Coupon criminal

The folks over at Kroger have hired some crack detectives masquerading as cashiers. One agent in particular (we'll call her Alma) was quick to notice that I had only purchased one jar of tomato sauce instead of the two that the said coupon stipulated. Apparently, this opened up a flood gate for a line of questioning starting with my brand of toilet paper. "I see this coupon is for two double rolls of Charmin." I began fishing through plastic bags in search of the shrink-wrapped ass wipe. From then on I was not a shopper, I was a COUPON CRIMINAL.

Impatient shoppers behind me had become bored with the scandal rags and began to sway from one leg to another. Each piece of carefully clipped paper produced a cold sweat across my forehead as I tried to recall whether I had indeed purchased the right amount of the right product. Luckily, I was only caught with the one misdemeanor and was let off with just a warning.

There is a new sheriff in town, and I have no plans to mess around with her. Her weapon: a scanner. Her mission: to crack down on coupon criminals.

Play by play playdate

I remember watching commercials as a twenty-something for popular headache remedies and never being able to connect. The commercial would open with a Mom clutching and rubbing her temples. The scene behind her was always wild and chaotic with several children literally bouncing off the walls and furniture. Internally I would laugh and dismiss this scene as ridiculous. Not me. Bullshit.

btw, I have a headache THIS BIG, and it has crazy fucking kids written all over it. Here is why:

10:37PM -Cries erupt from my 2 year old daughters room. It seems that she decided to sleep in the buff again. My husband was kind enough to clean her up and leave me a ball of piss-soaked bedding on the floor.

10:51PM - Deposited the crumpled mess into the washing machine and retired to my bed where my husband and our little screamer were already asleep. By this time the only thing left to watch on the boob tube was crappy home improvement shows like, "Clean Sweep."

5:22AM- Goldendoodle puppy started his freedom campaign.

6:02AM-6:41AM Total blur. No coffee yet.

6:53AM- Coffee has slowly begun to kick in. Maternal instinct also kicks in and I manage to make a bowl of cereal for my son.

7:28AM- Carpool arrives. Hug and kiss my son.

8:02AM- Screaming 2 year old is now awake and looking for me. Spend the next few minutes on good morning hugs.

8:03AM- Spend the next few minutes pinning my daughter down to brush her teeth. Manage to avoid bloodshed by the skin of her teeth.

8:07AM-8:31AM Zone out in front of computer updating my Facebook and Linked In profile while 2 year-old zones out in front of Dora The Explorer.

8:33AM- Realize that the piss-soaked sheets are waiting for me. Open washing machine to find that the pissy pull-up was part of the crumpled mess from the night before. Strange gelatinous chemicals coat my sports bra and daughter's sheets. It smells worse that it sounds.

8:39AM-More fucking laundry.

9:02PM- Dog begins his daily mission of chewing the shit out of everything that does or doesn't move. His only criteria is that it be something very precious to his owners, and has not been touched by himself or any other canine.

10:00AM-11:37AM- Neighborhood parents meeting. Perfect opportunity for me to bitch about my day. Leave the meeting with my screaming daughter tucked UNDER my arm like a cheap piece of luggage.

11:37AM-12:31PM- Whining continues from backseat until I am finally strong-armed into turning on Spongebob for 30-50lb passengers. Make a mental note to workout and crack a few beers after the kids go to bed.

12:32PM-3:14PM- Experience some relief thanks to daughter's nap and son's playdate. Decide to update my blog.

3:18PM- Enter puking puppy. Clean up mess and count the minutes till my husband arrives home. Must get outside and run my ass off.

3:19PM- It starts raining. Scratch plans to run outside.

3:30PM-Panic begins to set-in after several feeble attempts to fix plastic cockroach fail.

3:43PM - Husband surprises me with a brand-new Dyson, to which I exclaim, "You KNOW how passionate I am about vacuuming!" (seriously...and I'm NOT being sarcastic.)

5:00PM- Made it to the gym. This would be the only time my kids DON'T seem to need me to do much of anything. Must be the fact that they are parked in front of Yo Gabba Gabba aka visual crack for kids.

6:40PM- Arrive at Chick-Fil-A for a fundraising event in sweaty workout clothes. Managed to run into EVERY fucking teacher from my son's school. Either they think I am some sort of a gym rat, or I work on a alpaca farm.

7:17PM- Kids are being especially needy which only ads to my level of stress. Work in a quick shower and shave. Exit the shower with streaks of blood on my shins. Frightened children.

7:59PM- Suggestion to brush teeth gets ugly. Pinned down dear daughter and managed to scrape just enough plaque off her teeth to stave off gingivitis.

8:01PM- Stormed downstairs in frustration. Husband took reins and put children to bed.

8:02PM-Parked myself in front of a bad movie and bought some downtime between last minute business calls.

10:42PM-Had strange dreams about my childhood memories.

6:02AM-Took no prisoners and popped an Excedrin. They may not be yellow or different, but they have my day written all over them.

Resignation

My first attempt at starting a story-telling writing business was a flop. Not any ordinary flop but more like the kind of belly flop that stings the diver and any onlookers. Here is an account of my final day on the "diving board."

I arrived at Whispering Pines Nursing and Rehabilitation Center around 9am. The parking lot looked more desperate than the residents inside. Large overgrown weeds grew through the cracks of the driveways' pavement lurching into oncoming traffic for a chance at freedom. I was already starting to sweat through the armpits of my snug Brooks Brothers button-down shirt. Why the fuck did I wear this shirt?!

The main hall smelled of dirty furniture and dirty bodies. Warn and stained sofas decorated a small sitting area that separated the tiny rooms that were also the residents home and world. I was directed to my vendor table, where I got busy arranging sugar-free candies and carefully printed flyers. I was surrounded by strange knock-off Lladro that adorned the particle board china cabinet next to my station. A framed print-out caught my eye. It read: WE REMEMBER NURSING AND REHABILITATION RESIDENTS WHO HAVE DIED IN THE PAST SIX MONTHS. They couldn't have come up with a better line or phrase to honor those that have passed away?

Today the biggest impact was felt in the free candy rather than the stack of flyers and business cards that just sat there mocking me. For the past three months, I had devoted my free and paid time to launching a story telling business, and all I have to show for it is frustration. One resident with greasy hair and a worn wallet circles my table. She is mumbling about the amount of people that are crowding her hallway. Apparently for her, "Family and Friends Day" is sheer hell. Another resident we will call her, "Bonita" makes her way to my table. Her face is both kind and confused, and she beams when she sees my confections (now scattered) laying across the white table cloth. I can't help but encourage her to take a few more for visiting grandchildren. The caregivers or CNAs seem to do the lions share of the work for the least amount of pay. One thing I've noticed about the caregivers is that their expressions tell more about them than their resume.

Three hours later I close for business. Today, I continue to write but have put the story telling aspect to bed. I am happily distracted by my two wonderful children, who remind me that belly flops real or metaphor are worth the experience.

Hollywood comes to the burbs

I have been on hiatus for some time, and to my loyal followers (all 2 of you) I sincerely apologize.

It appears that the rumor to film an Ashton Kutcher movie in my neighborhood is actually a true statement. I decided to give lady luck a try at a recent open casting call held at the local elementary school cafeteria (nothing but the best.)

If Lionsgate films is looking for a stressed out mother, a screaming two year-old, and one impatient 4 year-old then we have a good shot at a part. However, that hasn't stopped me from trying to get my back or legs cast in the film. Each day, I take to the streets of my neighborhood in my best workout clothes (clothes normally reserved for knocking around rather than running around) hoping for a chance to be cast as "jogger in background." A title that I take quite seriously.

Up until a few weeks ago, I could have given 2 shits about celebrities or my fulfillment of my 15 mintues. But there is something about being a part of filming that plays into the main reason we love movies, escapism. Either way, I don't give a shit. The hollywood bug has bitten me, and I am loving every childish minute of running past construction workers and set designers.

Happy Hour

There's a place where your single life, and your life as a mother and wife collide. It doesn't happen often. Sometimes it's a high school friend, a weathered photograph, or in my case an antiquated playlist from a resurrected ipod.

There was a time when I looked forward to happy hour. What was once a time for loud music, libations, and high calorie appetizers, now became known as the "Five'O'Clock freakout." And why not? It's the pocket of time that hangs in the suspense of dinner duties and down time. This would also explain Oprah and Dr.Phil's air times.

It's not uncommon for me to try to recreate this festive atmosphere within the confines of my own living room. My kids get in on the action, and take to the dance floor a.k.a the foyer. But tonight to my dismay and utter disappointment my ipod (and for want of a better word) took a dump. So I fumbled through a mass of co-ax cables and phone lines until I found what I was looking for, my first ipod. Already a geriatric at the mere age of six, it's health took a turn for the worse last year when I went for a run with it on the beach. Honestly, electronics should be aged in dog years.

This was not just my first ipod, but my first playlist. Mr. Wendel by Arrested Development brought my children running from all directions. I love to watch children dance. Good or bad, they are going with it. Kind of reminds you of that crazy AND extremely drunk relative at your wedding busting a move to the macarena.

For the sake of experimenting I left it on the shuffle mode as I spun my kids in circles until they were too dizzy to stand up. Hey, don't knock till you've tried it! The next song was "It's All Been Done", from the Stunt album by the Bare Naked Ladies. I wonder what the hell happened to them? Oh yeah, they suck! Yet, at the age of 23 I thought their music not only spoke to me but inspired me. For me, music is a sort of time machine that transports me to a different place. Tonight I was surrounded by the promises I felt in my youth, and the reality that I am living them.

Motherhood in the Raw....: Little "Pet" Shop of Horrors

Motherhood in the Raw....: Little "Pet" Shop of Horrors

Little "Pet" Shop of Horrors

Just in time for halloween comes spooky stories of doomed pets.

One morning just two short weeks ago, I dragged myself out of bed and sat on the sofa staring into space. For me, this is just the magic of waking up. As the coffee maker began to gurgle and spurt, I reached wearily for my paper. But what to my wondering eyes should appear? Do my eyes deceive me, or did I just see a small creepy shadow darting to and fro? It had been years since I had seen a rodent in my home, but the movement was unmistakable. Did I mention that I am deathly afraid of rats and mice? Forget the coffee, I was awake on pure adrenaline alone. So, I did what any self-respecting fraidy cat would do. I let out a half-ass scream,and jumped to a safe place...like the nearest elevated surface. My heart was pounding and my hands shook at the sheer horror of the situation.

Growing up, I always wanted a dog of my own, that's why my mother got me hamsters. Occasionally, they would break out of their orange and plastic containers with tubes leading to nowhere, and seek out new adventures in the house. The first hamster, and oddly enough the only one to die of natural causes, was named Moses.
Moses, was our most beloved hamster and had pretty brown and white markings.
He seemed to love to be smothered so having kids around was the ideal situation. Just over two years later Moses was enjoying his golden years, when he was struck down with what the vet called a stroke. His funeral was heartbreaking for myself and my siblings. I can still picture his "coffin", an old shoebox from a pair of beloved Florsheims purchased 10 years earlier. In our grief, my mother took us to Petland for our next victim, I mean pet. I picked an albino, teddy bear hamster. He was appropriately named, Popcorn. I loved Popcorn, but his affections were not returned. Each night, like the mentally deranged hamster that he was, he would climb to the top of his cage and drop 3ft or the equivalent of jumping out of your second story window. This would continue round the clock and into the wee hours of the morning!
Later I was told, that albino animals tend to go insane. This information would have been helpful at the time of our purchase. He also was the most aggressive, and bit the shit out of me on several occasions. I had to quit telling my mom about his attacks to avoid being dragged to the family MD for yet ANOTHER tetnis shot. His fate was sealed when one night, in an attempt to free himself from the confines of his human captors, he tried squeezing through the bars of his cage. My sister found him the next morning, while I was at a sleepover.

My next pet, Muffin was a gentle soul with long fluffy hair and unique markings. In his desperation to be free, he ate away at the bottom of his cage and ingested metal shavings which caused him to bloat to the size of a water balloon. After giving him tums and Altoids he succumbed to his fate the following morning.

Perhaps the most heartbreaking of those stories was the tale of Sniffles.
Sniffles, met his fate one unbearably hot Florida afternoon in the summer of '83'. We had decided to go sightseeing for the day, and upon my Grandmother's assurance that he would be ok, we left him on the front seat of our 81 Chevy pickup. Well, you guessed it, we returned too late from our day trip. Sniffles had literally "fried" to the bottom of the cage like a tater tot.

Funny to think that their deaths brought much more laughter than their lives.
It's been over 24 years since I have owned a rodent as a pet. And it's been more than a week, since I have seen hide nor hair of our uninvited house guest. Maybe it's time to pull up the traps and put down cages!

Happy Halloween Everybody!