The boys and I just returned home from our once a week jaunt out in society. I haven’t wanted to alarm you these past 500 weeks of summer vacation, but it’s been a lonely summer this year. My other daytime at-home mom friend went back to work full-time so we’ve not had anyone to do things with during the week.
I start to think it’s a sign of deficiency in my person that I have only one other mom friend I can call up and do kid things with. Sad, how very sad for poor rejected Heather. But then I realize when you don’t want to hang out with dullards, asshats and/or liars, it really begins to limit the number of people to choose from. Just like my new food philosophy, it’s about quality over quantity, a concept I realize is completely un-American.
Admittedly, this new philosophy has led to a lot of solitude, which causes me to doubt that I can even remember how to speak to any adult other than Wally. I persevere for quality, though! Every week I take the boys to Pump It Up (one of those indoor inflatable play places) for 2 hours of running, sliding and climbing. I have it on good authority that this cancels out the three hours of video games I’m going to let them play after lunch. Now I can take my afternoon nap without the guilt!
So eight weeks and $104 dollars later, I finally (FINALLY!) talked to another mom. We talked the typical mom talk – schools, kids, homeowners insurance. (What? This is Mobile where you are forced to sign over your firstborn in order to afford homeowners insurance, it’s a HUGE topic down here.) Eventually the conversation came around to politics and religion. (OMG, can I hide under this foosball table!) I have NO idea how, I certainly didn’t start it, I’m wise enough to know better.
The other mom was younger, in her twenties, and probably hasn’t achieved this wisdom yet. She didn’t have much of the Mariana Trench Forehead Line, which is my tell-tale sign of age and wisdom. You get it from giving a lot of those YOU BETTER STOP THAT SHIT RIGHT THIS INSTANT! looks to your kids and the OH, YES, THAT’S A THOUGHT non-committal nods when you know you should keep your mouth shut.
Actually, I think I may have accidentally started the religion and politics topic when I confessed that I’m a bit of a freak for an Alabamian since I have some liberal views. THAT’S ALL I SAID, THOUGH! She’s the one that said Republican and asked where I go to church. Why can’t people in the South just stop asking that question?!
I told her where I go for spiritual discussions, and she was curious, so I told her more, mentioning our open-ended mindset, which includes having no answers and being open to gays without the strings of conversion attached. And that right there? Is why I’m a freak in Alabama.
She began to tell me about her beliefs regarding the root of homosexuality, which is basically caused when people give into evil and bam! they become gay. Because they embrace evilness.
People, prepare yourself for what happened next.
I restrained myself from getting up and pissing in her Starbucks coffee.
I believe this means my swami training is complete.
Hi! I’m Heather. I’m a mom, if you couldn’t tell from the small and loud yet extremely attractive people I schlep around everywhere. And I see you’re a grandma. We kinda have something in common, don’t you think? Well, except the elastic-waist shorts and matching t-shirt. I’m not judging, though! In 30 years I might choose Who-Gives-a-Shit Just My Size Cotton over Merona fitted t-shirts & khaki mid-rise shorts too.
But we’re both at the park with kids. So see? Commonality. I know how kids are, I’m living it! And you know how kids are, you’re babysitting your grandkids!
Except when my boys were three-years-old and peed in their pants, I didn’t let them go down the slide with their pee-pee butts, germing up the ENTIRE SLIDE (OMG) for the rest of the kids with their pee-pee. I took them home instead. I don’t care that we arrived just two minutes before. We went home.
No, actually, we didn’t. Because I’m a Goody Two Shoes mom I kept a change of clothes and wet wipes in the van until they were probably 5.
But your age. I understand. It’s probably Alzheimer’s. I still don’t care. The Goody Two Shoes in me doesn’t like getting my child off the slide that your little pee-pee butt granddaughter just slid down. Eww.
Also? Making a two- to three-year-old run around a playground with wet pants for an hour? That’s not only gross, it’s just wrong. And you old people talk about this generation of parents. Really? As if your rudeness in parking lots, where you think you have the right of way and not us younger pedestrians just because you’re old and crotchety, wasn’t enough. Now it’s pee-pee butt granddaughters going down the slide.
What is wrong with this generation of grandparents?
Signed,
Goody Two Shoes Yuppie Mom
Am I the only one that experiences this senior citizen parking lot rudeness? I mean, what the hell? They are the rudest old bitches and bastards! It makes me dislike old people. I don’t even take up their handicap parking places, so what gives? I think they are a pretty screwed up generation of grandparents.
After talking with the family, it is clear that the mother fully believes in alternative therapies for helping her child.
Can I get a hell to the yes? You damn right I do.
That excerpt is (or shall I say was, now that I’ve gotten my hands on it) in Payton’s medical records, written by the pediatrician who disclosed to his school that he has Pervasive Development Disorder WHEN HE DOESN’T.
I have no idea what the pediatrician meant by “alternative therapies.” It’s not like we’re having an Indian mystic remove negative energy from Payton’s Shih Tzu. Or is it Chakra? Hell, I don’t know, I don’t keep up with that stuff.
I guess removing artificial dyes from Payton’s diet constitutes “alternative therapies” in this doctor’s mind. I can’t think what else he could be referring to. After all, I’m not stupid. I didn’t tell the man about the chicken sacrifices we make during the waxing of the Wolf moon nor how we channel the spirit of Nostradamus on Saturday nights.
I only told him about the artificial dye thing.
That right there, people, should be your first clue of when to fire a doctor. Changing over to a more natural diet is “alternative therapies?” If they won’t acknowledge that WHAT WE EAT AFFECTS OUR MINDS AND BODIES, then they aren’t worth the paper their M.D. is printed on.
I am professionally concerned the child is not receiving needed therapies due to the mother’s beliefs.
Because my readers are such awesome people, I realize some of you may not be fluent in DUMB ASSHOLE. Let me translate.
This jerk off is saying my son isn’t getting help because of me.
This is one of those statements where you totally want to say I WON’T DIGNIFY THAT WITH A RESPONSE! You say that right after you stab the motherfucker in the nuts with your salad fork.
And then you fire them.
But not before you rub your son’s IEP in his face.
If you are going to read this post, then I must ask you to knock on wood the entire time to avoid jinxing my life. Thank you in advance.
As an adult, I’ve always been an occasional tree hugger. We did the recycle thing, the cloth diaper thing, cloth napkins, no circumcising the family jewels. Then we moved to the ‘burbs where they don’t do recycling pick up, the children potty trained, and my cloth napkins disappeared in our move. Thankfully, the family jewels have remained intact.
But I’ve recently had a biblical moment that brought my former hippie tendencies back. It wasn’t a burning bush biblical moment because, unlike Moses, I don’t eat acacia tree bark. It was more like a demonic exorcism biblical moment. After that experience, I solemnly vow to always wear flowers in my hair, along with a do-rag made from natural, organic cotton, and to embrace the hippie in me for life.
Prepare yourself, I’m becoming one of those mothers; the one wearing hemp jewelry and Birkenstocks and hovering over her child’s class party food, shaking her all-natural, organic food choices in everyone’s face.
Look! Organic rice cakes topped with tofu, mmmm! Cupcake icing made from soybeans, yum! Those other children, bless their hearts, what are their mother’s feeding them?
Hold on, though. Before I openly declare myself as a new modern suburban hippie, hippie mothers are allowed to drink alcohol, right? That doesn’t violate some kind of hippie health code, does it? Vodka is a clear liquid, after all, and there’s no reason to get too crazy with this shit.
It’s been over a month since we eliminated all artificial dyes from Payton’s diet and, I tell you, they could do a remake of The Exorcist based on Payton’s personality transformation. I could write a lengthy post on the changes we’ve seen since, it’s been that transformative. Can I say ‘transformative’ once more?
Transformative.
But I won’t write a lengthy post because no one has enough attention span to read 1000 word articles on the internet. By the way, that lack of attention is probably due to artificial dyes in your diet.
Payton went from 5-6 bad behavior checkmarks a day to getting maybe five over the last five weeks. That’s five total, not a day, and one of those was my fault because I forgot to make sure his homework went back in his backpack one morning.
Things have been going so well that I no longer have panic attacks every time the phone rings, nor do I hyperventilate when I see the school number on caller ID. This change in his behavior wasn’t gradual. It takes 3-5 days for artificial dyes to clear your system, and on that 3rd day, Payton’s conduct problems ended. Literally, just like THAT. I suppose it could be a coincidence, but, um, really?
Lucky for Payton (I guess), single-income living required I cook from scratch a lot, which means avoiding processed foods, at least compared to the typical American lifestyle. But I still live in America so l wasn’t a vigilante, which could account for why Payton would have good days, and then suddenly BAM! Hello, Mr. Hyde.
Now that he doesn’t consume any dyes, he’s more calm and easy-going, shows very little anxiety and stress anymore, and, perhaps most important, he has so much more control over his behavior and reactions.
This isn’t a scientific study. I’m just a mom with a story. But as I’ve researched, I’ve found I’m just one mom of many with the same story.
Sure, there’s controversy over artificial food dyes: studies validate the dangers and then are found to be flawed studies. Of course, the people telling us these dyes are safe are (1) the government, who, by the way, pays $50,000 for a toilet seat and (2) officers from the Grocery Manufacturing Association, whose industry would be financially impacted in a negative way if the dyes were removed.
In a capitalist society, we know a company would never mislead us in the name of profit, right? And pharmaceutical companies would definitely let on to us that studies show when food dyes were eliminated, up to half of ADHD kids in the study were able to come off their medication. I mean, they’d have no vested reason to not tell us.
Did you know the FDA doesn’t test these chemical dyes (which some contain crude oil, arsenic, mercury, and lead, oh my fucking god) for neurological effects? Only physical problems, like tumors and disease. But they’re safe! And they don’t affect your kid’s behavior!
Uh huh.
Come on, Heather, everything will kill you if you listened to all the crazies! Even fruit and veggies will kill you if you eat 500 a day, which is how much you’d have to eat to prove these “studies” correct.
Yes, this is true. You can find anything wrong with everything if you look hard. I only know what I’ve seen with my son, and it’s been amazing to see his wonderful, true personality shine through consistently.
So to sum up this lengthy blog post for those of you with artificial dye-induced attention problems: artificial food dyes – very bad for children, really, adults too. You’re better off eating acacia tree bark.
You may now stop knocking on wood. Unless you’re going to comment, which I hope you do because I have a fragile ego. After you comment, you can stop knocking on wood. Unless you’re going to Twitter this post, which would be awesome because more people might learn about this behavior connection. THEN you can stop knocking on wood. Thank you for not jinxing my life.
It was once declared that mommy blogging was a radical act because here were mommies, finally telling the authentic truth about motherhood. Of course, I’m not exactly sure who’s been lying to us about motherhood, except for those glossy parenting magazine mentioned. And possibly the advertising industry, they’ve been lying to us too. Believe me, I occasionally give Wally hell over it since we all know he’s responsible for the antiquated way advertising continues to target women.
But I have to wonder. If we’re looking towards glossy parenting magazine covers and 30-second baby food commercials for truth in parenting, don’t we sort of deserve to be lied to?
Then it came around that mommy blogging was no longer a radical act because now there’s a bunch of deceiving whore writers on the scene who are in it only for free dusting products, and they sully our good reputation. Mommy blogger is a nasty word.
I don’t know who the hell you people are reading, but if you’re in need of fantastic, honest mommy blogs to read, drop me an email. I know quite a few, too many to list in a blog post.
So where does that leave us?
I believe there are still radical mommy blogging acts. I believe this because I performed one just last week.
I let my almost 9-year-old son roam the neighborhood, alone.
In this age of pervasive parenting fear, that is a radical act.
Payton has tortured me for over year, asking to go out and play in the neighborhood alone. I tortured him right back by telling him no.
Nobody does that anymore! Just like nobody lets their kid ride a bike without a helmet. It’s just NOT DONE!
So there came a day Payton asked me AGAIN to go play out in the neighborhood, and I realized I had no reason to say no other than fear. Our suburban neighborhood is far enough away from busy roads, we’ve met enough of neighbors that our kids are at least a familiar face, if not a name. Why not, Heather?
So I let him. He and I established boundaries of this far, but not that far, here but not there, and off he went.Payton played in the neighborhood a lot this summer, unlike his brother who, when I pry the Wii remote from his stiff hand, acts as if I’m committing all seven deadly sins right in front of him.
Last week, the last of our summer vacation, Payton told me he was going out to play in “orange mist.”Don’t ask what “orange mist” is. It’s top-secret imaginative play. I don’t even know what it is, just where it is, which is only a section of sidewalk halfway down our street.I think I’d give up the entire contents of my liquor cabinet for life if I could peek inside his imagination. That may seem like another radical mommyblogging act, giving up alcohol, but it isn’t. If I knew what was going on in his head, I wouldn’t need the liquor.
But as Payton headed to the front door that day, I was seized by all the old fears that kept my children bound to our barren postage stamp backyard protected by a 6’ privacy fence.
“Payton, wait!”
“What?”
“Um, if some stranger comes up to you and says there’s a hurt animal and they need your help, what do you do?”
Oh, good one, Heather! Because if there’s one way they can get him, fuck candy, tell him there’s an animal in need!
“I tell them I have to come ask you first.”
“Ok. What if a stranger tells you they need help collecting trash to be recycled?”
Oh, even BETTER, Heather. Because if there’s one thing that makes Payton lose his ever-living mind and forget all common sense, it’s people throwing away recyclable trash.
“I tell them I can’t and then I come get you!”
Wow, maybe, despite all appearances, he actually listened to all the stranger danger talks!
“Okay, then. Go play.”
As Payton opened the front door, I yelled one last time, “DON’T TALK TO STRANGERS!”
Minus 3 original cats who are pissed and stay outside, only coming in to shit in inappropriate places.
Plus 4 out of 4 surprise foster kittens get HORRIBLE illness, some on the brink of DYING.
Equals Heather playing a veterinarian but in actuality is an escapee from General Hospital’s Psych Ward.
Equals Heather paying for repeated vet visits for kittens she won’t end up keeping, unless they start shitting gold nuggets instead of the liquid mustard that is constantly coming out of their tiny 5 week old asses now.
Minus first 4 foster kitties due to HORRIBLE CONTAGIOUS illness.
Minus hard core drugs for Heather
Plus bottle of cheap fruity wine.
Minus one kitten from the brink of death, possibly. It’s iffy.
Plus one kitten taking a bad turn overnight and possibly on brink of death now.
Equals an alternative ending to the Harry Potter books where both Hermione and Ginny die with Luna as a possible 3rd. But don’t worry because Harry of course is totally fine now.
Plus Heather administering tiny drops of water to dehydrated kittens every 15 minutes.
Plus Heather giving medicine to kittens four times a day.
Plus a megaton of hand soap used.
Minus healthy meals for family.
Minus my nose’s ability to smell anything but cat diarrhea and vomit.
Plus one email from President Obama encouraging citizens to participate in United We Serve, a campaign to get involved in volunteer work.
Equals Heather one step ahead of the President.
Equals Heather not understanding how Jon & Kate had time to fight with each other AND have affairs because, OH MY GOD, I’m only caring for kittens, not 8 children, and who the hell has time for a lover and fighting?
As you probably know, I volunteer in Parker’s kindergarten class every week. I know it may seem as if I’m a good person out doing good deeds in the world, but in reality, I have a lot of evil shit to make up for from my twenties.
I miss the days when you could do evil shit and get away with it. Like how my grandparents could smoke all the time without people and packaging screaming at them how terrible it is for them. Coincidentally (or probably not), since no one screamed at them how sick it would make them, it never did and they got to have their nicotine cake and eat it too.
But nowadays, you have to atone for evil shit.
Like the time I co-conspired with some co-workers to hide the controller’s glasses while he was gone on his honeymoon. Apparently he didn’t need them on his honeymoon, but they were a do-or-die necessity for him to count beans. I don’t why he needed them at work and not at home. I don’t speak Asshole, so I never understood how his mind worked.
But we laughed and laughed as he shit a gold monkey when he couldn’t find them.
OR I could need to atone for hiding the toilet paper from one of my co-workers and disconnecting her phone handset so that it would ring, but when she picked it up, it wouldn’t work. I was a technological genius ahead of my time.
But I actually liked her and those pranks are what we did to keep ourselves mentally challenged. So I don’t think that should be counted against me. Besides, she got me back.
Now that I’m a fake Catholic, I’m sure it’s a mortal sin that I’m sitting here laughing my ass off again over the pranks I pulled on that gigantic asshole of a bean counter instead of being contrite and sorrowful. Hold on while I go say a few Hell Marys and slaughter a sacrificial stuffed animal from Mardi Gras.
Ok, I’m back.
I think it’s safe to say this: Don’t screw me out of a raise or you’ll face my wrath of immaturity. And I have dues to pay. Obviously.
So every week, I go in to the kindergarten class and do things like boss other people’s kids around. I have to tell you, I kinda like the power trip. And how they cry when they can’t find the toilet paper.
I put together a lot of books for the teacher to use in class. I’m such a prodigy at folding and stapling those that the teacher is always impressed with how quickly I do it and gives me a smiley face stamp on my hand. And to think I worried my college degree went to waste!
Even though I have a set day I go in every week, a few weeks ago, Wally planned to surprise me by taking the afternoon off, completely forgetting that was the one day I’m on work release and actually get out of the house. When he found out that morning I wouldn’t be here, he had to ruin the surprise and tell me.
Marriage is about give and take, so, of course, I walked in with Parker that morning and explained it to the teacher…
“Mrs. Teacher, Wally, bless his sweet heart, had planned to surprise me by taking the afternoon off and completely forgot today is the day I help you in the classroom.”
“Oh gosh, how sweet! You just forget all about coming in and have a good time with Wally.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure! Go have fun!”
“OK!”
Wow, I thought, that was easy
Then, as I climbed into my Mom Mobile, I realized I just indirectly admitted to a grandmother-aged kindergarten teacher that I’m blowing off my volunteer work so I can have a nooner.
If there was any doubt left in your mind as to the depth of my person, let me remove it for you once and for all.
I’m pretty sure I wrote a post about how I didn’t want Wally to get the vasectomy six years ago, right? Honestly, I no longer remember what I wrote and what I thought about writing, and I’m pretty sure that’s a sign it’s time to give up blogging.
But whichever. It happened. I didn’t want Wally to get one, but he insisted, and I’ve had regrets ever since.
Now we have a ghost in our house and I blame Wally for this. I’m sure it’s the third child we never had. Sometimes, around 5 am, I hear the patter of little feet into the kitchen, and I think it’s Parker about to come in and wake us up. At FIVE FREAKING O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING!
The little pattering stops right about our bedroom door and then waits. And I wait…for Parker to come on in. But he doesn’t, and I think, thank god! I’ve finally yelled at him enough times about coming out of his room before 6 am, and he sees we’re still asleep so he’s going to go back to his room.
So I wait to hear the patter of little Parker feet going back to his room.
The feet never patter back anywhere. No one is there.
This has happened a handful of times. I thought it was all in my sleepy head until Wally heard it one morning too. A few days later, poker chips fell off the top of the fridge for no reason. And then, a few days later, something crashed in the pantry when no one was in the kitchen. AND THEN one night I was reading a bedtime story to Parker and, I kid you not, it sounded like something dropped RIGHT at the foot of his bed. Even Parker heard it and asked me what that was. There was nothing there and we were the only two in the room.
When the lights start to flicker off and on for no reason, I’m going to shit my pants, call a sperm bank and have that third damn child, all in that order.
Now that you know the poltergeist stuff that’s been going on in my house, I won’t look insane when I tell you I demanded that Wally call a urologist and find out how much a vasectomy reversal costs.
I’ve been reading blogs with beautiful newborn baby pictures (I think the ghost has mind control powers) and, my god, my life is going no where, every day just like another, so I want another one! Think of how I could put off this huge, looming question of what am I going to do with my life!
Besides, if we had a third kid, I would get everything right this time. I have two children under my belt who have totally primed me in the mom department.
I’ve run the gamut of possible autistic child to creative genius to completely typical boy-child who enjoys fart humor as much as I do.
I know how to breastfeed, I’ve cloth diapered and done other granola parenting things, like not circumcising and making homemade baby food.
I’ve been room mom, school volunteer, but never a soccer mom. Soccer is considered to be the work of the devil by my state-sanctioned Church of Football. The only reason soccer even exists in our state is so wierdos from California will buy our cheap real estate. So I’m a T-Ball mom instead. In fact, I’m about to experience my second round as a T-Ball mom this spring, and I already drive a mini-van.
If we had a third child, I would KICK ASS as a mother. Obviously.
Screw that advanced maternal age bullshit. I’d like to see them try to get me to agree to that plan. They couldn’t even get me to agree to a circumcision plan, they sure won’t get me to agree that I’m no longer in my prime.
So Wally called. Because he’s afraid of the ghost too. This is how our iChat conversation went.
Wally: I heard back from the urologist.
Me: And?
Wally: The doctor portion is $3000
Me: Hmmm.
Well, $3000 isn’t all that bad. It’s only what we have saved up for college. To hell with the boys’ education. We paid our own way through and so can they! This is another child we’re talking about and tuition isn’t more important than THAT!
Wally: That doesn’t include the hospital portion.
Me: Hospital? Isn’t that outpatient?
Wally: I dunno. All I know is the hospital is an additional $6500-$7000. So we’re looking at $10,000 total for a reversal.
Me: Holy fuck!
Wally: I know.
Me: I think I’d rather buy a boat.
Sorry, third child ghost. You can join us on the boat as long as you don’t make strange shit happen.
Besides, I personally know a lesbian couple who got pregnant with donated semen (free!) and a turkey baster ($2.99 at Wal-Mart). Maybe that’s why our ghost child likes the kitchen so much – he’s looking for the turkey baster.
Update: The lights started flickering off and on tonight. Oh, I wish I were making that up. And Wally had the nerve to look at me as if this were my fault, as if I were inviting the ghost to play with our lights. I’m not the one who was sterlized! Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go clean up my pants and make a phone call in the morning. Damn!
If you followed Twitter over the weekend (you waited with drunken breath for each and every one of my tweets, right?), you already know some bloggers attending the Blissdom conference got STUCK IN THE HOTEL ELEVATOR FOR MORE THAN 30 MINUTES.
Dear reader, I was one of those bloggers and I am ready to tell my story.
This whole OH MY GOD, WE’RE TRAPPED! event was something that could happen only in the movies because what is life other than your own personal movie projected onto a holographic screen you can’t see?
As you probably know, my life movie is a comedy and this is the first draft of the screenplay for the next Academy Award winning movie we named Elevator 13.
The movie gets its name from the fact there were 13 bloggers trapped in a Hotel Preston elevator, and the superstition of the number is not lost on them. I mean, thank god it was a Saturday night and not a Friday night or we would have ALL been convinced we were about to die. (See? The movie connection is starting already.)
You may wonder how such a dramatic situation could be considered a comedy, and my answer is I’M ONE SICK FUCKER. And also that the hotel staff portrayed themselves as bumbling Bozos who I believe were eating “special brownies” behind the front desk while taking turns playing a game where, instead of answering the phone, they shoved ginormous red patent leather clown shoes up each others ass each time it rang.
(If you get to five rings, you win a bonus round!)
It all started when we returned from the most awesome dinner in the history of all conferences, made in part by not just the company, but also the best waiter in the world named Claude. (Who I think was actually from Comedy Central.)
As we are women and the tendency at these women blogger get-ups is that we all immediately become BFFs, we loaded 13 people into the elevator at Hotel Preston, having no problem squishing boobs up against one another. After all, we’re BFFs and in no way were close to the 2500 lb weight limit.
As the elevator went up, it gave a sudden lurch, then a quick tummy-turning drop and we SCREAMED OUT LOUD IN UNISON. All thirteen of us.
That? Was Houston’s first signal there was a problem.
Oh. Shit. We are stuck in an elevator.
We didn’t immediately panic, but did the intelligent thing and pushed the emergency button on the elevator panel.
NO ONE FROM THE FRONT DESK ANSWERED THE DEDICATED EMERGENCY LINE THEY ARE REQUIRED BY LAW TO HAVE.
And the edge of panic began to creep in.
But yay for technology like cell phones and social media! Someone called their roommate upstairs and they phoned down to the front desk to inform their inattentive asses that PEOPLE ARE TRAPPED IN THE ELEVATOR. Others twittered that we were stuck and they too called the desk.
I guess Bozo polished off his pan of “special brownies” as quickly as he could and then pulled the shoe out of his ass because someone called into the elevator and said something about they called the guy.
The guy? Is that like a Joe the Plumber guy? Or a fire department guy?
Hotel Preston was not forthcoming about exactly who they called, and, I don’t know, when you have 13 people stuck in an elevator, you need to at least pretend you have your act together and know the standard operating procedure for such things.
Come on, Hotel Preston should know the SOP for such things because when I was there in October for the mini Blissdom conference, the EXACT SAME THING HAPPENED TO THREE LITTLE OLD LADIES. I know this because they just so happened to get into our elevator when they were finally rescued and they too were stuck for 30-40 minutes.
(Another yay for little old ladies having the courage to get immediately back onto an elevator, because I sure as hell didn’t and walked 8 flights of stairs up to my room. But then, I don’t know if that’s courage or don’t give a damn? They were like 80 and they’d lived their lives. I’m only 35, have small children to raise, and at least another 50 years of living to do.)
So the front desk and manager did not exactly instill a sense of calm and control to those of us stuck in the elevator, and the panic got stronger.
By the way, did I mention we had A PREGNANT BLOGGER IN THE ELEVATOR? Of course we had a pregnant blogger in the elevator! You can’t have a trapped elevator scene in a movie without at least one pregnant occupant.
(And if you think I’m making that up for a nice bit of drama, you would be thinking WRONG. It’s 100% true. We had a pregnant lady in the elevator.)
We tried to play the WE HAVE A PREGNANT WOMAN IN THIS STUCK ELEVATOR card, but the front desk wasn’t impressed.
We then tried the WE HAVE TWO OCCUPANTS HAVING SERIOUS PANIC ATTACKS, FUCKING HELP US, PLEASE! card, and again, the front desk was not impressed.
And when I say “we tried the (fill in the blank) card”, that means we had to call the emergency line to get updates from the front desk because I GUESS THEY WERE TOO BUSY WHIPPING UP ANOTHER BATCH OF “SPECIAL BROWNIES” IN THE HOTEL KITCHEN. I can’t think why else they wouldn’t call us every couple of minutes with updates.
We even had to ring them to get an ETA on Joe the Plumber.
(I wish I were taking creative license, but I’m not.)
Finally, Joe the Plumber, or the technician from their “elevator company” (what the hell does that mean anyway? Is he qualified for rescue?) showed up. Joe the Plumber/Elevator guy cracked open the elevator door about four inches. We felt a sweep of fresh air (my god, it was so damn hot in there!), saw a brief glimpse of Joe’s face, yelled “Hey!” at him because we were so overjoyed to see him.
And then he SLAMMED THE ELEVATOR DOORS IN OUR FACE WITHOUT A WORD.
Where else but a comedy would some crazy shit like that happen?
The remaining details that happened between that and us getting out of the elevator are between me and MGM, or possibly Universal, DreamWorks, etc. Whoever’s first because this script is hot. But since you are my darling readers, I will give you just a few more sneak peaks.
There were people discovering sudden psychology talents while some *ahem* with actual psychology degrees mentally froze up.
There was nervous flatulence.
And NO ONE FROM HOTEL PRESTON WAS PRESENT ONCE WE WERE RELEASED FROM THE TRAPPED ELEVATOR TO MAKE SURE EVERYONE WAS OK, DESPITE THE FACT THEY KNEW WE HAD FOR REAL PANIC ATTACKS GOING ON AND A PREGNANT WOMAN.
I’m sure the movie-making gurusare reading my blog and perhaps question if this is enough material to produce a full-length feature film.
That is a very high-minded and intelligent question, and I can see why they earn very high salaries and I make nothing from my blog. But I have the answer.
There were 13 of us trapped in that elevator, and I don’t care if you are MOTHER TERESA HOLDING A GET-OUT-OF-HELL-FREE CARD. It’s an elevator and I don’t think any of us were devoid of all claustrophobic/elevator fear.
Needless to say, there was much mental distraction going on in there to keep our minds off of the situation, and this is where the juice of the movie would be.
Imagine, if you will, the camera entering our minds intermittenly throughout the “live-action” scenes. Sorta like a cross between reality tv and a Star Trek episode.
{I pick Star Trek because we’re bloggers and inherently techy, which has an aroma of nerdiness (though definitely the musky scent of hot nerds). And when you hear things like “I love blogging conferences because I’m around people who finally get it,” you realize people at Star Trek conferences say the exact same thing. But hell, we can take a bit of ribbing because we’re secure in our narcissism.}
The scene samples I’m about to show here should in no way be construed as what was actually going on in my mind. This is my creative imagination at work here. *ahem*
One blogger distracts herself with desperate attempts to remember the name of the other female blogger squished up against her, but can’t focus because the woman is so damn pretty. I’m, I mean she’s close enough to notice her skin is so smooth and doesn’t have the first sign of large pores, and oh, the prettiness! And then this blogger starts to wonder if SHE’S REALLY A LESBIAN DEEP DOWN and…….SEE THE MOVIE!
Another blogger distracts herself by imagining they had used their cell phones to call the fire department instead of “Special Brownie Troop #WeRHi” of the front desk and is being rescued by the hottest fireman in Nashvegas. The hot fireman is struck by the MILF-iness of this blogger and discreetly steers me, I mean her (damn it) away from the other rescued bloggers to give her a more thorough (and oral) examination in a nearby closet. Things are pretty steamy when the fireman runs his hands up her skirt and onto her ass, only to discover the deepest, darkest secret of all MILF bloggers; that I, I mean they wear thick layers of underarmor. And so the firefighter…….SEE THE MOVIE!
And we all know that Joe the Plumber/Elevator guy slammed the elevator doors back in our face without a word because he was unprepared to see such beautiful women in a stuck elevator. After all, he’s used to seeing 80-year-old women in stuck elevators. Since he was looking up at us, it’s entirely possibly that HE SAW OUR PANTIES. Imagine the thoughts in his head and then SEE THE MOVIE!
My dear readers (and MGM), that’s only three minds. There are a dozen more ways to spin this tale. Full-length feature film, indeed.
Below I give you a list of the cast of Elevator 13. I urge you to visit them and ask for their autographs now before we’re on the red carpet at the Oscars and our narcissism has grown to such proportions that we can’t see the little people for our big heads and the gleam of our trophies for Best Parody. We are as follows:
I wonder which actor should play the character of Queen of Shake Shake?
Attention MGM and all other movie people, screenwriters, actors and wannabes! This is MY script. MINE! My work here is copyrighted by Darth Vadar himself and if you try to steal it, you will feel the DARK SIDE OF MY TWITTER FORCE POWER. And also the dark side of my attorney’s Force. And then after the judge has served up your nuts on my new silver platter, I’ll send Amy in Ohio after you to finish you off.
(But I’m totally willing to be a sell out to you.)
If I may have the movie industry’s attention for just one more second, let me say that if you can’t spin this tale into a comedy film, then I will lose my faith not just in Hollywood, but in humanity itself. I think if that happens, I’ll have to give up the entire theater experience, including the stale popcorn, astronomically overpriced colas, and sticky floors for the comfort of my own clean home and pretty 42″ flat screen tv whose picture, by the way, looks ten times better than the large screen anyway.
I know this is the post where I’m required tell you everything I got for Christmas. And believe me, I have some stories to tell since this is the first year my in-laws sent actual gifts and not money in five years. I’m working on a post about that and since I’m so nice and love you so much, I’ll give a nibble on the title: It rubs the lotion on its skin.
Oh yes it does.
But that story can wait! Because what I did NOT get for for Christmas is much, much more interesting!
Can you guess what I did NOT get for Christmas.
MY PERIOD!
Oh, that’s right. I am officially late; a position I haven’t been in since I stopped breastfeeding Parker and my hormones settled down FOUR YEARS AGO.
As I sit here typing this, I’m wondering…am I pregnant? Pre-menopausal? Or just hormonally fucked up?
If we go off of my not unusual 26 day cycle, I’m five days late. If we go off of my very usual 27 day cycle, I’m four days late. If we go off of the never later than 28 days in over four years, I’m three days late.
Sure, it’s just three days late. Or four. Or possibly five. Not that much, really, so I should quit obsessing, especially since Wally had a vasectomy when Parker was six months old. But when you haven’t been longer than 28 days in four years worth of periods, three to five days is a long time.
Especially when you’re neurotic. Or would that be psychotic? Let’s not mince words. It’s just plain crazy no matter how you dice it.
Come, dear reader, and step into my insanity as I take you through my thought processes of the last few days. Notice how the insanity grows with each day.
PREVIOUS WEEK
Oh, Parker said Merry Christmas to the Wal-Mart cashier. I want to cry!
Parker is asking about Mikie, my cat that died over five years ago. I can’t answer him without choking up. WTF?
Look! A TV commercial. Must. Swallow. Lump. In. Throat.
That movie, The Perfect Storm. THE BIGGEST TEAR JERKER EVER!
Another TV commercial. Where are the kleenex?
Why am I crying over silly things? I’m in the throes of PMS, a time when I’m bitching, eating puppies for a light afternoon snack and shriveling up Wally’s manhood with my evil stares of dismemberment. I do NOT get sappy emotional during PMS. I become a werewolf.
Huh. What the hell is going on? *shrugs shoulders* Oh well, maybe I’m nicer than I give myself credit.
Monday, December 22nd, 8 am (day 26)
Wouldn’t it be great if I started my period today? Wait. Did I just *wish* for a 26 day cycle? Well, I would really love to have my period out of the way before Christmas. While family is family, continuous farting and moaning in pain would drown out Jingle Bells.
Tuesday, December 23rd 3 am (day 27)
Huh, shouldn’t that evil bitch Aunt Flo be waking me up right about now? I’d rather start now so that on Christmas day I don’t look like a bloated hog. Stupid Aunt Flo, never doing me ANY favors.
Wednesday, December 24th (day 28) It’s 3 am and still no Aunt Flo. I really need to get the debilitating cramps and ass explosions out of the way now . I have an extensive to-do list today. Just you watch. Aunt Flo will show up RIGHT in the middle of my grocery shopping at Wal-Mart. Why aren’t my boobs sore already? That’s weird.
Thursday, December 25th (day 29)
Merry Christmas! Surely I’ll start my period any minute now and when my family arrives at my house, I’ll be rolling on the floor in pain and will either bite the ankles of anyone who comes within three feet of my heating pad or blast them away with the g-force winds coming out of my ass. Perhaps a rather large splash of Irish Creme in my morning coffee will head off the horrific cramps.
Uh oh. Wally just saw me pour the Irish Creme. Now the hormonally even-keeled man looks at the clock (5:30 am) and again at my coffee. There go the raised eyebrows! Think, Heather, think! Swear to him it’s strictly for proactive medicinal purposes because I’ll certainly start my period ANY MINUTE and can’t afford to be incapacitated today of all days.
Now that I think about it, I haven’t seen the *first* bit of spotting. That’s odd since I normally have a few episodes of breakthrough spotting before the flood gates are opened. And where are those sore boobs? Those babies are about 8 days late.
Friday, December 26th (day 30)
Oh my god, the sore boobs have arrived. With bells on. Big, gigantic, an entire cup size larger bells. Huzza! And what’s that? A vivid blue vein in my nipple? WTF? I haven’t seen anything like that since….oh my god…I was pregnant.
Pshaw, Heather! Chances are so slim. You just never look at your nipples. Show it to Wally since he looks at the girls way more than you do.
Uh, brilliant idea. Now someone wants to have sex in the shower.
Should I really be drinking a cocktail this afternoon? I’m never late. But I can’t be…I can’t even say the word. Wally is FIXED! And the mailman is a mailwoman.
Why aren’t I pre-crampy like usual?
Um, how many days late should you wait before taking a pregnancy test when your husband had a vasectomy that has functioned for over five years?! Oh dear god in heaven, am I carrying the next messiah?
Ugh, I have a headache.
(has one of those highly visual and very real-feeling dreams that I pee on a stick and it comes back a big fat positive).
Saturday, December 27th (day 31)
*taps taps taps fingers* Still waiting for that period. Or even the slightest sign of spotting? Was that a cramp?! No, just gas.
Wally is so good-looking. I’m going to run my fingers through his hair while he’s driving because he’s just that hot.
Ok, wait just a damn minute. Now that is VERY odd. Right now, I should hate the very air Wally breathes. There should be no affectionate feelings for him until 24 hours after I start my period. If anything, due to the lateness, I should extra hate Wally right now. Even he comments on the oddness of my loving kindness at this time of the month.
Ugh, another headache.
Mmmm, that strawberry margarita sure looks good and I’m not driving so I can totally order one! Or not? God, I would hate to cause the next messiah to be retarded because I kept drinking. But then? There’s like a 1 in 4000 chance I’m pregnant. Not very high at all. Most likely, I’m just hormonally fucked up this month.
Why does that statistic make me sad? Why does the *real* statistic probability that I’m just a hormonal mess and not knocked up feel like a 2-ton weight on my chest? Do secretly hope I’m *gulp* pregnant?
Clearly I’m hanging on to my sanity by the wedge of the strawberry on that margarita.
Thankfully, I haven’t jumped off the edge of sanity yet by visiting the “feminine section” of Wal-Mart for a pregnancy test.
Ok, so I did visit it. But I didn’t buy one! The most accurate test costs ten whole dollars and since there is a high probability it will come back negative, I could use that $10 to buy a bottle of wine instead if I wait just a few days longer. Because my period is bound to show up, right?
Like as soon as I hit publish on this post, right?
Let’s find out…
Update
Sunday, December 28th (day 32) 3 am (Aunt Flo’s favored time of arrival) has come and gone with nary a sign of her visit, so that blows my whole theory of IF YOU POST IT, IT WILL COME.
Damn. Or yippee? My brain is having a hay day with mental masturbation right now, as if you couldn’t tell.
In my situation (meaning a husband with a vasectomy and abiding by my wedding vows), maturity dictates that I wait at least a week before testing.
I'm Heather, and I'm both politically and grammatically incorrect. This blog kicks ass because I write only the truth. And the truth is always funnier than fiction.
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