Saturday Shopping

While the Kid was at a school tutoring session on Saturday morning (don’t get too impressed- there was a $100 drawing for those attending), I decided to plow through a few errands in the dreaded (well, my dread anyways) Nashville neighborhood of Green Hills- land of the affluent, elitist ilk I loath to infiltrate because of poor driving skills and snooty attitudes. This is where fru-fru meets chi-chi. Sure I may sound bitter and jealous, but truthfully I am more inclined to think they don’t deserve my presence for other reasons like they couldn’t possibly get my badassness or humor. Few do.

I am not much of a shopper, but sometimes I have loyalty and love for a few products. Sadly, the stores that carry these products live in Green Hills. I needed some make-up at Sephora. The glare from this store almost triggered a migraine so I was happy they saw me for the one product purchase I am and got me in and out without having to waste time. Besides, the employees walk around with Secret Service earpieces and walkie talkie devices that give me the creeps. I mean, they’re selling lipstick and perfume for god’s sake, not taking a bullet for the president.

I also needed some underwear. Oh god. Here we go. I like Victoria’s Secret underwear- one style, one size, maybe two or three colors. This store looks like a neon pink whorehouse. I started feeling nauseous and weak.

“Can I help you ma’am?”

Oh shit I have been ma’amed in this ghastly undergarment brothel.

“Cotton underwear”, I manage to gasp.

She smiles sweetly and points at a table of colors I haven’t witnessed since my last Grateful Dead show.

“All the sizes on top of the table are mediums. If you need a larger size, you’ll have to look through the drawers under the table.”

IF.

Ok first- fuck you very much.

Second- your ass is larger than my white Ukrainian ass so I wouldn’t be looking so smug as you point with your chubby little finger because my white Ukrainian ass is badass and I will cut you with lasers from my pissed off eyes.

Third- bite me.

“Thank you.”

I don’t even bother to look at the top of the table and head straight to the drawers.

Black. Black. Now what? Lurid pink stripes? Obscene turquoise flowers? Ok one more black. Black and white stripes that look zebra-ish? Purple? I might be able to live with purple.

Three black. Two purple. Now for the purchase. I have to weave my way through walls of padded bras and hold my head haughtily because my tucchus might need a larger size, but my girls have never needed anything padded thank you very much.

“Would you like to receive our coupons?”, a wisp of a girl who looked like a cross between a canary and a tongue depressor chirped at me.

No, I would rather you plunge icepicks through my forehead before I ever have to walk in this revolting cyclone of neon again.

“No, thank you.”

So errands run, my psyche is somewhat intact, I make a move to leave.

But I haven’t been to The Container Store yet.

I LOVE boxes and cannisters and containers (I always wanted to live in the I Dream of Jeannie bottle) so this sounds like my kind of shopping- no bright pink thongs, no salespeople looking askance at my chubbiness without self-awareness of their own roly-poliness.

I walked in to The Container Store and was greeted by a toothy blonde kid who spoke at warp speed.

“What?”

“”How are you today ma’am?”

Oh shit I just got ma’amed again. I need to get out of this place.

“Can I help you find something?”

I looked at him like he asked if he could cut off my big toe because the Rapture was occurring soon and the true believers would need a big toe grafted to their chins to indicate real faith.

“No, just browsing.”

He has on one of those earpieces too. I think he is alerting the people downstairs to keep an eye on me.

I started to feel weak again. I went down the escalator and saw rows and rows and rows of organizational shit that Green Hills people will buy to organize all of their shit they will never organize.

I need to get out of here.

I immediately turned around and went back up the other escalator, past the toothy big toe kid and clawed for the exit. I was afraid he would think I stole something  because I was moving so quickly- I stopped at the doorway and fumbled for my sunglasses and keys and turned my phone back on because no one who stole something would possible be so slow with the getaway, right?

Internet shopping was made for agoraphobes, lazy asses and people like me (I may have snippets of these qualities). I may just have to pony up shipping charges so I don’t have to get ma’amed and scrutinized for my lack of shopping fortitude.

Happy Easter to My Boy

So we all know I have a boy. A boy who seems to be rapidly turning into a guy. I am watching all of my friends who have daughters post pictures of their darling little girls in their perfect pastel dresses and feel a girly tinge of melancholy that I don’t get to put a little girl in a fru-fru dress complete with an Easter bonnet and gloves.

But you know what I have instead???

A boy who wipes his pizza sauce hands on the futon.

A boy who might possibly run in horror from a napkin because that would prevent him from using both sleeves to wipe his mouth.

A boy who put a dead junebug on my makeup brushes so I would have a good morning scare.

A boy who has one dimple on his cheek that might just melt my soul into a puddle of mommy love.

A boy who will not put up with ignorance, meanness, intolerance or a lack of chocolate chip mint ice cream.

A boy who wants to be an inventor, a marine biologist, an engineer, a farmer and the owner of Nick’s Pizza Grille.

A boy who is just the sweetest kid in the world and he’s all mine even if I don’t get to put him in an Easter dress.

Happy Easter! I love you Kid!

Nick and Joe

Flu and Fever, I Give You the Finger

I did not plan on a twelve hour emergency room visit for the Kid on the first day of my vacation, but maybe this is why planning can suck and you should just live life by the seat of your pants.

The FH delivered the Kid to me Wednesday morning needing his asthma medicine.

And why were you not in possession of asthma medicine since the Kid has had asthma, well…his whole fucking life????

No good answer, but I was not appreciative of starting my vacation pissed and stressed since I actually planned this little time off to unpiss and destress.

I did manage to eke out the two appointments I made for that morning- hoo ha and hair- both essentail body parts that needed attention in different ways. (don’t even go there)

By the time I got home the Kid was sporting a 102.8. By mid afternoon we were up to 103.8.  A little ibuprofen and we were going to knock this sucker out, right?

Yeah…well no.

At 7:00 it was at 104.5 (and that’s the highest it has ever been) and we were in the shower with our clothes on trying to make his skin feel less like a coke furnace. (that’s coke as in steel for all you folks that did not know that real American steel used to made in my hood) Asthma was also making a nasty appearance because it didn’t want to miss out on all the fun.

And by 7:30 we were off to the emergency room. It’s amazing that when you enter an ER and say your Kid is having trouble breathing that humanity parts like the Red Sea. Triage happened immediately along with a hefty dose of tylenol. Little tears sprouted at the corners of the Kid’s eyes that broke my heart.

We sat in the waiting room for a couple hours after breathing and fever had stabilized.  The waiting room in a major city hospital (I don’t care how well-endowed this particular hospital is) is just plain gross and I am being mean and judgemental. The thirteen year old with the baby didn’t have a clue what she was doing. About a dozen LOUD children were running wild. Old people were discussing intestinal blockages. Oh but everyone had a smart phone. I wanted to flee this microcosm of hospital hell.

The Kid’s name was called.

And then they went to work.

After much prodding and poking and nebulizers full of epi mist and steroids by 3:00 AM the Kid looked just sicker and I could hear my worry beads rattling.

I mean really pale, wobbly and looking like the floppy dough I use to make pierogies. Then it’s chest xrays and an ekg and more nebulizer and an IV stuck in his little hand and the discussion of admitting him because he was positive for the dreaded flu. Real flu. And no flu shot because the Kid is allergic to eggs.  Luckily the only good thing about my friend Shab having middle of the night insomnia (is there any other kind?) is that I got encouraging text messages to keep me sane and loved.

The Kid didn’t cry or complain. We watched an entire night of River Monsters and even caught an episode of Hillbilly Handfishin’. I found this plump with irony as really smart people with bigass PHd’s on their white jackets were roaming in and out of our room and commenting on people catching catfish with their bare hands in some riverish cesspool.

I will now veer my snark around to being nice because:

VANDERBILT UNIVERSITY CHILDREN”S EMERGENCY ROCKS LIKE HOT LOVE!!!!

These folks are just wonderful and I want to kiss them and have their babies and make them chocolate cupcakes with sprinkles. They took care of my little man like he was the only little thing to make feel better that night. But I knew there were more. There was one short period when we didn’t see anyone and it was because they had a really sick baby. Really sick. The Kid got worried. He did not like the idea of a baby sicker than what he felt.

The staff doted on him with popsicles and explained the IV so that it was interesting and not scary and they liked his fake arm tattoo. These are special people. I am sure all their victories feel wonderful and their losses unimaginable.

So after twelve hours I got to take home a Kid, a little worn out, a little feverish, but on the mend and with few worries. All I want for vacation is a healthy, happy Kid.

Mycology: The Middle School Years

Mom I had a dream I was at a mushroom party.

Oh good lord in heaven please give me all your mercy…

Oh really honey, what does that mean?

Please dear god let it be some kind of culinary activity involving the enjoyable act of slicing mushrooms correctly…

And then the Kid proceeds to tell me his mushroom dream which involved a bunch of talking mushrooms from some unfathomable Mario video game he plays.

(yeah- these game creators put “mushrooms” in their games- they are not fooling anyone, well not anyone that knows)

Oh ok- fascinating mushroom dream darling.

So a few minutes later in my can’t let go of the damn thing kind of way…

So did you know that there is a kind of mushroom that is illegal? (Not only did I open the door, but it is dangling from its hinges)

The Kid looked at me like I was crazy.

That’s silly Mom. How can a mushroom be illegal?

So, I explained in a very matter of fact, clinical description of these very specific mushrooms because sometimes I have more trepidations of the Kid not knowing something than actually knowing, that is, I would rather some things just come from me and not the Magic Mushroom dealer hanging out in the park in front of the middle school. (do they even do that anymore???) 

That’s actually pretty creepy Mom. But I would like to hallucinate that there are really fun tigers walking down the street or maybe riding in Smart Cars.

(the hingepins have popped out and the door is falling over to lodge me under its massive weight) 

Well…I don’t don’t think it’s that fun…it could get really scary too…

and then I throw in the nugget to get me out of this miasma I brewed…

Since you know so much about mycology…

 (he actually does- long story-but there is a fairly substantial mycology hobby in my family along with angel collecting and Benjamin Franklin impersonating)

…you would have to be REALLY careful about the mushroom you would eat. It could be POISONOUS!!!! So you should NEVER eat just any mushroom! Only eat the edible ones from the store- the mushrooms we cook with.

Oh yeah, you’re right Mom. Did I tell you about the radish I ate in Gardening Club? And I am growing my own patch of carrots!

And there was god’s mercy to get me out of that mess.

The Week In All Its Glorious Suckage

I have been sitting here trying to think of something funny. There’s not been much funny lately. (Including that image of an empty martini glass- not funny at all.)

But Holly said “Your posts are hilarious!”

But then her husband Mark said “Well, not the last one.”

Yep. Not one thing funny about the previous post.

So I have felt like the quintessential bearer and recipient of bad news lately. I’ve been dealing with, talking about, getting informed on: a death, a divorce, a few tumors, three sinus infections, one hysterical aunt who probably doesn’t even know I am her niece, school problems with the Kid, a punishment of not seeing The Hunger Games this past weekend like everyone on the planet (don’t worry honey- you’ll probably have a real hunger games in your lifetime) one giant migraine, one colossal pain in the ass, the Babushka’s friends who all seem to have a problem with gravity, baby worries (not me, my factory is offline permanently), my own ultrasound that my doctor assured would find nothing “big, bad, or scary” and a layer of fucking pollen that has turned my car from cheery red to vomitous puce and me giving my best impression of yagging up a hairball.

I am not feeling too hilarious.

The Kid has managed to treat me to a nugget or two this week:

“Really- is that actually three pieces of chewed up gum on the coffee table???”

“Uh yeah…”

“I swear I am going to beat your ass.”

“You don’t believe in hitting children Mom.”

“Beliefs can change my love.”

“Nope. Not buying it.”

Damn he’s right. Little shit. It gets so annoying when he’s right.

***

“Mom, I had a very strong work ethic today.”

***

“Mom, wait until you get to the part about Bloomer in The Hunger Games.”

“Oh ok. That must be later in the book.”

“No, she’s in the part with the tracker jackers you just read.”

“There’s no one named Bloomer.”

Our argument continues for several minutes.

“THERE’S NO ONE NAMED BLOOMER!!!”

“YES THERE IS! HER ARM DISINTEGRATED IN KATNISS’S HANDS!”

“Uh…maybe you mean GLIMMER???”

My question was infused with pure snark.

“Oh yeah…Glimmer.” And he walks away like no part of me being right just happened.

And then to round out the middle of my week that sems to have no end in sight someone wants to fix me up…on a date…with a guy.

Hmm, let’s see… fast-forward past the last matchmaking I succumbed to and…yeah I believe I put down a $1500 retainer on a snarling bulldog of a divorce lawyer. That fixing-up thing really hadn’t worked out so well.

And this one sounds like such a charmer! Best of all- he’s an unemployed writer!! I never thought I would hear something less appealing than “unemployed musician.”

And then Jennifer gave me this advice:

“Why don’t you just kick the tires?”

And I believe that I gave her a reply akin to:

“Not only do I not squeegee ANY man’s shower, but I also do not kick any man’s metaphorical tires.”

But the Kid is fed, the dishes are done, the laundry is drying…and did you hear that?

Coming Kahlua, coming Stoli…

Sunday Morning Sorrow

I talk to my mom, a.k.a. the Babushka, everyday- sometimes twice a day-sometimes three times a day. Most of the time it’s the same conversation- how’s the weather, what did the Kid do and say today, I made a grilled cheese sandwich without burning it, so and so fell down and went to a nursing home.

Friday night was different.

“I have some sad news.”

Oh shit, I just figured another friend had died. I mean- my mom is 87 and members of her old lady group have diminshed tremendously over the last couple of years. So, I only vaguely braced myself for a name like Edna or Josephine.

“Jimmy’s wife died.”

Pause.

“What?”

“Jimmy’s wife died.”

Really long pause.

Rendered speechless kind of pause.

Then my mom said…

“I know.”

We had a short discussion about the details. One neighbor knew this and another knew that. Mom was going to call Jimmy’s aunt. I was going to look up the obituary and give mom the info about flowers or a donation. I was holding back my tears because if you cry in front of my mom (or on the phone) she always cries too and I just wanted my own tears.

Jimmy and I grew up together- he was a few houses down with his mom and brothers. His dad had passed away long ago. His grandparents (whom I loved loved loved) lived across our tiny street. Sometimes I could hear Jimmy screech his bike into their driveway and more often than not when he raced away from their house I could hear his grandmother yell, “Jimmy, you better get back here!”

Looking back I now realize the idyllic neighborhood in which we grew up- tearing around on our bikes, watching the Fourth of July fireworks over at the playground, ice cream at Dairy Queen, ice skating on the weekends. Jimmy and I were even student council officers together. Don’t get me wrong, there may have been a beer or two during our high school years. But we lived in a good place. And we were good friends. And we were good people.

As the years flew by and states separated us, I did manage to get updates from his mom (one completely fabulous lady who raised three fine boys) about all members of the family. It was fun to catch up albeit vicariously. Jimmy’s life seemed so beautiful to me- a wonderful wife, four kids- I have always been so happy for my friend.

The news about his wife shocked me because there is just nothing fair or reasonable or sane about his wife dying when they have so much to live for in their beautiful lives. Why should Jimmy be without his love and why do four children have to grow up without their mom?

Answers? No amount or quality of wise explanation can make this feel right. My heart hurts for them, but that is no help or comfort at all.

Several weeks ago I posted this about the death of one of K2′s moms. I included a part about Jimmy walking me home with his arm around my shoulder like the good buddy he was during our school days. I truly wish I could reverse the roles right now and put my simple arm around his shoulder and quietly walk home.

Pi(e) Day

So last week on Pi Day…

Hey Nick- Happy Pi Day!

What?

You know Pi?? 3.14?

Oh Pi. I thought you meant pie.

Why would I wish you Happy Pie Day- you don’t even like pie.

Yeah, I know…ok…Happy Pi Day Mom.

I wish it was the other kind of Pie Day. Like apple pie or peach pie…mmm…

I wish I could eat those pies, but I can’t.

Why?

Because of the eggs Mom! (in a tone like I am some kind of idiot, like I would feed eggs to my highly allergic kid)

Apple pie and peach pie don’t have eggs in them!

What! Then get out in the kitchen and make me a pie woman!

Uh…yeah…that kind of talk won’t get you a pie anytime soon.

I know. I love you Mom. You’re are the best!

I know.

Now where’s my pie?