Undomestic Diva

Gratitude

To my mom who...

was always my parent and never my friend growing up,

made me work hard for what I wanted and never let me quit,

taught me to take the higher road and not the easiest route,

instilled values not just by preaching but by example,

believed in me when I didn't,

required 100 percent of me all the time,

saw talent in me when others discouraged me from trying,

supported and fought for me when no one else would,

helped me even when I didn't want it,

loved me and never let me forget it,

now delicately balances her role as mom and friend,

embraces being a grandma with such pride,

remains the pillar of strength when there is pain,

chooses to see the optimism in the worst of scenarios,

willingly gives up her time for anyone,

never asks for anything in return,

thank you.

Happy birthday, Mom.

My mom warned me this would happen someday

It has already started. I mean, my mom warned me this would happen someday. That at a certain point in motherhood you feel the overwhelming urge to kill another kid over what they've done to yours. I just wasn't prepared for it... now.

We sit at the dinner table talking over baby back ribs smeared in barbeque sauce talking about everyone's day as we eat corn and pick at the rice, taking turns sharing what we did, who we talked to or played with, what was for snack - the usual conversation.

It's E-man's turn. A very "shy" child, the 'who did you play with today question' has taken a happy turn lately as he seems to have finally come out of his shell and become a suddenly super social first grader. So his dad asks him who it was today.

"No one."

"No one? You didn't play with anyone at lunch?"

"No. I just played in the sandbox by myself."

"What about Drew?" I ask hopefully. He's mentioned Drew's name a lot lately. Surely he must have played with Drew.

"No. Drew kicked me off his friendship list."

"His what?" I ask dumbfounded. 'Friendship list' rolls back and forth on my tongue like vinegar and I wince.

"His friendship list. He said I'm off of it so I can't hang around with him anymore."

I seethe. This is not high school for christ's sake. This is first grade. Why are kids so goddamn mean?

I fight the overwhelming urge to cry. An ugly cry. My feelings are hurt for him. My son who has always seen social situations and new encounters as pure misery finally makes attempts at reaching out to other kids and he's instantly rejected. Kicked off the 'friendship list.' Even though I know these kids don't know better; that they're just being kids, I want to cry. And scream. And maul. It seems so dumb really. But I want to protect him. I want to find that little boy who doesn't know any better and shake him and scream DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MEAN YOU ARE?! even though it wouldn't matter; the kid would never understand.

I start stabbing at my rice and focus my attention on not crying. It takes focus. My husband keeps the conversation going.

"Did you play with anyone else instead?"

"No, Drew and Stewart are best buds so I can't play with him either. And the girls chase fairies which I don't even believe in - except the tooth fairy of course - and so I don't play with them. I played soccer last week with some kids but then I got kicked in the face with the ball SO I AM NEVER DOING THAT AGAIN."

I swallow hard. This is the kid that brought home his Scholastic Book Order and begged for the 6th grade World War I and World War II books. The same boy who finishes his math homework and writes a "novel" on the back for his teacher to read. The boy who would rather read or write or learn something historic or scientific than play outside or watch TV. And I love these things about him. I brag about these traits. But I also wonder if these same characteristics will make his social life - even at the first grade level apparently - harder than most.

"What about your snack recess? Did you play with anyone then?" my husband inquires hopefully.

"No. I just ate my snack and waited for the bell to ring."

Stab. Stab. Stab. I'm not even hungry but I'm still eating so I don't say anything. 'Cause I don't know what to say. Because it makes me sad and angry that my son now spends recess waiting for it to end. At 7 years old.

*

My own haunting memories of elementary school swish through my mind. I can't remember the names of people I worked with for years but I can vividly remember sitting in the sandbox in the 5th grade with my only friend Nicole, doing our best to avoid confrontation we didn't deserve when the 'cool' girls sought us out to tell us how fat and ugly we were. I was wearing a hot pink t-shirt with a pocket, black biker shorts and my hair pulled back in a bun and I kept my eyes focused on my tennis shoes, kicking the damp sand around and biting my bottom lip to keep it from quivering, wishing I had the nerve to tell them to fuck off. I recall vowing that someday I'd be better than them. Maybe not skinnier or prettier, but I would be better than them.

I wish I had known then that I already was better than them. In other, more important ways.

*

I shake my own memories out of my head and I go to the bathroom to cry. The tears are now spilling over the brim of my lower eyelid involuntarily and I don't want him to see it. My heart is broken for him. But also? I don't know how to fix it. And isn't that my job? To make it all better? To not let bad things happen to my babies? And I don't know how. I don't know that I can.

I remember what my mom said. Someday you're going to want to kill another kid over what they do to yours. And I hate that she's right.

And then I got kicked off Twitter

My husband laughs, rightfully earning his nickname 'Candy Ass,' saying to me, "Ha! Even Twitter thinks you talk too much!"

Hardee har har. Idiot.

Meanwhile I'm fuming. It's Oscar night and the only reason to watch the Red Carpet coverage and the opening monologue is to critique all the celebrities outfits from the safety of my couch and the comfort of my sweatpants. (Hanes, thank you for asking. Socks also by Hanes. The bra in my bedroom drawer by Victoria Secret.)

But Twitter - the good ol' web version - has kicked me off its website telling me I've reached my 'status update limit.'

Until now I hadn't heard of such a thing [and it took quite a bit of searching on Twitter's website to find that they do now limit you because - get this - they've always believed in limits, hence the 140 characters... I CALL BULLSHIT you cheap ass server space limiting cheapskates] and I'm awfully suspicious considering my last few tweets were talking about that homewrecker Angelina Jolie and her desire to break up the non-marriage of Johnny Depp and his pretend wife. (True rumor. Swear.)

   

So apparently Twitter is not only not Team Aniston but perhaps privately funded or perhaps even adopted by Jolie herself. Mess with my girl Jenn, but fuck with my Twitter? I don't think so, bitch. I mean, WHEN IS SOMEONE GOING TO STOP THIS WOMAN?

Of course the wittiest epiphanies about everything Oscar occurred to me only after I met my so-called 'status update limit' and now the Twitter world will never know my true cleverness which really pisses me off and frankly has me wondering if I should call my attorney to see about suing over defamation of character or something. I'm damaged now. To the tune of probably a cool 5 million. At least.  

Also? Twitter, you suck. And really? The joke is on you, Twitter, if you think you can quiet me down. Just ask my husband who has had to listen to me rant about your bad form for HOURS now when I could have been tweeting. He also now hates you. 

This probably could have been said in 140 characters or less. But here we are.

I left this blank post open for over an hour and I'll be damned if it didn't write itself.

Every so often I'd toggle back to this screen after twittering or facebooking or checking the news or while bored when Modern Family went to commercial and... nothing.

I had expected to find a witty little bit on how earlier tonight I broke my armpit muscles in a I Can Too Do A Pull-Up! dare between my sister and I which ultimately had me yelling at Candy Ass to "PUSH MY ASS UP, DAMN IT!" and then ended abruptly when the realization of landing on my just healed tailbone gave me flashbacks and I just knew ALL THIS couldn't be supported by the door frame.

Anyhoo, the post never wrote itself and here we are. With this.

I apologize.

Four out of five dentists agree with me

So I bought a new tube of toothpaste. I know. You probably just peed yourself a little bit because THAT'S HOW EXCITING buying toothpaste can be, right? No. No really, it's not. Actually, it's fucking boring as hell buying toothpaste, only no one talks about it.

Except me apparently.

After squeeeeeeeeezing the very last dollop of minty toothy-ness out of my current tube of Crest, I finally broke down and bought another. Only apparently I didn't pay enough attention and rather than buying Crest Extra Whitening WITH SCOPE! I bought Crest Extra Whitening. That's it. No WITH SCOPE! just Crest Extra Whitening. Eh. Who cares right? It's toothpaste for crying out loud. As long as it gets my teeth clean then we're golden. Or rather, whitened.

Except. Crest Extra Whitening? It smells the way I can only imagine shit tastes. Like, as in smelling like *fecal matter* might taste. I wouldn't know, personally, of course. But I've smelled shit before and this Crest Extra Whitening definitely smells like you would think shit tastes.

And for the last three nights as I've reassured and persuaded myself Megan, it's toothpaste for christ's sake, just brush your goddamn teeth! I touch that brush to my teeth, my tongue involuntarily takes a swipe at the pastey shitasticness of it and *SHUDDER* I scrub, scrub, scrub and then SPIT, SPIT, SPIT and swear I'll buy my Crest Extra Whitening WITH SCOPE the next day.

Meanwhile, in an attempt to distract myself from the awful taste of brushing my teeth tonight I glanced down at the tube of toothpaste only to read the words SLICK and SMOOTH as in "leaves teeth feeling slick and smooth." I swear-to-headgear I almost lost my entire caloric in-take for the day right then. I literally urped.

Four out of five dentists I surveyed also agreed with me, saying the Crest Extra Whitening tastes like shit. The fifth dentist just kinda winked at me like Wha? It's an acquired taste. LISTEN SICK ASSHOLE (by which no pun is intended) WE'RE NOT TALKING SCOTCH HERE, WE'RE TALKING ABOUT THE TASTE OF POOP.

Some people, ya know? Dis-gust-ing.

***

NOTE: I was not paid in anyway for my review of Crest Extra Whitening toothpaste. Which is probably a good thing 'cause I'll bet they'd be mad as fuck and want their money back. Nope. I wasted my own got-damn money on that toothpaste and if anything, really, Crest owes me $3.  

Think you can't afford Blogher NYC? Think again.

Don't roll your pretty little eyes at me like Oh c'mon! A Blogher conference post *already?* We'll have to hear enough about this come June, July, August and maybe even September. GAH! I'm not even going. Who can afford that?

Ahhh... but you see, that's entirely my point. While attending Blogher's annual conference in August may make your ears ring with cha-chinging at the mere thought of a pass! New York City! airfare! the Hilton for christ's sake! etc., there are actually ways to stop the cash flow hemorrhaging and still make it to epicenter of where internet meets real life FOR LESS THAN YOU THINK!

(That was my best Billy Mays impression, take it or leave it.) (RIP.)

Why I want you there and why I think you (AND YES, YOU!) should be there is a whole other post for a whole other day.

Here are some of my suggestions:

1. Buy your conference pass NOW. As in, on or before February 28 which is this Sunday, after which it will cost you $100 more to attend.

Second possible option? Last year when Blogher sold-out, they offered a lobbycon (I think that's what it's called) pass. Pros: Waaay less money than the full pass. Cons: You don't get to attend the sessions in the rooms but rather hear them in various lobbies via TVs and over speakers. It's unclear whether the lobbycon pass is being offered this year. (I asked on Twitter, but haven't heard back yet.)

Third possible option: If you're not as interested in attending sessions all day at Blogher and more inclined to see whose avatar matches their actual face and socialize (or maybe Blogher is your excuse to see NYC) opt for the cocktail parties only pass for $50. You, lush you!

2. Shack up with some roomies. At $200/night plus taxes and fees, there's nothing like making the most of your quality time together than putting four people in two double beds. When you thought of attending Blogher it wasn't because you were envisioning restful nights and peace and quiet, right? (If it was, well then, let's talk.) Split that $200 four ways and you're down to $50/night per person. AT THE HILTON. Tom Bodet can't beat that. Now, that being said, you could stay somewhere else. But before you salivate over the thought of a cheaper-per-night hotel, be sure to consider these things:

- How far is it from the Hilton where Blogher is? (Think cab fare, walking distance, etc.)

- Even if you can walk to your hotel from the Hilton, it's not necessarily safe to late at night when you've decided to leave the cocktail party and head for bed.

- Maybe you plan on walking with a group of friends back to your other hotel but know that realistically, this probably won't always work out. Someone might want to head back earlier or later; someone might choose sleeping on someone else's floor at the Hilton in lieu of walking in those goddamn heels another ten feet.

3. Watch airline prices for a couple of weeks before purchasing. Tuesday and Wednesday nights typically have the best deals. (Seriously.) Both Southwest and Virgin America fly into NY and either La Guardia or JFK airports will suffice.

SUPER SAVER TIP (ha): Flying home on Monday rather than Sunday can save you almost $200. But wait Megan, you say. That means another night at the Hilton! More money! Well, hold your britches, missy/mister. IF you can coerce your roomies to also stay until Monday (sell them on the cheaper airfare) then that means only another $50 each (see #2), thus saving you each $150 in airfare than if you had come home Sunday. PLUS! you get all day Sunday to see NYC. Double win. You're welcome.

4. Save now to spend then. Besides your Blogher conference pass, hotel stay and airfare you will need some cash to spend at Blogher. Think cab fares to and from airport, meals (the ol' hot dog from the street cart vendor will lose its luster quickly) and hey, let's face it, not everyone is a one-drink-ticket kind of mingler. So here's my super simple plan that's much easier said than done:

Your grande 2 pump non-fat mocha with whip costs you $3.65 every day, 7 days a week because you're a devoted Starbucks customer. BUT WHAT HAS STARBUCKS EVER DONE FOR YOU? (Except make you an addict and drain your wallet? EXACTLY.) So what I want you to do is - and sit down for this - I want you to *skip* that grande 2 pump non-fat mocha with whip 4 times a week beginning March 1 and put that money away in an envelope that cannot be touched, even in a full-blown PMS emergency.

If you do this straight through July 31 (22 weeks - BUT YOU CAN DO IT!), you will have saved $321.20. Plenty of spending money for Blogher.

Fine. You're like me and totally incapable of giving up your cappuccino/latte/mocha/americano, I GET IT. Here's your other option. Save your change. Seriously. Spend cash, save all your coins in a jar and roll them come the end of July. And don't be all CoinStar lazy about it either. Take an hour out of your precious time to roll your own damn pennies and nickels and quarters and dimes and take them to the bank to cash in. You'd be surprised how much you can rack up.

And when you do arrive at Blogher NYC, I expect a goddamn hug or fist bump or something for these savvy little savings tips I just provided.

***

Added: I didn't mean to offend anyone with this post nor insinuate that it was merely a matter of determination in order for you to make it to Blogher. We all have different financial situations and I was simply hoping to point out some ideas that might make it easier for people to go; perhaps ideas that hadn't been thought of. Newly laid-off, I'm having to think very carefully about how I'm going to get to NYC and I was only hoping to help, not offend.

It was funny the first time

"God dammit I dropped my wunchable."

"Didn't I tell you to stop talking like that?"

"Shit."

"WHAT?! That's it. You lost your dessert tonight. And that's really too bad because I bought ice cream."

"What the hell is ice cweam?"

"WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY??"

"Nuffing."

"I'm pretty sure I heard you say something about wanting to try out the taste of soap."

*silence*

Different kid: "Mooooooooooooooooooom! He just said 'shit' again!"

*head meets desk*

Optimism, rainbows, sparkles and whatnot. Cue *spirit fingers*

I don't know how Stella got her groove back (well, OK, I can guess) but all I know is I've got to find mine again. (But you know, differently than Stella.)

This past week has been a laundry list of four letter words like "laid-off" and "cancer" and "Modern Family is a repeat" and "I'm sorry, we went with another photographer" and "He needs 6 vaccinations today" and I-swear-to-Starbucks if my life were a cartoon, a little ominous black cloud would be over my head, following me around wherever I go.

It's impossible to explain to your 7, 5 and 3 year olds why mommy's upset when she hangs up the phone from her suddenly former employer in simple but honest terms.

"Mommy lost her job and I'm sad."

"Why did you lose your job mom?"

"Well, the company didn't have money to pay me anymore."

"Why didn't they just go to the bank and get more?"

Sigh.

On a slightly funnier note, since then, everyone they come across they take delight in telling matter-of-factly, almost bragging, "My mom lost her job!" It's somewhat amusing to watch people squirm and try to react but, you know, not react.

"Wow. Oh. I mean, really? Oh. Well. I'm sorry!" *awkardness* "So... How have you've been?"

"How the fuck you think I've been? I just lost my job. Jesus."

Of course I don't say that. I just do the obligatory, "Oh you know, whatever, right? It is what it is."

Sigh.

Not to say life has been all shit and no giggles.

A girls night out gave me a much needed break from my pity party

proof that some of the best of friends are born right here on the internet

 

Photo courtesy of Nicole (Red Lotus Mama) 

and I woke up the next day to my 5 year old wearing the "Godfather of Beer" t-shirt I may or may not have brought home as a souvenir from our little get together. More photos here.

Breakfast waiting for me at the kitchen table wasn't so awful either. Another awesome internety friend and I are planning a weekend together which includes a good mix of job prospecting and spa-ing. I've never been spa-ing. True story.

So you know, bright side, optimism, rainbows, sparkles and whatnot. *spirit fingers*

And in my new unfamiliar world of finger-tapping and what-do-I-do-now-ing, I'm daydreaming of all the things I now have time to do that I didn't before. Maybe I'll get to writing That Book or scratching a couple things off my bucket list or plant a garden and then actually watering it too or clean out the office or organize my closet or aspire to aspire. Who knows.

But in the meantime, while I search for my funny - which I seemed to have also lost - and try to get my groove back (Stella!), I've got 2 bucks on the Super Lotto and am hoping for the impossible.

Things that sucked this week. And it's only Wednesday.

If I could have fast-forwarded through this week and gone straight to next week (assuming next week's going to be better - IT'S GOT TO BE BETTER, RIGHT?) then I sooo would. It seems there was an extra amount of suckage in my life this week including but not limited to:

- My mom had to have surgery on Tuesday morning. (She's fine.) But still, never fun.

- While I waited for her to come out of surgery Mr. Personal Space Invader got all up in my bidness. His citrusy cologne was so nauseating that I had to move across the room.

- Unfortunately for me, his 'cologne' had that Abercrombie affect and I felt like I could still smell it on me the rest of the day.

- But I quickly forgot about the stench when a few hours later I got laid-off.

- The new issue of Rolling Stone arrived and it's only this thick AND! the letters to the editor ("correspondence") didn't even directly address the John Mayer (<---eeewww) debacle.

- But, I learned in RS that Pete Townshend of The Who has tinnitus which explains the Super Bowl halftime show. And then of course I felt kinda bad for tweeting about how awful it was.

- See's Candy sent me a catalog in the mail (so. cruel.) offering me awesome discounts on their chocolates (so. awesome.) if I buy at least 50 P.O.U.N.D.S of it (not. cool.) right before bikini season, I might add. (just. plain. mean.)

- To make matters worse, (true story) I'm actually the great-great-great niece of Mary See herself but I don't get any family/inventor/candy-starter discount. How effed up is THAT?

- Modern Family is a repeat. Enough said.

And it's only Wednesday night.

Where Candy Ass becomes a biker via a not so much mid-life crisis as it a third-of-life crisis

Seriously, you have no idea how long I've been dying to post about Candy Ass' latest obsession. At first, I dismissed the idea of blogging about it because, really, the jokes just came all too easily. (And who doesn't appreciate a challenge?) Then I tried the whole let's-be-mature-about-this-Megan approach and well, HERE I AM, blogging about it. Obviously that tactic didn't work.

Candy Ass - in the midst of his third-of-life crisis which has included a huge flat-screen TV and surround system that makes the entire house rumble like an aftershock of male orgasmic proportions - has taken on a new hobby to cope with being a 30-something male. (You know, because being 30-something AND a man is so. hard.)

He's become a biker.

There are only two kinds of you ladies out there reading this. Depending on which you are, you're either thinking a) come to mama, you leather-chapped stallion or, b) biker? really? becoming a cowboy would have been so much more RAWRRRRRR. No matter who you are or which you think, be prepared to be disappointed (after you're finished laughing at the whole Candy Ass becoming a biker thing of course).

The truth is, there are no 'leathers' or 'colors' (Candy Ass never was made for the world of gangs or organized crime despite his [frankly worrisome] love of Sons of Anarchy) and there is no Harley or whatever other brands of motorcycles there are out there parked in our garage or driveway. Nope.

Instead, let me paint you a picture of a man in tight strategically padded spandex biker shorts, a fitted spandex shirt that is designed to look like the inside of a man's upper torso complete with ribs, a spine (think that weird science dude you watched in science class when you were in junior high who wore a full body suit that looked like your insides) and - get this - a heart that's fashioned (and I use that word loosely) out of a bike chain. I call it his leotard.

Yep, Candy Ass is that kind of biker... a cyclist. Helmet, click-in shoes and a bicycle ("road bike" as he calls it to save face) with a seat that looks like it could also give you a colonoscopy.

Sexay.

OK, before you deem me a total asshole for making fun of my husband and his quest to be healthy and fit via leotard and socks special ordered to match his bike, let me just say that YOU DON'T HAVE TO LIVE WITH HIM when he comes home from a "ride" and tells you over and over again HOW MANY MILES! and HOW FAST! and HOW MANY CALORIES! and meanwhile you're having to pinch your nose from the tinny smell of sweat, much preferring he saved the wild! (whoa boy!) tale of his trek for after his shower. BUT LOVE YA BABE! PROUD OF YOU!

Truthfully, if anyone can pull of a cyclist's get-up, it's Candy Ass. And he's lost more than 40 pounds in the last few months. So really? I am an asshole. But we already knew that.

Candy Ass just thinks I'm jealous (HA!) because I don't even know how to ride a bike. Pffft. Riding bikes are overrated. And also? DANGEROUS. Besides, you won't ever see my fat jiggly ass in spandex of any kind. You'd have to sew it on and cut if off. No thanks and you're welcome.

But hon, AWESOME JOB! 45 MILES! UPHILL! 18 MILES PER HOUR! Did you bring me back lunch by any chance? (Or something less asshole-ish.)

*

Side note: When I told Candy Ass I was going to out him and his new hobby on my blog all he wanted to be certain of was: "Make sure you tell them that the 18 mph is only the *average* speed which means most of the time I'm actually going faster than that." And then he does some little hand gesture that made me think OH MY GOD I'M MONICA AND MARRIED TO CHANDLER and whispers, "and yes, sometimes a little slower BUT MOSTLY? FASTER!"

I. rest. my. case.