Another Profound Weekend

This might become a regular series - our weekend conversations are deteriorating by the minute.

I’ve recently started running again and my right ankle and hip have been giving me trouble. As I was lying on the floor, trying to remember the exercises my former physical therapist taught me, I mentioned how cool it would be if D was a physical therapist. Free therapy and adjustments for life!

He looked up from his magazine and without missing a beat, said, “It would be even cooler if you were a hooker for free.”

The Best and Worst Day of My Life

When I stopped working in January, we decided to keep our nanny, Amy, for one half-day a week. Wito loved her, we loved her, and I especially loved the thought of having four hours to myself every Thursday. Pedicures! Shopping! The Beach!

Well, it turns out that Amy Day usually consists of me visiting the Holy Trinity of Motherhood - Target, Costco and the grocery store. Fun. And y’all, I have a confession to make. I hate Target. To me, it’s just an huge room full of crap. I know! How could I think such a thing?! People LOVE Target! The knick knacks! And fake leather stuff! Cheaply-made frames! Cheesy greeting cards! I’m sorry. HATE.

Luckily, I park right next to the door where the toiletries and kitchen supply stuff are located and it’s a race against the clock from start to finish. Lotion, toothpaste, Q-tips, Ziploc bags, Daisy razors, shaving cream. Check, check and check. If there were a Supermarket Sweep - Target Toiletries Edition, I would be world champion.

Costco gives me mild-to-moderate claustrophobia. The crowds, the gigantic carts, 67-pound jars of jelly beans that I want to dive into, etc. Luckily, I only buy Wito’s formula and baby food and I’m gone.

Technically, these errands shouldn’t take too long, but considering we live in a beach community, I am forced to get on the 405 highway (the collective groan from my Southern California readers is deafening), and drive to 2 separate cities to visit these frightening places. It’s like driving to the DMV every Thursday - the journey is usually just as shitty as the destination.

A couple of days ago, I was traveling down a major street relatively close to my home (405 - not involved, yo), when I noticed tons of construction at an upcoming intersection. I craned my neck to get a look while passing by and saw the words COSTCO - NOW OPEN. Could it be?! A Costco within 15 minutes of my home?

I immediately called D, who was attending a swanky lunch with clients in Los Angeles.

“Honey! Guess what! There’s a new COSTCO! So much closer to us! I don’t have to deal with the shitty 405! YAY! YAY! YAY!”

“Wow. Good for you, hon. I’ve gotta go now. With clients, you know.”

“I know. I’m so sorry to bug, it’s just really exciting! Bye!”

Wito and I had an hour to kill, so we maneuvered a U-turn, and made our way back to the new COSTCO, NOW OPEN! And it was a beauty. No people, no lines, the newness of it all. I knew it wouldn’t last, so we took a collective inhale, browsed the 96-packs of granola bars, and enjoyed the leisurely pace.

As we left with our cardboard box of goodies, I noticed another new building in the same lot at the other end of the new construction. I backed up the cart, squinted my eyes and there it was in big red letters. SUPER TARGET. Is this a dream?! A Target! Next to the Costco! With no highways involved?

And guess what. It didn’t end there. A new Whole Foods was on the other side.

The Holy Trinity of Motherhood was complete. And I was Moses.

I called D again.

(breathless from the mental frenzy) “D! D! OH MY GOD! A WHOLE FOODS, TARGET AND COSTCO ALL HERE! I AM COMPLETE! I AM FUCKING COMPLEEEEEEEEETE!”

(silence)

“HELLO?”

“Um. Are you listening to yourself? What has happened to you, love? ”

“HUH?”

“Let me get this straight. You are about to pass out from sheer elation because you found a new suburban strip mall complete with stores you hate?”

“YES!”

Sweet Jebus, people. I need help.

UPDATE: In my mentally-frenzied state, I made a mistake. It is a new Target, not Super Target. My bad.

The Beach Visit That Never Ended - Part One

Yesterday was a doozie and I have the sunburn to prove it. What started out as a brief beach visit with the crew turned into a 6-hour debacle complete with crying, 2 metal detectors, more blubbering, lots of digging by several helpful strangers, friendly lifeguard advice and surprise, more blubbering.

Ahhh, gotta love the beach.

I’m not a huge fan of the beach. Why oh why do we pay eleventy billion dollars to live by the beach, you ask? Good question.

Let me back up. I truly wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. I love the beauty of the beach- the blue ocean, the lapping waves, the green palm trees, everything. Everything but the sand. I detest sand. It’s just so messy and gritty and ATTACHES TO EVERY PART OF MY PALE ASS BODY. It even seeps under my toenails. MY TOENAILS!

I usually spend a lot of my beach time compulsively brushing sand off the blanket, which I promise you, is a losing battle. Yet, I continue to brush brush brush all the live long day. This behavior has to stop because guess what? Wito LOVES sand. Wito wants to lick and fondle the sand all day long. He grabs it by the handful and proceeds to evenly disperse it all over my freshly-brushed blanket. This behavior does not a happy mama make, but hey! I’m adaptive like that, and I’m dealing with the sand. It’s not the worst thing (except when it gets in your gum - that’s a deal breaker).

ENOUGH WITH THE SAND! Did I mention I hate sand? Jesus.

I really let loose yesterday. I actually REMOVED Wito from the stroller and let him roll around the sandy blanket. I know! Then I walked my pale ass down to the water and let him squeeze his sausage toes in the damp icky sand! Look! I KNOW! Crazy shit is going down around here! Coming soon - tandem skydiving!

Let me just say, Baby Bug and Wito are fast friends. Have a look for yourself.

Damn, Wito’s up. That’s all for now. Stay tuned for Part 2. You know, like sands through the hourglass and all that shit…

Notice

I quit my job today.

Oh my God, I’m a mother. Who stays at home.

Just thought I might share.

Nice To Meet You, I’m Your Wife

My husband has morphed into a new person when it comes to eating.

Have I told you that D is a vegetarian? Going on 13 years now…no meat, pork or chicken. It’s pretty impressive, considering he grew up in a major red-meat-eating state. I’m not a vegetarian, but I probably eat less meat than most due to the fact that we eat the same dinner almost every night.

I have to admit, when the weather gets a little cooler, I secretly wish I could make yummy pot roast and all things crock pot. We have one, but it has been gathering dust since we received it as a gift two years ago.

My wish may come true very soon.

One night while in Cabo, my family decided to cook steaks out by the pool. I, of course, wasn’t part of this lovely dinner. No, I was stuck inside while E. Coli bacteria shot out of my ass and mouth simultaneously. Good times.

When Dustin checked on me in my personal temple of doom, he told me he was thinking about trying some steak. “EXCUSE ME? Did I hear you right or has the dehydration caused me to hallucinate? You want to eat STEAK? The bloody carcass of a cow? That gave you such digestive problems? Huh?”

He told me yes and disappeared into the mexican night. Of course, I had nothing better to do than over-analyze this sudden change of behavior while sitting on the pot.

Possible causes:
1) He is now a father, and fathers eat beef ’cause they’re manly men.
2) Since his wife was spewing all day, he figured he could make himself ill and spend some quality time together in the john.
3) He was feeling left out considering my family LOVES the beefs.
4) This is the start of early-onset dementia.

I don’t know what it was, but he came into the room after dinner, plopped on the bed and described in vivid detail how amazing his palm-sized steak (PALM-SIZED! NOT JUST ONE BITE! LIKE 6 OR 7 BITES!) was.

And no gastric distress was involved. I was forced to cry in the temple of doom all by myself.

Last night, we ordered pizza and a salad from CPK. I did my normal ordering, pepperoni for me, cheese for him, salad with the bacon on the side, blahblahblah. As I sat on the couch eating my salad, D sauntered in with a handful of bacon- just munching away. And then, for the kicker, he ate a piece of pepperoni pizza.

Let’s tally this up- steak, bacon AND pepperoni in less than two weeks.

Anybody got any non-vegetarian crock pot recipes?

Drafty

In an attempt to ready myself for my trip to Mexico, I visited my lovely local bikini waxer yesterday. I figured it was time to get things in order down there and as I told my mother yesterday, “She has her work cut out for her”. Darren, are you feelin’ my pain on this topic as well? Let’s just say I haven’t paid much attention to my nether regions since the baby was born. I guess I’ve been preoccupied with diaper changes, nursing, and oh you know, having the sole responsibility of keeping a tiny defenseless human ALIVE. No biggie.

I don’t know if you all are aware of the differing bikini waxing techniques that take place in southern California. Around this country, there normally exists the “regular” bikini wax and the “brazilian” bikini wax. A regular bikini wax keeps things neat and tidy down there. Let’s call it the “Carol Brady” of bikini waxes. A little off the sides and you’re on your way.

As most know, the “brazilian” involves lots of waxing and wincing, leg contortions and generally results in an audition for a porno. I tend to shy away from this procedure due to my pain threshold and inability to be a true masochist.

But here’s the tricky part. Around here, it seems a “regular” bikini wax involves all things brazilian, and a “brazilian” involves pubic baldness. Not much of a choice, yo.

My personal waxer was very easy on me during the pregnancy due to the fact that the pain was similar to having my toenails ripped out one by one. Plus, the bruising. Let’s not go there. People, I got used to this sweet and gentle method. It was lovely and Carol Brady would be proud. Although, maybe Carol Brady rocked the full bush- it was the Seventies. The questions…

Anyhoo, Neat and tidy. Neat and tidy.

I guess I assumed this method would continue during our lovely partnership from the pregnancy forward.

I guess I was wrong.

Considering I hadn’t seen her since the birth, I wasn’t really paying attention to her sweet-and-gentle-”regular”-Carol-Brady waxing methods. I was jabbering away about the PITOCIN! (lifting left leg) 24 HOURS OF LABOR! (lifting right leg) PELVIS TOO SMALL! (lifting both legs to my ears) PUSHING FOR OVER 2 HOURS! (ouch) VACUUM ASSISTANCE! (should that very specific area be throbbing?) THE NICU! (I am now officially scared) THE DRAMA!

Let’s just say it sure is drafty down there. But hey! I’m now ready for Mexican porn!

Double Barf

Is anyone else completely disturbed by this commercial?

The licking, people. The licking.

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