Yes I’m covered in urine, but don’t worry, it’s not mine.

Monday the kids and I got back from a trip to Kansas for little brother’s senior recital… his crowning musical glory before he heads off to musical grad school.

Usually when we go back we do it for a week but this time it was a lot cheaper to go the weekend before as well so we ended up being there 10 days.  Being there 10 days made me realize why we usually go for 7.  It’s right around day 6.5 that everything stops being awesome.  Up until then the suuuuper annoying things about my parents, small towns, red states, and being blown away every time you step out side are endearing and quaint because I’ve been gone so long… but then I remember why I moved a thousand miles away from everything and the vacation isn’t fun anymore.

But the trip did finally end and Monday we flew back to Phoenix.  It is not the first time I’ve flown half way across the country by myself with two small children, not even close.  I’m well versed in the art of keeping chaos in bay for a couple hours on an airplane (or at least closing my eyes and breathing deeply while everything breaks down) and in general they’ve both been awesome every time we’ve flown.  Even last summer when we came back and they both developed raging double ear infections that we got to fly with they still did a pretty stand up job of the whole bit.  So naturally I didn’t expect anything different from this flight.

The first half was uneventful.  They played, they opened and closed the window about a bazillion times, opened and closed the tray table about a bazillion and a half times, all the normal stuff.  Then Finn signed that he wanted a bottle so I pulled him up on my lap hoping he’d fall asleep while he had it but when he was almost finished he looked up at  me and grinned… and that’s when I felt it.

Baby dude was peeing, and for whatever reason his diaper was having none of it.  He was peeing all over himself and all over me and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

Also, this child pees more than most adults.  I don’t know what it is about his bladder but it’s out of control.

Right as I started looking around for a place I could take him to change his clothes they turned on the seatbelt sign so there was nothing I could do even if I wanted to.  I couldn’t even take him off my lap because, since he’s young enough that we didn’t to buy a ticket for him, that meant he had to be on my lap whenever the seatbelt sign was on.

And just then he realized how wet he was.  Poor dude was completely soaked… like, I’m gonna have to wring these overalls out in the sink soaked… and he was pissed.  (Pun intended.)  He wanted me to change him.  He wanted me to take his clothes off.  He wanted me to let him off my lap.  And I couldn’t do any of those things.

And he thanked me by completely losing his shit.  He shrieked at brain shaking volumes and pitches, arched his back, kicked and flailed and I’m pretty sure I saw his head spin all the way around at one point like that freaky little kid in the Exorcist.  And since this was all on my lap I was then also soaked, from nipples to knees, with his pee as well.  The tiny plane reeked of urine, childless people turned and glared, the people across the aisle from us covered their ears (dude’s got lungs), I apologized once or twice but then realized nobody gave a shit what I said so instead started loudly singing Finn’s favorite German lullaby in his ear to try and calm him down.  (It didn’t work.)

This went on for the next 45 minutes.

And just as I thought shit couldn’t go any further downhill I heard a subtle “click… click… click…” coming from next to me.  I turn to find Verona, who had been sitting there quietly the whole time, holding my phone and taking pictures of the shenanigans.

She shrugged and without missing a beat responded,

Well with logic like that.

About nine years later (at least it felt like that) the plane landed, I put Finn in the sling and piled all out belongings on my back like a freaking pack mule, and we made our way at a snail’s pace toddler’s pace out of what was now an incredibly smelly enclosed space to where David was waiting for us.

He hugged me, then backed up with a sour look on his face because he obviously smelled it.  ”Yes.”  I said, “I’m covered in pee.  No, I don’t want to talk about it.  I just want to go home.”

And go home we did.

And because I knew you would all probably ask for it, here is one of Verona’s pictures.  You’re welcome.

My trip to the store/How I almost got shot over $2 worth of Mardi Gras beads.

Anyone who’s been reading here for long knows, but if you haven’t I’ll catch you up.  I get really into holidays.  Really into them.  Mardi Gras and Fat Tuesday are no exception.

So I have this whole menu planned out for traditional Mardi Gras/New Orleans food all day tomorrow and needed like five things from the grocery store plus cheap beads from the dollar store.  So I went to the store and they didn’t even have one of the like five things I needed which was a pain in the ass but whatever.

As I was finishing checking out some girl dropped a 2 liter of soda and dropped it at the perfect angle to make all 2 liters of it spray me and only me.  She couldn’t have planned it better if she’d tried.

I was going to just cut my losses and leave but the cashier wouldn’t let me move, claiming I would track soda through the store if I tried to walk to the door.  Which, in all fairness, was true; but this was supposed to be a super quick trip and I wanted to get outta there.  I decided to be a good sport about the whole thing though and stood there in soggy pants and super sticky sandles while it took four employees almost 15 entire minutes to find one roll of paper towels.  Because that’s legit… right?  No.

By the time they found one I neglected the rest of me and instead quick wiped off the bottom of my shoes only and left for the dollar store.

When I got to the dollar store as soon as I pulled into the parking space I realized the guy coming towards me was probably going for that same space.  It wasn’t a hugely dick move on my part since there were a ton of other open spots and it technically would have been illegal for him to pull into it anyway since he was coming from the wrong direction, but I still probably would have given him the space if I’d have realized it because I’m a nice person like that.

But the dude flipped out… just flipped out.  He parked his car right behind mine so I couldn’t move and got out screaming at me.  I couldn’t move my car and I couldn’t get into the store without confronting him, and Mr. Crazy was looking to physical fight me over this parking space.

So I did what anyone would do.  I panicked and pretended to be engrossed in searching for something in the center console of my car so I could pretend not to see him standing there yelling angry things at me while I sneakily locked all the doors and dialed 911.

I sat there with my finger on the send button for a while, trying to figure out if I needed to push it or if he would eventually go away, but when it became apparent he was looking for a fight I decided, no, we should just talk about this.  It will be ok, we can work through this like adults… right?  So I got out of the car, which I now realize was basically the worst plan.  Never confront an insane man twice your size who’s screaming at you.  Just don’t do it.  Especially in a city like this.  It’s a terrible plan.

I walked up to him to defuse the situation and/or get shot trying to defuse the situation cause I’m a dumb ass but he suddenly looked really confused and got back in his car.  I like to think he realized that beating up a little girl over a parking space was unreasonable, but in reality I think he thought I was insane because I was walking right up to a big screaming man, leaving a trail of soda dripping from my pants as I came.

It was about that time when I realized how dumb I was being, so I turned and sprinted into the dollar store where I hid behind a sign watching the parking lot to make sure it wasn’t out there waiting for me or keying my car or something.

And that is the story of how I…
A)almost got shot over $2 worth of plastic Mardi Gras beads.
B)made a big mess and puddle of Pepsi on the floor of the dollar store.  And
C)took over an hour to do what should have been a really small and simple errend.

The end.

Food That Sucks

A short list of foods that seem nice but are really super super mean.

Cabbage

Every single time I try to cook cabbage (which is pretty often because we eat a lot of stir fry and cabbage is cheap) it sends me through this emotional rollercoaster of never knowing how much food I’m dealing with, seeming to change size every time I touch it.  It starts out looking like a normal head of cabbage, then expands exponentially with each slice, and ends the show by shriveling up to 1/10th of it’s origional self when I throw it in the pan.

Stupid lying cabbage.

Bailey’s Irish Cream.  I recently received a letter from Bailey’s.  It went a little something like this.

Dear Jenna,
You know how you spend a decent amount of time and effort thinking about and planning ways to avoid the alcoholism that is literally written into your DNA?  Like, much more time than the average person does, even the people with it staring at them from every branch of their family tree like you?  Well just in case there weren’t enough amazing drinks in this world tempting you towards it, we made this alcohol that would be so delicious in all six cups of coffee you were going to drink this morning anyway.
Have fun trying to resist when you’re barely even awake!

Screw you Bailey’s.  Screw you, then get in my coffee… but not till after 3pm… a girl’s gotta have standards.

Garlic Bread

You’re cheesy, you’re garlic-tastic, you’re covered in butter, and you have a bread base.  You’re basically a carb orgasm in my mouth.  You’re so awesome in fact that despite claiming we were having spaghetti for dinner I’ll probably only have a few bites of that and eat damn near a whole loaf of you instead.

Then you’ll do horrible things to me all night… giving me unkissable breath, making me burp garlic-tastic burps (which are substantially less tasty the second time around) and causing awkward noises to escape from the other end as well.  Although I guess this one is my fault for loving you so.

And yes, in my head all Italian food sounds like Mario.  It’s not racist, it just is what it is.

Because nothing says “Merry Christmas” like showing everybody your vagina.

The Biblically themed Lord of the Flies Christmas Pageant at church was this past Sunday night and Verona had graduated from the sheep that she was last year to a mouse.  Except she refused to wear her mouse hat or mask, so really she was just a kid with a tail, but I digress.  Verona has also recently graduated from wearing diapers to wearing underwear.  (Foreshadowing anyone?)

The pageant went off without a hitch… by which I mean it was complete chaos but they were all adorable and nobody died which is really all you can ask of a bunch of small children in costumes.  When they were done the bell choir from the local middle school played a couple songs, then we all migrated over to where the cookies were to mingle.

I grabbed one of the last available chairs in a room packed with everyone we’ve ever known, plus the majority of the middle school and their parents, and was attempting to keep Finn occupied with the least messy cookie I could find when the person sitting next to me points and starts stammering as her eyes grow wide “Hey, hey you… I think your kid is disrobing.”

I turned around and there it was.  Verona had peed her pants but didn’t want anyone to see her with pee stained pants because she was embarrassed… so instead she just took them off.

Because people are totally more likely to notice a little wet spot on your clothes than that you’re not wearing any at all.  Only about a quarter of the room was staring by now, so I quietly said “It’s ok honey, don’t worry.  We’ll go home and get you in some clean, dry, pajamas and it’ll all be fine.” and took her hand hoping to quietly lead her through the seated crowd to the door when she totally freaked out at the suggestion that we leave.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOO!  I NEED ANOTHER COOKIE!”

I bent down quickly, “Honey, you’re naked in a church and covered in your own pee.  We just need to go home right now.”  And continued to lead her to the door while she screamed at the top of her tiny lungs the entire way out to the car, ”NOOOOOOOOOOOO!  I DON’T WANT TO GO HOME!  I WANT ANOTHER COOKIE!  NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”  Which of course everyone was watching by this point, because who isn’t going to watch a naked child scream?

Merry Christmas everybody, you’re welcome for the show.

Come, let me gently stroke your lifeless feathers.

My kids are masters at entertaining one another.  Don’t get me wrong, they have their super clingy moments… but now that it’s nice out they’ll spend hours in the backyard just moving dirt from one place to another (I’m convinced there’s some super fun angle to the game I’m just not aware of yet) and since the yard is all walled in so they can’t escape all I have to do is poke my head out every few minutes or check on them through the kitchen window to make sure one of the new dirt locations isn’t an oraphis in someone.

This afternoon while they put dirt on each other’s heads and giggled I used the opportunity to make my house look less like a disaster zone, until Verona walked in cuddling with a new special friend.

Yep.  A dead bird.

Now I am not the germaphobic mom… not by a long shot… I think running around like a half naked dirty little monster for the first couple years of your life is the way it should be.  I even consider the 5 second rule germaphobic, in our house we have the “If I remember how it got there you can probably eat it” rule instead.

But even so, there are some lines that just cannot be crossed… and carrying corpses into my house is one of them.  I threw up in my mouth a little bit and my one eye started twitching uncontrolably, but I wrestled all of that down and I kept it cool, didn’t freak out, and said “Ah, a dead bird.  We need to go wash your hands… like a bazillion times.  So go put it back outside please.” in the best not-freaking-out voice I could muster.

But instead of going and laying it back on the ground outside like I meant…

It’s tiny bird body sailed through the air in slow motion, wings and head contoring in horrifying angles, until it hit the ground with the most horrifying thud.  I let out a long, drawn out note in my crazy opera voice because, for whatever bizarre reason that seems to be my default freakout noise.  With that toss Verona crushed not only that dead animals tiny bones, it also crushed my ability to keep not losing my shit.

When things get crazy I get weird… specifically I sing weird things about what’s going on in the afore-mentioned giant crazy opera voice.  Seriously,  it’s weird.  I can’t explain it.  But it was on.

and sometimes random phrases on one single high pitches note,

as I led the kids to the bathroom (them staring at me like I’d totally lost it the entire way) where I started to throw them in the bath but after a short vision of them sitting in stagnant dead bird ick threw them in the shower instead.  Then covered them in about half a bottle of body wash each and gave them the shower head to play with while I went and called the west nile virus hotline.

On the upside, (at least I think it’s an upside because it smells better than bird death) in my crazy freak out state I used David’s body wash instead of the baby soap because I figured it’s meant to handle man sized messes… or something like that… so after marinating it in for half an hour the whole back part of my house smells like man land and my kids smell like tiny frat boys who bathed in Axe before hitting the club.

Sex After Children

My kids are “grass is always greener” kind of people.  Or more specifically they fully believe that the fun is always greater in the other room.  Elmo himself could be making balloon animals in the livingroom, but if I went into another room to do my taxes they would follow me in there, 100% sure that there was more fun in the taxes room… they just hadn’t found it yet.

Needless to say that makes finding the opportunity for uninterrupted sexy time difficult at best.  Even when they’re asleep the orgasmic vibes in the air wake them from rooms away.  And it has to be the vibes because when you have two small children you become a master at totally silent sex.  It’s like being a teenager all over again and having sex in your parents house… even the slightest bed creaking could clue someone in to what was going on.  Only now instead of worrying about your mom coming to break up the party you’re worried about your kids.  Your kids, who, by the way, are the direct results of previous parties… so you’d think they would respect it more.

But I digress.

Here are a couple ideas of ways to keep your kids distracted somewhere else long enough for you to get in a quickie without them crawling into the bed because they want to “cuddle” with the two of you.

The Kids Are Basically Bald Parrots Plan.

Kids, just like parrots, love shiney things.  If you put various shiney things around your backyard it will take a while for the kids to get all around and properly investigate all of them.  (Tip: This only works if you live in a city like ours with giant walls around yards so they can’t escape or get in any trouble.  Letting your toddler out into the world unsupervised in generally frowned upon.)

The Lock Em’ Out Plan

Shut the bedroom door and lock it.  The upside is that nobody can get in, the downside is they will stand on the otherside banging on it and asking for food… just like they do when you try to poop.

The Diamonds Are A Girl’s Best Friend… and For The Sake of This Anaology Diamonds Are Cookies Plan.

Put the kids in the kitchen with a giant pile of cookies.  Cookies are a distraction trump card… every time.  (Tip: Try to plan you horizonal tango’s for right before dinner because the hungrier they are the longer they’ll be distracted by the sugary goodness.)

And finally, The Ship Them Off Plan

Send them to grandma’s.  Make sure you put the dogs somewhere else too though.  After you go through all that effort to get some child free bump and grind on the last thing you want is an awkwardly placed cold wet nose throwing off your mojo.

The Five Stages of Presidental Debate Watching

Stage 1: Denial

When the presidential candidates take the stage and you think to yourself this might be ok, maybe these guys will be ok. Just because they’re politicians doesn’t mean they can’t be reasonable, logical people… right?  Just because every experience in your entire life indicates otherwise this time could be different… right?  Right?

Then they start talking and the first couple things out of their mouths aren’t terrible.  Political rhetoric that doesn’t mean anything yes, but it’s not SO bad, and you’re getting more and more convinced that this time, for the first time in memorable history, this debate is going to be an exchange of ideas between two reasonable people with the good of the American people at heart.

Stage 2: Anger

With each passing word you realize it didn’t sound that bad because they were just setting the metaphorical table, now that the forks, knives, and plates are down they can get onto the main course; a nonsense burrito smothered in crazy sauce and served with a side of WTF.

Stage two is when you start getting pissed.  Screaming at the TV, throwing things across the room, until eventually you’re so upset and flustered you’re mixing your profanities around until what you’re saying makes as little sense as what they’re saying.

That’s when stage 3 sets in.

Stage 3: Bargaining

“I can deal with economic policies that screw us all over in the long run, as long as you keep half heartedly attempting to fight for civil rights I’ll still vote for you.”  “On a 1-10 scale of awful, as long as your main talking points are a 6 or below I promise I won’t move to Canada.”  “God as long as you don’t let that jag win I swear I will… oh I don’t know just please don’t let it happen.”

If any of the above phrases sound familiar you’re in stage 3.

Stage 4: Depression

Despair sets in.  All the swearing has worn you out and all you can do is melt into the couch and groan while occasionally muttering things like “We’re all so screwed.”, “Why do we even try?”, and mumble a sentence nobody can decipher with the word “hopeless” in the middle of it.

You remain a semi-catatonic lump of anguish on the couch, broken pieces of hope scattering the floor around you, occasionally punctuating the TV noise with a dejected cry of “Ugh, no!” followed by burying your head further in the pillow until…

Stage 5: Acceptance

You remember these are just a couple political chimps throwing bumper sticker slogan feces at each other, and while it does impact your life this is also something that you have to go though every four years and something that they and a couple hundred other poo-flinging mamals we elected do every single day in Washington.  And the world hasn’t come crumbling around you yet, so it’s probably ok to peel yourself off the couch now.

Moral of the story: You should never watch political debates unless you’re going to turn it into a drinking game, the stress isn’t good for you.

I’m Mrs. Brightside

Remember that time I tore all* (*blatant exaggeration) the ligaments in my leg while saving all those nuns from the collapsing coal mine?  Well there are plenty of reasons why being a cripple while having two small children sucks but the optimist in me can’t stop searching for the bright side.  So, in honor of that, here’s 6 ways in which my injury could have been worse.

And finally, a “could have been worse” that was pointed out to me by a good (and super classy) friend at church this past Sunday…

That time I attempted to see a doctor, and ultimately failed.

My to do list today had exactly one thing on it, get an xray of the leg that I royally jacked up this past weekend in the mountains.  (I hurt it while scaling the vertical side of a cliff trying to rescue a pair of baby eagles from imminent doom.)  I really should have gone when it first happened, but I didn’t want to miss any of the fun so instead I got really good at putting anything I needed to carry on a plastic chair and pushing it along while I hopped on one foot behind it.  My own upcycled white trash walker… I’m the classiest person you know.

My insurance is a super pain in the ass about never letting you see anybody unless you get a referral from whatever doctor they tell you to see first, so my first item of business was finding out who that was.  I called the office I was supposed to call, listened to the phone ring for about two minutes, then heard the distinct sound of someone picking up the phone and immediately hanging up.  It had to be a mistake so I called again.  This happened four times.

So I called the office above that one and got an automated message that told me,

The bastards didn’t even have the decency to put me on hold, they just hung up on me.  But I only had one day of guaranteed childcare and the only thing that sounded like less fun than hopping on one foot to the doctor is to do it with two small children in tow… I was determined to get in today.  So I continually called that number again and again and again for an hour and a half, always getting that same message until finally I got through to a real live person who told me,

I told them I couldn’t get anything from the regular office on account of them continually hanging up on me so they told me to call another number.  The next number, of course, told me the exact same thing and gave me another number to try.

This pattern continued for the next four hours and involved me calling nine different places just trying to get the name of one freaking doctor that they wanted me to see.  When I finally got the name I called Dr. SoAndSo’s office and explained what happened, hoping to either get a referral to the xray place over the phone to save myself some hopping or get an appointment in the next few minutes.  The woman laughed at me when I asked if I could get in before 3:00.

They told me I could go to Urgent Care instead, but when I got to Urgent Care the receptionist told me,

So I ended up going to the clinic by the hospital.  Not the real ER, more like the ER’s illegitimate younger brother that nobody likes to talk about.  A place with a disclaimer prominently displayed  in the waiting room letting you know they were staffed by doctor-esque people, but no real doctors ever.  So if you needed a for-really-realz doctor you should probably leave now, cause you were going to be disappointed.

I got in and a guy who reminded me Guillermo from Weeds (in the good cute-charming-smile ways, not the shady-human-trafficing-and-murdering-gang-member ways) checked everything out, took some xrays, and said it wasn’t broken I had just torn ligaments (which he then explained was actually worse, lucky me).

“Here lady, put this led blanket over your stomach while I do the xray… you know, incase you ever want to have babies again that don’t glow in the dark or have two heads.”

He even gave me my drugs (pain med prescription) without making me do a brick dance first.  Chivalry might be dead elsewhere, but not in Not-Quite-A-Dr. Guillermo’s office.

Running Realities

I’ve officially completed my first week of running (despite the attempted sabotage of mother nature and David’s school changing his schedule around) and I’ve realized a few things.

1.  I’m in a lot better shape then I thought I would be because I’ve been hooping so much since the last time I tried running.  And that’s nice.

2.  I have asthma.  That’s not a new realization, just something I always forget when deciding I’m going to start running again.

3.  There may not be a sports bra in the world that can adequately contain the girls.  They get an A+ in scoring me free drinks at bars, but an F in not putting my eye out when I run.

4.  I’m super delusional about how I look when I run.  When I’m running I would bet you a million bucks I look like I just jogged off the cover of Runner World magazine, but reality is so so much different.

First off, I don’t know what it is but my face turns bright bright red… like so much redder than I’ve ever seen anybody elses ever in the world when they exercise.  I could easily be mistake for a burn victim, or a character from the next Saw movie (SawXXVII?) who gets her face mercilessly carved off by a crazy person with a straight razor.  It is not normal, and it is not pretty.

And I’m assuming I run crooked because my shirt always pulls to one side while my boobs flop all around until eventually the one is completely covered and the other is one trampoline double-bounce away from saying hello to the whole world.  Add to this that my phone that I listen to music on gets pulled from the side of my bra when I snuggly put it at the beginning of the run until eventually it ends up wedged between my cleavage which makes me look like a crazy person.

Lastly, once in middle school a guy told me I run like an orangutang.  For years I told myself he was just a dick but eventually had to admit that, even though he was kind of a dick, he’s right.  I run like Helen Keller spoke.

So while I’m trucking around my neighborhood thinking I look like this…

I really look like a slutty, sweaty, burn victim who thinks her cleavage is nature’s glovebox.