High School Reunion: Part 1

Holy Hangover, Batman!  I am officially too old to party. 

My 20^th high school reunion was this past weekend.  I know what you’re thinking . . . “but BoyMommy, you look WAY too young to have been out of high school for 20 years.”  But, alas, it is true; two decades have passed since I last walked the halls of my high school.

I dropped Small off at my brother Slim’s house, essentially so his new bride could take care of my offspring.  As is the case ANY time I try to treat myself to a night of drinking and general debauchery, the Mommy Guilt is thrown in my face; Small got stung twice by bees, so my SIL called to ask what she could do and to reassure me that all was well.  She kept apologizing, and I kept telling her that sh*t happens.  Mother of the Year . . . again!  I worried about him until that first beer kicked in.  Then I was okay.

My adventure began at the swanky digs known as the Olde Towne Inn.  It’s very fancy.  I know it’s fancy because of all the E’s. 

 The motel was not bad.  You get what you pay for, right?  I’m anxious to see the credit card bill so I can determine whether I was charged for the entire night or I was charged by the hour.  

My first task was to remove the comforter from the bed.  I usually travel with my own blanket so I don’t have to use the hotel blankets, but in my haste to escape my house get to the motel, I forgot it.  I called the front desk and asked for an extra blanket.

I did not ask for exotic truffles or fine caviar.  Just a blanket, thanks.

“Ooooh,” the front desk manager replied.  “I’m not sure I have a key to the Maid’s Closet.”

I was a little surprised that the Maid’s Closet was ensconced in such heavy security, but whatevs.

“What do you need a blanket for anyway in this kinda weather?” she asked accusingly. 

Did she think I was trying to swindle the hotel out of money and that I was harboring unaccounted-for guests? 

Incredulous, I replied, “It’s really none of your business why I am requesting an extra blanket.  I am a paying customer and my wishes come first, regardless of your personal opinion about my sleeping habits.  If you must know, I do not want your semen-encrusted bedspread anywhere near my face because I have watched one too many Dateline NBC episodes.  Furthermore, I’m afraid a black light would reveal “evidence” that would support my claim that the communal bedspread at the Olde Towne Inn has not been cleaned recently and therefore belongs nowhere near the vicinity of my face.”

Except it came out more like, “Um, I just like an extra blanket when I’m sleeping.” 

I mean no disrespect to the Olde Towne Inn, because it served its purpose . . . which was mainly be-close-to-the-bar-so-I-can-party-like-it’s-1991. 

I do, however, have photo evidence of what a fine establishment it is.

To Be Continued . . .

(It was Reunion Weekend and I haven’t even gotten out of the hotel yet.)

Things I Have Learned Since Graduating From High School

I’ve had the yearbook out lately, and I have come to several conclusions.

1.  Feathered hair was a BAD idea.  I hot-rolled my loooong hair every day, except on days when I wore it in a ponytail or a French braid, but no matter what . . . I had the feathers.  Feathers with pulled-back hair looks like a girl-mullet.

Exhibit A:

Girl-mullet

2.  The nerds are taking over the world.  Years later when I became a high school teacher myself, I remember looking at my students – the jocks, the nerds, the popular kids, the kids-who-eat-on-the-floor-outside-the-cafeteria.  I had a student who was having a particularly hard time fitting in, and I remember telling her that, unfortunately, for many of the “popular” kids, this is IT for them.  These really ARE the best days of their lives.  Outside of this little pond, many of them won’t amount to much.

I taught senior English my first year out of college.  One “popular” boy worked at a shoe store in the local mall.  All cool and funny, he entered class one day and announced that he worked with a guy who knew me from high school, “and he said you were a band geek.”  Of course, the class thought this was hilarious; this cocky kid had just knocked the teacher down a few pegs.  My response?  “I went to college, got a degree, and now I’m your teacher.”  I paused for effect and to make sure my voice was as smug as humanly possible, “and he’s working with YOU at the Athlete’s Foot . . . “

Big Hair.  Feathers.
Teeth, post-braces.
Thanks, Mom and Dad!

3.  Our 20 year reunion is fast approaching, and I have several friends who are not attending for various reasons.  I know people get nervous about attending reunions, and I am the first to admit that I went on a shopping spree so I could find something “fat and sassy,” which is how I justified my purchase to my hubby.  I gotta work what I got. 

But you know what?  I’m not the head of Microsoft.  I haven’t even had a paycheck in eight years.  We have all seen varying levels of success, and we measure success differently.  What really matters is the people we’ve become.  (Is that too After-School-Special-Hallmark-Hall-of-Fame cheesy?)  I’m so glad I’m not the girl I was 20 years ago. 

4.  We have all made decisions that have led us to where we are today, and who knows who I’ll be 20 years from now. 

Yes, boys, this is what
you missed out on . . .
rolled jeans, Hard Rock
Sweatshirt, (even though
I had never actually
BEEN to Hard Rock,)
and hair that needed to
be cut about 2 years ago.

I’m glad I left for college as a single woman and that I am not currently the First Lady of Taco Bell.  I treasure my memories of my high school sweetheart, but we wanted different things out of life.  Every boy I ever dated was a step towards finding the man I married.  All those old boyfriends were Mr. Wrong for me, but I bet they’re making damn good husbands to someone else.  (As a sidenote, this is unfortunate because they are SUPPOSED to be pining away for me for the rest of their lives.  You know . . .  Kicking themselves for letting me go and fondly remembering all those mix tapes they made me.)

5.  There’s a reason I never made the cheerleading squad.  If you’ve ever attended an aerobics class with me, you know why.

6.  Wine is SO much better than wine coolers, and Boone’s Strawberry Hill will kick your @ss if you drink two bottles of it by yourself in the course of a few hours.  I have distinct memories of praying for the sweet release of death.  But that’s the only memory I have from that night.

7.  It is an absolute blessing that none of us were killed while driving recklessly on Lake Jackson Drive.  

8.  I DID know gay people in high school.  I just didn’t know it yet.  How 'bout that.

9.  Men look better as they age.  When I look at photos of Hubby when he was in high school, I still see the man I married, but he’s so much more handsome and distinguished now than he was then.  Meanwhile, I’m kicking myself for making my color appointment for the week after our reunion knowing that everyone is going to see my Cruella DeVille grey streaks.

10.  Speaking of hair . . . if we, collectively, as a senior class, could have donated all that big hair to Locks of Love, can you imagine how many wigs that would have made?

11.  Just as I suspected, I couldn’t tell you ONE thing I learned from reading The Federalist Papers.

I'm On to You, Brangelina!

I’ve been “Team Jen” since Brad Pitt left Jennifer Aniston for Angelina Jolie.  I didn’t believe it for a second when Angelina claimed she would never steal someone else’s husband.  Um, you’re an actress . . . you’ll say anything and make it seem believable. 

When I was recently catching up with the important news topics via the scion of journalistic integrity known as Us Weekly, I read the article entitled “Getting Married!” by Rachel Paula Abrahamson, about Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie.  If it's written in Us Weekly, surely it must be true.

I give you my thoughts regarding said article:

 

1.  It annoys me to no end that Brad and Angelina are finally “giving in” and planning to get married.  It seems they’ll have a low-key ceremony because they think “a big splashy wedding is tacky.”  You know what?  SOME of us are only planning on having ONE wedding in our lifetime . . . so, yes, I wanted a little splash.  Furthermore, I'm a little surprised that someone who once wore a vial of Billy Bob’s blood as a piece of jewelry and announced to a news crew that they’d just finished having “relations” in the back of a limousine is now giving lessons in tact.

2.  According to the article, “Marrying at home will show the kids their mom and dad are committed to each other for the long term.”  You know what else would have shown them that?  Getting married first and procreating later.  I’m guessing their respective former spouses at one point thought they’d be together “for the long term” as well.  I realize marriage is not for everyone, and I know there are plenty of committed, unmarried, couples who are raising their families.  But one thing my mom always told me was to wait a little while before we started our family so that we could learn how to be married first.  Based on their collective track records, I’m not convinced this is a skill they have mastered.

3.  States Jolie, “when Brad and I decided to have a large family, we decided we’d only do it if we could . . .  take the kids with us.”  That's sweet.  It’s sort of like trying to decide whether to pack a light jacket for an extended trip.

4.  The article goes on to note that “Jolie planned their family outings herself . . . “  Big f*cking deal.  It’s called being a mother and the rest of us do it every day.  The same paragraph notes that she made sure the children were all wearing sun screen.  Well, that certainly IS newsworthy.

5.  Brad is busy remodeling Chateau Miraval in France, including an infinity pool, a helicopter pad, and a recording studio, and it is “Pitt’s baby.  Angie was happy to let him get on with it.”  Yeah, I let my husband watch Sports Center on the big TV when I feel like being nice.

6.  But this was my favorite part of the article: they prioritize date nights alone.  I wonder: do they squeeze in their alone time in between baseball practice, swimming lessons, visits to the dentist, library story time, and pediatrician appointments?  What happens if they get a phone call in the middle of their romantic dinner because someone has an earache?  Do they take leisurely, romantic strolls hand-in-hand because the mini-van is out of gas?  We prioritize date night too, but mostly it ends up with us watching Deadliest Catch and having a beer on the couch in our family room.  Cheers, baby.

My bullsh*t meter is going haywire.  Stars!  They’re Just Like Us!  Nope, they’re not.  I don’t have A nanny, let alone several.  In my opinion, (not that anyone asked, but that rarely stops me from providing it, free of charge,) I don’t think they are providing the stability for their family that they would have the public believe, and I don’t immediately think they’re great parents because their kids say thank you.  (Which is also, apparently, breaking news.)  

For the record, I bought the magazine because I wanted to read about William and Catherine’s royal visit.  Them, I adore. 

Why I Dislike Fish: a Commentary

In an attempt to preserve my sanity, I registered the boys for a couple half-day summer camps.  This week they are at the same location, but unfortunately, the drop-off and pick-up times are different.   I drive 20 minutes from home to drop Large off at 8:00, then I have an hour to kill before I drop Medium off at 9:00.  I drive 20 minutes back home so I can get Small down for a morning nap, then I drive 20 minutes back so I can pick Large up at 12:30, kill an hour and a half and pick Medium up at 2:00.

Excellent plan.

Today is Wednesday.  I’ve already been to Target twice this week, Starbucks three times, McDonald’s once, and Corner Bakery once. 

Yesterday, while Medium, Small, and I were enjoying a leisurely hot beverage at Starbucks,  Medium noticed some birds pecking at the previous diner’s crumbs.

Medium:  “Why do you hate birds so much?”

Mommy:  “They’re like flying rats,” as my friend Lisa would say.  (Lisa’s been BEGGING for a shout-out in the blog, and I’m sure she’ll be psyched to get it via a commentary on flying rats.) 

“They’re dirty and they eat other people’s leftovers.”

Empty fish tank, just like I like it.
(Although the handwritten note that says
"I love Buddy, love Medium" does tug
at the heart strings . . . 

Medium:  “Then how come you don’t like fish?”

Mommy:  “They swim in their own poop.”

Medium:  “They don’t swim in poop!  They swim in water!”

Mommy:  “They poop in the water, and then they swim in it.  They eat out of the same water.  They eat and poop in the same water.  It’s disgusting.” 

At this, the quiet gentleman working on his computer at the table next to us, (or perhaps looking at porn; I don’t really know  . . . ) chuckled. 

Mommy, to Chuckling Gentleman: “I’m right, right?  They swim, eat, and poop in the same water.”

Chuckling Gentleman: “That ain’t right.”

Mommy:  “Medium here got a fish for his birthday.  The fish is dead already because I told my husband that I REFUSE to take care of a fish.  If that means the fish dies, then the kids have just learned a valuable lesson in the Circle of Life.”

Chuckling Gentleman, to Medium: “It’s all right, little buddy.  You’ll get another fish someday.”

Not if I have anything to say about it  . . . .

The Bikini Wax: A Cautionary Tale

(Dad, if you’re reading, please, I beg of you, turn back now . . .)

Warning - TMI to follow.
Seriously.  Don't say I didn't warn you.


Two years ago, my girlfriend A and I decided to get bikini waxes while we were at the beach.  Neither of us had ever had one before, so we scheduled them at a quaint little spa in town.  We took Tylenol beforehand and offered each other words of support.  It really wasn’t that bad.  The aesthetician was respectful of my modesty, the environment was candle-lit and soothing, and while it wasn’t pleasant, it wasn’t tortuous either. It was somewhere between being licked by kittens and childbirth on the pain-o-meter.

Fast forward two years.

I have a toddler at home whom I am constantly removing from the top of the kitchen table.  He is into EVERYthing.  There is not a drawer or cabinet that he has not opened and emptied repeatedly or a piece of furniture on which he has not climbed.  I love watching him discovering his world, but it. is. exhausting.  That being said, I barely have time to shave my legs, and people actually see those.  So suffice it to say it has been a while since I’ve done any "maintenance" in my nether-regions. 

After my pedicure the other night, Lee the Nail Technician asked if I wanted a bikini wax too.  I’m here, I thought; I might as well get it overwith.

A word of advice, if I may: a bikini wax is not something one does on the fly.  It is not a spontaneous, what-the-hell, activity.

We entered Satan's Hair Salon, I laid on the paper, and hiked up my skirt.  (So convenient!) 

“Honey, you want strip or whole thing?”

“Oh, just a strip is fine.”  (This will be important later, because I'm pretty sure I said it out loud, and yet Lee the Nail Tehnician completely disregarded my response.)  I’m starting to blush and get all persweaty because, well, you know how I am.  I am waiting for her to give me those little paper & string panties they give you to preserve your modesty.  I know they don’t cover anything, and SHE knows they don’t cover anything, but still . . .

No paper panties. 

“Honey, take off.  I do this all time.  Peopo come from far way for me to wax.” 

Oh, god.

Okay, I’m naked from the waist down; skirt hiked up and underbritches dangling precariously from one ankle.  It was all kindsa classy.

She tells me to spread ‘em.

Ahem.  She’s talking the entire time, but I just can’t stop thinking about the fact that Lee the Nail Technician’s hands are all over my hooha.

And it hurts like a m*ther-f*cker. 

She tells me a story about a woman whose husband called to thank her for giving his wife a bikini wax.  She tells me a story about a woman whose husband promised to buy her a 5 carat diamond ring if she’d get a bikini wax.  She tells me a story about a woman who drives from Maryland to have Lee the Nail Technician do her bikini wax.

Let me tell you: I have had yearly gynecological exams that have been less invasive than my bikini wax.  And I’m pretty sure Lee the Nail Technician and I might be in a romantic relationship now.  I kept thinking I should have made her at least buy me dinner first, and I had an urge for a post-coital cigarette, and I don’t even smoke. 


And as an added bonus, she was precariously close to my poop-chute.  NO ONE touches the poop-chute.  

Finally, after some watery eyes, some very unladylike language, and a lot of persweating, she was finished.

“Go ‘head, honey.  You look in mirror.”

“Um, no thanks.  I’m just gonna go now.” 

“You go home, you husband say ‘ooh la la!’”

I giggled nervously, gave her a big tip and bolted to the car so that I could call my girlfriend, A.

“Remember when we got those bikini waxes at the beach, and it really wasn’t that bad?” I asked.

. . . looks familiar.

“Yes,” A answered hesitantly.

I whispered, (even though I was completely alone,) “I’m afraid to look, but I’m pretty sure I’m bald.  She spent way too much time down there for me to be anything other than naked as the day I was born.”

Next I texted my girlfriend, Judy.  Judy had a shaving “mishap” a few months ago, the result of which was that she, in her words, "looked like a fat 11-year-old.”  I texted: “Just got ‘the Judy’ bikini wax.  O. M. G.  I think I may have just had my yearly gynecological exam.”

I rushed home and told Hubby about my night, thinking he’d be all excited and “ooh la la,” and that I was going to have to rebuff his many advances on account of the soreness and all.  

His response?  “That’s disgusting.  Why don’t you go take a shower?”

I feel so violated.

What it Takes to Get My Nails Did.

Last night, I escaped for a few hours so I could treat myself to a pedicure.  The nail salon closes at 8, so I was sure to get there by 7.  The place was hoppin’ when I walked in.  I said I needed a pedicure, to which the technician responded, “okay honey, pick color,” as usual.  I chose my color, sat in the pedicure chair, and settled in with a trashy magazine to wait my turn.  

I waited.  And waited. 

Finally I asked one of the technicians how much longer it would be. 

“You can go, honey.  You nails dry.” 

“Um, I haven’t had my pedicure yet.” 

“Oh, honey, I so sorry!  I see you, I think you finish!” 

No worries.  She sat down immediately and started working.

"I so sorry!  I wash towels.  I clean.  I see you here, I think you finish."

"It's okay . . . these things happen."   After all, I got to sit for 40 minutes in peace without anyone crawling all over me, wiping boogers on me, or making me watch television programs featuring child stars who will be in Celebrity Rehab in 5 years.

“Honey, you need eyebrow done?”

I look up from my book and reply, “no thanks; not tonight.”

She smiles and continues working on my toes, but it’s not long before she says, “you sure you no want eyebrow done?”

“I’m sure – maybe next time.”

Same thing.  She works on my toes for a few minutes and then starts with the hard sell.

“Honey, you eyelash so long and pretty.”

“Thanks.”  Keep the compliments coming, Lee the Nail Technician, you’re almost there. . .

“You get eyebrow done, it really make eye pop.  Peopo see long eyelash.”

I hesitated, and she went in for the kill:

“Honey, they crooked.  They not even.  Let me fix eyebrow.”

I didn’t think they looked that bad, but now I’m all self-conscious and thinking I look like Gregory Peck: the later years.

She finished up my pedicure, (and my toes look fabulous,) and we headed to what shall now be referred to as Satan’s Hair Salon.  Once inside, she combed my eyebrow hairs straight up and had me look in the mirror.  What the? . . . how did Gregory Peck . . . oh.  

Yes, let’s proceed.  By all means.

She did a beautiful job on the eyebrows and now I look like a girl.  So I’ve got that going for me.  Which is nice.

And then, the loaded question:

“Honey, you want me wax bikini?”

To Be Continued . . .   

Favorite Quotes of the Summer, Part II

Favorite Quotes of the Summer, part II

1.  Background info: I have an irrational fear of the dentist.  I scheduled my check-up for 8 am, which was the first appointment of the morning.  Hubby knows how much I hate the dentist, and yet he still found it necessary to point out just how important his job is . . . because the universe may implode if he doesn’t get to add numbers . . . and asked me not to dilly-dally.  My sarcastic response was as follows:

“Wait . . . DON’T dilly-dally???  Because I was going to read all their magazines and water their plants before I came home.”

2.  After watching movie previews at the theatre:

Medium: “Mom?  Why does Michael Jackson LOOKS like a girl and SOUNDS like a girl, but really he’s a boy?”

Excellent question, son.

3.  After a visit to the pediatrician:

Large: “No fair!  He gets a wart AND a mole, and I get nothing???”

4.  After a trip to Kings Dominion: 

"I simply MUST get
the name of your dentist!"

Mommy:  “Whew!  I can’t WAIT to put on some underwear!”

Medium:  “Why?”

Mommy: “I’ve been going commando.”

Medium: “Why do you like underwear so much?  I always go commando.”

5.  Discussing K’s preschool son’s recent trip to the dentist:

K:  “Did you know they don’t do silver crowns anymore?”

Mommy:  “What do you want him to have, gold?  A diamond grill like Lil Wayne?”