-Fucking Fifty.

I commit to weight loss, and recommit, and recommit over and over and over again.

It's exhausting.

The truth is, I don't eat horribly.  I actually, eat really well.  Yogurt, kale smoothies and vegetables at dinner - the whole bit.

No triple mocha lattes, no cupcakes, no nada.  I indulge in a bowl of cereal every night before bed, and that's as bad as it gets.

I drink a shitload of red wine.  Is that bad?

I'm writing all of this because I have a "health assessment" at my new fancy, schmancy gym next week.  They are making me do the assessment because I signed up for personal training sessions.  In order for the personal trainers to devise a plan for me, they need my baseline.  Which is my health assessment.

Makes sense, but it still sucks.

My physique and athletic abilities (or lack thereof), and overall wellness are being judged by another person - better yet, in front of all other gym members.

If the shear humiliation doesn't whip me into shape - I truly, don't know what will.

So I am 9 days out from said assessment and am acting like a girl getting a pedicure.  You know how you shave your legs and do a "mini-pedi", trimming off the calluses a bit, trimming some cuticles before the REAL, AWESOME, EXPENSIVE PEDI and doing a sea salt soak so your feet don't look as gnarly as they actually are.

That's me.

Except now, I'm working out 5 times a week, drinking tons of water and eating like a bird.  I think I even had the last supper tonight.  It had everything in it that makes you fat - bbq pork, mac n cheese, mashed potatoes and bread.  All before, I can't eat it anymore.

And you know - sometimes I think, better to be fat and happy, than thin and miserable.

But is that really true?

All I can do is obsess over my "over-weightness" now - and it's making me miserable.  Can I possibly stay away from the only sugars I have left in this world?  Lay off the blueberry pancakes (once a week), cereal and booze?

Or work out like a gym rat on crack?  In the gym 7 times a week.  Ughh..

I don't know - but if you have balls and a muffin top - can you please share a picture of your post baby bod, muffin top, stretch marks and all on my facebook page?  It doesn't matter how long ago you had your baby.  It doesn't even really matter if you actually birthed a baby.  Or maybe you're pregnant and feel moved to post bare-belly pics to my facebook page.

Just make us all feel better and do it.  Solidarity sisters.  Be a brave soul.  And after 1 person posts a pic, I swear I'll do it too.  It will either help validate that women's bodies are all awesome (whether we've popped a kid out or not), or it will help motivate us into the body we've always wanted.

My belly is (particularly, the lower abdomen) is a blubber blob.  I have a c-section scar (among other abdomen scars from child birth) that keloided.  The scars grew out, not in.  I looked like I went to the butcher shop.  We all have insecurities.

Do it.

I'll even welcome the men that read this blog.  Post a pic of your belly.  New relationships, marriage and babies make us all gain weight.  Bare it all.

Find me at MissGuided Mama on Facebook, or TWEET ME (and listen to my really, fucking hilarious mom banter...pretty much daily) on twitter @missguidedmama.

If you don't feel brave enough to post a pic yet, at least write a comment - describing your own weight loss ordeal.






Sunday, February 2, 2014

The Cost of Lying for Kiddie Freebies

Have you ever done it?

Lied about your kid's age to receive something for free, or a discounted price?

Examples: Zoo admission, movie admission, kids' meals on a restaurant menu, plane tickets???

Perfect example, your kid juuuuussstt turned 2-years old.  Last week.  You go to the zoo next week.  Do you lie, and say your kid is under 2-years old to get the free admission?  I mean, what would it hurt... the kid is juuusssstt barely 2-years old?

Or you're booking a flight, and realize because your kid is now 2 and a half, you will have to shell out an extra $400 to buy your kid a plane ticket.  Do you lie?  Do you claim your kid is under 2-years old?  I mean, c'mon, Susie looks 2.  She could sit in a stroller, and no one would know the difference.

NEWS FLASH FOLKS - IT'S FUCKING LYING.

I don't claim to be the most righteous person on the planet - by any stretch.  But, lying is lying.  Which means, it is in fact, morally wrong.

It doesn't matter if you think the airlines make enough money screwing every traveler and jacking up prices all of the time.  It doesn't matter if you think movie theater prices are outrageous.  The prices are what they are...end of story.

Having and raising children IS expensive.  For sure.  But don't you think if you can't afford movie ticket prices - you should consider a Sunday matinee instead of seeing the Friday night movie?

If you can't afford a plane ticket for your little one.  You shouldn't be flying.  End of story.

It sucks.  You can say the poor get screwed all of the time!  I know.  But, no one owes you anything.  Not a person, not a company.  You buy a plane ticket if you have the cash (ie, you earned it, saved it, inherited it).

Can you imagine if you got caught, trying to "fly under the radar" with your older than 2-year old child?  The airline employee would ask for your kid's birth certificate (because technically, if your kid is registered as being under 2-years old- you are required to travel with it), you'd have to BS the employee, then they'd bend down, ask your kid how old they are - and eeeeekkkk! Out pops - "I'm freeeeee".  With 3 fingers up.  You're toast.  Worse, you're a lying sack of shit toast - who should be embarrassed.  And worst of all, you're a lying sack of shit that won't be getting on the plane that day - unless you shell out the new, inflated price of buying a plane ticket at the counter.  I'm sure it's an $800 mistake - you'll never forget.

Good job mom. (Or dad, I know dads read too).

I'm not a super religious person.  Not super righteous.  And not super philosophical.

But, I do believe in living a life that is genuine and true.

If you lie, cheat and steal (aka try to beat the system - any system - I don't care what the system is), you will not prosper.  Ever.  You may save some bucks up front - hell, you may even feel smarter and richer for it.  But, you will not prosper.

It's called KARMA.

And Karma, is not something I am willing to fuck with.

That goes for the woman that buys a dress, keeps the tags on, wears it to a fancy event- then returns the dress the next day.

That goes for the people who return read books (not unread books) to Barnes and Noble.

If you wanted to "rent" a dress- there's a website for that.

If you wanted to "borrow" a book - it's called - a library.

Do I like paying top dollar to see the movie Frozen? No.

Did I like paying $10 for my barely 2-year old to go to the zoo - only so she could sit in her stroller - and barely see the animals at the zoo? No.

Do I like shelling out $400 for an airplane ticket for my 2 and a half year old - when she could easily sit on my lap the whole time? Hell NO!

The price is the price though.  Period.  End of story.  If you wanna haggle  - that's one thing.  I totally support haggling.  But, when haggling can't happen - pay the piper, it's that simple.

And one last note - and this is just a theory.  If you don't pay the imposed prices - doesn't that make it worse for the rest of us?  I think companies raise prices - to account for folks trying to get freebies.  So, thank you free-loading assholes of the world.  I think I'm gonna have to pay $2 extra at Lego Land today - per kid.




Tuesday, January 21, 2014

My Kids got SHUUUUSSSHHHEEDDD on an Airplane

And it wasn't by me.

Let me set the scene for you.  Me and my 2 girls were traveling from New York, back home to Atlanta after the holidays.  We decided to get ahead of a snow storm threatening the East Coast.  First flight, went fine - nothing to report.  The second flight (the long one), was full and bumpy.  My computer had crashed a mere 24 hours before said flights - so the only thing I had for the kids to play with were a few Hello Kitty coloring books, stickers, plastic princesses and a book.  That's it.  No movies or computer games to get them (me) through the hours on the plane.

Mind you, I'm not a super techie mama.  I believe in a lot of imaginative play - it develops creative thinking, imagination, etc.  My kids are 4 yrs old and 2 and a half - neither own an ipad, itouch, i-anything.   They learn how to operate computers - at school.

So my kids can amuse themselves for a pretty long time - with nothing but a sticker and a crayon.  But, we're going on about 4 hours of travel at this point, with the layover and all.

About halfway into the flight - my kids start engaging with 2 young boys in the seats in front of them.  They're playing peek a boo - and laughing and squealing.  I don't loooovvveee girly squealing, but they're having fun so I don't bother to tell them to pipe down.  I mean - how would it go if I threatened time out at 40,000 feet in the air?  Or screamed at them?  Or took their toys away?  I imagine if I reprimanded them, the squealing would quickly turn into screaming....and ultimately crying.

In the middle of said squeals, the teenage girl sitting behind my children says, "SHUUUUUUUSSSSHHHHHH" right in between the arm rest gap  - directly to my kids.

 I whip my head around and say to her, "You dooo NOOTTT shuuussshh my kids.  You do NOT talk to my kids.  If you have a problem with what they are doing, then you can address, me, their mother, directly."

And I turn back around, and face forward....fuuumminng.

As if it wasn't crazy enough that this teeny bopper bitch shushed my kids - the guy BEHIND HER, pipes up, "She wouldn't have to - if your kids weren't bothering everyone."

Sayyy Whaaattttt?!

I have a choice, do I whip my head back around and give him a tongue thrashing at 40,000 feet in the air - that could potentially turn into a full on fist fight? Or, do I get creative?

Do I say to him, "Shame on you - my kid is autistic."

Or, do I buzz the flight attendant and whisper to her, "That guy in row 22, seat A is saying he has a bomb on the plane."

I do none of these things.  Even though I really want to - especially option 3.

I ignore his ass.

Clearly, the teeny bopper bitch doesn't have children.  So I can semi excuse her.

But, the middle aged man - I cannot.

Where the fuck is the humanity people?!  I have been on 2 flights today.  I don't even like flying-  in fact, I'm terrified of flying.  Then I gotta deal with a 2 and a half year old, a 4 year old and broken damn computer.  I'm annoyed too - that Dora isn't putting my kids in a trance right now.  All I really want -is to be on the ground, with a glass of wine and sedatives.

So this brings me to the big plane problem.  I mean, I pay just as much as anyone else on that plane for my ticket and my kids' tickets.  I shouldn't have to apologize for their behavior.

Annnddd......aren't cranky kids, turbulence and lost luggage part of the plane deal??  It's just the miserable, bullshit shenanigans that travelers have to deal with - just like TSA feel ups, bad airport food and high airport prices?  What else? I could go on forever.

This brings me to my travel with children solution.

No, do not inject them with Benadryl.

I simply propose getting rid of first class -and creating a a KID CLASS.  That's right.  A kid section on planes.  It should be reserved for parents with kids from 6 weeks to 5 years old.  That way, the kids can cry, throw temper tantrums, spit up, puke, poop, squeal, scream, etc.....all within the confines of other understanding parents.

I refuse to me shuuussshheed shamed by another non-understanding, inhumane, unsympathetic asshole again.  Because for a minute, I did question, should I have done more to quiet my kids?

NO.  I'm standing up for parents everywhere.

So on the next plane - I hope there is a kid section, where the screamers scream, the babies cry and the vodka keeps flowing.


Friday, January 10, 2014

Walk of Shame - at the In Laws




The holiday blog-fest would not be complete without a horrifying story about travel - or an equally horrifying story about in laws. (horrifying travel blog post to follow this one).

So - I opt for the in laws.

Pre-thought here - I normally do not uber love the thought of me being around my in-laws or non-immediate family members for longer than 2 days.  You know - things that may semi-annoy you - become paramount when you are around people for extended amounts of time.  But, in the holiday spirit - I can adapt.

Glad I did.

Before the snark-fest  - I should confess that I thoroughly enjoyed my time in my old town (where I used to live 3 months ago), with my in-laws.  BEST CHRISTMAS EVER.

They are super accommodating and help a ton with kids.

I love them for more reasons than that - but those come to mind first.

And I love their Kuerig.  I'm an old coffee pot kinda gal - so the Kuerig life was wonderful.

Anyways, we're all having a great, relaxing, holiday cheer time for 2 days - until it happened.

On the 2ish day of me staying at my in-laws -my husband and I decide to have an argument.

The argument was fueled by too much time together - and not enough wi-fi to go around.

Seewwwwww... on the night of said argument, I said to myself, fuck it - I'm taking a bottle of red, outside, and chatting it up with my big Italian family in NY (because they've left me a thousand holiday-inspired messages by now), sitting down on a brick stoop - with my whole pack of Marlboro Menthol Lights.  Oh...and a paper cup full of water to put out said Marlboro Menthol Lights.

Well, as the story goes.....one glass turned into two... which turned into three... which turned into the whole bottle.  By 8pm, I was looking deep into the empty bottle., wondering, what am I going to do next??

Kids are asleep at this drunken moment -thankfully.

Luckily, my brother in law (younger - and great looking), was home for the holidays too - and had all of his younger, great looking friends over.  They were already 3 sheets to the wind - so why not?  Join the fun 'ol gal.

I joined their post-drink sesh - and proceeded to drink a whole bunch more -which lead to awkward face time phone calls, awkward conversations about pregnancy and even more awkward yelling matches with my husband in front of all of them at 1AM (Did I mention a facetime phone call to my mother at midnite?) Go. me.

Ohhhhh.. and if that's not enough - I did not have panties on under my Michael Kors sweater dress.

What??!!

Ya hurd me.  I hope I did NOT spread my legs - not even wide enough to fit a plastic wine glass in the middle. Because if I did - well, it's Britney Spearsville for me.

The dress is too tight to wear undies.

Whatevs...

So... if drinking excess amounts didn't already lead to great, awkward, uncomfortable situations with young hot men,  -  then certainly, carrying on a drunken conversation with your mother in law would be no problem.  Except - when you don't exactly remember what you talked to your mother-in-law about.

I coulda said anything at 1AM.

Your son has a great penis.

Your son likes to handcuff me.

Your son likes to call me Mommy.

Whatever

The point is - thankfully - somehow I kept it G rated.

I (supposedly) had a wonderful druken conversation about how wonderful my husband is.  BOOM. Point for me.

She says I bragged about my husband (her son), the whole time.  For one whole hour.

And then I blissfully fell asleep on the couch.

Truthfully, only bits and pieces of that conversation are in my brain. And the rest...well.....scares me.

Anyway - next day. As you would have expected - EPIC HANGOVER.  Like, I wanna die.

It doesn't help that my husband gives me the play by play - one embarrassing moment/comment at a time - right when I wake up.

I'm like duuuuuddddeee.. I feel like shit -can you give me one detail maybe every hour, not all at once.  It's making me sick.

So at some point  - I decided to drag my sorry ass out of bed and actually attempt to take care of my kids.  Who were blissfully watching Nick Jr. on the couch.  I first walk to the kitchen, hoping to get some gluten-free toast and water - and coffee... and vitamin water - Pedialite?  Something?!

So, there's my mother-in-law and father-in-law in all of their glory - acting like nothing happened.

I figured - might as well call out the pink elephant in the room.

This is me, "OMG  I AM SO FUCKING SORRY I ACTED LIKE A COMPETE ASSHOLE/IDIOT/SLUT, "whatever you name it.

My in-laws were so understanding.  They said, no need to apologize.  Case closed- you want some coffee? Tea?

So- either they are fucking liars - or they are really forgiving - whatever they are - they are fuuucccking awesome.

As a conclusion - note to self- don't drink in excess around your in-laws - especially with your younger, good looking brother in law (it raises eyebrows folks), and never drink to the point where you can't remember facetime with your sister, your brother-in-law's girlfriend, your best friend and your mother.

All of this in good holiday cheer - made for the best, most memorable holiday to date.

The rest of the trip was a sober, wonderful, merry experience.  But if I wrote about that - you wouldn't read my blog, now would you?

Next Post- my NY Holiday Trip.

For insight  - I drove 4 days before Christmas to Charlotte, NC from Atlanta, GA.  Then packed my kids up Christmas Day - to fly to Syracuse, NY.  We stayed in upstate NY for 10 days.