The Gift That Keeps Giving

I did a deliciously thoughtful thing for my mother, and yet she somehow doesn't appreciate my good will. So. Typical.

What I have done is give her the gift of sanity. Yes, sure, I had to lead her through the jungles of lunacy in order to get to the isle of enlightenment, but I was prepared to go the extra mile for her because I am a wonderful person. Does she appreciate it? No. Here's the low-down:

I dropped the kids off at my mom's to "grab a quick Christmas gift," but then I stole two whole hours to go shopping last week. All. By. My. Self. I didn't even really "Christmas shop." I shopped for me. It was the first time I had been truly alone doing something just for me in about four months--and this is including the time I spend using bathroom facilities and showering. (I know, I know, this is becoming a pattern with me. First Scott, now my mom. The difference is that with Scott, I really planned to run right out of Target in just a few minutes and I was Christmas shopping for others, so it didn't really count. In contrast, what I did to my mother? Premeditated.)

A word about my mother: She is a dear woman, and I love her very much, but she has a slight tendency to drift toward the dramatic--and by "slight" I mean that she loses it completely and frequently takes to her bed weakly calling for valium. Tragically, this trait has worked its way into my own DNA. However, no one listens to me. They just let me lie there...quivering. Yet, this disregard has taught me a valuable lesson about dramatics: If no one pays the slightest bit of attention, one tends to give up the angst. Like Pavlov's dogs, drama is a learned behavior. A simple habit. My mother didn't know it yet, but I was about to release her from her worst fear: babysitting. See, while my mom enjoys telling others that she "adores her grandchildren" and is happy to "watch the little darlings at any time," the truth is that she always calls me with some horrible emergency necessitating my speedy return within an hour of dropping off the boys at her house. So, for the holidays, I got my mother something special: Immersion Therapy. Nothing says Christmas like curing a loved one of her neurosis, am I right?

Before you judge me, please allow me to plead my case:

Proof #1: Scott and I tried to go on a date in July. We'd just received the appetizer when my cell phone rang. "Josh has a stuffy nose. He feels warm, too. It could be that SARS disease. You better come get him." (Mom, kids are warm when you wrap them in four blankets during the height of summer. And the stuffy nose? Allergies.)

Proof #2: Scott and I tried to go to a grown-up movie together in August. We were in line to purchase tickets when his cell jittered: "Noah is crying! There might be something wrong. His cry sounds funny. You'd better come right away." (He was sleeping peacefully when we got there fifteen minutes later. Mom, babies sometimes cry before they fall asleep. It's what babies do when they aren't eating, pooping, or sleeping.)

Proof #3: Scott and I tried to go to a party at a friend's house in September. Scott's phone rang just as we got to the party. "We're at the emergency room! Come quickly! Josh fell!" (He'd fallen when getting off the bottom of the slide at the park and had a bloody nose. We rushed to the hospital just in time to see the emergency room nurses hand my mom a kleenex and a lollipop while Josh calmly applied pressure to his own nose.)

Thus, you can see that she needed the immersion therapy. For her own good. (Plus, there was a sale at DSW. Now, I ask you, who wouldn't give her mother the gift of freedom from fear while at the same time purchasing Frye boots at half off??)

So, off I went to shop shoes with my cell phone turned off.

The time was well spent. For example, I found that Frye boots run about a size large. (In case you are stuck with a pair of Frye's in a 7 1/2 due to purchasing your true size, just send them my way.) At the end of 90 minutes, I turned on my phone. And...

...Mom had called me at least forty times-- complaining of headaches, loss of sight, and - finally- diarrhea. Her own, not the boys'. Each message sounded more terrifying. One was simply a recording of her moaning into the receiver. I checked my watch: I still had time for Starbucks.

I sipped at my latte' and thumbed through a copy of A Tale of Two Cities, the next novel I will be teaching. "It was the best of times (for Trish); It was the worst of times (for Trish's mom)." I nibbled on a scone. I people watched. Then, at the end of two hours, I headed to mom's.

The boys were playing happily on the floor while my mother slumped in a chair, breathing shallowly. Her eye lids fluttered and her lips quivered as she gave me a detailed account of "food poisoning" resulting from a "tainted salad." With nary a blink, I asked if the boys had been good. She coughed and clutched at her stomach dramatically, then nodded weakly before mopping her brow and asking whether heart attacks could result from loss of fluids. I slipped the boys into their jackets and shoes while considering her question. "Well, you might want to drink a little water, just in case," I smiled sweetly.

The next day she called with more details of her poisoning. I listened mutely, then changed the subject. Every time she mentioned abdominal spasms, I brought up something new to talk about.

Guess who watched my children for THREE HOURS yesterday while Scott and I went to dinner and returned some gifts? My mom. And she didn't call even once.

Okay, so it's not that she doesn't appreciate what I have done for her; it's that she isn't 100% aware of my involvement in her gradual return to the land of the level-headed. Oh well. Think of me as the Secret Santa for the Sanity Challenged.

Next week, I'm trying for FOUR HOURS!

"I Lost Them In the Divorce."

This is what I defensively retorted to the entire store packed with holiday shoppers after a sales clerk at Ann Taylor Loft loudly announced that I might need to go down a size and try an extra small camisole or an extra-extra small camisole.

I get it. I’m no Real Housewives of Orange County, clearly.

At least my feet are big.

Ooooooh, I think I just figured out why I love shoes.

(Dang, and I was wearing padding that day, too.)

Here I Go Again On My Own (Minus Tawny Kittain)

I don’t know how my husband puts up with it. I am doing a reconnaissance mission in Target to capture a toy my four year old has longed for “my whole entire life.” (The entire four years minus the many months when he just lay there, drooling, unaffected by marketing campaigns and consumerism.) It will take me two minutes to scout the toy department, locate my objective, and complete the operation while my husband circles the parking lot with the kids. The next thing I know—my cell phone is jingling in my pocket.

My husband.

“You’ve been in Target for 55 minutes.
The kids are gnawing through their car seat straps.
Where.
Are.
You?”

Oh, Target! I have fallen victim to your siren song yet again. I should be tied to my wallet like Odysseus to his ship’s mast. Alas, I have been allowed to roam toward your red bull’s-eye unencumbered by children or spouse. Like ancient sailors, I am enraptured by the sweet strains of (holiday) music (piped through your big box). And by lots and lots of crap I don’t need.

Adult-sized cloud-patterned footy pajamas!
Scarves made of sparkly material!
A wooden Christmas train!
Candles scented like pomegranates! (I didn’t even know pomegranates had a smell!)
A plaid jacket! (In a different color than the plaid jacket I already own!!)
Throw pillows that match my comforter!
A fuzzy throw for cold nights!
A lamp for that dark corner!

And, just like that, I am sucked in. My AmEx starts to twitch in my purse. Things that I would normally scoff at (pine cones hot glued to Styrofoam pyramids and spray painted red), suddenly take on an artistic flair. How have I lived this long without that Lifestyles cd?? Wouldn’t that copper star with the mini lights look great on our tree?? You know what I really need on my coffee table? A bunch of balls covered in straw!

And I rush to the check-out line, carrying the detritus of my mania.

Never have I gotten out of Target spending less than $100. Never. I urge you to try to do it. I half-suspect there would be an “under $100” surcharge added to your bill.

And the copper star? It didn’t even work! Now I have to take it back. And you know what that means….

We're In Trouble Now (AKA: Going Mo-bile)

Noah has learned to walk. It’s amazing how only last week he was Earth-bound, and now he’s experiencing such freedom. It happened suddenly, too. He’d been cruising around holding on to furniture for quite some time. Then, yesterday, he let go and walked right across the room! He didn’t even test out his balance. There was no taking a few tentative steps along the soft couch in case he needed to grab on to something for support. He just let go and headed right for the hard wood floor. Everything about his diminutive stance said, “If I’m going to do this, I’m going all the way!”

Lesson learned: If you want something, quit being a pussy and just do it.

Sigh...I need to apply my 12 month old's knowledge to my new healthy eating regime. Man, nothing bites deeper than when your INFANT shows you that taking baby steps is not the answer.

Scott Hates Sarah J.

Last night was one of those rare moments when Scott and I were able to get both kids down for the night without feeling as though we, too, had to stumble in the direction of our own pillows. We both felt as though we had enough energy to sprawl on the couch and stare blankly in the direction of the television, which is how we ended up watching Failure to Launch, a romantic comedy featuring Matthew McConaughey and Sarah Jessica Parker. (By the way, I take back what I previously posted about Matthew. He may have a very nice looking chest, but he’s got some sort of weird eye thing going on that nixes our fantasy love affair. Besides, my heart belongs to Scott.) [<--Can’t be too careful with my birthday approaching, can I??] It was then that I found out that my husband has a deep-seated dislike for Sarah J.

“She has weird lips.”
“Her face is too long.”
“Her voice sounds like the whine of a power saw.”
“She has ‘man hands.’”
“She’s kind of wrinkled. Too much sun exposure in her youth.”
“Are those moles on her chin or two big zits?”

Scott went on and on.

Okay, I am not one of those who jumped on the Sex and the City bandwagon, so I consider myself fairly unbiased where Sarah J. is concerned. In fact, I associate her with Square Pegs--which dates me, I know. While I can see Scott’s point about the man hands (seriously, check them out—very masculine—she could palm a regulation basketball), I don’t think Sarah J. quite deserves the diatribe Scott threw her way. Sarah Jessica Parker strikes me as a woman who has done a lot with what she was born. For example, that nose doesn’t look altered. (*cough* Don’t look too closely at mine…. *cough*) Those lips don’t scream “injected with my own butt fat.” And you have to respect someone comfortable enough in her own skin that she doesn’t remove those moles. And you hardly notice the man hands because she plays up her good features: hair and eyes.

So, here’s to the people who make the most of what they’ve got! To the men with beer bellies and great hair, or baldness and kind souls. To women with small breasts and great senses of humor, or large thighs and big hearts.

Shine on, Sarah J. Shine on….

Healthy Eating: Day 2

I may be going through withdrawal.

I have a headache and am perpetually annoyed by everyone around me. One of my coworkers said good morning, and it was all I could do to keep from grabbing him by the throat and screaming, “Good morning?? I ate organic oatmeal for breakfast, which means someone else is eating my Starbucks scone! MY scone! Mine!” (Apparently part of fast food withdrawal involves regressing to the mentality of a two year old.)

In short, day two is going as well as can be expected. I just hope the “Oooooh-I-feel-so-healthy-and-full-of-energy” phase one of my hale and hearty coworkers keeps talking about kicks in soon or someone may be in danger. Probably said coworker. The poor healthy dear.

Healthy eating has proved to be more of a challenge than I anticipated. The increase in water consumption keeps me running to the bathroom once an hour. This leaves me one ill-timed sneeze away from utter disaster. Further, I have sacrificed my quick and easy morning scone for exploding oatmeal and my daily cheeseburgers/fries for low-fat casseroles/naval oranges.

Speaking of naval oranges….

Um, hello? Orange growers? Want to increase sales, like, a thousand percent? Cross breed an orange with a zipper. Or an orange with a ziplock. You may even want to try Velcro. I broke a nail trying to gain access to the fleshy portion of my naval orange. Healthy eaters should not have to suffer so. My nails and my healthy coworker’s life are in your hands, orange growers. Let’s put a wiggle in citrus genetic mutations, shall we?

Good Morning?

I woke up to the sound of the thunder and rain that would later turn my perfectly coiffed blow dry into a swamp of auburn weeds reminiscent of something one of the witches would sport in Macbeth. After arriving at work, I enthusiastically stepped forward into my first day of healthier eating by making some organic oatmeal in the office microwave rather than purchasing my usual blueberry scone at Starbucks. However, when I opened the door of said appliance, I immediately noticed that the inside of the microwave had splatters of a brown crusty substance and smelled very much like a horse. (Clearly, my coworkers are into exotic food choices.) While my oatmeal began to nuke, I pondered when the last time this barnyard smelling domestic device was last cleaned and by whom. That was when I noticed my cup of oatmeal runneth over, so to speak.

Guess who became the next cleaner of the horsy-smelling microwave?

I dragged the oversized glass microwave turntable down to the nearest bathroom and attempted to clean the sticky oatmeal and burnt horse off of it using tepid water and paper towels, the only supplies available. Unfortunately, the sink was much too small to accommodate the turntable, so I removed most of the gunk with my fingernails. Bye bye, manicure. After replacing the now de-horsed and de-oatmealed plate to the microwave, I returned to the bathroom to attempt to take care of the horse-meal mess clogging up the drain in the bathroom sink. ONLY THE SINKS IN MY BUILDING TURN ON AUTOMATICALLY, reducing my cleaning attempts to feeble swipes with paper towels before the automatic faucet sprayed me yet again. This left me with only one option: outsmart the automatic sink.

It turns out that in a battle with automated plumbing I am fairly well matched.

JUMP OUT
SWIPE
JUMP BACK
WATER SPRAY

JUMP OUT
SWIPE
JUMP BACK
WATER SPRAY

I think I now understand why healthy eating is so good for the body. Not only was I left with approximately HALF of my oatmeal portion, but I got a good workout.

How was YOUR morning?