Start a sentence and finish it 3 days later.
Go 60 mph when the speed limit is 75 mph on the highway.
When I’m off the highway, get a ticket for going too fast.
Brake because there are invisible cars in front of me.
Forget to brake when there is a car in front of me.
Insist on driving.
Order a Kir Royale (champagne and creme de cassis) at a sports bar and then wonder why they can’t make it correctly.
Leave the fridge open. For long extended periods of time. And when he tries to close it say, “Oh I’m not done in there.”
Talk to him about really important things like the settings on the DVR when he is behind a closed door in the bathroom. I don’t know why he doesn’t think it’s the perfect opportunity to chat about a few things.
Freak out when there is a lizard in our garage and demand that he absolutely, positively catch it because I can’t live with lizards jumping out at me when I’m home. (He does not catch it.)
Let out a loud gasp of horror and when he frantically asks me what is wrong, say, “Oh actually nothing.”
Utter the phrase, “I’m confused why you would do that” every time my husband does something a bit differently than I would and it doesn’t exactly go right.
Anything I do when he is hungry.
You know that feeling of watching an older person try to use an automated checkout at the drugstore or grocery store. You are filled with compassion, pity and impatient rage because you just want to pay for your stuff and leave.
Or watching one of your parents try to send their first text on their first smart phone.
Yeah. Well, that’s me. When I use the sink at a public bathroom.
What can I do to reverse this disturbing trend? I will put up with futons, wall to wall shag carpet and linoleum floors, if I can please go back to the good ole days when I could turn on a faucet outside of my home.
I get the, “Let’s save water and save the planet” thing and for some unknown reason people tend to leave the water running in public bathrooms.
I guess for the same reason they can’t seem to flush the toilet or wipe their pee from the seat. There just seems to be a natural inclination for all of us to become total pigs when we know we won’t be held accountable and some other poor sap is doing the clean up.
So I was all on board when we simple pushed a button and the water ran for a limited amount of time and then automatically turned off. But now I CAN’T GET THE WATER ON.
There I am with a handful of soap and no damn water. I see the sensor. I wave my hands in front of it. I pretend to wash my hands. I do strange shadow puppets. I try a little Miss Mary Mack. Anything to spark that bad boy into giving me a few drops of H2O.
And way too many times, I am forced to actually wipe the soap off my hands with a paper towel. If there is a paper towel. Sometimes it’s just one of those high speed dryers that are so loud I feel like I am being launched into space. (I want to preserve the environment but do we have to do it at such a high volume?)
I know these water faucet sensors are battery operated so perhaps their batteries go dead and then before they are replaced, there is a lag time. A lag time where I apparently use the restroom a lot.
I am convinced that the young set just waltzes in to the bathroom, washes their hands with no problem and jets out. Leaving me there, waving and muttering madly at a faucet that just never delivers.
mama bird notes:
You all rock because you gave me awesome, easy recipes to try out on my family!! If you are looking for dinner ideas, check them out there!
And I’m writing about baby addiction over at Alpha Mom. What me? Addicted to babies? Yeah, I am. You can also find me at Nick Mom with a Top 9 List. Top 9 things that parents do that make absolutely no sense.
When I first became a mom, I used to get those recipe chain emails. You know, the ones that instruct you to to send out the recipe in your head right now. And in return, you receive lots of easy recipes to try out on your family.
So I would send out the only recipe in my head which was called the delete button. I lived in New York City, I had a million take out menus and no need for such suburban rituals. (Although I did make a mental note to investigate that “cookie swap” thing I had heard about because that seemed deliciously intriguing.)
Because of my years of deleting chain emails, I’ve obviously been punished by the culinary food gods because now at night, I try to think of what to feed my kids and it’s like my memory has been completely erased and I can’t think of one thing I’ve ever fed them.
This wouldn’t be a major problem except the little nuggets (the people, not the food) constantly need feeding. You clean up one meal and it’s time for the next. It’s simply exhausting.
And as every parent knows, it’s actually possible to go to the grocery store, spend a hundred dollars and still have nothing for dinner. Unless you feed your kids goldfish, Capri Sun drinks and buffalo chicken dip. Which I’m now thinking might be a good option for tonight’s meal.
I’m always on the lookout for dinner ideas so when Rick and I sat down to watch TV over vacation and saw an advertisement for a cookbook called “Dump Dinners” – I was paying attention. There was a minor red flag like using the word “dump” to describe anything you plan to eat.
I don’t want to gross you out in case you happen to be eating a five star gourmet dinner while reading this blog, but these dinners don’t look good.
Please know I’m not a food snob. I’m not against dumping a bunch of ingredients in one bowl. I am the one after all who had a girlfriend bring a spice packet to our Miami girls weekend so I can make Italian chicken in my slow cooker. But I do think we need to hold on to a shred of food dignity.
Conveniently, there is another companion cookbook called “Dump Cakes” which doesn’t seem like a fantastic option either.
If you don’t believe me, just watch…
Honestly, I would eat the chocolate one. But the rest – reminds me of my only bad meal at Magic Kingdom – a “taco salad” I can’t talk about without getting shivers.
With the dump dinners and cakes off the table, I am in trouble. So maybe you can sort of, kind of forget that I deleted those chain emails a few years ago and tell me your favorite recipe. You know the one in your head right now. I promise not to delete.
My husband has been trying to get me to go to Disney World since our first born was 1 month old. But I kept insisting we visit boring old Italy for our big family trips. Well, he finally convinced me to go.
The first day at Disney was pretty good. A little exhausting with all the crowds but definitely fun. Then Rick said, “We aren’t in Magic Kingdom yet. This is just the Disney Marketplace.”
The next day I knew we had finally arrived at Magic Kingdom because I immediately saw a grown man wearing a T-shirt that said, “First Time at Disney” and a woman in a wedding veil with mouse ears. You know you are a marketing genius when you get people to fork over money for rodent ears.
Thankfully, Rick’s parents were with us and somehow with 4 adults, we were able to keep track of 5 kids in the throngs of people.
At 5 pm, after lots of rides and waiting for rides and not exactly picking the right Fast Pass rides, I said to my husband, “So we’ve been here about 7 hours. Are we ready to wrap it up and go home?”
Rick looked at me like I just asked him if he wanted his hair done at the Bibbidi Bobbidi Big Bucks Boutique. Apparently, we still had more rides, an electrical parade and fireworks to attend.
I knew I had to find the margarita ride immediately.
Why haven’t they built a margarita ride?!
Somehow I survived the entire 14 hour day and I even felt a little Disney magic. Apparently I wasn’t the only one…
Day two, we got into a Disney groove…
I nursed on the Jungle Cruise. We napped in the Enchanted Tiki bird room. We snacked during the Captain Jack Sparrow’s Pirate show. We took all the kids to pee. At. The. Same. Time.
Sure, I was the only one who screamed on the Magic Carpets of Aladdin ride…
And Rick was nauseous and wanted to throw up on the Buzz Lightyear Astro Blasters ride.
But we kicked family ass on Space Mountain. Okay, only Rick and 7-year-old Summer went on Space Mountain. (Can you explain to me how a girl is TERRIFIED of a teacup poodle but ADORES Space Mountain?!!)
Is a teacup poodle a real dog? If it’s not, Disney will declare it one.
Now we are moving on to Epcot. Which I call Ep-ee-cot. Because I’m fancy. Or an idiot. Or maybe in between.
I heard they might have margaritas.
This weekend I left all five kids with Rick and headed to South Beach in Miami to hang with a bunch of my girlfriends in town from New York.
I was a little anxious about the trip because 10-month-old Cash doesn’t take a bottle. He does take a breast but I had decided to bring both my breasts with me to South Beach. But Cash apparently hung in there. He must have known how much I needed a kid break.
There were nine of us ladies and as you can imagine things got pretty crazy. Here’s a table in our hotel room…
Yes, those are breast pump accessories and a spice pack for my slow cooker that a friend brought me because they don’t sell them at my local grocery store.
I think we can assume that when the Rolling Stones crash at a hotel, it pretty much looks the same way. I heard Mick loves an Italian chicken crockpot recipe.
We went to two great restaurants for dinner – Catch and also, Seasalt and Pepper. Seasalt and Pepper was fun because the cab takes you to this really desolate warehouse district where you are pretty sure you will be knocked off by the mob and then suddenly you are in this posh waterfront restaurant.
I even pulled out my new black short shorts. Does this look like a middle age Nairs ad?
Now my friend Smeredith is the cruise director of partying but knows not all of us love shots. So instead she bought us “sippers.” These so called “sippers” looked like shots and tasted like shots but according to Smeredith, you could sip them if you wanted to torture yourself.
You know, now that I really give it some deep thought, they may have just been shots.
After many sippers, we ended up at a lounge called Hyde Beach. There were a lot of layers of velvet ropes before we could get into Hyde. Once we finally got in, we danced, drank some high school inspired cans of Bud Light and then declared that the place was dead and left.
(I don’t know why this looks like a sorority party pic from 1991.)
I really had a great time and not just because I ate my weight in Peppermint Patties. But by Sunday, my breasts had had enough of the manual breast pump and were very stoked to be reunited with this guy…
I just want to thank my husband Rick for making this trip possible. He seems slightly traumatized but I’m sure he’ll bounce back in time for my next solo getaway. I’ll give him a few weeks.