Thursday, August 12, 2010

"Mom - I KNOW!"

I have this conversation with my daughter Paige quite a bit. At dinner I will remind her that in order to have ice cream, she needs to finish her dinner. I rarely get the entire sentence out before she throws her arms up like a police officer and says, "MOM! I KNOW! Stop talking about it. I already know."

That is the response to all my motherly suggestions:

Brush your teeth or they will rot out of your mouth. I KNOW!

Put on sunscreen or you will be bacon in about 4 minutes. Stop talking, Mom - I KNOW!

Clean your bedroom before we all catch a deadly disease. MOM! I KNOW! I KNOW! I KNOW!

Let's trim your toenails before the FBI uses them for weapons. MOM! Stop it! I KNOW!

Then she said, "Mom, I know ALL of these things. I'm eight. I even know how to text on a Blueberry."

Well, I guess that settles it, then.

I tucked my Blackberry back into my purse knowing that indeed I am still in charge around here even though some days it doesn't feel like it.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Tour de Bar.

I was among 300 people biking to 14 bars on Saturday. Unlike Tour de France featuring fit, sober, athletes, our Tour featured cowboys, indians, cows, miniskirts, beer, shots, and birthday cake.

We were slurring, smoking, and miraculously, actually biking. Without helmets. Not one. I strapped mine on, but noticed I was the only one so I hung it on my handlebars. Peer pressure still gets to me. My husband called me a fucking baby and strapped training wheels to my bike.

This sounds like illegal mayhem, but it's just our way of giving back to the community. You see, this is an annual benefit to raise money for a local family needing financial help. As I watched 40 yr old men pop wheelies, I figured it may indeed be one of us needing the benefit next year, but we threw caution to the wind and kept clicking off bars 1-14, hoping to make a big contribution to this amazing family in need.

As I looked around Bar #12, the karaoke bar, I realized something. I smiled as people were screaming out the lyrics to "Sweet Caroline", I giggled at my husband getting a lap dance from the neighbor ladies, and I wrapped my arms around my best friend since 3rd grade as her cowboy hat poked me in the eye.

I realized that if I were visiting this town, I would want to live here. Of all the places in the world, I would choose this place again and again. It's home. And it's a damn good one.

Friday, August 6, 2010

Redbox Etiquette.

A couple weeks ago I went to the local Redbox to rent a movie. There was an unusually long line due to a couple not able to make a decision on which movie to rent. It was frustrating, but apparently to the 20-something executive waiting in line, it was unbearable.

She crossed her arms and tapped her toe like a mother waiting for her child to confess a crime. With each passing minute, she sprinkled some verbal abuse under her long exhale. "Aaaaaaaahhh, fucking unbelievable." We all heard it even though it was coated in a fiery breath.

The indecisive couple hung their heads in shame and moved to the side. I imagined their conversation in a hushed whisper: You can't even make a fucking decision between movies, how am I supposed to believe you're going to decide on a ring and propose marriage someday? I want to break up. You failed to even make a Friday night date work, I can't imagine how you'll mess up the rest of our lives.

As the movie-failed couple argued on the sidelines, two more people successfully returned and rented movies. It was my turn. As I started to step up, the sassy bitch in heels standing two people behind me said, "All I need to do is return one. It will take two seconds. Where is the etiquette here? The people returning should be allowed to go first."

I didn't realize there was an established Redbox etiquette. Excuse the hell out of me. Please and thank you.

I held my arm out and said, "Be my guest."

She jammed her movie in and stomped out. Click, click, click her heels went on the floor, grating on all our nerves. As the door quietly closed we heard her yell, "FUCKING RIDICULOUS!"

She had the right words, she just didn't apply them correctly. Where was the etiquette from her? And yes, she was being a ridiculous, pouty, immature asshole. I'm surprised the entire line didn't attack her and throw her out on her ass. I know I wanted to.

We all breathed a sigh of relief as the door closed. The couple on the sidelines stopped arguing and stepped to the back of the line. I looked at another woman and smiled. Peace at last.

And then the movie was rejected and returned unsuccessfully.

We all laughed. I tried returning it one more time because I wanted to make good on my infantile reaction. Still rejected.

I set it on top of the garbage, hoping she will be charged a dollar a day for the rest of her life for holding us hostage to her acidic personality.

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Trip To The Oral Surgeon.

So, Parker had two molars extracted today. She hates that word. "Stop saying 'extracted'. It's like pretending my teeth won't be dug out of my gums with tools."

We got there and Parks was knocking her knees all over the place. I would too. I was saying a mantra over and over again in my head. Thank Christ it's not me. Thank Christ it's not me.

Parker interrupted my soothing mantra asking, "Hey! Is the tooth fairy aware of what's going down today? I'm thinking $5 a tooth. This is big time." I think she knows there's no fairy, but doesn't want to risk losing some greenbacks.

So she settled into the dentist chair, surrounded by menacing tools hidden under a sheet. I know what's under there: drills, spiked-hammers, and maybe a few knives. I stood in front of the tray so my kid wouldn't ask what was hiding underneath the cleverly-placed sheet.

Paige thought it was a fucking carnival. "You mean, we get to stay and watch? Will there be snacks? Sweet!" I explained that this was not a movie for which we pay admission and we need to support Parker instead of trying to benefit off the entertainment value of this anxiety-ridden event. I let Paige down gently. "No, we're leaving. The doctors will take good care of your big sister and we'll see her in recovery."

Then the doctor said, "Well mom, if you want to stay while she goes to sleep, she could probably use a hand to hold." Immediately, I mentally protested. "You see, I have OCD and I will obsess about the fact that I saw my daughter get as close to death as I'll ever see and I don't think it will be good for my mental health and it's a weird condition that prevents me from hitting the OFF switch on my brain and doctors think it's genetic, but..."

I told OCD to fuck off and held my daughter's hand. I didn't realize when she fell asleep because her eyes were open, so I kept yapping about how Rocket, our dog, will be waiting for her when she got home and how she'll have ice cream for dinner and we'll watch a movie in the afterno...the doctor cut me off. "She's asleep. We'll take good care of her. We need to get started now." Oh, okie dokie. I'll be out there, then. Far away from my daughter. You know where I'll be if you need me. I'll be sitting in the lobby chewing my fingers off until you get me.

In the recovery room, Parker was basically drunk. So I said, "Girls, listen to me. This is what it looks like to have 10 beers. You're dizzy, groggy and you can't really walk. Decisions are impaired because you can't think clearly. I want you to remember this because it's not fun. Well Parks, you won't remember, but I'll remind you later.

So all in all a good day. Teeth were successfully removed. My daughter was a courageously brave champ. I conquered OCD. And on top of all that, I gave a good lesson on teenage drinking. Not bad. Not bad at all.